I ordered it. I want to be honest: I wasn't optimistic. I had been through too much to be optimistic. I had written the words "IT'S ALL BULLSHIT" in a forum at 1am. I had sat at the foot of a bed hating myself. I had spent months in therapy that helped the anxiety and left the wound untouched.
I gave it two weeks before I'd let myself evaluate anything.
Day two.
I woke up hard.
Not half-hard. Not 70%. I lay there completely still for a full minute because I didn't want to move and have it be something I'd misread. It was there. Firm. Sustained. The way I remembered from years ago.
I didn't say anything to anyone. I just lay there.
The feeling I had in that moment — I didn't have a word for it at first. It took me a while to identify what it was.
It was relief.
Not excitement. Not triumph. Just the specific, physical sensation of something that had been clenched inside me for fourteen months beginning to unclench.
Week one.
It kept happening. Not every morning, but most mornings. Spontaneous erections during the day — responding to normal environmental stimulation — the automatic, involuntary responses I had stopped expecting from my own body.
I updated a log I'd been keeping. More consecutive days than any two-week period in the previous year.
Week three.
I was with my girlfriend.
I want to be clear about what I'm going to tell you, because it matters: the sex went fine. That's not the part I want to tell you about.
What I want to tell you about is what happened afterward.
We were lying there and she said something and I laughed and I felt — present. Not monitoring. Not calculating. Not bracing for the next failure.
Like a person who belonged in the room.
Like myself.
She looked at me and said: "You're back."
I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say.
I didn't know I'd been gone until I was back.