Cocks and boobs immortalised in tiny soaps. I have no idea where I got these from.
It’s really embarrassing to admit to this, but…
I have completely lost my sex drive in the past few months. Doesn’t mean that I haven’t had some marvellous naughtiness, just not as frequently. I feel quite sorry for Rob as when we got together, I was a very manic person with manic depression who wanted sex all the time. Now I take medication that makes me sleep, so spontaneous sex is off the cards (unless you want to make sweet drugged love) and I just don’t feel like it, and I don’t even like people being very close to me right now. My mood has been low, and I’ve been indecisive. I let everyone make the decisions about what to be doing because, to be honest, I am not really enjoying much at the moment so it makes little odds to me. I haven’t really been feeling affectionate either, so I’m worrying that there is a gulf opening up between us since I barely kiss or hug Rob these days. It’s not because I don’t love him, or don’t think he’s gorgeous, it’s just that flatness that seems to be part of depression, and it doesn’t come so naturally to me anymore because of it. Right now we need to be close, and we’re not. Doesn’t help that it’s fucking freezing in here without heating (I am an idiot for moving somewhere else without it in desperation) so I dive straight into the covers.
I’ve been reading that Effexor kills your sex drive so I am hoping that some sort of inverse sparks into life, where it attacks my sex drive to the point where it fights back. It’s sad because I’m quite a carnal person. Was, anyway. Not to the extent where I was a Lillian Lust clone kicking my long (short) legs across the lap of an unsuspecting anyone, but close. This is maddening.
I’m not sure whether to keep this post here. It’s relevant (which is the condition upon which I let personal stuff in) but a little too personal. I’m not particularly enamoured by sharing details of my sex life with the masses.
Another thing is that I hoped that when I lost my extra weight (I’ve never been slim, and my weight yo-yoed. When I started medication, I was 9st odds. It kicked up to 12st 7lbs after a year on medication. But I had been almost that heavy before when I started taking Olanzapine) that I’d feel better about myself. It’s the fantasy of being thin, and it’s a fallacy. I’m now 8st 7lbs, which isn’t thin for my height but it’s in the healthy range. I don’t feel any better about myself at all. I can’t really see that I’ve lost weight, though I know that I have. I’m living in the same clothes every day because all my size 14s hang off me and I can’t afford to buy any new clothes. So I can’t “dress up” in an attempt to feel better. I had just hoped that by changing my outsides I might magically alter my insides. Which sounds perverted but this is a sex post, after all.
I am wondering if I will turn to stone and become a pebble that can be carried around in someone’s pocket.
It’s a match day so I have the pleasure of spending an evening wanting to kill the Arsenal fans that will no doubt piss in my doorway. Sometimes I want to brazenly steal their chips as they walk past.
And I took my first dose of Effexor. It’s already a winner compared to Lamictal, in that I didn’t immediately throw up over myself like a toddler. Hopefully this one will work. It’s like a bloody job interview.
Tomorrow I have my first solo appointment with the new social worker/CPN. If she bellows at me again I’ll be forced to kill her. Or just bellow back at her, in the manner of Brian Blessed.
Filed under: bipolar, Bipolar 1 Disorder, Bipolar Disorder, coping with manic depression, depression, how manic depression can impact on your life, manic depression, mental illness, sexual side effects Tagged: | bipolar, Bipolar Disorder, depression, manic depression, mental illness