What do sex and Crohn’s have in common? Absolutely nothing. This is a draft that has been clanking around for a long long time. I was hoping to eventually add some advice on how to deal with all of the bonuses of IBD (the pain, bloating, the possibility of crapping and barfing simultaneously all over your love bunny) and how to make extracurriculars a little more bearable. But isn’t sex supposed to be enjoyable, and not just tolerable?
Of all of the things I can write about, this is the one that makes me hesitate. The mention of it makes me uncomfortable. Weird, for someone who attempts to write limericks about sharting.
The truth is, I have a serious aversion to that sort of intimacy. Maybe there are things in my past that I never dealt with properly resulting in zero libido, I’m an android not hardwired to desire sex, or I missed my calling to be a nun. I love hugs, but otherwise I can’t stand being touched. Especially if I’m not warned ahead of time.
Happy or sad, this is the way it is with me. I happen to be married to a guy who is my complete opposite in this sense. Poor guy. As you can imagine, ignoring this absence bothers him quite a bit. It’s an important part of a relationship, and since I’m capable but not willing, the fault falls on me. He doesn’t pressure me, but without subtle reminders that both of us aren’t dead in the pants, it quickly leaves my mind, which is exactly where I want it.
I overthink everything, and this is no exception. Without going into detail, I’ll say he did something that was initially completely benign, but by the time I got done brooding, I was crying. It’s just another thing that makes me feel inadequate and guilty. The biggest obstacle is my mind, and its rigidity against giving in when it comes to this supposedly enjoyable part of life. Is bad sex better than no sex? Am I really doing our relationship any favors by looking at it as a duty or chore? I don’t know.
Most of the time, feeling like there’s something wrong with me because I never get froggy (not to be confused with squirrely – the squirreliness is what causes these personal crises to begin with) is the worst part. And the reaction I get even thinking about it makes me wonder if I’m really as okay as I’ve alluded. I don’t think I’m depressed, my family and husband don’t think I’m depressed (it’s possible I’m just a really good faker, because physical pain and emotional pain? Samesies!), but better than half of my doctors think I am, minus the psychiatrist and several psychiatrists before him. I thought his opinion trumps all others, so maybe I’m dealing with something entirely different.
All people are fucked up in some way. It’s a rite of passage. Life leaves us scarred. Some of those scars we display proudly (I survived childhood being raised by aliens! And then adolescence! And then my 20’s!), and others we hide and try to ignore. Those ones are the sly subconscious fuckers that sneak up on you when you least expect, causing you pee your pants and go into a very uncomfortable and soggy tailspin.
The first part of Fake it ’til you make it might be true, but the rest of it is up for debate.