Lab work

“So we’re just going to do the pap and then we’ll discuss your lab results.”

I was a tangle of nerves all the way in. I somehow convinced myself that I wouldn’t actually have to do the pap because the blood work would be so conclusive and we wouldn’t need anything else. Ha. Hahahaha. No.

The nurse was great, let me babble on about my job (I love my job, and am an entrepreneur and maybe a little bit of an expert in my area of specialty.) She kept me distracted from the goings on in my nether regions. It was actually less painful than most of my past experiences. I would even call it “uncomfortable” rather than “excruciating”, and I didn’t even cry.

I got dressed and sat back down. Lab results. I was excited.

Do I have a thyroid problem? It’s very possible! All signs point to possible thyroid problem!

Do I have a hormonal imbalance? It could be hormonal. Maybe I have low iron and a chronic, underlying infection! There are so many potential causes for my low sex drive. At the end of this appointment, I thought, I’ll have a prescription and a little pill to take and all will be well. I was giddy at the thought of a thyroid condition.

The doctor came back in, with my chart.

“Your blood work came back normal. All normal. Thyroid is normal, hormone levels are normal, iron is normal, blood sugar - all normal."

He looked apologetic.

“So I think it’s the depression.”

And wrote me a prescription for Effexor.

Body as metaphor

To say that I am uncomfortable with the inner workings of my body would be a gross understatement. My phobia extends far beyond needles and blood, and as I said to my counselor at one point - “I wish I stopped at the skin.”

“What would be inside you?” she asked.

“Blue goo.” I replied.

I was only barely joking.

I’ve never been able to take my pulse. I skipped multiple mandatory vaccinations in school and I can’t even think about things like a heartbeat or an injection without shuddering. I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. It was a running joke in my family that all you had to do was say “blood” and I’d turn white as a sheet and cringe. It’s ironic because my mom is a nurse and I’m the only one in my family with this issue. I don’t think it’s a learned behaviour, although you could look at unintentional reinforcers such as attention or reassurance for phobic behaviour. More often I’ve been ridiculed for it, though, so I doubt that’s the case.

In terms of costs and benefits, this fear has been extremely expensive. It doesn’t make any kind of sense, especially the more extreme elements of it such as not being able to take my own pulse and anxiety over things like getting my blood pressure checked. Those fears are just ridiculous. Needles, surgery, blood coming out of my body - those fears make some sort of sense, but the rest of it is just wacky. I know that a grown woman should not have this issue, and trust me - if you’re thinking “Damn, Ann. Get over it.” - I’m thinking the same thing and more. I don’t understand the fear, and if I could make it go away by taking a deep breath and smiling, I would.

My plan was to go in and be fearless. I pictured myself laughing and joking, the nurse never realizing there was a problem. This blood work represents an important part of the process for me. If there is something happening with hormones or thyroid or whatever, it needs to be addressed. Making the effort to rule out any medical causes for the low libido and pain during sex is a sign of my commitment to this thing. When I started the process I said “whatever it takes” and I meant it. I want to figure this out. I want to fix it. I want to enjoy sex, and feel sexy, and just feel comfortable in my own body. (Obviously I have my work cut out for me.)

The plan worked until they signed me in, and then I sat in the waiting room and got progressively more upset. Foot twitching, hands clenching and unclenching, jaw so tight I couldn’t pry it open to save my life. I was trying to smile and breathe deeply, but I suspect it was more like grimacing and hyperventilating. The shoulder of the arm that the blood was drawn from (six vials) still hurts from tensing up so much before and during the process. I nearly gagged when I looked over and saw someone gesturing to their veins while talking to a nurse. There are situations more embarrassing than realizing that the five year old next to you is doing about 300 times better than you are, but not many.

I started to cry as the nurse put her gloves on, and when I said “I’m sorry, I don’t do very well with needles” she told me she had sort of gotten that vibe already. Ha. She was fantastic, though. Chatty, encouraging, understanding. I appreciated it.

I suspect that my issues with sex are somehow, at least partially, tied to this fear. Certainly my inability to be “comfortable in my own skin” is connected by my complete inability to deal with my body.

In high school I had an issue with my whole body, inside and out. I wore long sleeved shirts and ankle-length skirts for years. I remember going outside in a short sleeved shirt while on vacation. I had to wait until my family had already left the room, then I got changed, walked out the door, imagined anyone who looked at me laughing, and walked right back in to put on something less revealing. I have thankfully gotten over that particular issue (there were days when I thought I was going to die of heat exhaustion!) but I’ve only ever gotten as far as accepting the outside. The rest of it… well, sometimes I really would prefer blue goo. No systems, just filler. I imagine life as being so much easier without all the inner workings. No pain, no pulse, no bizarre and upsetting things going on beneath the surface.

