I woke up this morning still feeling… better. It’s both comforting and worrying at the same time. Why? I guess because of my trauma-informed nervous system. So its odd, but I think that I am;
Not magically cured.
Not euphoric.
Not suddenly transformed into some confident hyper-social leatherman who can effortlessly flirt his way through queer spaces without a care in the world.
Just… better, only a little, but a bit.
And honestly, part of me immediately became suspicious of that.
My brain has become so used to emotional crashes after moments of vulnerability, openness or hope that when I don’t immediately collapse afterwards it almost feels wrong. Like I’m waiting for my nervous system to suddenly realise:
“No no, you’re supposed to feel terrible now.”
But so far, that hasn’t happened.
That doesn’t mean the fear has vanished. It absolutely hasn’t. I still have moments where my brain screams:
- you’re too old,
- too fat,
- too awkward,
- too inexperienced,
- too damaged,
- you don’t belong in these spaces,
- people are just being polite.
Those thoughts are still there.
But they don’t currently feel like the only truth.
And that’s new.
One thing I’ve realised since getting home is that this weekend reawakened parts of me I genuinely thought had mostly died.
Libido, for one.
That’s been a strange thing to sit with.
For quite a long time I became comfortable identifying with aspects of the asexual spectrum. And honestly, I still think some of that identity genuinely fits me. It gave me safety. It removed pressure. It gave me permission to stop forcing myself toward expectations around sex, intimacy and performance that often felt frightening, overwhelming or emotionally unsafe.
But over the last few days I’ve found myself daydreaming sexually in a way that simply isn’t normal for me.
Not just reacting to visual prompts or external stimulation. Actually imagining possibilities internally.
That’s… confusing.
Good confusing.
But still confusing.
At one point on the journey home I realised, in a slightly amused and slightly frustrated way, that I probably “would have fucked anything” at that moment. Which is not exactly my normal operating mode.
The ironic part is that I think some of that freedom came from safety. I’d already decided to leave before things became emotionally overwhelming. I knew I wasn’t going to end up in a highly pressured sexual environment that I wasn’t ready for.
And maybe that’s important.
Because I’m beginning to understand that my problem has never really been:
“lack of desire.”
It’s fear.
Hypervigilance.
Shame.
Trauma.
Emotional danger.
Performance anxiety.
The terror of vulnerability.
The fear of humiliation.
The fear of being unwanted.
The fear of getting things wrong.
Underneath all of that, there actually does seem to be a sexual person trying very hard to exist.
I’ve also noticed something else this time.
Normally after emotionally significant events I come away with a giant impossible list of things I need to “fix” about myself:
- become a different person,
- completely reinvent myself,
- lose massive amounts of weight overnight,
- transform my personality,
- erase my fear,
- become socially flawless.
This time feels different.
The list is smaller. More realistic. More grounded.
Lose some weight.
Rebuild some muscle and definition.
Tidy up a couple of body-image things that bother me.
Keep exposing myself gently to life again instead of hiding from it.
That doesn’t feel like self-destruction. It feels more like maintenance. Restoration.
And that’s where the idea came from.
Operation Restoration.
Yes, it sounds slightly dramatic and slightly geeky, but honestly it fits.
Because I’m not trying to become a different human being anymore.
I’m trying to restore parts of myself that got buried under:
- trauma,
- illness,
- grief,
- chronic pain,
- isolation,
- shame,
- depression,
- and years of merely surviving.
Confidence.
Playfulness.
Connection.
Embodiment.
Curiosity.
Community.
Libido.
Joy.
Movement.
Hope.
Not perfection.
Restoration.
I also realised recently how much my life had become organised around the bare minimum needed to survive:
- work,
- sleep,
- recover,
- repeat.
No enrichment.
No adventure.
No exploration.
Very little joy.
Very little “for me.”
And perhaps that’s part of why things became emotionally so small.
So part of Operation Restoration is practical too.
More events.
More exposure to queer and kink spaces in ways that feel safe enough not to overwhelm me.
More local friendships.
More movement.
More experiences.
Possibly getting a car again so my world stops feeling geographically and emotionally tiny.
I think what this weekend taught me is that healing from isolation probably cannot happen entirely in isolation.
And maybe the most important thing of all:
I don’t actually want to disappear anymore.
That doesn’t mean I suddenly love myself.
It doesn’t mean I’m healed.
It doesn’t mean I’m fearless.
But for the first time in a long while, I think some part of me is cautiously interested in participating in life again.
Even if I have to rebuild it slowly.
Leave a Reply