Grow the fuck up: It's over

I once got fired from a job because I kept showing up late. I’m not talking about thirty minutes or an hour late more like five or six hours late. My hours were from 9-5, and I’d show up at 2 and then go to lunch. I got away with it for like a month.

I once got fired from the job because I left a bottle of Rum on my desk. My boss asked me if I had been drinking and I offered her a sip from my coffee cup. I thought she was cool.

I once got fired from a job because I forgot to book my Boss’s flight back from London. It was a weekend trip. He called me into his office Monday morning. He complained that he had to sleep on the airport floor for two days and it cost him almost ten thousand dollars to get back. I replied” You’re back, so what’s the problem.” Security escorted me out that afternoon.

Being fired is like saying “You’re dead to me.” How horrible. An aunt once said that to me when she caught me in bed with her boyfriend. I questioned for a second if I should call the police because she may had plans to kill me or put a hit on me. What does it mean for somebody to say, you’re dead to me when in fact I know I’m still alive and breathing. If I’m dead to them, does that make me a ghost and does that give me the right to haunt them? If I’m dead to them, I’m sure I didn’t die peacefully, so why not become a poltergeist?

I’ve also been disowned or renounced for various reasons depending on the crime. I think I got disowned for being a homosexual and renounced for practicing it. I think disownment is more emotional and renounced is the legal term as in getting kicked out of the family will. Is it truly possibly to disown anyone. I mean daddy can’t go back to that night when he got liquored up and seduced my mother. My mother can’t take back the nine months of pregnancy and 14 hours of labor. IS there paper work involved when you disown someone? I mean after a person turn eighteen years old, the law automatically disowns them from their parents. If I’m disowned should I give back my birth certificate and have my next of kin removed. Is disownment like the parent/child messing divorce? Should I hire a lawyer? I mean I was used to a certain lifestyle before the disownment, daddy can take back the last name but I want the vacation house and my childhood allowance until the day I die. Let’s not forget, the faithful, “don’t ever speak to me again.” It’s been used on me often. My sister yelled into the phone the night I called her a three in the morning blasting Michael Jackson in the speaker. I thought she’d be amused. She called me an immature drunk. I called her a fat frigid bitch and I though those people were supposed to be jolly. She told me to never speak to her again. I wondered if that mean I saw a grizzly bear charging at her in the grocery store did the rule still apply.

Every time I get fired from a job and I pass it, I wonder did the people still think of me. How long did it take for them to think of me as dead? How long did it take from them to wipe away my memory of showing up hung-over or with an attitude? Did it take days or hours?

I mean never speak to me again, what are the loopholes. I used that insult myself as to say I thought me getting fired was just a sign being a fuck up. I didn’t realize I was so romantic.

What’s worse than getting fired is watching other people get fired. It’s like everybody saw it coming except them. I showed up to my job one afternoon and security was putting five of my co-workers out the building. They came into work like everything was normal and exactly ten o’clock they were packing their desks and being escorted to their cars. Everybody knew they were going to get fired. It was the office gossip. I couldn’t understand they just didn’t quit and save themselves the embarrassment. It was like watching a bad break-up. Security stayed in the building for a month afterwards just in case anybody wanted to come back and shoot up the place. We were forced to sign contracts that we wouldn’t speak to any of the co-workers about company business. It was a mess.

As Whitney Houston would say, what happened to broken hearts? What happens to those who are fired after ten years? What happens to those who been disowned or told there are dead when in fact they know they are still alive? What happen to those who are tragically rejected? It’s more of a real death. Even if you saw it coming, death always feel the same. It’s like having a love one commit suicide to get away from you. It hurts so much as a real death. And healing is just the same as a real death. First, there’re the shock and denial. Then there’s the anger. Then there’s rationalization. And then there’s guilt what could’ve been different. And finally, acceptance.

When my youth ended, at first I was in shock and denial.

If my life was a sitcom it would have been canceled a long time ago. I never learned shit. I kept repeating the same mistakes. I was like that girl who couldn’t keep the man. Eventually people were gong to realize I was the fuck up. Eventually they were going to realize it was me. After all aren’t we here to prove to everyone, especially the poor that we mean something. Aren’t we here to have on our tombstones “H e was a good father or mother or brother or friend?” But what about that alcoholic years when he was an asshole. If I was a sitcom I would’ve been canceled a long time ago. People don’t want the truth. They want to the same bullshit.

But if my life was a movie, it would begin something like this. It was two o’clock in the evening. And I awoke to the loudest sound I’d ever heard in my life. Something was banging on the bathroom door, as if it was shaking it like a hysterical person. The door breath in and out so heavily I thought it was going to break from it hinges. It was the cops. Charles had called the cops. We had been having problems. He was trying to rid himself of me. I was his bile movement. I wasn’t impressed. I awoke and first there was the smell. I was lying in vomit. I was surprised. It wasn’t the first time. And then I saw the blood. Again, I wasn’t surprised. But it was the stale humid air prickling at my body that made me realized I was naked. I was naked on the bathroom floor lying in my own vomit and blood. I tried to think. I had to put it all together. I knew the vomit was from the abuse of alcohol. I had been drinking for days. I remember throwing up in to the toilet and passing out in the middle of it. That explained the vomit. And then I remembered the broken wine glass. I looked at my right hand and saw that it had little pieces of glass still stuck in it. The night before, I had squeezed the wine glass so hard in my hand that I burst its head liked they did in the movies. So I took the little pieces of glass and carved messages into my body. I looked at my thigh and there was the word “Help.” I looked at my other thigh and I had carved “Slave.” On my right arm I had carved in my name and “Hurt.” On my left arm I was going to write something but didn’t finish. So that explained the blood. But why was I naked. And then I remembered I wanted to go swimming. I remember climbing the gate. So I must’ve left my clothes. I must’ve somehow staggered back to the apartment without getting arrested. But the cops were at the door. I couldn’t remember everything. What did I do?
Everyone in my life had given up on me. My older sister called me a “common nigga” that would probably end up found dead in an alley or dying in the hospital from AIDS. I knew I deserved more.

But everyone was right, I had become a loser. I ruined everything in my life: credit, checking account, job references and friends. Nobody invited me to parties anymore. All my friends when they would see me out at the club either snubbed me or pitied me. I knew I deserved more. I was no longer the designer label, American express card carrying, Volkswagen driving, gym obsessed punk I had been since I was twenty two years old. Life had broken my heart, so I became the cheap box wine drinking, Wal-Mart shopping, unemployed hustler, bus card carrying, sex addict with a don’t give a damn attitude. I didn’t care about those materialistic bastards who didn’t want me in their plastic friendship circle anymore. I was better off without them. But that didn’t mean I was free.

Before the cops. Before the mutilation of my body. Before waking up in my own vomit. I had been trapped in Texas for two years with no job, no future, and hoping that I would die somehow. I was twenty seven years old and drowning at the deepest and darkest part of the ocean.

