Group Therapy Was…Awkward

I finally gathered up enough courage to go to a group therapy session yesterday. It was quite a nerve-racking experience. As I sat waiting for the session to start, a couple of the patients kept trying to have a conversation with me. They were way too friendly. I wondered if happy pills were the culprit. All I could offer were one word replies. I’m a bit socially awkward and it takes me a while to warm up to people—especially strangers that seemed a little too happy for happiness sake.

When I didn’t answer a question to their liking, they would ask the nurse about me. I guess they were just curious but it made me feel uneasy. I told them that I wasn’t much of a talker. They didn’t seem too thrilled with the response. It was quite intimidating.

The dreaded moment came. I had to introduce myself. I was the center of attention. I hate being the center of attention. I only said my first name. There was a long awkward pause. Maybe they were expecting my life story or a musical number. The participant in turn introduced themselves to me.

This session’s topic was about anger management. The moderator read several pages about the topic from a handout that she probably downloaded online. It was quite boring as she breezed through each page. She read about the different types of anger, dos and don’ts and coping techniques. She also passed out a handout which she also read aloud. I felt like I was in grade school. A part of intelligence felt a little insulted. This was for the birds—those cuckoo birds. I felt too big for this nest.

The Q&A session rolled around and the moderator honed in on me. She asked if I had any questions. I told her that I didn’t have any questions. She asked if I had anything to share on the topic at hand. Of course I had several stories about anger. I could have shared that I suppress anger it like it’s going out of style. Or about how passive aggressive I am and don’t say how I truly feel. Or that I let my anger boil over and spill into other parts of my life. Or how I resent people for days, months and years on end but I declined to share that. I feared that I could get emotional and the walls I’ve built to protect me from flood damage would collapse.

She also asked if I would come again on Thursday. “Hopefully,” I awkwardly replied. “Hopefully.”

Hypersexuality Dipped in Love Addiction

As some of you may know, hypersexuality is a symptom in bipolar disorder. These past several days, my body has been on fire. It’s like I can feel every drop of blood rushing through my veins. My clitoris feels like it’s on tilt and won’t stop throbbing. The dirty thoughts running through my mind won’t stop either. I was prepared to handle the situation by myself (aka excessive masturbation) but a text came in—a text that changed everything.

“Am I sexy?” Soothed texted.

“Of course,” I replied. “Why do you ask?”

“Just need a self-esteem boost. Feeling some doubt—like I don’t measure up.”

Aww. Poor fellow! It pulled at my heart strings. He was vulnerable. I’m always in a state of vulnerability. It was nice to have company for this misery of mine. He proceeded to tell me that he was feeling sad, lonely and horny. I stroked his ego with words of flattery and told him that I wanted to make him feel better.

He said that snuggling with me would make him feel better. “His body would make me feel better,” I thought to myself.

Of course I knew snuggling probably was a code word for something else but I didn’t care. I was on fire and needed to be extinguished. I needed to be touched. I needed to feel his kisses. I needed to feel him surrounding me. I went downstairs to his apartment. We crawled into his bed, talked and held each other for a couple of hours.

He began to kiss and caress me. It has been a while since anyone has been so close to my body—105 days to be exact. He touched me as if I was the last woman alive. He then summoned the love addict in me. He kept telling me how sexy and lovely I was and how happy my presence made him. A part of me wanted him to tell me that he loved me too and I nearly asked. One thing led to another and we were doing all the kinky things that we used to do. It was exhilarating. It’s been so long since I felt that way.

I collapsed in his arms and throughout the night, he continued to feed me compliments whenever I tossed and turned. I had insomnia and tried my best to feign sleep because I knew he had to work in a few hours. In the morning, I went upstairs and crashed for several hours.

It has been 6 days and I’m still feeling hypersexual. Touching myself hasn’t been enough. I want to knock on his door but I’m trying to stay away. Regret has made itself home in the corner of my mind. Giving into him was every variation of stupid especially after he told me I couldn’t be a potential mate because of my race but my feelings were uncontrollable that night. In my twisted little mind I felt like we needed each other.

I went to see my psychiatrist later that day. He wrote refills for the prescriptions I’m not taking. I go to my appointments to keep the insurance company and government off my back. Maybe I should take them. Maybe being a zombie is better than being up and down and impulsive. One of the nurses wanted to know why I ditched that therapy last month. I couldn’t come up with a feasible excuse that didn’t make me sound crazier and told her that I would attend a session soon. She said that it would make me feel better. I wasn’t aware that she could see my sad eyes. I try my best to camouflage everything and unload it in this blog. There’s a session being held tomorrow morning. Maybe I should go. Maybe I should make time for a SLAA meeting too. Maybe my “maybes” should be a “will be.”