I’ve always been comfortable with sex and sexuality. Suffering major depression a few years ago my sex drive changed forever. It was both heightened and it lessened over a 12-18 month period.

During the time I was ‘falling off the earth’ my sex drive was massive. I had a few regular hook ups on speed dial or I would spend time in my bedroom with one of my many toys… on some weekends there would be a few visits to my bedroom! I used to think it was seasonal but this was insane!

Then, I started crying, a bit at first which quickly became a lot. My sex drive became replaced by self hatred. Those horrible circular thoughts that go nowhere but down. Each thought would steel more and more of my energy.  Slowly, what felt like a black fog began moving through my body. I let go of my fuck buddies as I had no energy to invest in them, not just on a sexual and intimate level but just general conversation became difficult. My toys began to gather dust. I was too busy crying to feel horny.

When I finally realised I needed help and made an urgent appointment with my GP I was put straight on anti-depressants. I am very aware anti-depressants are not for everyone, but for me, at that time, it was the best decision I could have made.

A side effect of anti-depressants is not only weight gain but also diminished libido. Which, to be fair, was perfectly ok at that time. My brain needed to get better and I was going to do everything I could to get my brain back on track. My toys gathered dust… then were put away in the locked box. I was always wearing black, not wanting to be noticed. I no longer felt a sexual being. I missed orgasms but had absolutely no desire for them nor any sort of intimacy.

Tracy Clark-Flory wrote a great piece on the first time she had a multiple orgasm after being on anti-depressants. This article filled me with hope – Yay there will be a path back!

She was right. It has been slow. I’ve been off anti-depressants for 2 years now and I would say it took me about 9 months to even go near my toy draw. I still don’t feel like the sexual being I used to be, but it is getting better. Depression sucks – but when its not around life is the best!

Check out some amazing sex toys at my store to make the draw beside your bed full of fun.

www.passionatejade.com

I literally couldn’t move as I watched her head be pushed further under water.  I knew I should rush to her aid, defend her, save her life – she was only nine.  But I couldn’t; my feet planted on the floor wouldn’t move forward, my arms by my side couldn’t reach for her, my mouth was fused shut so no protest to save her came.  I was instead, transfixed on the woman – her face red and contorted with rage, her eyes wild. I was mesmerized, hypnotised. The snot mixed with the blood on her cheek – a scratch. Good, the girl must have put up a fight after all?

You stupid fucking bitch the woman menaced.  You will never laugh at your sister again you dirty little cunt. What had the girl done that would surely cause the end of her life? Laugh? I don’t understand and I can’t save her. Maybe she deserved it? Maybe she was a dirty little cunt?

Suddenly the woman let go and the girls head rose out of the water like a phoenix rising from the ashes.  “I’m sorry mummy” she screamed, almost before she took her first full breath.  How is it that she apologised for being so bad before she even thought to make sure she was still alive? What did she do to deserve that? Laugh?  She fell and looked at the woman, the mother, the protector, the nurturer, the bringer of life.  I could move my legs, my arms, my mouth, my eyes. Oh, my eyes!

I looked to my mother, my protector, my nurturer, my bringer of life and I saw the hatred, the filth, the disgust and I knew what I did – I laughed!  I enjoyed life, I felt joy and love and compassion and empathy and ecstasy – I was the very thing she wasn’t.

I moved, I stood up and I walked away from that nine year old girl and I’m a woman now; a mother, a protector, a bringer of life.  And I laugh!

Once upon a time, there was a tree whose roots spread for miles and miles across lands and countries. It is said that if one was to touch one of the roots, and if anyone else was also touching the tree, they could hear each other’s thoughts. The Mother tree was a messenger and wisdom keeper of service to the tribes living around her. Wherever on the land you would be, if her roots were close to you, she could receive your message and answer. The original wireless connection.

The Mother tree had a special affinity with children. They would hear her calling their names in their sleep, telling them to come and listen. Every day, she would call another child who will come to meet her. Today was Lila’s turn.

When Lila arrived by the Mother, she bowed in respect and approached the ancient and vibrant trunk. The Mother tree was huge, and the closer she got to the trunk, the more details seemed to appear engraved in the bark, creating pictures and scriptures. The elders say these are the memories of time that the Mother kept within, just like a living library.

Fascinated, Lila leaned her ear on the bark and heard a deep and warm voice telling her that one day, she will have to be the voice of the Mother tree. The spirit of the Mother, for it was her voice, asked Lila to rest her forehead against the trunk so she could see. As soon as Lila did so, her entire vision was filled with bursting colors, even though her eyes remained closed. She witnessed the vision of a world which did not remember the Mother tree. Because of that, men from foreign tribes were threatening the peace that had been existing around the Mother for millennia. Lila saw and felt that these men were sad, deeply sad inside their heart and she knew that they would find the answers to their longing and their questions if they listened to the Mother, just like she was now. To her intuition, the Mother showed her visions of people from the white men’s tribe, cutting down trees all around the planet. And because of that, they were losing their connection to Nature. They needed to remember and it would change.

Lila knew her role in this story. The Mother agreed until finally she asked:

–       “Please, be my voice to the deaf men tribe which has forgotten to listen. Share my stories with them and be strong Lila.  I have faith in you. And remember, every time you see a shooting star in the sky, there is more love coming to the world and soon enough, the deaf men will love themselves and each others again.”

The end…or is it just the beginning? J

Gin squirmed, trying not to move too much but needing to move more than she was. Maybe if she shifted right? No. Left? No that was worse! She tried to slide forward in her seat and stretch a bit; maybe that would fix the problem.

“Gin, sit still!” her mom hissed. “It’s like you’ve got ants in your pants.”
“Sorry.”