“Bizarre and upsetting things going on beneath the surface” pretty much sums up my issue, really.

Body as metaphor.

The more I write, the more I realize how small my sexual dysfunction is in the ocean of my general dysfunction. Yikes.

I wonder if that’s true for other people who suffer from some form of dysfunction or disorder. Does it feel like when you start to examine one problem, you just keep finding others?

Sometimes I feel like I’m going down the rabbit hole with this whole exploration of my sexuality, like I’ve opened a door that really should have stayed shut. Despite appearances in this blog, I am a successful, functional person. I have friends, a stable, committed marriage, and I’ve reached many of my personal goals. But there are bizarre and upsetting things going on beneath the surface.

I can only hope that this is one step on the path, and not the whole journey. It always seems like you have to make a mess before you can really clean up. The knots always seem to get tighter before they untangle. Surely that’s what this is.

Blood work and depression

I had a meet and greet with my new doctor. I have a follow-up on the 12th. He’s friendly, and seems very open to discussing what might be going on. As soon as he looked at my history he suggested medication, specifically Wellbutrin. Although it can increase anxiety, which could be a very bad thing for me, it can increase libido and is an antidepressant.

It’s been years since the term “depressed” was one that I would label myself with. But. My mom is much happier now that she’s on Celexa. I have a history of depression. He might be right.

I feel very uncomfortable saying I have a “history of depression.” I think of people like Dooce when I think of mental illness. It seems to me that I’m just poorly equipped to deal with life in general, and that doesn’t count as a mental illness. My episodes in high school, and maybe even since, seem like whiny patheticness rather than a true illness. I haven’t earned the label of “depressed” - I’m just faking it or making excuses or something. It’s distressing to feel like you can’t even be depressed properly, but I guess that’s part of the problem.

I’m still looking for a counselor. I’m not looking very hard, but I am looking. I know I need to be seeing someone, but it feels like it’s too much.

I’m in a pretty bad space right now. I’ve had a migraine (damn weather) and I have to get blood work done tomorrow. The thought of needles makes me extremely uncomfortable. My stomach clenches, all my muscles tense, and my arms hurt in anticipation. Needles are nothing, though, compared to the thought of blood coming out of me. It gives me the shivers just thinking about it. And of course, I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m being tested for all kinds of things - thyroid, glucose levels, endocrine stuff…

On the one hand, I’m happy that we’re looking into this stuff. I’m really happy that I finally seem to have found a doctor who believes me, who takes me seriously and who immediately came up with possible solutions. He didn’t even suggest that maybe I just need some marriage counseling, and I appreciated that more than I can even express.

On the other hand… needles! Blood! I think I’m going to throw up.

Dinner party

It would be a good idea, if you're having a dinner party, to tidy up a bit.  

Leaving "Heidi's Bedtime Stories, Erotic Quickies for Men and Women" on the counter, bookmarked to a couple favorites, is probably not wise.

Leaving "Reclaiming Your Sexual Self" in the downstairs bathroom; bookmarked, highlighted, dog-eared and underlined, is just downright awkward.

But using the results of the "Determine the Source of Your Sexual Dysfunction" quiz as the bookmark?

All I can say is, it's a good thing that I didn't realize what I'd done until after everybody left.

Relax already

Just over a week ago I realized that I couldn't do it anymore.  I couldn't think about sex, I couldn't masturbate, I couldn't watch porn, I couldn't write about sex, I couldn't read about sex, I couldn't do anything related to sex.  Nothing.  There was a big wall, and I slammed into it a few times before I gave up.

Giving up was awesome.  I went back to myself.  Sex didn't even cross my mind for days at a time and I loved it.  I know myself when I feel like that, it's comfortable and welcoming.  I thought about the blog, but I didn't feel right about posting the daily grind.  That's not the point, and it would be easy to just do that and pretend that I never had a lofty, important goal when I started this thing (oh these many... err... weeks, ago.)

It turns out my wall may have been partially hormonal, but I suspect it was also a lot of change all at once.  I was attempting to go from zero to sixty in not a lot of time.

However, even though my time over the last little bit hasn't been sex-focused at all, it was not wasted.  I've made a doctor's appointment, and on Wednesday I'll be going in for the meet-and-greet.  My plan is to lay my cards on the table right up front, no dithering and pretending nothing's wrong.  

I'm going to say something along the lines of - "I haven't had a physical in almost three years, because the last time I did it hurt so much I cried.  Every time I've had a physical since I was about 19, it's been incredibly painful.  I also suffer from sexual dysfunction, which is at least partially related to the pain.  I want to find out what's wrong, so I would like to get my hormone levels checked, my thyroid, all the standard blood work.  I am phobic of needles, so if we can do everything in one session that would be awesome.  My last doctor thought I was a hypochondriac and told me everything was in my head.  She may be right, but I want to rule out physical causes as well."

