I don’t really care about fucking anymore.
As someone who has dealt with mental illness for my entire adult life, depression and anxiety have become as much a part of my identity as my slutty and overt sexuality. In January I started taking Prozac and it changed everything – how I function, what I care about, how I interact with the world. All of these changes have been incredibly positive and have led to a better life and more, dare I say, happiness. But along with all of these changes, the most shocking adjustment has been to go from a person who defines herself through sex to one who fantasizes more about a warm body to snuggle with than a hard dick and deep, wet moans.
It’s difficult to say how much of my decreased sexual desire is a result of the drug itself – Prozac does decrease arousal, especially in men – and how much of my previous voracious sexuality was a result of my mental illness. I don’t have borderline personality disorder, but, on top of depression and generalized anxiety, I do have obsessive compulsive personality disorder.
This would manifest itself in addictive, compulsive, and often self-destructive behavior born of a need to exercise control over a situation, over my feelings about my life and my body and my place in the world. OCPD is different than the more irrational and prohibitive and well-known OCD exemplified in shows like Girls and Monk; people with OCPD are often highly functional in many aspects of their life because of their need to control situations and maintain order.
“The problems arise when control is taken away; when plans change suddenly; when order is disrupted.”
The problems arise when control is taken away; when plans change suddenly; when order is disrupted. Anyone who has ever been with me when we’ve had to make last-minute changes to my carefully organized plans will recognize immediately the manifestation of a chaotic freak-out as I am forced to readjust completely in order to attempt to maintain perfection.
On antidepressants, I don’t freak out as much any more. I still make plans and I still want them to go well, but it’s easier for me to adjust nowadays. I know how to remove myself from bad situations. I don’t get black-out drunk because I don’t have those compulsions to keep drinking once I’ve started. I don’t drink liquor as a general rule, in fact. I don’t go on the previously regular shopping sprees to buy clothes to make myself feel better, a compulsion that has put me deeply, deeply in debt. And I am not constantly thirsty for sex the way I once was.
I’ve tried to figure out why this is, and I’m not sure I totally have yet. There are layers upon layers here, of not just my mental illnesses and my body dysmorphia but also my queer sexuality and my genderqueer identity and my liberal ideology and my belief in normalizing sexual behavior in a larger societal sense. I still want to be desired, to be thought of as beautiful and sexy. I still masturbate. I still enjoy fucking and cumming and blowjobs and knowing I can make a man hard just by sending him a picture.
The difference is I don’t need all of that the way I used to. It’s the icing on the cake of my rich, wonderful life. Whereas before antidepressants the cake was made of cardboard and all I had was the icing to cover it up, I’m finally living a full experience. I have incredible friends who are there when I need them, who are honest and caring and who appreciate the same qualities in me. I fell in love with someone who really knew and accepted me for who I am and even when it didn’t work out, the breakup taught me how strong I am and how far I’ve come.
“I don’t fuck people just to fuck them anymore.”
I don’t fuck people just to fuck them anymore. Not that there’s anything wrong with that; I support anyone who enjoys a healthy amount of casual sex. It’s just not good for me at this point in my life, you know? I don’t need to be getting fucked to feel that I have worth, and I’m thankful for that.
It has been a strange adjustment to my identity, however. Friends keep asking me when I’m going to write more, and I don’t know how to tell them just how much my destructive sexual behavior fueled my writing for so long. How inspiring the inherent sadness of my previous life was. I still write; it’s just different now. My motivations are different. My desires are different. I’m different. And however strange this adjustment has been, I’m thankful to Prozac and therapy because they’ve not only kept me alive, they’ve given me real power. And I’ll trade some dick for this kind of happiness any damn day.