I woke up to screaming. It was like an alarm clock going off. Charles was screaming at me. He was tired. He wanted me out of his apartment. I remember I was sipping cheap box wine from a super sized McDonald’s plastic cup and he was yelling at me. We were supposed to be going to a pool party. He hated me. I had been staying with him for two years, using his car, spending his money, but never giving him sex. He wanted me out of his life. I couldn’t blame him. He was yelling at me that I was wasting my life; that I was stupid, lazy, and a drunk. He was yelling at me that I needed to get my shit together and I couldn’t continue sleeping on his floor. He was yelling at me that I was trifling, disgusting, and sad. I remember feeling powerless. I remember feeling not like a man. All my club friends thought my life was so fucking perfect--because when you’re fabulous they don’t ask too many questions. They all thought I had some fucking perfect situation, because when you’re good looking and thin, you don’t have problems. But my life was a nightmare. I was trying to kill myself every other day. I was trying to kill the boredom. I was trying to kill the hopelessness with the liquor, sex, drugs, glass bottles, sleeping pills or anything that would distract the reality I was a fucking loser. That I had fucked up my life. I was trying to kill that voice in my head constantly nagging, “Why are you here!!!!!!”

I hated Charles that night. I hated that I needed him. I wanted to believe because he was old he didn’t understand his soul anymore. But the truth, I didn’t understand my soul anymore. I hated him because he was ruining my seven year high. I didn’t want to come down. I wanted to crash. I wanted to overdose on my youth. It seemed like it happened so fast. I graduated high school. I then graduated college. I started going to the clubs. I hated all the jobs I had. I started drinking more. I started using drugs. And nobody complained in the beginning. I was young, cute, slender and full of cum. Nobody complained in the beginning. But I knew it was coming to an end. I never thought I live pass twenty five years old. I didn’t see a future for myself.

I knew it was over on my twenty seventh birthday. I was with friends and this young guy that wasn’t even that cute was getting all the attention. He got into the club free. They bought him his drinks for free. It was like I was no longer usable. And I had once said that would never be me. When I first came out into the life I said I was going to be one of those stupid bitches who moved in with men old enough to be their father. I said I would save my money. But somehow it happened. I had become one of those stupid bitches like Ike. I met him when I was twenty years old. He was twenty four years old staying with a fifty year old man. Ike never worked and he thought it was cute. I felt sorry for him. I told myself that would never be me. I was wrong.

And then I got very angry.

Shit hit the fan. I knew Charles had been dating some young new queen and he just happened to be at the pool party. The young queen was about nineteen years old. His body was waif, size twenty seven jeans, his skin was flawless. Before that night, I honestly never felt jealous of anyone or threatened, but I panicked when I turned twenty seven years old. I didn’t have a plan B. I had invested all my energy and importance in my youth. I put all my eggs in one basket, and suddenly I wasn’t young anymore and broke. After the pool party, Charles said that we were going to take his new young thing home. I’d never hated anyone so much in my life. I remember getting in the car, and I sat in the front seat, and his new toy sat in the back. I remember watching him from my vanity mirror. I wanted to kill that young bitch. I wanted to feel my hands around his neck. I wanted to kill reality. I felt he was stealing my world. He was stealing my crown. And suddenly, an intense heat took over my body. I saw Charles look at him in the rearview mirror and smiled. I immediately made Charles stop the car. I told him, we weren’t taking that bitch home. We were on the highway but I didn’t care. Charles was going to pull over the car and that young bitch was going to have to walk. Of course everyone thought I was crazy or drunk. I was both. I just felt betrayed. I was once that young bitch and now I was nothing. I was fucking nothing. I was just old and used and suddenly a nobody. Youth made me somebody without me even doing anything. Charles tried to calm me down, but I decided to attack the young bitch. I jumped in the backseat. I grabbed him by his throat, hit him in the face, opened the back door and commence to pushing him out of the car. I was seriously insane. He was trying to fight back but I was bigger and stronger and older. It was like an older dog attacking a young pup, the poor thing never had a chance. My teeth were sharper. He didn’t understand. Charles came to his rescue. He stopped the car. He flung opened the backdoor. He grabbed me out. He pushed me down on the ground. The boy got in the front seat and they drove off. They left me. They left me on the side of the highway. I had been with that old bastard on and off for eight years. I had known him since I was nineteen years old. He left me. He had found something better. I felt stupid. I couldn’t imagine that I ever thought it was really about me. I couldn’t believe I fell for all the lies. Or was it that being pretty and young made me lazy? Or was it that I stopped believing. Or was it that I was so damn arrogant I couldn’t see that old man was just using me? That I actually thought it was about me? It wasn’t all Charles fault. I was mostly to blame. Did I not think I was going to get old? I walked home. I got to the house and I drank some more. And I drank some more. I smoked a joint. I did some Tina. And I drank some more.

And then I started to rationalize.

As the cops escorted me out of the bathroom, I couldn’t help but hear the voice “What are you going to do with your life?” I didn’t used to be so weak.

The night before when Charles was yelling at me, I told him I was going to be a writer. That life wasn’t always going to be so fucking depressing for me. That I was going to be somebody one day. He laughed. The truth, I’d been writing since I was eight years old, but never took it serious. I thought I was too poor to be an artist. I needed to get a real job like in an office with medical benefits. I was too poor to chase some dream with no real future. I wanted to be a writer. I liked how it sounded. It felt free. It didn’t matter that I had notorious grammar. I was going to be a writer. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t published anything. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know anyone. I was going to be a writer. I just knew I liked how the sound felt on my tongue and lips. It felt like a future, something that would save me. And he laughed. Charles laughed in my face. Who could blame him? I was a fucking loser. I was a fucking liar. I was lazy. I had been sleeping on his floor for two years with no job. I hadn’t been sober in almost a year. I had too many excuses. What I didn’t tell him was that I had gone to a psychic a week before. The psychic told me my future will begin when my past ended. It was duh bitch. But she said I would first have to pay it back. But I knew one thing, I was leaving Texas.

Actually I was being put out of Texas. I picked myself up off the floor. I went to the sink and I washed off the vomit and blood. I cleaned up the bathroom floor. I brushed my teeth. I combed my hair. I wrapped a towel around my starved waistline. I opened the door. And there were the cops. They looked just like I thought they would. They looked pissed. And there were all of my belongings. Charles had packed all of my clothes, which was just one suitcase and black garbage bag full of books and cds. He handed me five hundred dollars. I asked if I could get dressed. I snatched the money from his hands. I got dressed as the cops watched. I grabbed my suitcase and black garbage bag. Charles tried not to look at me. I tried not to cry. I didn’t want to have one of those please don’t put me out scenes. I wanted to be a grown up about it. The first time in my miserable life I wanted to be a grown up. The cops took me to the bus station. They said I couldn’t go within five hundred feet of Charles or I would be arrested. They suggested I get out of town. It was so surreal, like a western movie. I first found a liquor store. I knew once I had rum in my system I would be able to think. I decided to call my ex-lover who moved to D.C. I decided to call Tom. He wasn’t happy to hear from me. I basically had to beg him. I told him about my dream to become a writer. He figured it was just another scheme of mine, that I was a no good nigga, the type that didn’t want to work. I promised him I would get a job because the world hated lazy black men. He promised himself that he wouldn’t fall back in love with me.

And then there was the guilt, what could I have done different.

It was over, the life I knew before. And it hurt me so bad because I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t enough. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t act right. But I was lying to myself. I hated that life. I wanted out. I just didn’t know how. Sometimes we get fired because deep down that’s what we want. Sometimes the relationships end because deep down that’s what’s right. Now what meant that I was going to have to believe in something or nothing.

And then finally acceptance.

