Like most BPD-ers, a lot of the time I hurt.
Usually spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.
But now there is a physical aspect to it.
I did a long and boring job the other day, much of it in extensive proximity with other members of my species, chatting, laughing, some even getting in my face, and at the end of the day, when all decended into chaos, with lots of jostling, pushing and shoving, it reminded me how much I loathe human beings en masse.
The situation was intolerable for someone like me. The only thing that is plentiful in my life is my own space, and the choice of whom I do and don’t mix with, and when I felt my body stiffen with disgust and outrage, I inevitably sank to their level by fiercely and aggressively barging my way out, shuddering with distaste as I escaped into the rainy night.
Strangely enough, at odds with the days events, I was further tortured that night with weird sexual dreams, and when i woke the next day with a sore back, tight lats and a totally locked, inflexible neck, there was a different kind of nagging twinge between my legs, and I was reminded how unused to touch of any kind, especially that of a loving, sensual variety.
This is undoubtably not doing me any favours.
But by the same token, even considering doing something about it potentially opens up a whole new world of doubt, vulnerability and pain for me, so whilst my body might want sex, I want it about as much as I want my next pap smear test.
For men, who obviously haven’t experienced such things, it’s kind of like a prostate test I suppose, but with something sharp that has a good old scratch and scrape around when it comes into contact with resisting flesh.
Plus we have to do them every year.
Yes? You there yet? God.
I used to physically enjoy intercourse, but since my orgasm lessened into a shadow of it’s former self, I can barely even be bothered to walk anymore.
Plus whilst a quick shag up against the wall might afford some genitalia related relief, I think I’m also missing sensual caresses, skin on skin contact, and, horror of horrors, being held.
And that’s even more scary than a pap smear test with a rusty coat hanger.
I don’t feel sexy anymore but more than that, I do not feel loveable in any way, shape or form, plus the thought of being emotionally vulnerable or needy in front of any man sends me into a panic attack to end all panic attacks, because the need for love lurks surreptitiously behind all of these pretenders, and I cannot hope to be able to fulfil this wholly unrealistic desire any time soon.
To be honest, if I could afford it, I would seriously consider booking a male prostitute to swing by and pretend to love me once a week, in the same way I would (and will) book a massage to fix my traumatised neck.
That said, the thought of someone turning up on my doorstep with a six pack and gelled hair, smirking like Theophilus T Wildebeest would be enough to make me slam the door, and send me hurtling back to my vibrator tout suite.
I have had men come on to me of late, and the next time someone does, I might just call their bluff and do it.
Not at mine because my home is my sanctuary and I don’t want someone turning up unannounced, intruding on my space. Not at theirs as they might be a rapist cum serial killer and do a ‘Dexter’ on me.
It will have to be on neutral territory. Maybe in the back of my car even.
It will no doubt be tacky, grubby, sexually unsatisfying and embarrassing.
But at least I’ll know whether it’s worth all that to my poor, starved, traumatised carcass.
Even it it’s just one for the road, it you will.
Whether or not I have the guts to carry this out is debatable, but I’ll keep you all posted. In the meantime, pray for me please!