»I lived a double life: one version of me pretending to be normal at work, and another version hiding in shame at home, trying to survive waves of fatigue, anxiety, and confusion.«

I always wanted to have a career that mattered. I studied hard, graduated with good grades, and got a job in IT support at a medium-sized company. It was the kind of job that required focus, attention to detail, and a steady mindset. For most people, it would have been manageable. For me, it became a nightmare—because I suffer from Post-Orgasmic Illness Syndrome (POIS).

I didn’t know what it was at first. All I knew was that after any orgasm, my brain would go numb. I couldn’t think clearly. I felt anxious, foggy, and emotionally flat. Physically, I was exhausted—like I’d been sick for days. The symptoms could last 2 to 7 days. And they returned every time.

At work, this was a disaster.

Cognitive Collapse on the Job

Imagine sitting in front of a screen, trying to solve a technical issue, while your brain feels like it’s under water. I’d stare at code or instructions and not understand them. Basic tasks took twice as long. Sometimes I’d forget what I was doing mid-task. Once, I misconfigured a server backup—something I’d done dozens of times before—because my concentration was completely gone.

The worst part? I looked fine on the outside.

So when I told my boss I wasn’t feeling well, it sounded like an excuse. When I asked to work from home more often, I got a warning. When I tried to explain I was dealing with a medical condition, I got blank stares. I once dared to say the name of it—“Post-Orgasmic Illness Syndrome”—and they thought I was joking.

Eventually, I stopped trying to explain.

The “Invisible Sick Days”

I’ve used up all my sick days more than once. But most of those weren’t because of a fever or flu. They were “POIS days.” Days when my body and mind shut down after a sexual release—sometimes even after a spontaneous nocturnal emission (which made it worse, because I couldn’t even control the trigger).

Sometimes I’d lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, panicking about the emails piling up or the Zoom meetings I couldn’t attend. I felt weak, ashamed, and unreliable. Colleagues started whispering. My performance reviews slipped. I went from being a rising talent to a “question mark.”

Fear, Shame, and Isolation

POIS not only ruined my focus—it ruined my confidence. I started avoiding team projects, skipped company outings, and refused promotions that might have added pressure. The fear of crashing again was too much.

I lived a double life: one version of me pretending to be normal at work, and another version hiding in shame at home, trying to survive waves of fatigue, anxiety, and confusion.

I thought about quitting more than once. I also thought about ending everything—because when you feel broken and no one understands, it’s easy to fall into that darkness.

Trying to Cope

I’ve tried dozens of treatments: SSRIs, antihistamines, niacin, zinc, nofap, meditation, special diets. Some helped a little. Most didn’t. Right now, I’m testing a combination of anti-inflammatory supplements and strict ejaculation control. It’s exhausting to manage, but it’s the only way I can keep working.

I’ve found some comfort in online support groups—where others describe the exact same crash pattern I’ve lived through. At least I know I’m not imagining it.

What Needs to Change

I wish POIS was recognized like any other chronic condition. I wish employers had the knowledge to be more compassionate. I wish I didn’t have to choose between my health and my income.

We live in a world that values productivity above all else. But POIS makes you feel like a machine with a self-destruct button built in.

»I wish I didn’t have to choose between my health and my income.«

To anyone else struggling with this at work: you’re not lazy, weak, or broken. You’re dealing with something incredibly complex and poorly understood. That takes courage. That takes strength.

And one day, I hope we won’t have to explain ourselves anymore.

»I don’t know what the future holds. I want to love, to work, to have a life that’s not ruled by fear of my own biology. But with POIS, even one moment of pleasure can cost you days or weeks of suffering.«

I grew up in a middle-class Indian family where strength, stability, and success were expected from men. I studied hard, got a decent job in IT, and was on the usual path: work, save, marry. But behind this image of a “normal guy” was a silent battle I’ve fought for more than a decade.

After every ejaculation — whether through sex or even just a wet dream — I would fall into a physical and mental collapse. Headaches, exhaustion, burning eyes, muscle weakness, brain fog, anxiety, even depression. At first, I thought it was just stress or maybe lack of sleep. But it kept happening. Again and again. And it started to ruin everything.