What I knew before had died, but I was still alive. It didn’t matter that it claimed me dead; I knew I was still alive. At first I didn’t understand how one I could be the lover, the best friend and the next I was nothing. At first I was so damn angry. I felt like a fool. I like a fuck up. And then I started to blame myself. I knew I could’ve done better. I told myself if I do better then that would bring them all back. That would make them love me again. But that’s the thing about death or when you’re disowned. You are subjected to a different. Suddenly, I didn’t want to go back. I didn’t fuck if they ever loved me again. I begin to accept it. Mita was dead. Charles kicked me out of the apartment. Myron stopped speaking to me. My sister stopped speaking to me. Those things happened. They were real. Every job I got fired from, it took a little time but I eventually got back on my feet. It was blessing. It didn’t feel that way as I boarded the greyhound bus to D.C. but in the end, Charles kicking was the best thing about ever happen to my life.

Youth is credit

When I was fifteen years old I was so afraid of dying a virgin. I was afraid a meteor would hit the earth or space aliens invade and I die without ever getting my dick sucked. Two years later, his name was Vincent and the first time wasn’t so special. It was actually quite gay. I met him at a bar. He bought me a rum and coke. We did it in my 87 Laser outside my sister’s apartment. He never called again. I promised myself to never make that mistake again. Not to kiss before I meant it. Not to take off my clothes before I was certain.

Nobody in my family had good credit. We were poor. The lights got cut off every other month. When I turned eighteen years old and went off to college I had twisted ideas on credit. I got as many credit cards as they would give me. I had no plans on paying them. I figure it was free money. I figured I just declare bankruptcy and wait for the seven years for the shame to fall off my credit. I also had a misconception about my life after college. I thought I’d be a millionaire by age 22. That didn’t happen.

After I graduated college with three degrees I made less than ten dollars an hour as a receptionist for a law firm and I had bad credit. I also had way too many student loans. I was screwed. I didn’t know how much credit affect life. I didn’t know how much and how long I was going to have pay it back. I guess that’s why becoming a rentboy was so attractive. I moved in with Charles to save money on bills and rent. I told myself I wouldn’t get stuck but we all know how that story ended, me getting put out by the cops once he replaced me with somebody better looking, sober, and probably with better credit.

So what is youth? I know childhood is that period between infancy and childhood ( age 2-17). There legal adulthood, eighteen years old when one can vote, get a credit and buy property. But I think youth is that period between where the front brain is still developing that’s responsible for the consequences of decisions. It’s that reason why it believes young people are so stupid, spontaneous, irrational, and dramatic. I call youth the drama years. It’s where you’re fearless but also suicidal. When I was twenty years old I couldn’t see farther than Friday night at the club. It was like a long black tunnel with no light.

My ex Charles was obsessed with youth. He was a borderline pedophile. He was a grown man in forties that actually had teen magazines on his coffee table. His excuse was that he didn’t have an adolescent. He constantly complained that he was mother was overbearing and sick and in his twenties he had to stay home and rub her feet. It was very Psycho. So twenty years later he wanted to relive his adolescents. It was the horror of watching a forty something year old man skip down the hall like he was a five year old girl. He liked sucking his thumb. He would buy toys. We were once going to a straight black hip hop club and he put on some baggy pants and turned a baseball cap to the back. I almost had a heart attack. I screamed at him that he looked ridiculous. It was fucking embarrassing. It was just sad. It was like a person who kept flunking the same grade and suddenly they were a thirty year old man in the second grade. It doesn’t look right unless you’re retarded. It don’t look right for a grown man just showing up at a playground wanting to swing on the monkey bars. Somebody is going to call the cops.

The thing I hated about Charles the most wasn’t his psychological issues but fantasy of what youth was. We all only get one chance. And we all pay it back. For me youth was just credit. It wasn’t real. I was eventually going to have to pay it back like my student loans. Youth could either fuck up somebody’s life or make their life better. We spend most of our live preparing for adulthood. They send us to elementary, secondary and high school. We have to learn math, science, language and other crap. Then some of us go to college so that we can make a better income. We hope somehow youth doesn’t fuck it up. I’ve seen kids in college fuck up. It’s like once you become thirteen years old, everyone starts mistrusting you. It’s the fear of pregnancy, drugs, teenage violence. I’ve had friends get pregnant. I had a friend get really drunk and run his car accidentally into a cop’s car. I’ve had friends rob gas stations. I had friends die. Charles considered youth just a good time. He fantasized about the smooth skin and sexual libidos. He fantasized about dancing on table tops and staying out all night. He hated that he stayed home. He hated that he never took advantage of his stupidity. I would tell him he lived his life that he was young once and that was just his youth and he had to pay it back. He was going to spend the rest of his life chasing some fantasy that he thought he was supposed to have had when he was in his twenties.

My youth different. If youth was credit, I fucked up real bad. I was going to be in bankruptcy a long time. I woke up at twenty seven years old a mess. I spent my youth dancing on table tops and staying out all night. I spent my youth going to the clubs and bars six times a week. I was living a fantasy so reality hit me hard. I spent my youth going from one man to the next. I spent my youth in bathhouses, bookstores, cruising spots, on the internet, the sex phone lines and the parking lots after the club. I was going to have to pay it all back. I spent my youth starving myself, constantly trying to fit in, spending money on designer clothes I couldn’t afford, ruining my credit so I could look like so television 90210 when I knew I didn’t have a steady job. I spent my youth fighting in clubs, hustling, writing bad checks, stealing money, and I was going to have to pay it all back.

If you’re a fantasy, just the party, everybody’s good time, how do you pay it back? It’s jail. Its overdoses. It’s rehab. You wake up and find yourself like I did in the darkest and deepest part of the ocean, drowning. Life is a balance. Nothing can ever feel too good without some sort of crash. The sun rises and it sets, it’s a balance. WE have four seasons to balance the earth. There’s a heaven and hell.

That’s what scared me on the greyhound bus heading to D.C. I was going to have to pay back everything I did for whatever reason I did it. That’s the fucked up part about being an adult. Even I was initially reacting to a bad childhood it didn’t take away the fact I was a grown man. It didn’t take away the fact I was accountable for my actions. Nobody cares about the reason why anymore when you’re adult. There are not men shelters if you can’t get your life right. You become homeless. We only get a certain amount of time that people give us credit, the benefit of doubt, what some call potential. It’s when they are willing to help a young man try and find his way.

But some of us abuse it. The young always think they are going to be young forever. I know I abused my youth. I figured I was owed. I didn’t want to work. I didn’t know how to be a man. I was greedy. I was vain. I thought all the compliments made me special. I couldn’t’ see farther than Friday night at the club.

But I had no regrets. I did what I knew how to do. I was going to have to learn better. I was twenty seven years old. I had bad credit: emotionally and financially. I didn’t even trust myself. I was looking for a third chance. I was looking for someone wiling to believe in me despite the facts.

When you have bad credit, can’t get a checking account, life gets more expensive. It cost more to be poor. I would have to start cashing my checks at Ace Cashing were they charged an arm and leg. I would have to get those very high interest credit cards where they charge over two hundred dollars in fees for a three hundred dollar limit. Because I fucked up my youth, like credit, I suddenly became a second class citizen. I was poor.

And then I was lucky that another ex was giving me a third chance. The last time I saw him he flipped me off. But he knew I was desperate. He would let me live with him but I had to sleep on the floor. I had to get a job. I couldn’t drink or do any drug in his house. It was like checking into prison.