I am not going to be brushed off this time.  I allowed my previous doctor to make me feel really stupid, and I wasn't able to take myself seriously for a long time.  This time, I'm going to wear my Wonder Woman shirt, my Wonder Woman belt buckle and my Wonder Woman purse.  Inside my purse I am going to put my Buffy gum-tin, and surely some of the awesome will rub off on me.

I also made a call to find a counsellor in my area.  I've been having anxiety attacks again, and I suspect they're related to the sex stuff.  Since the anxiety spiked at the same time my ability to deal with sex plummeted, I don't think it's such a stretch to see a link.  (Although I do think the cause and effect may be a bit murky.)

I also decided that the giving up was temporary.  It was a breather, not a surrender.  This is an important process, and although I am not totally defined by my sexuality, I want to be comfortable with it.  

How to Avoid Having Sex

There's food on my vibrator.  BBQ sauce, splatters of hot chocolate... Sounds kinky, right?  You might question my gastronomical discernment (BBQ + chocolate?) but sex and food just go together.

You might think so, but you would be wrong in this case.

There is a certain skill that I have acquired over the years.  The act of sex, the lead-up to sex, even the thought of sex is so mixed and often so unpleasant, that one of the most critical coping skills I've learned is how to make things that are sexy, not be sexy anymore.  

It's not an option to just say "no" when Chris makes a sexual advance.  For one thing, saying no too often leads to all kinds of corollary damage.  It's not just the sex that's being rejected, it's Chris.  Whether I mean to or not, that's the way it comes across.  For another, saying "no" forces me to confront the issue.  Sexual dysfunction can arrive suddenly or it can creep up slowly, and either way it is not something easy to face or pleasant to deal with.  So there needs to be an alternative.

Thankfully, it's not that hard to makes things not be sexy.

First, you take something that is naturally paired with sex, such as food, lingerie, stripping, or kissing.  Even something as seemingly unambiguous as copping a feel.  

Then you slowly, methodically, consistently pair that thing with something that is the opposite of sexy.  You wear your lingerie when your partner has made it clear that sex is not on the table.  You turn away from a kiss to burp, or giggle, or make an inappropriate joke.  You flash your partner at odd times.  

If there's the threat of sex, it is not uncommon to hear "Do you wanna see my boobs?" and see me hoist my shirt over my head for a second.  It serves two purposes.  One, it is not sexual at all and two, more importantly, when I put my shirt back down I can do it with finality and then I can turn away.  Rather than acknowledging the sparkle in my love's eye, I can defuse the situation before it goes too far.

Which brings us back to the food on my vibrator.

I didn't actually realize what I was doing when I plugged my vibrator into the kitchen outlet.  I guess I just... well, I don't know what I was thinking, but I wasn't thinking about any kind of systematic de-sexualization of my vibrator.

I'm in a dangerous position right now.  I'm thinking about sex more, I'm writing about it, even watching it.  I'm reading about it both in the "heal yourself" books and the "get off quick" books, neither of which have delivered on their promises as yet.  Still, I remain committed to the process.  My arousal level is higher than it's been in years.  

But things are still not okay.  Chris and I had sex the day I watched the porn.  It didn't hurt much, and it was actually pretty awesome.  It felt good, I felt good, I know Chris felt good.

Half an hour later, I crashed.  I didn't want to touch Chris, didn't want him to touch me.  I felt sad and lonely and worthless and overwhelmed.  When we have bad sex I just feel bad, and in some ways I would have preferred that.  This feeling of dread and impending humiliation was more than I could handle.

I know that it's part of the process.  That the problem is not that I don't know how to be sexual, the problem is that I know exactly how to be sexual - inside out and backwards.  I'm not a blank slate, beginning my sexual education.  There are deep patterns engraved in my behaviour and my emotions, and they won't change overnight.

So plugging the vibrator in the kitchen outlet, and asking Chris how I look right before telling him I have to pee... those things, dysfunctional as they are, serve a purpose.  They help me avoid the situations I can't handle yet.  I just hope I'll be able to recognize when those behaviours are no longer needed.

I'm moving the vibrator up to the bedroom.  It's not much, but it's a step.

Hello, penis (and goodbye porn virginity)

There I was, holding a tall stack of books with titles like "How To Have an Orgasm" and "Hot Monogamy." Across the aisle, the older gentleman I'd recently met at a seminar saw me. He had been in the children's section, which was mysteriously placed adjacent to the sexuality and self-help books. As he and his son came over to say hello, I quickly hugged the books to my chest, hoping that my skinny arms would hide the embarrassing titles. We chatted briefly, and neither of us acknowledged the books slowly sliding out of my clutches. I hiked them up a few inches as inconspicuously as possible.

