I’ve been trying to get it up for anxiety lately. If there’s anyone that has a perpetual hard-on for stress it’s me. I seem to be in the mood all the time. No matter how many exciting distractions or calming influences fill my day, there’s always time to get naked for a little freak out. Lack of creative productivity is one of my favourite anxiety aphrodisiacs. It’s like my missionary position – comfortable, familiar, and moderately satisfying.
Don’t think I’m all vanilla though. I get into kink with the best of them. Most of my intimates have seen me swinging from the rafters or using the cat-o-nine tails on myself. Some might even suggest I use it on others, but it’s usually collateral damage, rarely intentional.
Even if there’s only time for a quickie, I like to make sure I get some every day. Maybe it’s excessive, self-indulgent and unnecessary but addictions are addictions, and as long as the harm is minimal… (That’s the way we self-deluded anxiety addicts like to think.)
But lately, while the urge is still there for sure, my follow-through sucks. I try to get myself worked up but lose my drive before I reach the front door.
Example. The other day I dedicated an hour or so to determining that the world had plenty of words already (many spectacular and funny) and didn’t need more from me. That is neither an original nor serious thought, and I’m embarrassed to say I voiced it to one or two close friends – tried to get them into an anxiety threesome with me. They didn’t want to play but were kind (although smirky) about it, and luckily didn’t laugh their coffee in my face.
I have no intention of stepping away from words, nor enough existential angst to shove me in that direction. These are simply the musing of someone doing her best to manufacture the anxiety she thinks she ought to be feeling - but isn’t.
It’s not a bad thing that my anxiety has gone limp. But it’s a little surprising. I’ve been at this since I was a teenager. Who would I be without it and what would I do with my time? Would my words lose their edge? I do still have a secret rabid-dog-with-a-bunny grip on the notion that angst makes for better artists – that a state of rest is unlikely to result in a creative orgasm. Maybe that’s just a convenient excuse. What I know to be true is that a lot of good energy gets wasted.
I’m keeping my fingers crossed and getting my kicks elsewhere. But the itch could return and jump me from behind – something that has only ever been a fantasy not a real desire. Still, I’m looking over my shoulder a fair bit.
But for now the fact that my brain’s little strip teases and sexts leave me un-inflamed is a welcome break.