I questioned if I could do it. My youth left me with an alcohol and drug problem. But I knew there was no other alternative. It was like the old man who stayed too long at the club. My life was about to get really pathetic and sad. The party was over. Youth was over.

Growing up nobody in family had good credit. I see where that got them. My father the drug dealer got killed when I was five years old. My mother got addicted to crack and wondered her entire life. I had aunts who kept getting into bad relationships and having more kids and never learning the lesson. My successful uncles were the drug dealers and hustlers, but they always ended up in prison for ten or fifteen years, getting out and everything they acquired usually dissipated. It seemed nobody in my family was capable of paying back their youth. They just kept repeating the mistake. When I ran away from home when I was fifteen years old, I used to pride myself on the fact I graduated high school. I used to feel good about the fact I was the only person in my family to go to college and graduate. I used to feel proud that I was the only male on both sides of my family and that’s out of 46 men that didn’t go to prison. I had a 99 percent chance of going to prison.

I wonder what had happened to the pride. I suddenly wanted to be the only person in my family that paid back it’s youth. I needed to pay back all the credit cards. I needed to pay back my student loans. I needed to pay back the dancing on the table tops and staying out all night. I needed to pay back the binge drinking and drug habits. I needed to pay back the reputation I created with friends and family. I couldn’t die a tragic fag. I wasn’t going to end up dead in some alley.

Yet I understood childhood and how I was prepared to be an adult. My youth was just that on crack. I always felt my childhood was about the separation of my body with molestation, the abandonment, the abuse, the neglect, the loneliness but I was going to have to turn that frown upside down. What I learned from molestation was how to respect my body and not let others disrespect my body. What I learned from abandonment that no matter what we are capable of surviving. What I learned from abuse is that I can take a good punch to the face and not bruise. What I learned from the neglect is that if you don’t speak up for yourself no one else will. What I learned from the loneliness was that God was lonely once and look what he’s done.

I realize when Charles was yelling at me in that car that night, he was bill collector. I could not just answer the phone. I tried to ignore him. But bill collectors don’t give up. There is a decision one has to make when youth is over and it’s time to pay it back. The decision is will I repeat what I learned as a child. WE all get a grace period between 18 years old and twenty five years old and then the world gets really cruel and cold. We all pay our youth back one way or another.

Some of the crazy things I did in my youth: I once was so high and drunk I got on a crowded bus at 8 in the morning with my dick out. Well I wasn’t wearing any underwear and the zipper came undone and out came my dick.

I once ran my car into this guy car after a fight, then got really pissed, stumbled my drunk ass to a pay phone and decided to call the cops. The operator was like “Are you drunk.” And I was like “I’d been drinking.” And she was like, you sure you want the cops. I was like, maybe she’s right.
I left a club one night and met up with this stranger. I smoked a joint with him and six hours later I woke up in a cemetery. I still don’t how I got there. Don’t take drugs from strangers.

I once jumped out a moving car because the person wouldn’t change the radio station.

When I was twenty two years old I had a threesome with a geriatric couple. It was dollar margaritas that night, I had way too many and ended up going home with a women who at least had to be in her fifties and a man that was in his sixties. My friends tried to talk me out of it. I never heard the end up that semester.

I once woke up on the bathroom floor at a club. It was my twenty fifth birthday and I drank an entire 1.75 bottle of Vodka and decided to go out. I was only in the club for like five minutes before I passed out.

I used to drag race.

I tried to rape this guy. It was early morning one night after a club; I met him on the way home. He was some Mexican guy that barely spoke English. He wanted to suck my dick but I refused to take him home. I told him we could go behind a building. He didn’t want to, so I dragged him. I pull my dick out and I forced him to the ground. I kept slapping it in his face. He started to cry. My dick had never been so hard. I let him go. He ran.

The most stupid thing I did was how I got my DWI. All I had to do was sign the damn ticket. But I had to get out the car. I had to argue with the officer. I had to point my finger in his face. I just had to get myself arrested again.

The most stupid thing I ever did, I went to a bar to purposely pick a fight. I was pissed at my boyfriend. He wouldn’t fight me, so I had to go find something that would. I walked into the bar and just started knocking people drinks out their hands. I got a fight. I also got three crack ribs and two teeth knocked out my mouth.

I once got robbed at because I was so high I couldn’t move. I could see the guy going through my pockets, turning me over, but I was so messed up I couldn’t move.

Now it was time for me to be a man.

Show me...

”Show me your dick” was an actual scientific study. Sexologist John Money wanted to prove that the quintessential characteristic of a man, defined by Western culture was the presence or absence of a penis. With government money, he conducted an observational study of penis possession in a many major American cities hiring sociologists to stand on the corner asking men on the street if they possessed a penis, and then asking them to show for first field data. When I read about the study in a medical journal I thought it was a joke and damn bold. I can barely get my boyfriend to show me his dick let alone on a busy street.
But it got me to thinking what really makes a man a man. I’ve seen the movie “Boys Club” and Hilary Swank was damn convincing. I once date a really butch lesbian in college thinking she was a boy but it turned out she was a girl. All my friends knew, but they wouldn’t tell me, just laughed behind my back as I took her out to dinners and tried to make my move. I went down to feel the dick and got an empty space. It freaked me out. I suddenly knew what it felt like for guys who get tricked by the trannies. I questioned my sexuality, if I was really gay or just a lesbian.
I knew what made me a male at four years old, my penis, and that I had to play with toy trucks and not dolls, and I had to want to get dirty and play sports. I knew I was a male in middle school when they separate the boys and girls, and told us about sex. At first it was annoying being a male, the hormones, and the dick getting hard every five seconds in seventh grade and having to carry a book covering my erection to the board to solve some stupid problem. It’s like the teacher knew exactly when my dick got hard because each and every time he would make me stand.
. I guess it first began with gym, having to be naked in front of other guys and feeling smaller in comparisons. And suddenly in high school there was the pressure of sex. Losing my virginity to a girl was supposed to make me a man. I lost my virginity at fourteen years old to Kiesha in her bedroom. I didn’t feel any different. I didn’t even have an orgasm. I just stuck it in, pounded a couple of times until I got bored. The only exciting part was bragging about it to my male cousins who touched their dicks when I described her body and how it supposedly felt. I lost my virginity to a guy at sixteen years. That didn’t make me feel like a man but more confused. I had to deal with the fact I was gay. I had to deal with that bastard never called me back like I never called Kiesha back.

But back to gym. I somehow swallowed, no pun attended, that the true measurement of my manhood was how I measured up with other men. It was like a trophy competition and I didn’t want to come in last place. I went to a black high school. After practice, the boys would walk around in their glorified nakedness, their dicks swinging in the wind, taking showers so effortlessly as I did everything I could to avoid the showers, not just because they were so damn erotic but also out of fear of humiliation. I wasn’t exactly a show-er. I wasn’t the type that could strip naked and make eyes bulge more like make fingers point and laugh. I didn’t get pubic hair until I was sixteen years old so my dick has always been shy and a slow learner. I didn’t learn how to properly masturbate until I was like nineteen years old. I would try but nothing would ever happen.

