Sex stops me from wanting to end it all
I don’t say that flippantly, it keeps me alive. And on one occasion it saved my life.
This is very hard for most people to understand. I know this and expect this. Less easy to understand is how I explain this to people in my life who don’t yet grasp it. People who know my duels with mental health. People who know that when all hope is fading then my interest will always be piqued by the salacious.
It’s a physical release that immediately relieves tension, no one needs me to spell out how that can be beneficial. But it is more than that for me, it sends badly needed endorphins or serotonin to my very damaged brain, that quells the erupting despair and salves an ache that is ever present in my mind. Two admittedly very useful things that I’m sure are not my experience alone. But there is also one more thing it does which I’m less sure people will connect with. When I have sex, I don’t hate myself. I get a break from my eternal monologue which tells me I’m useless at everything.
Which one is me?
Whether it’s respite from my real self or whether it’s where I get to be the real me, I’m not sure. But I like the version of me that exists when I have sex. When I’m having sex I don’t worry about anything else, I don’t feel fear or failure or dejection – I feel peace.
I feel accomplished and skilful and comfortable that I know what I am doing. And so much of my time is taken up with feeling the opposite of those things. Most of my colleagues would be surprised to hear how riddled with doubt I am given my frequency for walking round like I own the fucking place.
The lies I tell
But the biggest and most common lies I tell are ‘I know what I’m doing’ and ‘I’m ok’. It’s rare that either of these is true. And that can get to you. Thinking and feeling you’re useless and pretending you’re ok, a person only has so much in reserve to fight that. My stocks are frequently low. And the only thing that is guaranteed to alleviate that is a good seeing to.
It wipes my slate clean, gives me the tiny respite from being the terrible me. And that good version of me, the me that I like, well getting to be her helps me to survive. Or even want to survive.
People joke that I’m so lascivious and are always waiting for a brazen quip from me. But more than once it’s been asked if I thought I had a sex addiction’* or what is my “obsessive” interest in sex, why am I always dating, is it really good for me.
Almost all valid questions when put in context of when I’ve been hurt or disappointed. It’s not hard for me to understand where these questions come from. I put myself out there and get knocked down accordingly; you could say I bring it on myself. But when compared to the alternative? I’m not sure they would continue to ask why I seek this out, why it’s important to me.
Sometimes it’s the only thing.
*Sigh, in case you’re also wondering, I’m not a sex addict, I won’t just sleep with anyone, anywhere at any cost. I just really like a good ride.
Please don’t advise me on how to manage my mental health, how I do is not open for discussion, just please accept that I do manage it and it does involve professionals.