Hamlet’s emotional well-being

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I’m in bed already. Work has been demanding but APPARENTLY I have sleep apnea which for, oh, the past two years or so has been keeping me from a good night’s rest. I’m embarrassed it took me this long to ask my doctor about the three times a night that I wake up having to pee. Hopefully I’ll get one of those lovely robot masks and I’ll be set. Honestly, years with out sleeping through a night. It became routine and I never realized the fix was so obvious.

Hamlet is fighting my phone for my hand’s attention.

I’m clearly not having enough sex as no one has noticed the whole breathing stoppage. My one special sleepover buddy does tend to play video games while I sleep. Still. How bad must my sinister snoring be?! I guess I will find out after my sleep study.

I seriously have been 100% preoccupied with work and trying to maintain self care. Yet somewhere in there I grew complicated romantical feelings for my non-observant sleep partner. I’m so confused. And I don’t mean Hamlet, though he steadfastly continues to share my bed. When I moved here and he started sleeping with me, I thought it was a strange behavior change; now I wonder if he’s standing guard over my breathing. (I’m being facetious.)

Now I shall slumber while my body fights to kill me in my sleep.

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nausea is my punishment

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Fucking 2012.

Alright. I have Chlamydia.

Finally having worked out the health insurance stuff, I had an appointment earlier this week to get a current birth control prescription and to get tested for STIs, because I haven’t since my break up 7 months ago. Two days and two frustrating doctor lectures later, CHLAMYDIA!

The last time I got tested was just after I became serious with my now ex-fiance, so 4 years ago, and the (not really) funny thing about this is, is that I had chlamydia then as well. It’s rather common, I’m going to have to conclude. Rob took in in stride I think, and if I remember right, he hadn’t caught it from me, and thus didn’t need treatment.

The difference between now and then is that I can’t say this time that I have been 100 percent responsible. Since I’m confessing something taboo already, might as well keep going. I have had unprotected sex, and more than once, and with more than one person, with in the space of the last few months. I don’t want to make excuses for why. (They would boil down to I was in a dark place.) I did, is the point.

My dear friend said, “Don’t be angry. just learn from it. You dodged a bullet.” But that’s not an exactly accurate metaphor, what I did was found someone with a gun and said to them, “It’s ok if you want to try and shoot me.” Or actually, just failed to say and insist, “Wait, I don’t wanna play with your gun that way.” (This is a lovely picture I’m painting here.) And then I failed the same shitty way with an entirely different person. Ugh, I’m the worst.

It’s hard for me to admit this, which I guess is why I’m admitting it. I’m a person who certainly knows better. It’s curious though, because the average sexually-active person knows better, yet plenty of people fail to use condoms. Some on a regular basis. And WHY? I think the regular risky-sex doing people I do sort of understand. It’s harder for me to accept that someone (me or a woman like me) who is educated, progressive, and otherwise assertive, would…let it slide. Would put sexual gratification/some dude’s “comfort”/avoiding momentary awkwardness over something as important as wellness.

I already swallowed a dose of Zithromax, followed by my pride (as I filled in both partners in crime via text, that is). I probably feel about as sick as my seven month old nephew did on Christmas day, when he was taking an antibiotic as well (but not for an STD) and was moved to vomit the entire contents of his stomach onto the table at the Chinese restaurant we were eating at.

I’ll live. These were the other not cool aspects of the Getting Tested for Sex Diseases Process:

  • 50 minute wait before my first appointment
  • Matronly female doctor from first appointment who… gave me the news that I’m obese; enthusiastically consulted her BMI chart, despite that BMI is bullshit; explained to me, as if I must not know, what a balanced meal and proper meal is; told me to “stop drinking sodas” when I don’t drink soda; and when I tried to speed up the nutrition tutorial by explaining that, lately, I hardly ever even eat any meal, told me “you should eat three meals a day always” or your body goes into “starvation mode” because I must not know that either, and must be skipping meals and eating crappy foods like ramen for fun and not out of necessity.
  • They tell you that you need to schedule a follow up about your test results, but can’t tell you why until they see you in person, then (since you have a job) you get to spend two days wondering what bad news you are going to get. Hope you aren’t a neurotic person, that could be a rough two days, buddy.
  • Similarly condescending physician’s assistant from my second appointment who says “we have to talk to you every time about it” like they would if I were a smoker, you see, in defense of her colleague’s unsolicited and unhelpful information last time. Funny, this isn’t my first time at the fat rodeo, and my other doctors tended to respect me enough to say something like, “It would be preferable if you were at a lower weight. Do you want to talk about your options?” and leave it at that if “Nope” was my response. As opposed to someone who doesn’t ask anything about my eating and exercise habits, nor my feelings and concerns.
  • That this PA also explained to me that should I enter into a relationship, before going without condoms, we should both show our test results to each other. (Fucking genius, such a novel idea that I had never encountered despite having done exactly that 4 years ago!) And you know, how it might not seem like a big deal, since it’s so easy to treat, but how it’s actually no joke to have Chlamydia. (CAUSE I WAS ENJOYING IT SO DAMN MUCH that I might need a reality check! I just roam around hoping to be penetrated with infected penises,  you see, so that I might come take advantage of my cheap healthcare and the joy of antibiotics, just cause it gives me a thrill! I think I’m invincible and so I don’t worry about protecting myself ever! I, despite seeking out testing after making myself vulnerable to infection, don’t understand that my behavior has consequences!)

