I am a depressive. I suffer from anxiety too. It’s a bitch.
As I am writing this, I am aware that I am slowly slipping into a dark mass of my next bout. It isn’t anyone’s fault. And there is very little anyone can do to help.
It feels like my head is slowly sinking beneath the surface and I am struggling to breathe.
I can spend months with my head above the surface, thinking clearly and enjoying life. And then, something changes and I can feel the inner struggle to stay afloat.
My depression is linked to my body dysmorphia and a long, long history of eating disorders. So it is fair to say that, when I am feeling low, I am certainly not feeling like a sexual person.
I hate how I look. I don’t want to be touched. And this is so difficult for the people who love us and just want us to feel better. Who want to be able to wave a magic wand and make everything alright.
We are not rejecting you. In fact, we need you more than ever. Not desperately trying to make us feel better, but acknowledging that we are feeling crap and need a little space and time. And hugs. Lots of hugs and cuddles on the sofa.
I will make it back to the surface, at some point soon. And I will be firing on all cylinders. I will be the mother fucking Goddess who, when my feet hit the floor in the morning, the Devil cries ‘Oh shit, she’s up!’.
But between now and then, I just need a quiet and calm understanding without any pressure to perform, neither in public nor in the bedroom.