Do the Work
The hard work of healing after trauma is not only vital but imperative to moving forward.
One of the best orgasms I ever had in my life came after a particularly vigorous post-work solo session. I’m talking leg shaking, eye-rolling, where-is-my-man-so-he-can-catch-this-WAP good. But its length, duration and mind-bendingly goodness is not the reason I remember it. I remember this orgasm because two minutes after it happened, I received a phone call telling me my father died.
Now mind you, at this time my mother had just recently begun to recover after falling ill inside a sauna and nearly dying in the process, and my husband had begun what would be a three year stint of landing in and out of jail for traffic violations and subsequently ending up unemployed, and I’d recently started getting abused on the regular as a customer service rep; all while attending school for my bachelors and raising two small children to boot.
The day after the call, I went into work and tried to act like I didn’t just lose my first love, only to have my boss pull me from a call where I was being berated by a customer for not moving fast enough for their liking. A few of my work friends on facebook had told her what happened and it’s a good thing they did because I sure as hell wasn’t going to— I was a no-limit soldier.
Except I really wasn’t; nor did life ever intend for me to be. That period began an onslaught of events whose sole mission it seemed was to make me cry or bitch up. And I ate every punch life threw at me, spitting out blood and saying
Is that the best you got?
But while I was so busy pretending to be unbothered and unphased by the shits, I’d gone from being a casual marijuana user to a full blown pothead. I’d begun eating everything in sight, ballooning from 174 to a ripe 220. I was stressed and worried, but I just buried myself in work and books. And suddenly that sex drive that had yielded me that amazing orgasm, became completely non-existent, straining myself and my marriage in the process. I stopped caring about myself, letting my state of dress and health deteriorate to the point where I could give two fucks what I wore outside — or in.
I was broken but refused to admit it. And I honestly would’ve kept going that way until life upped the fucking ante and took my house and mother in one fell swoop with a goddamn house fire.
That was when I finally tapped out.
I was done with life and ready to exit this plane of existence because life was being a fucking bully and clearly God could give two fucks about me.
But the strangest thing happened. When I finally said fuck it I need help, I was OVERWHELMED by how many people were willing to step in and lend a helping hand. I was given permission to accept my humaness and as a result me and my family ended up wanting for nothing.
It’s been a year and a half since my house burned down and in that time I did the hardwork of healing and recouperating from the previous six years of trauma. I learned its ok to not be ok, it’s ok to cry, it’s ok to ask for help and — most importantly — I learned to trust in a benevolent God and universe again.
Now I know you’re asking by now:
Ok that was a crazy story, but what’s the point?
My point beloved is I can almost gurantee before this quarantine started, you were like the old millennial me: a no-limit soldier just eating whatever life threw your way because there’s no crying in baseball. And inside of this quarantine, with no trips to distract you, no bars to save you, no moments of random loudness to drown out the echo of the gaping chasm in your soul — you’re probably feeling like I did at the start of my healing journey: overwhelmed, exhausted, broken and with little sex drive.
And the idea of healing seems like a daunting task because it means feeling things and feelings you worked diligently to bury at the bottom of that chasm I mentioned.
And I’m here as your formerly not-feeling no-limit sherpa to take you by the hand and tell you:
Healing is messy. Healing is painful. Healing is difficult. But no worse than the pain you’ll be in by trying to pretend you are ok when everyone can see you’re being held together with spit and glue. But do it anyway. Get the help you need. Cry. Wail. Scream. Rest. Whatever your body and soul call for, do it. I promise you, you’ll be better for it.
I know I am.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go find my husband because my sex drive is back.