As he walked away, I breathed a sigh of relief and glanced down - there, in bright pink letters, unmistakable and easily read at half a block's distance - Porn-o-pho-bic. Awesome. He totally didn't notice that at all.  

I have quite the collection of women's sexuality titles. I've bought everything from self-help to erotica, but I didn't have any porn, and to be honest I was a little afraid of it. Every experience with sexual dysfunction is different, and ranges from the medical to the emotional. For me there's a whole lot of shame and embarrassment bundled up in my dysfunction, and the idea of porn just seemed a little too intense. I'm trying to get over that shame so when I saw Ayn Carrillo-Gailey's book "Pornology" I had to buy it.  

It was my first foray into the world of porn. (Okay, it was actually someone else's foray into the world of porn, but that's a minor detail.) While my sister had been getting grounded for reading Playboy behind the house with the neighbour kids, I'd been cooped up inside dealing with depression and a serious case of outcast-itis. My sexuality developed in a bubble of isolation, misinformation, and some serious self-image problems. Although I couldn't relate to Carrillo-Gailey's light and breezy approach to sexuality, I loved reading about it. It was the first time I seriously thought about watching a porno.  

Months later, I was engaging in a little retail therapy at Babeland, and noticed the Porn Starter Kit in their gift section. A book, two DVDs... how could I go wrong? Hadn't I been waiting for just this opportunity?  

I clicked "Add to Cart" and waited for my package to arrive.  

When it did arrive, I almost threw a DVD in the player right away. I was nervous, excited, a little scared. What if I hated it? What if I loved it? What if it turned me on? What if it didn't? It could prove that I am totally normal, or it could prove that I'm some kind of frigid freak, totally incapable of arousal. The pressure was too much. I put the DVD under my nightstand and decided to read the book instead.  

I skipped ahead to the chapter "I was a porn virgin." I am a porn virgin, I thought. This is the chapter for me. One of the mandates was that prior to watching my first porn, I should get to know myself a bit. Grab a mirror, explore my girly bits, feel around for what feels good and what doesn't.  

Here's where I have to make a confession.  

I don't know how to masturbate.  

I know where my clit is. I think masturbation is awesome (for other people) and I definitely don't think it's dirty. I just don't like to touch myself. Touching myself feels weird. Touching myself sexually feels... vulnerable. It's silly because, what am I going to do? Dump myself if I go to third base? But I'm way more comfortable with a vibrator rather than my hands, and I'd prefer to leave the mirrors on the wall where they belong. Nobody needs to know what's going on down there. It's best left under the covers.  

So I skipped that bit of advice.  

I decided I'd watch my first porn on my next day off. I could handle it. How bad could it be? Lots of people don't like porn. If it didn't turn me on, all that would mean is that I don't like porn. And if I did like it, well, that would be great. Another tool in the toolbox, as it were.  

The big day arrived. A whole day off, booked especially for watching porn. Porn. Porn that was made for "women who love and enjoy men." Porn that was sure to arouse. Porn that would feature actual people having actual sex and actually getting off.  

I woke up with a massive headache and a seriously cranky mood. I did not want to watch porn. I did not want to think about sex. I wanted to just watch regular, safe, graphically violent TV and leave the sex in other people's bedrooms.  

Around noon I decided that I needed to watch the movie. I had a shower, put on my ugly blue bathrobe, took off my ugly blue bathrobe and put on my slinky black one, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, sat on my bed, went into the living room, went back upstairs to get the DVD, came downstairs, went back upstairs to get the book, came back downstairs, sat on the couch, got a glass of water, opened the DVD case, surfed the web, drank some water, got my vibrator and some lube, surfed the web some more, put the DVD in the player and sat on the couch. Took a deep breath. Pressed play. 

.  

It wasn't that bad. In fact, there were moments when it was hilarious and moments when it was truly arousing. That was a new and delightful combination for me. Laughing at sex, rather than laughing at myself! Feeling aroused. It was exciting.  

It was also graphic. Lots of penises, lots of vaginas! Not a lot of body hair. Although I am not nearly as toned (and definitely not as well-endowed) as the actresses, it was sort of liberating to see the variations in their appearance. I'm a little less frightened to look at myself, and I'm a little less worried about touching myself.  

Obviously I've got a long way to go. One porn movie can't fix years of dysfunction. But I do think it's a step on the path, one more experience that will help shake loose the confident, sexy, sensual woman that I have to believe is lurking inside this timid, repressed shell.  

Hello, gigantic penises! Bring on the facials!

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This was my first post over at BlogHer.