The Unseen Illness

In Indian culture, we don’t really talk about sex — let alone health problems related to it. So I kept quiet. There was no one I could ask. I couldn’t go to my parents or my friends. I even avoided doctors because I didn’t know how to explain it without sounding “crazy” or “perverted.”

I googled my symptoms a hundred times. I tried Ayurveda, yoga, semen retention, herbal tonics, Brahmacharya — anything I could find. Some things helped for a while, but nothing cured me. Every time I ejaculated, I would pay the price.

I remember one morning after being intimate with my then-girlfriend — I couldn’t even get out of bed to go to work. My body felt like it had been hit by a truck. My mind was blank. I stared at the ceiling for hours, asking, “What is wrong with me?”

Marriage Pressure and Mental Breakdown

By the time I turned 28, my parents were pushing hard for marriage. I wanted to say yes, I really did. But how could I explain that sex made me sick for days? That I couldn’t guarantee emotional stability after intimacy? That sometimes I could barely speak?

I tried to go along with it. I got engaged. But a few months into the relationship, I started avoiding physical closeness. I became withdrawn, irritable, anxious. Eventually, my fiancée ended it. She said I was emotionally unavailable. I didn’t blame her. I was — because of POIS.

That breakup pushed me into a depression. I isolated myself. I even considered suicide at one point. No one knew what I was going through, and I didn’t know how to get help.

Finally, a Name: POIS

It was by pure chance that I found the term Post Orgasmic Illness Syndrome on an American health forum. For the first time in my life, I saw my symptoms described perfectly.

Since then, I’ve joined online communities, spoken anonymously to others, and slowly started to rebuild. I’ve seen dozens of doctors here, and almost none had heard of POIS. One psychiatrist told me it was “all in my head.” Another urologist told me to “just control myself.”

Now I’m on a mix of treatments — diet, supplements, CBT, antihistamines. Some help, some don’t. But what helps most is knowing what I have — and that I’m not crazy.

The Future Feels Fragile

I still haven’t told my parents. I know they want me to get married, and they don’t understand why I’m hesitant. I wish I could be honest, but I fear their disappointment — or worse, their disbelief.

I don’t know what the future holds. I want to love, to work, to have a life that’s not ruled by fear of my own biology. But with POIS, even one moment of pleasure can cost you days or weeks of suffering.

To Anyone in India Who Feels Alone in This

You are not weak. You are not broken. And you are definitely not alone.
POIS is real. Your pain is real. And one day, I hope even doctors here will understand.

»I thought I was just weak or sinful — that maybe this was God’s punishment for ›dirty thoughts‹ or masturbation.«

A Hidden Struggle

I grew up in a conservative Muslim society where talking about sex is taboo — even more so when it comes to problems related to sexuality. From a young age, I was taught that sexual urges are dangerous, something to be feared and controlled. But what do you do when your body punishes you for something natural — something even allowed within marriage?

Since my early twenties, I’ve suffered from strange symptoms after ejaculation. It began with intense fatigue and headaches. I thought I was just weak or sinful — that maybe this was God’s punishment for „dirty thoughts“ or masturbation. I was too ashamed to tell anyone. I prayed more, fasted more, asked for forgiveness. But the symptoms only got worse.

Married — and Miserable

Eventually, I got married, thinking that maybe my body would finally calm down. That now, as a “halal” man, things would change. But they didn’t. In fact, they got worse. After intimacy with my wife, I would crash for days: fatigue, joint pain, flu-like symptoms, brain fog, and a deep sadness I couldn’t explain.

My wife was patient at first, but after a while, she started to feel rejected. “Why do you disappear after we’re together?” she’d ask. I didn’t know what to say. I loved her, but sex made me sick. How do you even begin to explain that?

In our culture, men are expected to be strong, sexual, and emotionally stable. I was none of those things. I started avoiding intimacy altogether. My wife thought I didn’t desire her anymore. That wasn’t true — I was just terrified of what would follow.

Shame, Isolation, and Desperation

I couldn’t tell anyone — not my brothers, not my father, not my friends. What would they think? That I was less of a man? That I was cursed? That I was mentally ill? So I carried the shame alone.