Gin looked straight ahead and tried to focus on the pastor’s sermon but the pulling discomfort was not letting up. It was getting worse. She tried to cross her legs but that didn’t work. She tried crossing her legs the other side…

“Gin, what is wrong with you?” mum lowered her head, with a harsh whisper “Have you got a dirty bum?”

“No!” Gin said but was instantly hushed and tapped on the knee making her almost drop her Bible.
“Sit quietly, please.” her mum said and looked away.

“I need the toilet.” Gin announced and mum sighed, “Can’t you hold it?”

“No.” Gin stood up and shuffled along the pew in front of other parishioners, who tsked and pulled their feet in tightly against the bench as she got to the main aisle. She walked towards the back and noticed people looking up to watch her. Some of them made curious faces but soon they all began turning pages in their hymn books as the organ began to play. She walked faster towards the safety of the church toilets, pain in every step.

When she was in the stall with the lock slid in place, she relaxed but nearly cried while trying to free a pubic hair that had become stuck in the adhesive of her maxi pad. She’d not had her periods for long and this was becoming a regular torture. Maybe the magazines were right and mom was wrong; it’s not dirty to wear tampons. Look, even the church is okay with tampons; there’s a dispenser right here in the church toilets. 50¢ for freedom. If only she had 50¢.

The first feeling was relief. I was just so relieved l was right. I listened to that feeling, that voice. It was right, l was right. I held back until l had enough proof. He couldn’t deny it.

He had unknowing delivered the last piece of the puzzle that afternoon. I choose my moment. I executed my plan, l had been going over in my head all day. I felt l only had one shot at this.

It was late. The kids where in bed, fast asleep. He was on the couch. We just had the most amazing sex we had had in ages. I had to prove to myself that he was capable of it. I had been given so many excuses over the past year, why he couldn’t make love to me – stress, work… I made sure this time that he wouldn’t be able to resist – it was part of the plan.

He was sitting on the couch. I sat on the coffee table in front of him. Eye to eye. “…So do you want to tell me what’s going on with Kate?… I have all the text messages, l could read them out to you, or do you want to tell me yourself?”

I could tell by the look on his face, that feeling l had been carrying around with me for years was right.

Written by A.P

Once upon a time there was a lady who was scared to show her full self to anyone. She hid behind clothes, facades, stories, her job, her relationships. She knew that the day would come where she would have to shed her armour and crank it up a notch – her life.

She knew she had to step up.

She encountered an old man with red socks at a bar one night, and he told her many tales. They spoke for hours and moved the conversation back to his house when the bar closed. It was damp, and full of piled up records and dusty VHS Tapes. There were collections of dolls and figurines still in boxes.

They conversed over a cup of tea and the man began to play guitar. He shared his stories in song and sang, freely. She sat and listened and was encapsulated by the man’s way with words. Every day, she thought, he must write. He must observe. He must capture snapshots of life with a blue pen, as his words weaved worlds.

She saw herself outside of herself for a moment, sitting on his vintage satin and wood couch and she saw her layers melting away, just witnessing him. Seeing him in his element was stripping her own layers away. He was baring his soul.

He was old enough to be her Grandpa.

She saw him for a split second as a skeleton; too old to care what anyone else thought. Too wise to play games. Too far into this journey called life to hide any part of his beautiful heart.

She admired him and his ability to be his true self.

Her daydream was interrupted, as he was calling her name. Coming into her body awareness again, she realised he was saying, “Your turn.” “My turn to what?” She said. “Sing” he said. “Yeh, one day maybe,” the girl replied. “No, now.”

She blushed and thought she couldn’t possibly. What? Allow a stranger to bare witness to her voice? Her true, vulnerable voice?

He helped ease her into it and they began by singing a well-known song together. She warmed, and his voice slowly faded, until she realised she was singing alone.

Tricky, she thought. And humbled.

This old man, a stranger, had helped bring her voice out. He’d given her the time of day no one else ever had. He genuinely cared. She got teary. He read her like a book, and because of that he said, “Here, sing these words” and handed her some lyrics.

“These are my words. You have no connection to these words, so just tell the story.”

She was confused but she agreed. Nervously, she began to sing.

“CUT!” He yelled and stood up telling ‘all the cameras to stop filming’. “Cut! Cut! She doesn’t want to be watched guys; this is for her and her alone.”

This prompted the girl to think about why and how she was singing. The man said, “Sing as you sing, not as you want to be heard.”

The girl cried.

She breathed deeply and began to sing. Until finally she heard her real voice for the first time, ever. At this age; as a twenty something young woman.

Again she witnessed herself from afar and felt as though she was naked, sitting on that couch, baring herself and her soul to this old, skeleton.

His freedom had freed her, and she felt exposed.

She reached for a blanket. The man again read her like a book and said with a wink, “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it”.

They sat there in silence for a bit, just being still. Thanking each other for the other’s presence.

This old man probably hadn’t invited anyone into his home for years. And for a long time, this young lady hadn’t let anyone into her heart.

_________________

** Lovely to meet all of you fabulous humans. My website is JustineMcInerney.com if you want to connect. Music is on www.ikigai.world. Our business is @soulsparkmgmt and our heart’s work is over at www.thepositivityproject.com.au (launching this week). I have two workshops coming up you might like to come to, ‘Blogs for Beginners’ and ‘Creative Sluts; We put out’. The first is a hands on workshop where in one night you will have your own blog up and running and know how to use your platform on going. The latter is a 6 week journey of a mini artist in residency, where every week we meet, dance, move, make weird noises and remove creative blocks. We meditate, we share, we work in the space, and at the end of the 6 week journey you share your production; dance, song, poem, story, painting – whatever your form. I wish you all luck on your writing journey and give a huge thumbs up to everyone telling their story. It’s why we are all here. Stay true to you.**