Shrunk by Dr. Google
I’ve had a lot of sex with enough partners to cause me a little bit of an existential crisis.
Starting at the ripe age of 16, when I finally convinced my timid boyfriend that we needed to get with it and get down, I got it on like the Earth needed repopulation. Once “game on” had been called, there was a singular aim: attempting to raise my standings. Don’t get me wrong, there was no mythical Stanley Cup being competed for—I wouldn’t pass from the regular season into the semi-finals and finally a death-match of sexual fortitude—but I was definitely vying for some sort of record number of goals. Exhibit A: During the second year with my high school boyfriend, I stopped tallying the number of screw sessions when they surpassed 500. Exhibit B: I counted, at all. The next half-decade brought more relationships and hook-ups, often quantified by insatiable urges to do the deed as often as the deed could be done.
There I was four years ago, letting Dr. Google teach me a little bit too much about abnormal psychology, knocked up, unmedicated and depressed. I’d been off and on a variety of medications for depression and anxiety for about six years, a rainbow of antidepressants, mood stabilizers, tranquilizers and even anti-psychotics. I’d never been officially diagnosed, just had pills pushed in my direction, and I’d gone off of the latest cocktail since finding out that a parasite was growing in my womb. My brain was messed up, so I figured since everything you read on the Internet is true, I could figure out what it was that was wrong with me.
Dr. Google didn’t let me down, eventually pointing me toward bipolar’s criteria according the bible of psychology, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—a.k.a. the DSM-IV. If you ever get a sec to page through that bad boy, I suggest you run far away, because you probably qualify for at least 132 disorders, and some things just can’t be unlearned. Trust me, you don’t want to know why you want your wife to do that thing, or that there’s a specific kind of therapy for it. I didn’t want to know that at least seven conditions completely defined my day-to-day life, my past, and my perceptions. But suddenly, the puzzle pieces fit together.
I went back in time in my head, figuring out the whens, whos and whys. When “that guy with the eyes” was part of my life, how I’d dated that crazy girl for all of two weeks. Why boyfriends and I had alternated a seemingly unending cycle of fights and makeup sex. There were periods of time when my sex drive was unmatchable by every partner I’ve ever encountered, and then, there was the Christmas at a boyfriend’s when we didn’t leave the bedroom for more than food and cigarettes for three days. I also saw the in-betweens—the times when I wasn’t getting much and really didn’t care, when having a partner who wanted to get laid was a hassle because, quite frankly, I’d just used up all of my energy taking a shower (that was at least a week after the last one).
My sex life was completely, 100 percent, definitely no question about it attributed to my high and low moods. So, I stepped away from the computer and told a doctor in real life. I was easily diagnosed as bipolar, in part because of the record setting, in addition to the fact that I was unbalanced and moody. Since, bipolar has been written on my metaphorical psychiatric permanent record.
Starting at the ripe age of 16, when I finally convinced my timid boyfriend that we needed to get with it and get down, I got it on like the Earth needed repopulation. Once “game on” had been called, there was a singular aim: attempting to raise my standings. Don’t get me wrong, there was no mythical Stanley Cup being competed for—I wouldn’t pass from the regular season into the semi-finals and finally a death-match of sexual fortitude—but I was definitely vying for some sort of record number of goals. Exhibit A: During the second year with my high school boyfriend, I stopped tallying the number of screw sessions when they surpassed 500. Exhibit B: I counted, at all. The next half-decade brought more relationships and hook-ups, often quantified by insatiable urges to do the deed as often as the deed could be done.
There I was four years ago, letting Dr. Google teach me a little bit too much about abnormal psychology, knocked up, unmedicated and depressed. I’d been off and on a variety of medications for depression and anxiety for about six years, a rainbow of antidepressants, mood stabilizers, tranquilizers and even anti-psychotics. I’d never been officially diagnosed, just had pills pushed in my direction, and I’d gone off of the latest cocktail since finding out that a parasite was growing in my womb. My brain was messed up, so I figured since everything you read on the Internet is true, I could figure out what it was that was wrong with me.
Dr. Google didn’t let me down, eventually pointing me toward bipolar’s criteria according the bible of psychology, the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—a.k.a. the DSM-IV. If you ever get a sec to page through that bad boy, I suggest you run far away, because you probably qualify for at least 132 disorders, and some things just can’t be unlearned. Trust me, you don’t want to know why you want your wife to do that thing, or that there’s a specific kind of therapy for it. I didn’t want to know that at least seven conditions completely defined my day-to-day life, my past, and my perceptions. But suddenly, the puzzle pieces fit together.
I went back in time in my head, figuring out the whens, whos and whys. When “that guy with the eyes” was part of my life, how I’d dated that crazy girl for all of two weeks. Why boyfriends and I had alternated a seemingly unending cycle of fights and makeup sex. There were periods of time when my sex drive was unmatchable by every partner I’ve ever encountered, and then, there was the Christmas at a boyfriend’s when we didn’t leave the bedroom for more than food and cigarettes for three days. I also saw the in-betweens—the times when I wasn’t getting much and really didn’t care, when having a partner who wanted to get laid was a hassle because, quite frankly, I’d just used up all of my energy taking a shower (that was at least a week after the last one).
My sex life was completely, 100 percent, definitely no question about it attributed to my high and low moods. So, I stepped away from the computer and told a doctor in real life. I was easily diagnosed as bipolar, in part because of the record setting, in addition to the fact that I was unbalanced and moody. Since, bipolar has been written on my metaphorical psychiatric permanent record.
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