I went to doctors, always avoiding the real cause. “I’m tired,” I’d say. Or, “I have trouble concentrating.” Blood tests, scans — everything normal. One doctor suggested I was depressed. Another said it was stress. But no one ever asked about the connection to orgasm. And I never dared to bring it up.

Years passed. My marriage suffered. I withdrew from my family, my community, and eventually lost my job. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t interact with people, and couldn’t explain why. Inside, I was screaming for help. Outside, I smiled and said, “Alhamdulillah, all is well.”

Finally, a Name

It was through an English-speaking online forum that I first saw the words: Post-Orgasmic Illness Syndrome (POIS). I cried when I read it. I wasn’t alone. I wasn’t crazy. There were others like me.

Since then, I’ve begun to accept my condition. I haven’t been cured, but at least now I understand what’s happening. My wife and I are separated, but we are on good terms. She knows now it was never about rejection — it was illness.

»Living with POIS in a culture that doesn’t talk about sex is unbearable. The silence is worse than the illness.«

A Plea for Understanding

Living with POIS in a culture that doesn’t talk about sex is unbearable. The silence is worse than the illness. I wish I could be open about it, but I still fear the shame, the stigma, the rejection.

If you’re reading this and feel the same — I want you to know: you are not alone. There is a name for what you are going through. And one day, Insha’Allah, we will be able to speak about it without fear.

»The truth is: I had an orgasm three nights ago.
And now I want to die.«

Sometimes I don’t know how much longer I can do this.

I’m writing this from my bedroom, where I’ve been lying for the past three days. The blinds are closed. I’ve barely eaten. I haven’t responded to any texts. I was supposed to go to work today — again — but I sent the usual vague email: “Not feeling well, sorry.”

The truth is: I had an orgasm three nights ago.
And now I want to die.

What It Feels Like

It’s not just feeling tired. It’s like my entire nervous system shuts down. My brain feels fogged, poisoned. I can’t think clearly. I can’t connect with people. I become emotionally numb — or worse, overwhelmed by a suffocating sadness that I can’t explain to anyone.

There’s no joy, no peace, no light. Just this heavy weight in my chest and the constant thought: “You did this to yourself. Again.”

And yet — it’s not like I’m addicted to sex or anything. Sometimes it happens in my sleep. Sometimes I try to fight the urge for weeks, and still fail. It’s not about willpower. It’s biology. It’s betrayal by my own body.

The Depression Feels Like a Black Hole

During a POIS episode, I stop being me.
I isolate. I cancel plans. I avoid mirrors. I lie on the floor and cry for no reason. Or I just feel nothing at all.

The worst part is the shame. People say things like:

• “You’re just anxious.”
• “Everyone feels tired sometimes.”
• “Maybe it’s guilt or trauma?”
• “Have you tried exercise?”

Yes. I’ve tried everything. Therapy. Antidepressants. Meditation. I’ve run miles while crying, just to try and feel something.

But POIS doesn’t care. It comes back. Every time. It wipes me out.

»During a POIS episode, I stop being me. I isolate. I cancel plans. I avoid mirrors.
I lie on the floor and cry for no reason. Or I just feel nothing at all.«

Thoughts I’m Afraid to Say Out Loud

I’ve thought about suicide more times than I want to admit.

Not because I want to die. But because I can’t imagine living like this for the next 40 years. I feel trapped in a body that punishes me for feeling intimacy. I feel like I’ve been handed a life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit.

And the loneliness… it’s brutal. I’ve never had a real relationship. How could I? How do you explain this to someone you love?

“Hey, just so you know, if we have sex, I’ll become clinically depressed for a week and might not be able to get out of bed or talk to you.”
Who would stay?

So I don’t even try anymore. I’m too tired.

Doctors Don’t Know What To Do

Most doctors have never even heard of POIS.
I’ve seen psychiatrists, urologists, neurologists, endocrinologists. They test my hormones, nod politely, and eventually say, “Maybe it’s psychological.” Or worse: “There’s no evidence for this condition.”

But there is evidence. Studies exist. Forums exist. Hundreds of us are out here, hiding in silence because the shame is too much and the science is too slow.

