The Word Rabbit

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This article was written on 25 May 2016, and is filled under Uncategorised.

Anti-depressants and my sad bollocks

Ah, anti-depressants. They’ve kept me from killing myself these past few years but there’s a side effect that is worth mentioning. My Citalopram is like being chemically castrated. Orgasm is flattened and suppressed to the point of being no more enjoyable than a cup of sugary tea. Wanking is as pleasurable as washing your socks and sex doesn’t happen. Considered against being dead, it’s not really comparable. More of a minor detail.

Now we’ve hit a bump in the road. Citalopram is giving me a minor heart murmur and is going to be kicked into touch in favour of Sertraline. The handover will take about a week and it’s not going to be fun, because Citalopram is a hard drug to kick and the side effects, as I already know, are extremely unpleasant. They include head flashes, being able to hear your eyeballs moving around in your head and, because depression is nothing if not a divine comedy, the return of sexual function.

I don’t have an alternative. To not take Sertraline is to be either sectioned or dead. Worse, there’s a limbo where I try to overdose and make myself what doctors call FUBARBUNDY – Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition But Unfortunately Not Dead Yet. Kidney function buggered, brain not working properly and all manner of other long-term health problems. So I’m going to take it and hope for the best, because that’s all any of us can do.

But it’s making me think more about my politics and my sexuality. Being freed from sex frees you from the little man that sits on your shoulder and whispers in your ear. He tells you to look down girls’ tops, he tells you that her skirt is just so, he tells you that her ankles are nice and a million other things you neither need or can use. If you were stood in front of a jury of women and they projected those thoughts onto a screen, you’d be recommended for the death penalty and shot later that afternoon.

Perhaps as a result of this, I’ve been set free from a part of my character that might otherwise have stopped me seeing certain realities and which I’m hugely glad of. I’ve been able to see that women are raped and sexually assaulted at a horrifying rate by people who have no right to be at liberty for years at a time. They’re cat-called, they’re made sexual objects and used by advertising people to sell products as a substitute for thinking about actual advertising campaigns that have some vestige of intelligence behind them, rather than just tits and arse.

If I had a working set of bollocks that weren’t atrophying under medication, I may not have got to this realisation under my own steam. Or I could be a better person than I give myself credit for and have realised anyway. Whatever the process, it’s a realisation that I have arrived at and it’s utterly and truly devastating. Relationships with men tend to damage women and leave them with some sad legacies. If those are intimate relationships with emotionally insecure men can end up being murdered or stalked. In fact, stalking can even happen when there’s no relationship at all as can assaults. Men: we’re great, aren’t we?

Maybe being on anti-depressants is the way forward for men. We’re all medicated so that the demon on our shoulders is permanently unseated and we’re suddenly free not to be massive galloping idiots in eternal thrall to testosterone and behaving with an epic sense of entitlement. Clearly, this is an idea that needs some work, similar, perhaps, to needing a licence before we’re allowed out in the community, but it’s there for another blog.

For the time being, I’ll leave you with a closing thought. An attractive girl was walking towards me down the pavement a couple of years ago, as an old guy rode past on his bike. I was really careful, as I always am, not to check her out and to studiedly look in the opposite direction, which is why I saw the old guy, unobserved by her, turn around to check her out as he pedalled off up the road. If the alternative is taking Sertraline for the rest of my life and a sense of having oddly detached bollocks and a cock, I’m all for it.

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