How could I forget? Not the day, of course, or the time of the appointment. Or even what my therapist looked like, which I recall was somewhat easy on the eye. No, what was bugging me was that I have clean forgotten her name.
I knew I could easily find the answer by reading back on the blog a fortnight or so ago but that wasn’t the point. My short term memory is showing signs of fading. It’s not just her name either.
For the life of me I also can’t remember the name of that world famous Jamaican sprinter who has smashed all world records and on terrible ads for cable tv. It’s relatively unimportant, not remembering who he is, but still not a great sign for my mental health.
Nevertheless, it’s in a much better frame of mind that my visit today begins as opposed to the first session. There’s been various factors. Above all, though, it’s been the subconscious. Without thinking I’ve been doing all those things which creates a positive headspace. Something, without my knowledge, has clearly clicked.
All this before meeting with my therapist. If only I could recall that name. I wait in the grim, grubby reception. Outside I can hear the lunchtime tones of two people having a fight. I do hope I gave the receptionist the right name.
Only one way to find out. My therapist calls my name out, actually looking even better than I recall. Her smile might just disappear when I utter my greeting though. “Hi Anne.”
My own face breaks into one, however, when she asks how I am, nodding in acceptance that I got the name right. Phew. She has no idea how much a trivial thing like that meant to me. Outwardly I’m happy, inwardly sighing with relief.
The ‘Scores On The Doors’ depression and anxiety indicators are a hotch-potch. Much better and chilled in some areas, yet more suicidal thoughts, and being unable to concentrate on tv. To counteract that, those morbid musings last a lot less longer than before, and I’ve found having the radio on in the background has curtailed an awful lot of tv viewing.
Onto what Anne asked me to do in that first session. I did, indeed, touch my body all over in the bath, in a state of relaxation, with a face cloth, to find the areas I like being touched the most. It turns out I feel aroused by my head and inner thigh being stroked. That could prove problematic during sex if my partner has a short arm span.
I’m then shown a number of illustrations showing in detail genitalia and how it works. A slightly embarrassed grin spreads across my face. I find looking at them uncomfortable but I’m being shown in what area my sex organs decide not to perform, and what is physically happening.
It all makes sense but I know the answer lies locked away in my subconscious. Something inside that is not allowing me to either perform or enjoy penetrative sex. It’s not the inclination, that I know. I do feel attraction and arousal, even anticipation. That’s when my mind walks into some block and the shutters come down physically, leaving my partner and I unfulfilled.
The session moves onto my ex. Anne is pleased at the progress I’m making in finally getting over her. I admit to still loving her, and if she walked in right now, I’d drop everything and go back with her. But I hardly long for her and am actively moving on. I don’t feel like dating again but it feels good to think of it.
Then came more questions, inevitably, of the sex life my ex and I had. The nice thing about it all is that, problem aside, we both enjoyed long snuggles, lingering kisses, and slow, increasingly passionate foreplay. I adore the closeness of it, the feeling of being loved, and showing someone I adore and love them equally by smooching and caressing.
Yet again, the session flies by, and I’m given some recommendations to explore my own body a little more in the next couple of weeks. Nothing overtly physical, or necessarily meaning quick relief, but just being aware of all my body, what it actually looks like, warts and all.
There’s some parts I’m embarrassed of, so confronting the issue by actually bringing myself to look at them seems a reasonable step forward to take. There’s only one way to find out what sort of step it is. I’m game.
As the first spits of an incoming shower hit my face when I leave, I start to wonder how Anne is going to help me make that breakthrough in my sex life. She explains things well, and is at the same time very realistic yet positive of things.
Maybe understanding my body first, understanding my mind later, is what’s happening. Yet I feel a strange mix of appreciative yet frustrated.
Ironically, just like my sex life.