Basically, I’m well now, but I still want to write about something. Hypersexuality (or nymphomania) is a lesser know and highly disturbing symptom of bipolar. If you watch the show Black Box, which is about a neurologist with bipolar, then you know a little about this.
I don’t know why it happens, other than it is a part of the chemical imbalance that causes bipolar. It is a form of mania. And as you may know, mania is all about hyper-anything. When you combine an overactive sex drive with poor impulse control, then you can see how that might be a problem.
What it’s like. It’s more than just horny-ness for me. It’s not enough just to be horny, it’s how I respond to it that’s the problem. Everybody knows what it’s like to be horny. It’s normal. When I’m hypersexual I feel sexual in a grandiose way. I feel like I’m God’s gift to woman. I realize that that is a cliched idiom, but I’m serious. I’m talking about a delusion whereby I believe that I have a ministry of sorts in fulfilling the desires of unfulfilled women. I become hypersensitive to this. I sense this in women and I prey upon. Understand, I don’t feel like a predator. And I don’t coerce anybody. But I pursue women who are in need, sexually. And I’ve come close to pursuing men as well, and I’m not gay.
I make myself desirable. I become narcistically obsessed with my appearance. I workout excessively. I study fashion mags to see what is sexy for men and I spend whatever I need to spend to pull it off.
Then there’s the pursuit. I’m like a fisherman with multiple lines. I drop them everywhere. Online, at church, at bars, on business trips, on the street, at work. I hold eye contact until I find someone who holds it with me. I flirt. I flatter. I touch. I exude sexuality. Like, I mean I drip with sexuality. I confide. My wife doesn’t understand me. She ignores me. She won’t even touch me anymore. I sympathize when someone else expresses the same. And my ministry begins. I build the woman up. I make her feel desirable. I call them darlin’. I play whatever role they need. Tough guy, rough guy, sensitive guy, dangerous guy. Smoker, drinker, spiritually enlightened, teacher, lover. Whatever they need me to be.
When the time is right, I don’t hesitate. Could happen immediately could take months.
The problem is that I’m married. The problem is that I don’t want to be unfaithful. It’s not in my nature at all. I’m a good, church boy. I obeyed my parents and teachers. My idol is Mr. Rogers. It’s not me at all. It’s the bipolar. It’s classic bipolar. Jekyll and Hyde. Werewolf. For relationships, it’s the most destructive symptom.
And I love it. I become a very passionate lover. I’m a far better lover in this state. I’m rather average otherwise.
And what’s crazy is that I think I’m in love with these women. And I think that I am doing them a service as well.
And I’m dangerous about it. Never use protection. Do it in public places and in married women’s houses. I don’t know how my dick hasn’t shriveled up from disease or how I haven’t been murdered by a cuckolded husband.
This was one of the behaviors that got me a diagnosis. And since then, I haven’t had an incident. My wife was forgiving because she understood that I might not have been able to control it at all. It’s part of an illness.
I’m always on the lookout for warning flags that it is happening again. I catch myself making prolonged eye contact and I stop it. I speak in the least sexy way with women, especially young ones. Like I’m an elementary music teacher. I try to express as little sexuality as possible.
I know I won’t get a second chance with my wife. She’s made it crystal clear. If I cheat again, then it’s over and she’s taking the kids…illness or not.