The Devil wasn't wearing any pants, and told me I'd be happier without mine as well. I told him to go fuck himself. Then he laughed. Then I laughed. Then he frowned. Then I laughed more. I kissed Debbie on the forehead and got up to make some green hot chocolate in the middle of the black night.
Being good sux. It hurts. Whah whah. Man up, asshole. Monday mornings suck too, but you get up and go to work (assuming you have work to go to). St. Antony is in my corner with the spit bucket. I ask my white-bearded coach what my strategy should be "Don't be such a pussy," he says.
Being chaste sucks, at least initially...don't let anyone tell you otherwise. I don't expect any sympathy on this, and in fact am probably opening myself up to ridicule. Going chaste is not a natural choice. It was, however, a mutual one, like buying a five piece bedroom set at Raymore and Flannigan's in seconds with the swipe of plastic. You need the set, but now I'm getting the bill, and I don't want to pay it. But I also don't want it to go into collections. I suppose.
I wrote an email about a year ago to some friends called 'Twenty Minutes in the Lion's Den.' It was about temptation, and spiritual attack, and what the experience is like. I have long since lost the email, but the feelings are the same. You feel like you are on fire and are begging someone to throw a bucket of water on you. You are restless, and just want to sleep. You are stressed, and get depressed. You chain smoke. And you know it can all go away with one simple act of the will. After extricating myself from an unhealthy physical relationship years ago, I went through some serious detox. Your body remembers. When I quit smoking, and started again, and then tried to stop, by body remembered. It put me through the wringer. I have no one to blame but myself for re-introducing it in the first place.
But you hold on; for dear life, if you like. A man's sexuality, his life force, is energy pushed outwards. When it's caged, it is like a baby kicking in the womb, pounding for freedom from the confines of the body. A baby screams in the middle of the night, you get up to feed it. Your body screams in the middle of the night...you get up and make hot chocolate and eat irish soda bread and curse and write about lost sleep and how lame having hot chocolate at 3:30AM compared to the pleasures of the flesh.
After spending a few months living like a monk, sleeping on the floor, not masturbating, etc., I should be used to self-denial. I'm not. I hate it. I hate it like it is good for me. In the words of Daniel Johnston: "I'm laaazy...oh Yeah." Not having sex only makes sense if you have faith that it will bear spiritual fruit. If it's done wrong, it will kill the tree. If it's not done, you risk blight for the Christian harvest. If you do decide to 'prune the branches,' they are slow growing back; that is, getting to an acceptable level of comfort and acceptance in a chaste relationship is like watching pruned branches grow back. That is ok. It takes time. It is slow getting used to. Especially when you are craving some fruit. My Lent has officially begun.