I once brought a printout of a medical paper by Dr. Waldinger to my GP. He looked at it and said, “But this seems very rare. You probably just need better sleep hygiene.” I wanted to scream.

The Only Thing That Helps: Avoidance

Right now, the only way I stay somewhat stable is through total abstinence. No masturbation. No porn. No sex. No fantasies.

But it’s not healthy. It’s not human.
I’m 27 and feel like a monk in solitary confinement. Even when I succeed, I live in constant fear that one accidental ejaculation will ruin my next week — or my life.

So my days become smaller and smaller. I avoid people, stimulation, even love. I don’t really live anymore. I just try to not crash.

Why I’m Still Here

I’ve thought about ending it. But something keeps me going — maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe it’s the strangers online who write, “You’re not alone. I have this too.”

If you’re reading this and feel like you’re drowning in it — please know this:

You’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re not crazy.
You have a real condition. A cruel one. A silent one. But a real one.
And you don’t deserve to suffer in shame.

Keep fighting.
We deserve better.

»After intimacy, I would go into what I now call my ›dead phase‹:
no motivation, no focus, zero emotion.«

I first noticed something was wrong in my late teens. After sex or masturbation, I would feel extremely tired — not just for a few minutes, but for days. I’d get body aches, headaches, my eyes would burn, and mentally I would shut down. It felt like I had malaria, but I didn’t.

In Nigeria, men are expected to be strong, tough, and full of energy — especially after sex. Saying, “I feel sick after orgasm” would make people laugh, or worse, call you possessed, weak, or unserious. So I said nothing. I just kept pushing through.

Losing My Drive, Losing Myself

I studied hard and became an engineer. But my own energy kept disappearing. I started avoiding women. Every relationship ended the same way — I’d withdraw after sex, become moody and unreachable. They thought I didn’t love them. I did. But I couldn’t explain why I needed to disappear.

Eventually, even my work began to suffer. After intimacy, I would go into what I now call my “dead phase”: no motivation, no focus, zero emotion.

I was called lazy. Some colleagues said I lacked discipline. My family told me to pray more, work harder, stop complaining. But no one knew how much I was silently suffering.

Finding the Name: POIS

One day, while browsing online, I typed in “sick after ejaculation.” That’s when I discovered something called Post Orgasmic Illness Syndrome. I couldn’t believe it — the symptoms matched perfectly. Finally, I had a name for this thing that had ruined so much of my life.

But even with the name, getting help was nearly impossible. Most doctors here have never heard of it. Some even laughed when I tried to explain. Others gave me vitamins or antidepressants and told me to stop overthinking.

The Real Pain

The hardest part isn’t the tiredness or even the brain fog. It’s the isolation. The shame. The fear that no one will ever understand. In my culture, men aren’t supposed to be “sick” from sex. We’re supposed to enjoy it, brag about it, and move on. But for me, sex is a trap. It steals my mind, my body, my joy.

Where I Am Now

I’m still learning how to live with POIS. I try to avoid triggers, eat clean, exercise, and rest as much as I can. But it’s unpredictable. Some days I feel strong, hopeful. Other days, I can’t even get out of bed.

I’ve had to step away from full-time work, but I hope to return — maybe part-time or remote. I want to contribute. I’m not lazy. I’m not weak. I’m just sick in a way most people don’t understand.

To My Brothers Out There

If you’re African, Nigerian, or from anywhere where this kind of thing isn’t talked about — I see you. You are not alone. There is a name for what you’re going through. Keep searching, keep speaking, even if it’s just to yourself for now. One day, we’ll be able to talk about POIS openly, without shame.

»The hardest part isn’t the physical symptoms. It’s watching the life you loved slip away, piece by piece. And knowing no one around you really understands why.«

I used to be a social worker. For over a decade, I helped people through trauma, addiction, grief, and poverty. I loved my job. I loved listening, guiding, being there for others when no one else was. It gave my life meaning.

But now, I’m the one who’s isolated, lost, and unsure how to go on.
Because of a condition no one talks about. A condition that slowly destroyed me: Post-Orgasmic Illness Syndrome (POIS).