I don’t like admitting that I caught a very common, somewhat innocuous illness, because I feel like it makes a case for every sex-hating asshole that it’s wrong to be slutty. But I don’t want to be ashamed when, it’s not really wrong. It was stupid of me that I was unsafe (not that I couldn’t have gotten it anyway) but I don’t want to be ashamed for having a few moments of stupidity either. So. CHLAMYDIA!

plenty of fish

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There are plenty of fish in the sea as they say …and I should know as I’ve fucked several of them in the past few weeks.

(Yeah, it’s going to be that type of post and I’m that type of girl. And that’s something I don’t even have time to go into so just move along if you’re the type of person who thinks a person’s worth is determined by what the do with their naughty bits.)

I can see how it would seem strange and cold that I put an online profile up looking for “intimate encounters” only a couple of days after Rob took a torch to our relationship and then proceeded to dedicate himself to indifference. THIS IS THE THING. There is very little I can do right now to feel better. I cried. I talked about it. I FELT THE FEELINGS and waited to heal. I continue to do all those things. Meanwhile, I’m unhappy or angry or generally unpleasant AND my confidence is shaken AND I’m tired of all the sympathy that comes with the support I get from the people who love me so I’m avoiding them. That’s where the queue of new, attractive, libidinous gentlemen comes in.

Today I wore a tank top with out another layer of clothing covering my arms. I can’t remember another time, ever, when I’ve done that, despite “accepting” my body.

See, at some point with Rob I stopped feeling so sexy and confident as I had 3 years ago. There was the back stuff, and the unemployment and other self-esteem zapping life stuff. But also there was Rob rarely initiating sex. There was me being unable to remember him ever giving me a compliment. There was me, a few months ago, telling him that I felt insecure, about myself, about everything, and that I needed him to reassure me. There was him failing to do that.

I’ve always been wary of building self-esteem through the eyes of other people, especially men.  But that’s where my confidence had disappeared from. I still knew I was amazing at my job, I still knew I was a caring, loyal person. I knew I was a good friend. ET CETERA.

And I will never believe that Rob was right to be so withholding, that I didn’t deserve more, but somewhere in the depths of my too sensitive bleeding heart, there is that fear. That someone I trusted so much would do so much damage to me…that’s something that I think I will spend a long time recovering from. No matter how much I know myself, no matter what I do, there will be a tiny, loathsome voice that will tell me that I am not lovable.

I am terrified at the thought of actually putting myself out there and dating. Meeting a new person, getting my hopes up, getting disappointed, getting out of awkward social situations, and especially, developing real feelings for someone. If not terrified, then sickened. In no shape or form do I want to even think about a relationship consisting of anything but sex. So, it is so indescribably gratifying to have lots of men see me and want me and to be able to be as superficial and selective as I want to narrow down the pool to the few who I then end up using for immense physical pleasure. Gratifying.

Somehow, in 3 short years, I had forgotten that someone could look at fat nerdy me and find me desirable. That perhaps lots of someones could. And since I remembered, I’ve felt good thinking about it. I’ve felt a little lighter, less burdened by all of the mourning. I’ve felt more love for myself and a whole lot less for the man who I thought I was spending the next 50 years with.

Plus. Good sex. Super fun. When I didn’t feel up to seeing my closest friends and family, I had lots of time on my hands and it was an absolutely fantastic distraction when the alternative would have been me doing nothing but holing up on the couch and watching tv.

So orgasms or no orgasms, I’m glad for the fish. The one that said, “Don’t act like you ain’t sexy” and called me girl as in damn, girl. The one with the huge hands. The one who says sweet things in a thick Jamaican accent. Even the one who experienced uber-premature ejaculation, because at least he was enthusiastic.

I wore a tank top today.

an aside

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I found this  article about New York’s anti-soda campaign very interesting. It’s not that I think soda is good for anybody but they very simply claim that it makes you fat because, well, nobody wants to be fat. Despite the fact that they were warned by multiple experts that the claim is misleading.

“CAUTION,” the nutritionist, Cathy Nonas, wrote in a memorandum to her colleagues on Aug. 20, 2009. “As we get into this exacting science, the idea of a sugary drink becoming fat is absurd.” The scientists, she said, “will make mincemeat of us.”

…Ms. Nonas, along with at least two of her colleagues and a Columbia University professor they consulted, expressed strong doubts about the weight-gain message of the video and urged the department to rethink it. They pointed out that, on an individual basis, the conversion of calories into fat depends on factors like exercise, genes, gender, age and overall calorie consumption.

God forbid something be about health rather than looking pretty. Somebody get Don Draper on this!