Something about hitting my forties unleashed my sense of freedom and empowerment. Without any fucks to give, I became this hyper-sexualized beast (that doesn’t date). I would imagine strangers on the street in the throes of passion and the face they’d make in the middle of an orgasm. I toyed with the idea of seeing people naked while talking to them about something benign, like the weather. I learned to appreciate grey sweatpants and a well fitted pair of slacks. This was after watching a presenter who chose to go commando. I couldn’t stop looking at his dick print. It was glorious. I found myself having a hard time keeping my hands off of me. You maybe didn’t want to know that one. I would try to look for a fuck to give you, but we just covered my lack of carrying those. I’m also on a second glass of wine.

Something about the grief of the last few years has been sitting heavily on my shoulders. I’ve worked through the stages and right now I’m feeling acceptance and some sadness. I don’t feel like the world makes me want to cry, but I see it in old videos of me. I see it when I used to laugh and sing with such ease. It was like I was a younger version of myself. I’m in a better place mentally than I have been in the last two years, but I’m still feeling grief. That heaviness makes it hard to get in touch with my libido.

I noticed my lack of lust the other night when talking to an old friend. He suggested self care and my typical thought is to wonder if I had fresh batteries. I wondered, but I also didn’t do anything beyond wonder. I noticed it yesterday when I was asked by another old friend about revisiting a blog post I wrote two years ago. It was “My Best Friend’s Brother, a spicy short story.” He prompted this post instead.

There’s a direct relationship between mental health and sex drive. I don’t mean your ability to go through the motions and get to the end result and move on with your life. I mean the kind of attention to your needs that excites you, leaves you flushed and begging for more until exhaustion.

When I was married, I thought I was just broken because I wasn’t turned on easily. I often felt like I was stressed with the kids, and keeping the house clean. I was overwhelmed with everything out of my control and could never get in touch with my sexual feelings. With the divorce, I focused all of my time during shared custody trying to figure out what I loved to do and what I loved about me. It was a journey, but it was like giving myself a key to a hidden part of me that I was just learning about. I learned to eat what I enjoyed and do the things that made me happy. I learned to appreciate my body and how it felt to be alive.

With grief, I feel out of touch with these things. I feel disconnected and like there’s a weight on my shoulders. I feel it in the early morning hours when there’s silence with a hollow ache of longing for the existence of what is now gone. It’s in mourning the loss of who I was and wondering if I’ll find her again. I still struggle to read my first book because it’s a bold confrontation of who I was versus who I am now.

That story is coming. I’ll charge the rechargeable toys, while replacing old batteries. Just maybe not tonight.