It Started Subtle

The first signs came in my early twenties. After sex or masturbation, I would feel a little… off.
Not just tired, but strangely foggy, like I was coming down with something. Sometimes I’d get chills, my nose would run, and I’d feel slightly feverish. I told myself it was just exhaustion or a weird immune quirk.

The symptoms lasted a day or two, then passed. I ignored it. Kept working. Kept living.

The Decline

Over the next few years, things got worse.
The “post-sex flu” morphed into something more sinister:

• Crippling fatigue
• Extreme brain fog — I couldn’t follow conversations or remember simple things
• Deep depression — not just sadness, but a soul-level emptiness
• Irritability, anxiety, and a weird internal trembling that made me feel like I was about to snap
• Intense noise and people sensitivity — I couldn’t stand being around anyone

Eventually, these symptoms would last for 5–7 days after every orgasm. And I mean every orgasm — whether through sex, masturbation, or even spontaneous nocturnal emissions.

My Job Fell Apart

I tried to keep working. I pushed through dozens of POIS episodes while counseling at-risk youth or de-escalating situations with traumatized families. But each episode chipped away at me. I’d show up fogged, flat, distant. Colleagues noticed. Clients did too.

I started making mistakes in documentation. I forgot names, appointments, important details. That scared me — because these were real people depending on me. And I wasn’t fully there.

Worse, my ability to connect emotionally — the very core of my profession — was gone during POIS. I felt numb, hollow, like I was wearing a mask made of concrete. Trying to sit with a grieving parent or an anxious teen while feeling like a ghost? It broke me.

Eventually, I began calling in sick more and more often. I used up my vacation. Then my unpaid leave. Then, I just stopped going.

I had to resign.

I Lost More Than a Job

I lost my structure. My sense of purpose. My identity.
I became someone I didn’t recognize: withdrawn, scared, ashamed, dependent.

The depression deepened. I isolated from friends. I stopped dating. I even started fearing sleep — because sometimes a nighttime ejaculation would trigger another week-long spiral of brain fog and despair. How do you live when sleeping becomes a threat?

»I say I had burnout. Or a neurological issue. Or chronic fatigue.
All of which are partly true, but none of which tell the whole story.«

I don’t tell people the full story. How can I? It sounds ridiculous.

„You got sick from what?“

So I say I had burnout. Or a neurological issue. Or chronic fatigue. All of which are partly true, but none of which tell the whole story.

I Finally Found the Name

It wasn’t until I stumbled across a POIS support forum that I realized I wasn’t alone. Reading other men describe the exact same cascade of symptoms — fatigue, brain fog, emotional flatness, immune reactions, noise sensitivity — it felt like someone had x-rayed my soul.

I read the few available studies. I printed out Waldinger’s research. I went to doctors.

Most had never heard of POIS. A few nodded politely, then referred me to psychiatry. One told me, “If it only happens after orgasm, just stop having sex.”

As if that’s a real solution. As if intimacy and connection are optional.

Today

I don’t work anymore. I survive on state assistance and a little freelance editing when I can manage it. I avoid all sexual stimulation. I live in a strange half-life — trying not to crash, trying to stay human.

I still hope something will change. That science will catch up. That doctors will believe us. That someone will find a treatment that works. I’ve tried antihistamines, niacin, SSRIs, anti-inflammatories, zinc, quercetin, diets — nothing has truly solved it yet.

But the hardest part isn’t the physical symptoms.

It’s watching the life you loved slip away, piece by piece.
And knowing no one around you really understands why.

»If you have POIS and feel like you’re disappearing: Please hold on. Please know it’s not your fault. You’re not lazy or crazy or broken.
You’re sick. And you deserve care, research, and respect.«

If you have POIS and feel like you’re disappearing:
Please hold on. Please know it’s not your fault. You’re not lazy or crazy or broken. You’re sick. And you deserve care, research, and respect.

I don’t know what the future holds. But I’m still here.
And if you’re reading this — you are too.

Let’s keep going. Somehow.

»POIS makes you live far below your potential. On good days, I see what I could be if I were healthy. On bad days, I can do nothing. That’s brutal.«

Two Decades of Unnamed Suffering

I’ve suffered from POIS for about 20 years. It began with burning eyes after sex — strange, but manageable. I finished university, held jobs, even had relationships. But over time, the exhaustion and constant “sickness” after orgasm made intimacy impossible. I wanted to be alone for days after sex, which slowly destroyed my ability to form lasting connections.

