I spent two years with my lover Lexapro; the two most mellow years of my life. My immediate frustrations were comforted, my resentments muffled, my anxiety calmed; I was wrapped in a thick, warm comforter, insulated against the sharp pangs that came with living.
But I was also insulated against or from fun things like my creativity and sexuality. I used to joke to my friends that after 24 years with my husband, we were, sexually speaking, a finely tuned precision engine. But now it felt as though I was being touched through a barrier, or, in this instance, a thick and cumbersome rug. After a while, it seemed like being intimate was just too much work for too little pay.
And as for creativity, well, with my new sense of peace, I found I had no need to actually say anything. This, for a writer, is akin to a cook who has no appetite. Sure, it's possible to work, but the results will be uninspired at best. I no longer bothered to fight with my girlfriends, or husband; I could just shrug and walk away from situations that previously had me in endless knots analyzing and discussing. And so, for two years, I learned nothing new. I felt emotionally Botoxed. Who was I under the blankets? What did I really feel like? I began to wonder and to want me back, even at the steep price of misery.
1 comment:
I completely studied your article about the affair. It was not good to listen but i admire the content indeed.
Take Care...
Good Luck
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