Mental Illness

The only mentions of sex in this post are entirely tangential. If you're looking to beat off, skip this post.


Last semester, I saw a shrink for 10 weeks.

He told me that he thought I suffer from massive depression, and have been suffering for some time. Several years, in fact.  Towards our last few sessions, he gave me references to some psychiatrists that I should see this semester and strongly encouraged me to pursue both medication and continued therapy. At some point during last semester, he suggested I go on suicide watch.

Over the winter break, I thought on it and decided not to pursue any more therapy or medication. It is not that I dispute the diagnosis. I am well aware of the black dog that haunts me and I can easily see from my own notes and journals how it comes and goes in steady, unpredictable waves and much it fucks up my life when it does.

But I am also convinced that therapy in my case is counterproductive.  Rather than helping me push through the dark periods, it merely causes me to dwell on my own self-destructive thoughts and extend the length of my depressive episodes.  Likewise, I have read up on medication.  In simplest terms, I don't like fucking with my mind.  I know what to expect when the black dog hits me.  I know how it makes me feel, I know how to push through it, and I know it will pass.  If I'm lucky, I can feel it approach.

Depression, simply enough, sucks. When I'm in the midst of an episode, I miss work, I avoid friends, I skip practices, I barely leave my room. Sometimes my sex drive goes to zero, sometimes I spend all day jacking off.

I have seen the effects. I have a small circle of friends who know that when I go dark, they can expect rambling, hours long, existential calls in the middle of the night. Thankfully, my self-deprecating humor makes though calls entertaining enough to be bearable for them.  I have seen my grades torpedoed time and time again thanks to depression. I've watched As turn into Bs, Bs turn into Cs, Cs turn into Fs, as I helplessly lie in bed cursing my inability to move.

That said:
-I have never attempted suicide. I don't imagine myself ever doing so.
-I don't descend into self-destructive behavior. I keep my drugs, alcohol, and sex for when I feel manic and awesome.
-Despite all of this, my grades are alright. Not great. Not terrible. But average.

I have a good life. I go to a good school. I have a good group of friends. I get laid decently frequently. My family has enough money so that I can't really claim to be in the 99%. I'm not handsome, but I'm not ugly either, and I'm in half decent shape.  There is no reason for me to feel the way I do at times.

In my experience, the best thing I can do is every day, get out of bed, shower, get dressed, tie my shoes and walk out the door.  Even if I feel like shit.  Take everything I do to excess.  Read books, hit hard during rugby, run like hell, get up whenever I fall.  As long as I'm moving, doing something, I know I'm still alive. That's whats important.

So, what's the purpose of posting this essay to a sex blog?
I'm not aiming for your pity. Save it for someone who's worth pitying. But it does provide some color to my writings, to my actions.  It makes the author of this blog slightly more a person to you, dear reader.

But it also gives some idea as to the waves I go through. I'm not horny 100% of the time. Nor am I always looking for the same thing.  When I'm chasing girls, I don't post about it here. This isn't the right blog for it. For instance, right now there's two important things to know about my mental state:

1) I feel the black dog approaching. Not today, not tonight, maybe not this week, but definitely this month I'm going to wake up in bed and feel like I'm about to cry. And that feeling my last awhile.

2) There are literally no boys on my radar right now. I slept with Max about a week ago, he's invited me back again, but I probably won't go any time soon.  There are a couple girls, however, that I'm tentatively pursuing, and my interests are rather focused on them.

3) I'll get back to writing Liam's Mistake whenever Liam gets back to musing for me.  It's far easier to write the sex scenes for that when he's telling me how much he wants my cock.

To all of my readers who patiently waded through this morass of text, thank you for allowing me to waste your time.