Like my dick, my masculinity or manhood has never been much of a show-er or showoff. I don’t know how to fix a car. I can’t watch sports without getting bored. I rather watch Martha Stewart. I don’t drink beer. I don’t gamble. I’m no John Wayne with the deep bassing Barry White voice or that ridiculous walk. Yet, as I gotten older, I’m a lot more masculine when I first came out. My voice got deeper. I guess you can say like my dick what makes me a man, is a grower.

I must admit I’ve always wondered if I had a bigger dick how my life would be different. In eight grade would I had won the Spelling Bee? Would I have made the basketball team in high school? Would I have graduated valavectorian and gone to Harvard and became a hustler for the preppy rich kids. My obsession with my dick probably started the day I watched porn. The guys seemed so huge. I couldn’t imagine that was the normal. And I was a black male, I thought getting the big dick sort of made up for the years of oppression and racism. Getting pulled over by the cops, at least I have a bigger dick. And then I was gay. I wondered if I had a bigger dick would I never considered being a bottom, learned to fix a car or watch sports. If I had a bigger dick would I have better credit? Make more money or own a home. Did have a smaller dick turn me into a writer instead of getting a real job like street walker or stripper. My intention since I was fourteen years old has been to distract those from my dick, tell a joke, wear a shiny necklace, don’t make them look directly at it or pull out a ruler, shave my pubic hair to make it look bigger, put a pretty cock ring around it, anything to get it touched before the person changes their mind like getting drunk and sleeping with a midget.
When I was a boy, I never gave much thought to about the man I wanted to grow up to be. I think I was just trying to survive. I often wondered what would happened to me. I worried if I would be okay. Will I be happy? Will I ever find someone to love me? Would I ever feel good enough? Will I ever have a family?

In the beginning, I didn’t have any male role models in my life. My father got himself killed when I as five years old. Before that, he was never around. I only had three memories of him and none of them were pleasant. The first nine years of my life were surrounded by females. There was my Grandma, my mama, my aunts and my two sisters.

And then my mother abandoned me to my father side of the family. The gender dynamic changed dramatically. I went from all girls to all boys. I never felt comfortable around boys. I never felt masculine enough. It wasn’t that I couldn’t fight, play sports, take out the trash or fix a car; I was just more comfortable with girls. They were less stress. Growing up in a house full of thirty something boys and five uncles, I was fighting a different cousin every day. By the time I was sixteen years old, I was like any other mannish boy. I chased girls. I played the roles but I knew I was gay. I didn’t have the exact words but I knew the feeling. I didn’t look at girls like my boy cousins.

The truth I didn’t look up to any of the men of my family. I was obsessed with Cosby Show and none of the men in my family cared about Shakespeare or education. Most of the men in my family were high school drop outs. All the men on both sides of my family ended up in prison. They were all womanizers. They were all criminals. They were either playboys, hustlers, gang leaders, drug dealers, gamblers and wife beaters. The only person close enough to look up to was my uncle Arthur Ray. He was the most successful of the Whitley men. He was a biggest drug dealer in Texas. He had like four houses. He owned a mechanic shop. He had like thirteen children by ten different women. He bought me my first bike. Actually it was a hand me down. He would pay for my school field trips if I made drug runs for him. The thing I didn’t like about Arthur Ray was that he was always looking over his shoulder for the cops. Everyone was a suspect. He ended up getting fifteen years in prison.

When I was a boy, I just wanted someone to make sure my life was going to be alright. Someone to give me focus. I used to feel so behind with the other kids. I didn’t learn to properly tie my shoes until second grade. I had to beg someone to teach me how to ride a bike. I would look at other kids with their fathers and I’d get so jealous. I wanted someone to teach me how to catch. I wanted to talk to someone about sex. I guess I wanted someone to help fill in the blanks like how to properly tie a tie or teach me how to cut grass or help me build a dog house. I guess I wanted someone to teach me how to be a man. But being gay I guess there was always the disappointment of never measuring up.

Before I went off to college, my sister’s grandfather sat me down and told me a man was supposed to get a good job, find a good Christian girl, marry her, buy a house and go to church every Sunday. There were so many things wrong with that picture. Legally I became a man at 18 years old.

And then when I enter gay life my idea of what makes a man a man changed. It all seemed illusion. It all seemed like drag. It was for sex. I deepened the voice, the walk for sex. It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t until three years later when I woke up in jail after being arrested for a DQI that I asked myself what type of man did I become. And it took another two years when I woke up again to the older man I moved in with when I was twenty two yelling at me that I was lazy, a drunk, stupid, trifling and that he wanted me out, that I realized it was too late. I didn’t escape the ghetto. I didn’t escape the abuse and neglect. I had become the man I feared the most and I couldn’t respect him. I didn’t escape my past. The walk, the talk, the forced masculinity was all illusion. I was a man, but for all the wrong reason.

It took a lot of anger. IT took many fights. It took getting fired from jobs. It took getting kicked out of bars and clubs. It took getting three ribs cracked and three front teeth knocked before I said enough. It took bad relationships. It took dealing with my sexuality.

Now I know it’s a decision. It’s not the type of man I want to be, but dealing with the man I am. The first part of that was facing the mirror. Facing the worse fear in me, will I be okay. Can I take care of myself? I used to pride myself on being the only person in my family to go to and graduate college. I used to pride myself on being the only person in my family to have ventured away from Texas. I used to pride myself on being the only person in my family work a corporate job. I wrote a book. I wrote 53 comics. But I still feel as if I failed. I didn’t learn from my past. I ran. I didn’t pay back my youth. I declared bankruptcy. I couldn’t respect the man I become so I knew I had to change. I want to be able to pride myself to be the only person in my family to learn the lesson.

The worse part was facing the mirror, facing the man I am. I don’t think there’s a switch that tells us that we’ve become men. I don’t think it’s our dick how big or how small. I don’t think it’s the illusion, the walk or talk. Legally we become adult at age eighteen years that is the ability to buy property and go to prison. Legally at 18 years old we’re held accountable for our decisions. I think it’s the consciousness of accountability that makes one a true human-being, man or woman. It’s the ability to look at one’s life and face that we are not what we thought we were supposed to be.

I have to face the molestation. I have to understand it sent me on the journey to try and figure out my body. I had to claim my body back. I have to face the abandonment. It made me so damn angry. I have to face the abuse and neglect. IT made me an out of control pit-bull. I can’t respect that man. I don’t need to physically fight anymore. I’ve been fighting all my damn life.

Facing the man I am, I know he is a good man. He has a good heart. He just needed to reduce some of the noise in his life to get back to his soul. I got into therapy. I surrounded myself with positive people. I got focus. I grew up.

But back to gym, now it’s no longer High School but Ballys. I have no fear of walking around naked in the shower. I know I don’t have the biggest dick. It’s just average. It’s a grower. I’m not competing. I’m a grower not a show-er. It’s not like I got extra dick under my bed or in the refrigerator to pull out just in case an orgy breaks out. You get what you get. It ain’t bad. I’m a grower because it’s taken a long time for me to get comfortable with my body. It’s taken a long time for me to accept it’s as good as it gets and that’s beautiful. Every day I’m learning how to become a better man. It’s how I’m growing. It’s not how I’m showing off.

