Chapter 22. Mens sexual health: Anxiety Part 2

My Anxiety continues. 

Hard not to Love her still.

Lambo is my Alter Ego, my twin, my Yang energy.  When not driving me insane, he is lovable and fun.

Yesterday he shared his introduction to anxiety story and agreed to chat again today.

This morning we attended a 'How to be a trustee'  course run by Wakefield local authority. One attendee worked in schools teaching sex education. I sent her this e-mail:

As mentioned I have a particular interest in men's sexual health and the damage done from poor education in the 1950's, 60's and beyond. I was a victim of abuse at age 9 and it took me fifteen years before I shared it.

Is there a male member of your team who could spare me an hour to discuss how sex education has changed since my childhood? I am also interested in how this relates to the shockingly high number of suicides in men.

I have provided a link to my blog below, as men's health is a theme running through my posts.

Kind regards

I  will keep you posted on the reply. Two hours in the gym this afternoon after which I didn’t go to the pub but sat here instead. Let me take you back in time..

June 2020. Little Thatches Sherborne Dorset

Lambo and I pick  up the story three months into the first lockdown and four months after wife Sheila of two short years and two months, had died.

We think a problem shared is a problem halved.

“Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, totally crashed and smashed” screams Lambo, his wife died six months ago, shock, anger and  acceptance is needed. Men work and find other distractions to avoid their shit...

Lambo did it in style; full on building works, 240 railway sleepers, two retaining walls, three new levels and two bed static for guests to stay and visit Sheila’s gallery and ashes. Full on 0800 till dark. Lambo’s shoulder was very sore but rest of his body good.

We have [had]a trust old (31 years) yacht Frangi (Hallberg Rassey 49) last visited with Sheila in September 2019, Portland Marina, just over an hour south of Sherborne Dorset. Its late June and decision made to sell her. Off we go to meet the agent.

We climb onboard, decks looking green, slimey and sad; down the companionway steps to see a saloon table with half-finished jig saw. Sheila loved jigsaws. Oh fuck, the tears started as Lambo scraped it, very unceremoniously, into a bin liner.

Agent arrived, excuse after excuse poured from our lips as to her sorry state. It got worse, much worse. As I walked from the saloon forward, the floor gave way and collapsed. Carpet up, floor up and, fuck fuck fuck, the main structural bulkhead (beam from one side of boat to other) had been crushed.

Agent said nothing could be done till structural damage had been investigated, rectified and then left. 

We sat sobbing in the saloon, looking at the empty table with Sheila’s chakra painting on the wall.

We drove home.  Oh no, we didn't! Lambo drove home via Sainsbury’s (18 box Stella) and his local pub. No alcohol for a long time never once hit his mind. By lunchtime the following day, a Saturday, the pain and anxiety hadn’t moved. Lambo decided, being his fittest in years, a powerwalk up the hill would be the best cure. It was not!

The hill is half a mile, first half tarmac and the second stones. The crunch in Lambo’s knee could be heard for miles. I told him to stop, he ignored me shouting, ‘I need to sweat it out’. By the time we returned home the pain was unbearable. Ice pack and two Tramadol from Sheila’s unused stash. Sunday was a painful daze, more Tramadol and feel total shit.

Monday starts with a bath, head fuzzy and knee throbbing. A long one, bath filled to overflow. Do some stretching, bend forward, hands on taps and pull head down to knees. The back crunch was more a dull ‘what the fuck was that’ as horizontal, not easy in a bath, became the only position to not scream.

From bath to floor took a while. After speaking with GP the next difficult bit was getting down stairs to Sheila’s unopened stash of Morphine. Shoulder, knee and back screaming in unison.

We crawled to Sheila’s bed on the ground floor, climbed under the duvet and remained there for ten days, the morphine haze was not nice, the pain worse. Panic attacks took over, Valium to the rescue. oh dear.

Depression, anxiety and one very crashed & smashed Lambo now has a slipped disk and its only August 2020.

And! It gets much worse before it gets better - If it has indeed got better?

And the point I am making is:

Why do we;  Colin,  Lambo and even you, maybe, constantly repeat old patterns of behaviour that no longer serve us?

Have a good day.

 

Colin