The gold is in the shit

They say the gold is in the shit. I’ve been in a slump lately. And I seem to have a case of writer’s block if that even exists. 

So much of what I think about and write about stems from conversations with people, going out, observing, and ruminating. But I haven’t been doing much of any of that. 

There are financial stresses, the pain in my wrist has hit its crescendo (surgery is next week – shit!), and the mood has been dull. (Is it perimenopause? Surely not! At 41, aren’t I way too young for that?)

And then there’s also a dark, overarching tone of sadness and terror of what’s happening around us. It seems all so far away, so unrelatable to the lucky. 

It feels selfish for someone like me to have down days. I’m safe, my kids are safe and healthy and are counting the days until we leave gin out for Santa. I can walk to a wine bar and a record store and easily take my kids to the hospital when needed, which just so happened to be last Friday.

My extended family – though it’s dwindled to half its members in the past four years– is pretty good; we’re healthy, safe and looking forward to getting together at Christmas.

But I often joke to my partner that I have ten tenants living rent-free in my head (in truth, I think there's probably more than that but a good handful are like old retirees with nothing better to do than get in their neighbours' business).

On some days these thought tenants have nothing better to do than to play tug of war with my emotions, motivations, insecurities, worries and fears, talking over each other at what can sometimes feel like daily disputes; no mediation in sight.

I write for you all about sex and intimacy, and I could pretend today and make something up for you but I’m pretty sure that’s not what you signed up for. Because me never admitting that some weeks my sexy self fucks off to somewhere unknown means that I’m doing what all the other media we consume does–making shit up to get a sale or fit with an idea that encourages mistruth and a fake filter.

Here's the truth: what I notice when I’m feeling a little off is that the desire for closeness dissipates. It sounds counterintuitive but my introversion sends me hurling back in to a reflective space, at a distance from my partner.

Right now, I don’t feel very sexy or up for a lot of sex. I know I “should” have sex but I also know that “shoulds” are a slippery slope of criticism and judgement. 

It’s not ideal for my partner but it is what it is. I’m no longer someone who tries to fix everything all at once, and I’ve never been adept at the “put on a happy face” act. 

I’m also generally not someone who spirals and lets negative emotions take complete control. I learnt many years ago in a practical philosophy class to pretend I was standing by the side of the road and my thoughts were the cars. I would watch them go by but not cling to them, not obsess,  just let them go. 

Being ok to sit with the uncomfortable and unwelcome is so important. And as much as my tenants fight it, I try not to be too hard on myself; I hope you give yourself the same love, too. I trust there is gold in the shit, or at least something good will come from the sifting.

If we are going to elevate sexual expression, then we must acknowledge when things are shiny, dull and rusted. Our sexual wellbeing doesn’t sit in a silo; it is intrinsically tied to our general well-being.

So this is a reminder that you’re not going to feel like a sexual goddess every day or every week. Your sexual radiance isn't going to shine like a well-lubed butt plug. And that is totally fucking fine.