I'm sorry

I didn’t get it until that night. I didn’t get it until I saw the fear and sadness in his eyes that I caused. Before, I was always apologizing. I had the tendency to act out, embarrass, cheat, push away. I guess I felt as if everyone was against me. I knew he was different but I’ve learned to be an idiot. I’ve had dealt with so much abandonment in my life. I figured it just a matter of time until the next let down. And that’s how I loved because I couldn’t speak any other languages. I didn’t get it until that night. I left him standing in the middle of the street confused. It was the first time I saw myself, what I had become.
It scared me.

Why won’t you trust me?

I don’t trust anyone.

How can you ever love, if you don’t trust?

Are you saying that you love me?

I could.

Why can’t I just forgive you?

What does that mean?

It means that you’re human and not perfect. You will fuck up. It also means, don’t make any assumptions that I put you before myself and I don’t. But I can always learn to forgive you.

That sounds like a bullshit response. Trust just means that you believe in me.

Maybe you will always do the right thing. Maybe you won’t. And I know your intentions right now is your heart, and maybe tomorrow it will be hate. I can’t predict. But I will always forgive you. Even if I’m not with you, I will always forgive you.

You don’t think love is trust?

No.

Every time I’m alone I panic. My mother when I was eight years old left me in a hotel. That stupid selfish bitch. So I panic, every time I feel lonely. I was only eight years old so how the hell did she think I was going to get home. Anger. I tell him, he has to understand that I’ve been angry for a long time. I’ve been the kicked dog. I was the kid everyone picked on. I was bullied. And bad shit kept happening to me. Love never made sense to me. I had too much too lose. I was already broke. Loving myself never made any sense. I’ve tried. It was just a bunch of rambling hopelessly trying to be coherent. I never wanted love. I never dreamed of it. I never thought of a happily ever after. I was cool with being alone. I was safe alone. I didn’t have to care. Maybe if I would’ve had a better childhood.

So you saying that you’re hopeless

I’m saying it’s not easy for me. I’m not you.

And who am I?

You had a great childhood. Your parents are still together. You think everyone is like you.

I just want to love you.

You want the fantasy of your childhood and I’m trying to avoid the nightmare of mine.

I would stare in the mirror from hours some days screaming at myself that I’m not crazy. And I wasn’t referring to crazy like eccentric or misunderstood, but beyond sanity like a rubber band that’s been stretched too far and comes slinging back like a monkey throwing its shit. It was more like a Rick James crazy, just a little too much cocaine and alcohol and suddenly I’m kidnapping hookers and locking them in my basement and feeding them Lucky Charms. I’ve always felt different. I always felt like the freak. I was the kid with no parents. I was the kid with no home. I had no family. I was always alone. I went from one shelter to the next. I went from one family member to the next. And when I turned eighteen years old, I was alone for good. I was on the streets. And then there’s that anger. I’m fucking pissed off. I tried to hide it for years behind a smile or bubbly personality, but honestly, I was a fucking time bomb. I was more heartbreak from buying a gun. One day I decided to study happiness. I tried to mimic what it looked like on other people. I watched the sitcoms. I read the fairytales. I saw so many damn romantic comedies. I tried to fake happiness. I thought could cheat.

So what happened that night, your craziness.

I fucking snapped.

We were doing so well, I thought you were happy.

I tried to be, but I’m a tester.

What does that mean?

It means I have to test people to see if they would stay. It’s so easy to drive people away.

And when is the test over?

I haven’t figured that out yet.

We met by accident. It was supposed to be another empty internet hook-up. It wasn’t until I kissed him that I knew something was different. I felt safe with him. It scared me. I had tried the love thing before and it didn’t work out. I was too much of a fuck up. I had every right not to trust the world. I was too destructive. I only knew destruction.

From the beginning, we were more than just sex. We talked. We told jokes. The sex was unbelievable. Before, I thought sex was a “use or be used” game. With him, sex became about freedom. I wanted him to see me. I didn’t look away or hide. I wasn’t embarrassed with my nakedness with him. I liked how he didn’t’ hold back. Being with him felt spiritual. I told myself not to take the experience too serious. It was just sex. But I was a fucking time bomb.

It all fell apart that night in the car. I had way too much to drink. I felt ignored. I felt confused and out of control. I tried not to snap. I tried to be normal, but no one was listening to me. I remember my leg shaking. I remember sitting in the backseat and my foot banged intensely against the floor like an angry Congo beat. I remember crossing my arms to my waist and holding them so tight against my sides like a straight jacket. I could feel the insanity rising like a volcano. I could feel myself lose control of the situation. I could feel myself becoming violent. And it was four o’clock in the morning. There weren’t many cars on the freeway. We were going eighty five miles an hour. I knew he wouldn’t hurt me, but I couldn’t trust anymore. No one was listening to me. I knew I was in love with him, but that scared the shit out of me. And no one was listening to me. I needed attention. Nobody was listening to me and it was pissing me off. I could hear the irrational voices in my head get louder and louder. I couldn’t turn them down. I tried to distract my impending insanity by stabbing my chewed down fingernails into my sides. I tried to count the cars we passed on the freeway. I tried to pay attention to the songs on the radio. But I kept shifting in my seat. And I wanted to kick him. I wanted to kick the driver in the back of his fat head. My leg started twitching violently. And that’s when he turned to me and smiled. He was in the backseat with me trying to keep me calm. I had way too much to drink. I wanted to be calm but I was panicking. I was so damn insecure. I felt alone. My feelings were hurt. Nobody was listening to me. I told the driver not to take the highway. I told them to take the side street because it was a lot quicker. But they wouldn’t listen. I knew how to get home. It was how I got home and they weren’t listening. I knew if I did it, if I kicked that fat bastard in the back of his head, he would slam against the left window probably cracking it. He would lose control of the car. As fast as we were going, I knew the car would flip. I knew if I kicked the fat bastard in his head, I would kill us all. I decided to just kill myself. I looked at the door. I saw the lock. I wanted to open the door and fling my body out on the highway. Nobody was listening to me.

WHY DO YOU DO THAT!

I DON’T KNOW!

YOU EMBARASSED ME IN FRONT OF MY FRIENDS. NOW THEY THINK I’M CRAZY! NOW THEY DON’T LIKE YOU!

THEY WEREN’T LISTENING TO ME!

HE JUST WANTED TO TAKE THE HIGHWAY.

IT’S NOT HOW I GET HOME.

SO YOU’RE A ONE TRICK PONY.

IT’S WHAT I TRUSTED. WHY DIDN’T HE JUST LISTEN!

YOU CAN’T LET ANYONE IN, CAN YOU?

NO.

WHY DO YOU DO THAT? WHY YOU ALWAYS ACTING CRAZY.

MAYBE I AM!

I knew I was in love because the need to destroy the relationship was like trying to resist the red button that was labeled “push me.”

You weren’t like that when we first met. You seem sane.

I’m a good actor.

The person I fell in love with was an act.

I mean, I was hiding something. Don’t we all give our best presentation?

I don’t play games.

I wasn’t playing a game.

So what didn’t you tell me? What aren’t you telling me?

It turned out that I couldn’t cheat happiness or love. It started to all catch up with me too damn fast--my past, my miserable childhood, my loneliness, how I was a fraud. I guess that was love. It’s quick sand and when you realize that you’re sinking, it’s too late. It started to undo me like thread that’s loose in a shirt. I had no idea it would come apart so damn fast. I had built my entire life on the lie I wanted to believe. I was completely empty on the inside, yet, it seemed as if I had everything. I had the look. the car, the apartment, the sparkling smile. I had studied the happiness well. I wanted what it looked like not what it meant. I was a fucking “A” student. I had studied the fantasy like the bible yet I couldn’t get life to stick to the damn script. I tried to erase 18 years of my life in my head. I thought I could just start over. I thought if I never spoke of it, it never happened. I was so DAMN wrong! It was because I ran that I had to keep running. I had to keep changing identities. I had to keep telling more LIES. I was a fugitive.

