I’m a sex-positive woman writer who, like most of us, has been through the wringer. Rape culture is real and so is the midlife crisis, and the only thing that heals (me) is to talk (write) about it.
I have chronic PTSD, may or may not be bipolar II (it was the nineties, a bygone time when everyone in the psychiatric community was jazzed on handing out that diagnosis, in my opinion), panic disorder and probably OCD.
So, you ask, what’s that like?
I have a traitor brain.
It panics and falls into sadness, is filled with wrong impulses that sometimes suck me into paranoia and intrusive thoughts that come as pictures in my head of dying and undesired mantras—she killed herself slips off my tongue sometimes when I get anxious. Also, my brain loves to get high. Favorite drugs include Adderall, acid, heroin, and pheromones. I’m off them all now and have been (except the human love-scent) for a long time.
Cannabis is medicinal and prescribed for me. It works. As does the Prozac. I cry a lot, fluctuate between periods of crippling self-awareness and recklessness, and I’m going to therapy.
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