“I’ve locked my heart
I keep my feelings there
I have stocked my heart
Like an icy Frigidaire
For I need to care for no one
That’s why I’m through with love” –I’m Through With Love. (Kahn, Malneck, & Livingston)

It’s June. Two months since I was taken off the medication. Two months since the first house I bought sold. Six months into 2017. Three months since I found out the ex’s girlfriend was pregnant. Six months since my brain tumour diagnosis. Six months since my last date. Six months since my root canal. 30 months since I last had sex. I give up. I don’t care. I’m through. I’m finishing before I start. If anyone asks:

  • No, not seeing anyone.
  • No, I’m not online. When I was I had one date in two years. Since the divorce I’ve had one date in two years.    Odds are the same.
  • Lonely? Sometimes.
  • Don’t you miss sex? Even if I do, what difference does it make? I’m late to the party. I married late and I divorced late. 
  • But you’re still young. That may be, but I was just as alone when I was young.
  • But other women your age… Probably never had trouble attracting men.
  • I have a friend who’s in her 60s and… I have those friends too and they’re seeing men who are my age. They also never had trouble attracting men.
  • You can’t just give up. I have to. Otherwise, I will beat myself up as opposed to just shuffle along, alone.

I never learned how to flirt. For some reason, I think the banter found in screwball comedies is sexy. (Except Bringing Up Baby. Bringing Up Baby is stupid.) Banter is witty, sharp, smart. I’m pretty sure I am alone in this. In the old studio system, MGM, not knowing what to do with my lack of sex appeal, would have photographed me with a men’s swim team. Oh I’ve had male friends tell me that intelligence is sexy, but when pressed they all admit that it was something physical that attracted them to their partners. One admitted that it was his wife’s legs that first attracted his attention and her brains that kept it. With another it’s that she was tall. Still another liked her curves. Friends like you for your brains. Another one told me he couldn’t understand why I’m still single-you’re smart, you’re funny, you’re attractive, guys here must be weird. No, I’m a middle aged woman without a spray tan, curves, and barrel curls. My demographic is limited. At some point I will explain to him what it is to be me. Then again, why? I’m through explaining. My friend asked me, who talks to you in the street? Well, the homeless men of colour who sit on the stoop by the gym call me cinnamon. If that’s tYounger men who can actually keep up with the conversation say things like, it was nice talking to you or I appreciate the honesty, even when it’s honest to a fault. I’m guessing this is code for you’re cool. I don’t think I need to reiterate what it means to be the cool girl.

The nausea returned this week. It hit on Monday morning when I awoke and stayed through Tuesday afternoon. It hit again this morning and ebbs and flows. This corresponds with a seven-fold increase in my prolactin level. It’s back above normal. I have been off the medication for two months. I’m sure this is not unusual but I had hoped that it would stay normal for a little longer. Now my doctor is talking watchful waiting and we’re both hoping that I plateau. Otherwise, we will try an older ergot derivative that I was on when I had the first tumour-the drug that did nothing. I’m frightened of this prospect. This also confirms something that I have suspected since the diagnosis; conventional antidepressants did not work on my depression because my depression is caused my prolonged exposure to above-normal levels of prolactin. Maybe now my mother and sister will stop trying to prescribe herbal supplements and short courses of antidepressants.

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