Plan B had always been suicide. What he didn’t know, I had been falling apart for years. I had been dealing with depression, alcoholism and insecurity. It was taking over my life. I had gotten fired from my job because I kept calling in. I would lock myself in my apartment for days and just cry. When I turned 27 years old I didn’t like myself anymore. I questioned what he really wanted to know. Did he want to know if I was savable? Did he want to know if I could be happy, if I would allow myself to be happy? I didn’t even have those answers.

You gave into the anger, even with me?

Not with you

You acted out

Why can’t you understand? It’s not about you.

What is that you want?

I want you to listen. And I hate it that motherfuckers think everyone is like them.

Don’t start cursing.

You’re not listening.

You’re talking in circles. We are all afraid of rejection.

Not like me. I’m afraid of the world. I have more to lose.

Nobody is perfect.

You are.

That’s a lie. I have my flaws. I’m insecure. I’ve been burned in relationships. I’ve trusted too damn much. I often feel like a fool.

And you think that’s what I’ve done, made you a fool again.

Yes. Are you ready to talk about what happened that night?

I went crazy.

It scared me.

I’m sorry.

So are you ready to talk about it?

I was surprise that Saturday evening when he called me to go out with his friends. I immediately tried to think of an excuse. I was comfortable with our relationship and didn’t want to change it. I couldn’t be sure how I would act in the real world. I wasn’t the same/sane person.

I should’ve known it was a test. It was like a pop quiz and I hadn’t even opened the book. A nightclub, the devil spawn, was arsenic for any relationship. Nightclubs brought out the worse in people. Nightclubs were like high school for adults—everyone tried to prove they belonged.

He said he’d meet me at the club. I knew that would be a mistake. It meant that temporarily I’d have to be alone. I wanted to be on good behavior that night. I wanted his friends to like me. I wanted to get their approval because I really liked him, so I started drinking. He was an hour late. I kept drinking. I kept going to the bathroom and checking myself. I kept checking my watch. I hated being alone. I felt like a fool. He was an hour and half late. When he got to the club I was drunk and not in the best of moods. I immediately didn’t like his friends or cared if they liked me because they made him late. I knew it wasn’t going to be a good night.

I was used to having him alone. I didn’t like I was going to have to share him with his friends. They went to the bar and ordered more drinks. I ordered another drink. I tried to pretend I wasn’t angry. I tried to smile and tell jokes but my eyes were telling a different story. I felt like an outsider with his friend. Maybe it was the liquor. I wanted to leave but he was my ride home.

I couldn’t decide if I cared. The situation only worsened when some guy asked him to dance and he accepted. He said the guy was just a friend. I hated seeing him with somebody else. I felt disrespected. I had seen him naked and now I imagined others seeing him naked. I wonder what we had was just a fraud. I thought maybe our sex wasn’t spiritual. I thought maybe I was a fool. So I kept drinking. I told myself I was still cute. I flirted with every boy. I wanted to make him jealous so I kissed some guy in front of him. When he didn’t respond, I insulted them. I tried to pick a fight and when he wouldn’t fight me back, I decided to pick a fight with someone who would throw a fist. I needed him to know that I was strong. I needed him to know that I didn’t like to be alone. I needed him to know that I wasn’t a fool. I needed him to know that I wasn’t second place. I got kicked out the club. I found myself throwing up in the middle of the streets. I didn’t know how I was going to get home. And when he came rushing out the club after me, I pushed him away. I didn’t want to have anything to do with him anymore. I needed him to know that I didn’t need him and I was used to the disappointment. He had hurt my feelings. He had made me feel weak and I hated him. I just wanted to go back to not caring. But he wouldn’t let me stagger the streets. He forced me to get in the car with his friends. He sat in the backseat with me. I felt like a fool.

I just wanted to get home. I didn’t feel as if I was in control. I needed control. I told the driver how to take me home. But he decided he knew a quicker way. I felt agitated. He started the car and decided to take the way he wanted. I demanded that he go my way or let me out of the car. I had lost too many battles that night. I tried to grab the wheel. They held me down. I cursed. I wanted to prove to them that I wasn’t a child.

You know I was pissed that night

Get it out

Not to be bringing it up again but you know

Most people say they've gotten over things, but they are just buying time

You were irrational, way too drunk, not comprehending/reacting when I asked you something. And I was like what is wrong with him all of a sudden

I’m completely speechless

And I saw something I didn’t like at all. You seemed so "careless" in regards of your surroundings, me, your actions.... everything

Careless how?

You didn’t give a damn about anything or anyone at that moment. In other words, you were pushing people away at that moment in a way that was not nice.

That was insecurity. It's there, it comes up. It has to be addressed. That's why I’m very careful of controlling the environment

Don’t be a control freak.

I can burn bridges. I am good at burning bridges

I’m a great architect.

So you telling me the world isn’t flat\

I’m saying you scared me because you act like you don’t care which means they are no consequences. It makes you suicidal.

What does that mean?

It means don’t let it happen again

It was your fault. You were an hour and a half late. I got drunk.

You got problems, that’s what I saw.

Sometimes I just need to be talked down off the ledge.

I can’t always be your babysitter. It will get old, real quick. I suggest avoid feeling the need to constantly jump off of buildings.

It wasn’t until that night that I had saw the monster I had become. I chased his car. I screamed in the street for him to come back. It wasn’t until that night I realized I was fucking up my life. I believed in nothing. I lost him.

All that time I thought I was protecting myself. All that time I thought I was avoiding all the bad in the world. I was my enemy. I had to learn to let the fear go. Maybe that’s what love was about—the letting go of the fear.
So what happens now?
We go our separate ways.
You don’t believe in second chances.
You haven’t even given yourself a chance.
I’m sorry.
I know you are, just get some help. And then maybe we can talk.
I’m sorry.
I had been trying to love somebody or have them love me, but there was no me. I’m not perfect. I’m often wounded. I’m not unloveable. I deserve love. I lost him. I loved him. I’m sorry. You know who you are.

Moving on...

It’s been five weeks since my last post. I had to go through the break up. I’m living in a new place now. I have my own place now. I have my job now. I have a new life now. It seems weird and lonely. It’s mostly lonely. I saw Tom yesterday when I picked up the rest of my things. I gave him back the keys. I have my own keys now. It seemed symbolic giving him back the keys, as if that door wasn’t opened to me anymore. Somebody said when God closes one door, he opens another or a window. But this one alcoholic said, but it’s a bitch when you’re waiting in the hallway waiting for god to open that next door. I guess that’s where I am right now in my life. I’m in the hallway waiting for God to open the door.

This morning, two days after I got the rest of my stuff from Tom’s place, it dawned on me that we were really broken up. I guess I didn’t get it at first. I guess I thought it was just a phase. I mean in the ten years we have known each other we’ve broken up so many times and always ended up back together. I once spent a thousand dollars for a month in a hotel and only stayed two days before I was back home. I gave him the keys back, so that’s not my home anymore. It was like giving somebody back the keys to their heart. I don’t live there anymore. It makes me sad, glad, mad and happy all at the same time. I’m happy to be free but sad to be free. I guess that’s co-dependence.

