Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote a post (“Breaking The Sex Connection“) discussing my sexual difficulties. In that post, I said that if I were offered a medicine that would extend my life but kill my libido, I would elect a shorter life. This question arose almost 25 years earlier when I had the same conversation with a doctor friend. At that time, I wasn’t in any danger of losing my libido, but the doctor, a woman who suffered from depression, was shocked that I would rather end my life than lose my interest in sex. She was taking antidepressants and had lost her interest in sex.
She suffered from type-1 diabetes and had to inject insulin several times a day. She was severely overweight and very lonely. Sex was at the bottom of her wish list. She was shocked at my response. We didn’t discuss why at the time. Last year, when it looked like my ability to ejaculate was lost, I couldn’t believe that I could enjoy life without sex.
The issue came up again yesterday when I got a private message from a reader who thanked me for that post I wrote last July. He said that it helped him understand how his brother must have felt before his death. I won’t go into details. It was a touching account that exactly paralleled how I felt last July. It reminded me of my conversation with my friend a quarter-century ago. Now, I understand why she was so shocked.
As I’ve aged, I’ve lost valuable abilities. My vision is very poor (glaucoma), my balance is also unsteady due to spinal surgery. Thanks to modern medicine, my ability to ejaculate has been restored and I can enjoy sex. It makes sense to revisit that question of a year ago. What is so important that I would rather not live if I lost it? Is it the ability to ejaculate? That’s what I said last summer. I was wrong.
At that time, my vision was reduced but very functional. I had trouble getting around, but managed fairly well. My ability to get around has improved since then, but my vision has all but disappeared. I can’t survive without Mrs. Lion’s help. Ask me if I would reject a drug that would let me live longer but kill my libido. My answer would be that my libido has nothing to do with my decision to live or die.
The reason is that something more important has my attention. I need to be able to survive independently. My ability to do that seems tied to my loss of vision. I don’t feel safe in our house. It isn’t set up for someone with low vision. That means I am only able to safely go to the bedroom, bathroom, and my office. Trips to the kitchen frighten me. There are too my obstacles that can trip me. If I fall, I can’t get up on my own. This isn’t Mrs. Lion’s fault. She is doing her best. She can’t efficiently organize a space. I can no longer help her.
[Mrs. Lion — Last week, I removed one obstacle from Lion’s path. It wasn’t really even in his path, but I moved it anyway. He also commented on the kitchen table being covered again. I cleared most of it over the weekend. At one point, he said I should stop unpacking since he doesn’t want to stay in this house. I consolidated the boxes in the living room to give the appearance of more space. Then he dropped a bombshell. Out of nowhere, he said he would benefit from being able to watch TV with subtitles and the best place to do this would be the living room. Of course, I have not unpacked enough of the living room to make it livable. Hmmm. Okay. I’ll work on that once our record breaking heat subsides. I doubt he’ll use the living room anyway, but I’ll do what I can to make things more convenient for him.]
This boils down to a very simple fact: My ability to enjoy sex is no longer a survival issue. My ability to enjoy my environment is. If my vision continues to fail, my world will get smaller unless some miracle changes our environment into one I can safely navigate. Like our reader’s brother, I think that depression will be the shadow that will obscure my life. My interest in remaining in it also declines as my world gets smaller.
The main reason that depression hasn’t taken me yet is Mrs. Lion’s love. Even though my world is confined to two small rooms, she shares them with me. I can hold her hand and cuddle with her. She will help me any time I ask. Eventually, I’ll need too much. When will I become a weight she no longer wants to bear? That’s an assessment I have to make.
I know this has nothing to do with male chastity or domestic discipline. I don’t care. This blog is my journal, and this is a very important issue for me. I have to either find a way to become more independent and move beyond the two small rooms, or surrender to the shadow. I’m a fighter. I’ve never given up. Have I finally encountered something I can’t defeat?
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