I’ve been right there, wrestling with a hush-hush hurdle that chipped away at my world. I’m revealing my story because there’s a quiet ache within me. It doesn’t have to stay buried. Picture this: for far too long, I battled man instability. I’d crack up at the guys’ “quick-draw” ribbing over beers, but inside? Crumbling like a stale cookie. That debut flop? “Just jitters,” I shrugged. Nope, repeat offender, every time. It seeped into everything. Work chats fizzled, bro hangs felt forced, and mornings? I’d dodge my reflection like a bad habit. Intimacy? I ghosted it, dreading that flicker of letdown in her gaze.
She was gold, with zero shade thrown, but the quiet aftermath? Oof, sharper than a paper cut. I devoured blogs, popped pills from the shelf, swapped burgers for salads, and hit the gym like a champ. Zilch. And stress? This adds fuel to the fire. Then came that night, a candlelit dream date, with laughs flowing like wine. Back home, a spark ignites… and fizzles. Her eyes well up; she whispers, “Maybe we hit pause.” Boom, gut punch. Tossing in bed, ceiling-staring till dawn, I clocked it: this glitch could snatch my soulmate, not from faded sparks, but sheer frustration. Vented to a pal over coffee, and he drops: Dr Bokko, this vibe-master healer who’s aced fixes for soul-deep snags that pills can’t touch. Eye-roll city. I’d bombed every hack. But rock-bottom desperation? That number was dialled. Continue Reading.