I told one friend early on, but doctors? Never — out of shame. For 15 years, I stayed silent. I felt like the loneliest person alive.

Everything Got Worse — And I Had No Control

The symptoms worsened year by year. Eventually, I banned sex on weekends just to survive football matches. Later, I was so drained after sex that I’d secretly sleep at work, unable to stay awake or think straight.

One relationship after another collapsed. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me, only that I couldn’t keep up with „normal“ life. Alcohol became a coping mechanism — temporary relief from deep frustration and sadness.

Post-COVID: A New Episode of POIS

After a COVID-19 infection in 2022, everything changed. I began experiencing depression, brain fog, anxiety, memory issues, and noise sensitivity in addition to the usual flu-like symptoms and fatigue. I impulsively quit my job during a POIS episode and later entered a psychosomatic day clinic. I was completely burned out.

Ironically, I had just started a new romantic relationship six months before I quit my job. I quit the job but stayed in the relationship — trying to salvage what I could.

By that point, I had told my partner that sex often made me feel sick. She was very understanding and supportive. One day, she did her own research and came across a POIS forum online. Finally — the condition had a name. That alone was a massive relief.

But despite her support, the relationship didn’t last. I couldn’t stand being around myself anymore. And I felt I could only truly recover if I was alone. Only after the breakup did I feel like I could finally get back my energy and focus on healing, seeking help, and searching for solutions. I just felt like I could only recover if I stay alone and avoid sex under all circumstances.

Today I know, that the loss of energy due to POIS and a strenuous job in the health system, and the associated relationship problems and alcohol abuse led me straight into that burn-out. At some point, there was just no energy left inside me.

The Endless „Doctor Marathon„

I began seeking medical help, starting with depression treatment. I mentioned the link between orgasm and my crashes, but the doctors didn’t know POIS and dropped the topic.

Antidepressants didn’t help. I saw urologists, psychiatrists, immunologists — but all tests came back “normal.” The message was always: “There’s nothing wrong.” Yet I was falling apart.

Eventually, possibly as a side effect of antidepressants, I developed spermatorrhea — the involuntary release of semen. For someone with POIS, this was the final blow.

Since then, I’ve been sick constantly. There’s no link to sexuality anymore — POIS can now hit me at any time, even without orgasm. I’ve lost all control over it. Abstinence doesn’t protect me anymore.

Trying to Rebuild — But It’s Nearly Impossible

I’m now in vocational rehab, trying to find a job that works with POIS. Because I cannot work with people in the state of POIS, it is just to exhausting. It was humiliating to explain the condition to therapists and job coaches, but I had to — otherwise they’d just think I was lazy or inconsistent.

I’m actually quite ambitious. On good days, I feel energetic, sociable, positive, and productive. But just a few hours after an ejaculation, I might become a complete wreck. I withdraw, I can’t tolerate people, I feel mentally and physically empty.

What employer is ever going to understand that?

I can’t even make reliable plans for myself — how am I supposed to commit to a schedule or routine?

The worst is the brain fog: I hear people speak, but can’t process their words. My mind shuts down. The fatigue is crushing — like carrying cement on my shoulders. I crash into bed, sleep for hours, wake up still exhausted.

Even my mind feels tired. I just want to close my eyes and lie down. If I can’t do that, life becomes torment.

A Life on Hold

How long is this supposed to go on?

Every day feels like a battle — a desperate attempt to prevent the next POIS attack, or at least to reduce its impact.
But in the end, POIS always wins.
When I finally recover from one episode, the next one begins.

It’s a vicious cycle — and I can’t stop it, because my body continues producing semen whether I want it or not. POIS is cruel. It’s relentless.

A Life Lived Below My Potential

POIS makes you live far below your potential. On good days, I see what I could be if I were healthy. On bad days, I can do nothing.

It’s heartbreaking.
How can anyone work consistently under these conditions?
What will colleagues or employers think? Who would hire me long-term?

Right now, I honestly don’t know how my life will continue — professionally or personally.
I’m trying. But POIS keeps pulling me under