Content note: this post refers briefly to lactation, pregnancy and an inability to be pregnant.
So, fun fact: some antipsychotics can induce lactation.
2020 was such an insane year that I couldn’t tell you which one did it to me. I tried amitriptyline and aripiprazole; one gave me intolerably restless legs and the other one made me lactate, but I couldn’t tell you which did which. The important point is that I took a medicine that was supposed to make me more sane, and instead it made my tits leak.
Obviously, I tasted it. I was a little reluctant, because breast milk has ‘milk’ in the name and I’ve hated milk for years, but I had to satisfy my curiosity, and I have the handy advantage of being able to put my own nipples in my mouth. This is how I know that it wasn’t like colostrum, the nutrient-rich thick stuff you produce just after giving birth, and instead was kind of watery, which makes perfect sense given that I wasn’t fucking pregnant. In truth, it tasted more like bodily fluids I’m already familiar with, like cum and vaginal discharge, than it did like milk. I don’t know if that’s the case for pregnancy-related breast milk but, well, now you have my review.
The pregnancy bit was the first mindfuck. I blogged about it being unwise for me to have babies, but it didn’t fully hit me that that also meant I would never breastfeed until, well, I was leaking useless milk (that realistically would be too full of drugs to give to a baby anyway). I tried to push the thought out of my brain, but the feelings bubbled up seemingly every time a wet spot formed on my top. Feelings of sadness, mostly, but also doubt and injustice and anger and fear about what my future looked like would blindside me at random, and I would have to try and block it out for the sake of making it through the day.
Oh, and the fucking wet spots. My autistic ass was not happy with being randomly rendered damp at random moments, and I couldn’t just leave things to air dry because the smell rapidly turned awful, especially because it was summer. I was already dealing with hyperhydrosis, or excess sweating, and it felt like laundry was never-ending. I think I spent some time topless, finding damp skin more tolerable than damp fabric, but that was an imperfect solution because of the dysphoria and dysmorphia that made it impossible to look at my own naked body for too long.
The above-mentioned dysmorphia in combination with the symptoms that the antipsychotics were intended to treat also gave rise to possibly the cruellest part of the whole experience: my brain was too broken for me to even eroticise it. It was so unwelcome and so badly-timed that I didn’t get the chance to make use of it in the one arena it could possibly prove useful. I’ve thought about it since, and I can imagine finding it very hot to make use of during ageplay scenes, and I could’ve investigated the hentai trope of lactating on orgasm (which I think is supposed to relate to experiencing so much pleasure that one loses control, an idea I can very much get behind). I don’t know if the other feelings would’ve been eased by my conversion of the experience into an erotic one, but I didn’t even get the chance to try.
The story is an anticlimactic one: I told my psychiatrist, a brilliant man who honestly set the benchmark for every mental health professional I’ve encountered since, that I was lactating since starting the new medication. He informed me that it was quite likely that if I increased the dose, the lactation would increase with it, which I immediately ruled to be a dealbreaker. We mused for an hour or so before deciding to stick with quetiapine, an antipsychotic that had suited me before, and I’m still on a low-ish dose of it today. There wasn’t a huge amount of purpose to this blog post except maybe to provide a little bit of solidarity to people who’ve experienced something similar, and to satisfy your curiosity.
If you enjoyed this, be sure to read more of my stuff or follow me on Twitter, where I’ll be trying to post a different nude every day for all of March!
