Let's talk about sex, baby.
On one of the most prevalent, but least-discussed symptoms of bipolar disorder: hyper-sexuality.
“Every one of us has lain down for a reason that was not love,” says Tayari Jones.
Disclaimer:
Some of you may be uncomfortable with the subject matter in this post because of your relation to me. I am talking about sex. Specifically my relationship with sex as it relates to bipolar disorder. So if you don’t want to know about me in that way, do not proceed. It is a very vulnerable piece, so it is behind a paywall. I read it out loud months ago to my writing group and am now posting it for my two paid subscribers [hey
& ] and future paid subscribers to read. A Part One of… I don’t know how many. I’m not entirely sure how to do so in a way that I don’t overshare and feel fully exposed, but I also want to include the same transparency and vulnerability I show up to this space with regularly. I want to educate on this topic while tying in my personal experiences. As much as I wanted to polish up this piece, it is raw and real, so I’m posting it before I lose my nerve.
Late bloomer.
Impulsivity, untreated hypomania, and hypersexuality are how I lost my virginity at the age of 22 after vowing to save myself for marriage. A vow made mostly out of fear of an unwanted early pregnancy or waking a sleeping giant of desire within me. But I touted it as a promise to God that I’d wait for the one He designed for me. *insert eye-roll at Purity Culture Ashleigh here*
It was the middle of the night and I had just gotten into a fight with my then-boyfriend of two years about who knows what. We lay in my twin-xl-sized bed unable to sleep and fuming at each other. One of my roommates at the time had a live-in boyfriend who was already asleep on the couch that night, so I was stuck in my twin-xl-sized bed with him.
“Are you awake?” I finally said, the tension still very thick.
“Yes. I can’t sleep,” he said with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
“Me either. Let’s have makeup sex!” I said half-jokingly.
“Are you sure?” he quickly replied.
“Uhh, yes, I’m sure.”
What’s love got to do with it?
The first thing I thought after reading the opening quote by Tayari Jones was “Yeah, sometimes a girl just wants to be fucked. And there’s no love necessary for that. I don’t even need to know your last name much less know enough about you to love you. The only pertinent information at this time is the quality of your stroke. Whether you were born with your tool or purchased it from a novelty shop, do you know how to use it? And well? What’s love got to do with that?”
My brain hyperfocuses on thoughts similar to that quite often when I’m in the throes of a hypomanic episode, allowing for the intensity of my hypersexuality to increase and all I want to do is hunch. I am unsettled. Uncomfortable. And I can think only of doing the deed. Addiction? No. I hate that the words are used interchangeably because they are synonymous. But for me, I do not believe that my episodes of hypersexuality manifest as an addiction because they are triggered only by those periods of mania where I don’t care about safeguarding myself from possibly dangerous situations or people, acting only on urge and impulse. During stable and depressive episodes, I experience hypersexuality very seldomly, if at all and the memories of those experiences repulse me. I’m sure that sounds very “I can quit whenever I want.” But I’ve experienced this since adolescence and have come to know its cycles and triggers.
Once the episode subsides, whether briefly or after a prolonged period, shame often creeps in. Admonishing me for my promiscuity as if it is something I chose to be or want to be a willing participant in. Try as I may, when I start to feel that familiar tickle or itch it takes much power to keep it at bay. It starts subtly and eventually becomes so intense that I want to crawl out of my skin, and it won’t go away until I give in to its incessant invitation to scratch—hoping I don’t bleed in the process.
Diagnosis.
When I stayed up for hours obsessively typing out a six-page Google document detailing the evidence of bipolar disorder in my behavior for my therapist, “hypersexuality” was one of the lists I put towards the end. As ashamed as I was, I knew I needed to be forthcoming about everything that I could think of to assist my therapist in making a correct diagnosis. I did not want to admit that sometimes sex was more of a need than a desire and that if I didn’t give into the urges I felt as though I might spontaneously combust unless I’m touched in the exact way my body is calling for. This then results in sadness that my hyperfocused brain thought only of the act and not my feelings after.
Thanks so much for your vulnerability. And also good on you for being so diligent about your health you handed your doc essentially a dossier on your life before diagnosis.
This is one of the many reasons I admire you so much, Ashleigh, because you reveal the truth of topics that so many people hold as taboo. But when we don't talk about these things, we miss the opportunity to connect and help others release the secrets that are causing them shame and limiting their full ownership of their identity. As someone who has gained so much self-discovery through reading about other people's experiences, I'm cheering you on, sis. The more you openly embrace this part of yourself, the more you are setting yourself free. As always, you inspire me.