So much of my adult life I have spent worried about sex. I was married and early-on had a mid-term miscarriage that rocked my entire world. For the following five years, I held my breath each month, waiting for my period, praying to literally any god that would hear me, that I was not pregnant. I never wanted to do that again.
After those five years, though, my theology had done its work on me and I was “willing” to try again. I literally know the conception date of my son for this reason. Its a little sick, actually.
No matter, between each of the following pregnancies, I did the same…held my breath and prayed that I wouldn’t get pregnant…yet. (And I know these conception dates as well…boo!)
Pregnancies were terrible experiences. Not mildly upsetting and not simply unendurable. They were horrific. And the births of my children, each time, tried to kill me. I am not exaggerating (no matter how many of you roll your eyes at this…especially men).
And no…I did not have a conscious choice to NOT have children. It was what I was supposed to do. And I, unlike a lot of people, did what I was “Supposed” to do. (Not super proud of that anymore, btw)
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I couldn’t take the pill as I am at high risk for blood clots. I also feel “crazy” on the pill. Messing with my hormones was not an option and barrier protection is only so effective. So I lived in this fear for the first nearly 20 years of my marriage. (Except when I was pregnant. Then I could actually ENJOY sex).
Then, finally, in my late 30’s, my then-husband finally got fixed. For a year or so afterward, I was still not okay. But finally, I started to relax a little.
But then, I realized what a distraction sex was. My pre-occupation with sex all those years had distracted me from bigger, more dangerous problems in my marriage. For example, being married to a narcissist is more dangerous than just about anything to my knowledge. Just FYI.
But it took nearly 25 years to see it.
Sex is dangerous. Dangerously distracting.
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I love sex. I always have. But that relationship is challenging and it’s not getting any better. It’s been used as a weapon to keep me happy. It’s promise has been used to groom me into a relationship with someone who wasn’t available. It’s entertaining factor was used to enter into a relationship with yet another, unstable, and unsafe human. And now, there is even more.
Yes, I can count on one hand how many men I’ve been with. And now, after all that, I’d like to keep it that way. Because sex hasn’t started getting less dangerous.
Now, it’s a different kind of terrifying. Because now, at age 48, I’ve been relegated to the throngs of middle-aged women (who couldn’t get the vaccine, btw) with HPV. And I’m not happy about it. I’m angry.
Here I am, a woman in seminary, part-time preacher, spiritual director, mentor, teacher, and mother, with no irresponsible sexual experiences behind me (sadly), with HPV.
I could have had so much more fun and still ended up here.
Sometimes I say that to myself. Why was I careful for all of those years? Why did I stay married and settle for sub-par sex and a partner who didn’t value me when I could have left and had some fun? Why did I try to hard to protect myself from everything, when now, I have a cancer-causing strain of an STD and no “real” fun to show for it?
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Not that I wanted to live a sexually flagrant life. I mean, I wanted more sex than I got. I still do. I expect I always will, unless something changes that I am not in control of. But, I’m not going to be “that” woman. I can’t be.
So, as if my divorce didn’t fuck me up enough, and my heart issues aren’t rocking my world, and school and kids, and work don’t add to the pile of stresses, I have THIS, too.
…
I wake up, sadly remembering that today, I need to watch some videos on HPV and how to build my system up to flush it out, hopefully, in time not to cause me cancer, which would take away body parts I am not excited to discuss.
I am terrified. There is no way around it. It makes me start shaking and makes me want to cry. So I don’t say a word. Because I know if I say anything, the floodgates will open and that response is never welcome.
Even looking in my inbox is becoming triggering again. It was triggering for so long during and after my divorce. And now it is again, as I look through my emails for the ones from my doctor. Yay!
I don’t blame him, though. Not really. Though it is kinda hard not feeling angry with him.
I am A LOT angry that my immune system has been compromised by the extreme stress of the eternal divorce. I am angry that my ex could do whatever he wanted to me through that process and Has. No. Consequences.
He isn’t living with heart issues. He isn’t financial devastated with a more than shitty credit rating, debt out his ass, and no way to pay it off. He doesn’t have to start all over again, trying to finish school and create a life. No consequences. Just lots of money, play time, and a cute girlfriend, 15 years younger than he is. Rough.
And, even today, my sweet man doesn’t wake up, terrified of his email account, and all of the reminders that yes, he might feel fine right now, but who knows what is really going on “down there”. He doesn’t have to wake up remembering that I gifted him a bug that will never affect me, but might fuck his body up in a bit way or kill him. And…he didn’t do anything to “deserve” it. And yet, it’s his to fix.
Nope. That’s me. I get to do that.
Lucky me.
Yeah, I’ll figure this out, just like I figure out every other fucking problem I’ve faced. This one just feels unacceptable. It feels like I’ve been taken advantage of. I feel cheated. My naivety has gotten the best of me…again.
I feel Just. Plain. Stupid.
So much for having just ONE part of my life I could simply enjoy, instead of being hypervigilant about. It was good while it lasted, those few, very short years.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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