I was 39 and hadn’t had an orgasm yet outside of my dreams. My unconscious self could get off, but my nervous system would shut down the second I’d wake up. I needed to find a vehicle that could get me from point A to B, metaphysically speaking. Physically, I was covered: turns out dream orgasms are real on a physiological level. So I was on a mission to find who or what could help me bridge the gap. I decided to go to a sex therapist for this mode of transportation guidance. I told her that I’d been in individual therapy for years. Hell, I’m a sex therapist myself. I’ve self-prescribed and tried all the traditional treatment options for anorgasmia. But still, I can’t get off.
“You’ve talked through so much of your family-of-origin and religious trauma with therapists, which is great, don’t get me wrong…”
She pauses as she searches for the right words to give me hope.
“But since that hasn’t worked yet, and you’ve mentioned you were an English major before you went to grad school in psych, have you thought about writing your way through it? Talk therapy just isn’t enough sometimes.”
This is…not what I was expecting. I’m a gigantic fan of talk therapy. I can intellectualize out of a Houdini trap. I was ready for more books to read, recommendations for the newest vibrator. The perpetual grad student in me is always game for a new homework assignment.
“I’ve seen artists harness their anger, or grief, or pain and channel it into their work, and since you’re a therapist you can’t unload your childhood trauma on your clients to heal yourself.”
Obviously. That would be bad.
“But you can do that in your journal.”
Why didn’t I think about poetry-as-getaway-car before? I recommend writing therapy to clients all the damn time.
I give it a shot. Here’s my shot:
I’m dreaming –
Snow falls sharp
over Provo streets I can’t escape.
Alone.
I look up.
Mansions loom on the gray-covered foothills.
Cold, calloused
Mausoleums, empty and poor –
Flush only with Money.
Whispers of rules,
promises, punishments
etched into marbled white walls I can’t escape.
My siblings –
I want to shield them
From everything.
But I am cast out.
Apostate.
As a child I fold inward,
palms pressed,
Jumping out of my body,
muscles learning
to control every flicker of desire,
every sinful thought,
every contraction –
that might betray me.
Winter presses in,
icy, relentless,
and I float.
Out of my own body,
guarding only myself,
while the children cry.
I prefer guilt over powerlessness,
So I take it on.
And try to forget.
INSTANT NOODLES 