It’s been six months since I’ve had sex–SIX MONTHS. I haven’t gone that long between romps since my sexual escapades began at the tender age of fourteen. And I miss it terribly; the intense connection of it, the feeling I would burst into flames from the lightest touch. I miss feeling like the sexual being I know I am. The confidence of my sexual prowess is what I miss the most, I think. I haven’t felt that confidence in a while now. I know I haven’t lost it–it’s still there–it’s just gone dormant, waiting to wake again when the time is right.
The dismantling of my sexual assuredness started with a bad haircut, and even though I’m dying to reference Samson & Delilah here, I’m not allowed. Heather has forbidden me to use any more metaphors until the end of forever, but whatever. I will say I felt as if my power had been stolen, and I was left looking like a poodle.
Sexy, right?
Okay, so a poodle is a bit of a stretch, but I did see the lead singer from the glam-rock band, Cinderella, when I looked in the mirror. But with less makeup and fewer sequins.
The coiff-conundrum took weeks to grow out to a fixable stage, but even after giving her the opportunity to make it right, my stylist seemed to have forgotten how to cut my curls and again I was unhappy.
During that time, my three year relationship with Mr. K blew apart, destroying what confidence I had left. I gathered what pieces I could and retreated, shutting the door to the outside world while I licked my wounds in private. I hardly left the house or answered the phone. I stopped writing for myself and I stopped masturbating–I stopped looking in the mirror. I threw myself into my career, working my ass off to prove that I’m dripping with awesomesauce–and I totally am–and I concentrated on being the worst mother I could possibly be. And it was enough…for awhile.
But then I began to miss more than just sex–I missed desire. I missed the glow of sexual confidence that I’d had, and I knew it wasn’t going to magically reappear on its own. The power to rekindle it was in my hands, and mine alone, so I focused on myself, which is something I’d done little of in, like, ever. Heather has even suggested that I talk to a therapist about the traumatic experiences I’ve endured in my life.
“Surviving isn’t the same as healing,” she said.
I couldn’t see her face at that moment, but I’m fairly certain her brow was quirked. And she’s right–I do need to get my ass into therapy. It’s been a long time coming. It’s a step I haven’t taken yet, but I plan to.
In the ‘Year of Nikki’ thus far, I’ve taken my health super-seriously for a change. I’m learning to treat my body with the respect it deserves, both inside and out. I’ve stopped eating my feelings, sugar, dairy, gluten, and processed foods. I feel better than I have in a long time. Heather has taught me how to meditate, which seems to clear my head and help me sleep better. I still have nights here and there where I lie awake offering to trade my soul for some shut-eye, but those nights are outweighed by the good now. And I found a new stylist who has made me love my hair in a way I never imagined. I’ve also started writing for myself again, which makes me bleed in the most beautiful way.
In the past, I would have disconnected from my feelings and sought solace in one boozy sexual encounter after another, but that’s not healthy. I know that now, and that’s why I’m taking time out for me. I’ve faced my feelings instead of choking them down, allowing myself to cry more than I have since 1989. It’s totally not my badass style, but in the process I’ve grown; prioritized. Heather likes to say I’m like candy–hard on the outside with an ooey-gooey center. Whatever. I’m hard. Heh. Hard.
I’m still not at a point where I’m ready to fuck again–or shave my legs–because I’m still healing. There’s no rush, unless you ask my mother. Anyway, when the day comes when I’m strong enough to make myself vulnerable again, I’ll have no doubts. But until then, I’ll continue to work on me; to grow, and to finally realize that I’m pretty fucking great.