It seems unfair that I’m 31 and I spent my entire twenties in a relationship. I’m not young anymore. I was afraid that was going to happen.

Am I bitter? A little. I must just move forward. I did let it break me down two days before the break up. I had been drinking for four days, cursing Tom out, so pissed at him that he didn’t put up a fight when the apartment people wanted to put me out. They wanted to keep him as long as he got rid of me. And I knew our relationship was over, but I was pissed that he would stay somewhere that didn’t want me. I guess he figured he wasn’t going down with my titanic.

And it’s my second relationship that’s ended so final. I hated Charles for just not speaking to me anymore. He said I was abusive. I say he was a fucking coward. I have thing for cowards I guess.

I take it back, I am bitter damnit. It’s like love don’t mean nothing to anybody. I mean, I guess I want that Romeo and Julliet love. These guys they say they love you, but when it gets hard, and when it’s not so damn convenient, they want to run.

Personally, I don’t need love anymore. I just want to fuck. I don’t even have to know their names. I just want to fuck. I don’t want to date. I don’t want to kiss. I don’t want the bullshit conversations. I don’t want to meet their families. I ain’t got time for it anymore. Love don’t live here anymore.

today i forced myself out of bed. I didn't want to go to work but i knew once i got there i be okay. I think staying at home under the covers makes it worse. I think i'm getting better.



I still got four weeks until we break up but i already miss him. I can hold him anymore. I can't kiss him anymore. Why do i want to do all that with him when i was with him i did none of it. Maybe i'm the type of person who needs to lose things in order to appreciate it.



He's not the first. When I broke up with my very first boyfriend, I didn't miss him until it was over. I didn't cry for him until it was over. The entire relationship i treated him like crap but when he finally decided to leave me I became such a little kid. I became such a drama queen. I told him i needed him but for n

No one can get in the way of what i'm feeling for you

I’m going to really miss you baby

I woke up yesterday, sober but craving vodka. I got ready for work and I could feel myself breaking again. I just wanted to lay back in the bed but I had three meetings and a training class. I like my job, but it was still so hard.

I knew we were ending, in exactly five weeks we’re ending. I will be living someone else and I just want to scream. I know it was my entire fault and I couldn’t understand why I could never get it right. I couldn’t understand how my illnesses became the focal point in the relationship. Why wasn’t it my heart?

And I loved him. I wanted to be him. I wanted love to save us. And it seems so unfair.

Yesterday I got up for work and didn’t feel like smiling. I just wanted to put on my sunshades and just get the work over with. That’s the real world; you can’t show any emotion or weakness or face aesthetic eviction.

Now I want my mama. I want to go back to room in elementary. I want to regress. I want to take naps. I don’t want to be a grown up. I just want to be a kid with no responsibility.
I don’t want this heartbreak. I want to stop drinking when I get off work. I want to see the sun shine again. I want to be pleasant around people again.

And when they tell me this heartbreak will pass I want to slap them because I don’t want to be out of love. I could feel the loneliness waiting for me on the other side. But at least I can stop crying. I’m so tired of crying. So fucking tired of crying.

So I wake up and pretend again. I put on the smile and make everyone in the real world not know I’m breaking. I go home and close the shades and don’t talk to nobody. I stopped taking phone calls. And I wake up and I go to work again. I put on the smile, I smile at strangers hoping they need it as much as I do right now.

And when I wake up in the morning, the bed empty, alone, I put on the smile, I open the windows and then I cry but I cry in the sun. I tell myself if I’m going to keep crying it’s going to be in the sun. And on the weekends I sleep. I go somewhere that makes me laugh and then I start crying again.

Nobody said loving would be this hard but they also didn’t say every day I heal I feel so much stronger. I feel like I’m strongest person on the planet crying at blockbuster.

What is Enlightment

Two books i'm reading right now, Gary Zukav "Soul to Soul" and Einhart "The power of now"


I liked the budha saying what is enlightment, it's the end of suffering. I bought the two books hoping to was some of my insanity these last five months. It broke, then it got worse and then i would get better and then i relapse and it seemed to get worse, than better and soon i just wanted the bullshit to be over.

I know i have been acting out. I've cursed out, threatenedd, did some really crazy things but it was all fear. I didn't know i was so damn scared.

As a young boy my sisters would say i was a very scared kid. I didn't want to fight. I cried alot. Everything would scare. I was scared by darkness. I was scared of ghosts. I was scared of the Michael Jackson music video. I remember that feeling of fear and how it made me feel constantly vulnerable. I hated feeling so afraid.

When i got older i thought getting rid of the fear was learning to never run from a fight. To talk louder. I didn't want other people to know i was afraid. I was afraid i wasn't good enough. I was afraid of rejection. I was afraid that people thought i was weird. I was afraid of them finding out my lies so i lied more to cover up secrets like my mother was a crack head, that we were poor, that i was often hungry and homeless. I was homeless three time my senior year in high school. So i first overcompensated my fear with inferior complex, over dressing, everything had ot be expensive and better. I put myself in a lot of debt. And then i overcompensated my fear with anger, liqour and aggressiion. I didn't know how to be aroudn people anymore so all I could do was curse or threatened. I was so afraid of rejection i purposely made sure i was rejected. I called be fakes and frauds. I hated them because i felt they didn't give me enough attention.

That boyish fear drove everyone away and made me more afraid. Now i'm afraid of getting lost, being homeless, losing my job, losing everything.

I got back to the apartment the other day and my neighbors banded together to have me kicked out on the DEc first. They wanted me to go in that second but i just smiled and apologized and pleaded for a few weeks to get my shit together.

And then i remember that night really needing a drink because i felt i gave into easy. I didn't curse, act out, i didn't fight hard enough. I was also mad at my roommate who didn't fight for me. They told him he could stay but i had to go. I was the problem.

And there is was, the fear, staring me in the faces of angry neighbors like an angry mobb with pittforks ready to hang the freak. I had did too much. The four years ravaging drunken bipolar rages, all the sex parties, two robberies which was of course blamed on me and the company i kept, two suicide attempts, making the landry room into my sex room, having sex parties down in the landry room, the neighbor catching me with his wife sucking dick on the porch at three in the morning, the drug paranolia and dildoes i kept down in the basement, having the cops come to the house, being dragged out the house by a swarm of police officers to a mental institution.

I had created this storm out of fear, at first i was the little boy who hid from his shadow who grew up to be a raving lunatic in the shadows.

Why was i still so damn afraid. It was the suffering. I was tired of teh suffering. I did it my entire life. I've known suffering. Before i was eight years old i would be molested, abused, shot in the head, hit in the head with a brick, told i was nothing constantly and then my mother abadoned me.

It's no sobb story but fear. It always seemed like something i was powerless again. I was powerless against the suffering. And the world was just full of it. I learned real quickly that when i was hurting i would just find more people to hurt me. Nobody in my apartment building understood i was hurting. They just figured they didn't want my hurt to inconvience thier lives so they just hurt me more.

Yet, I hurt myself the worse. I fell in love with the hurt. I fell in love with the fear. I felt it was teh only thing that couldn't understand me until i found enlightment.

I used to say when people look at me, they don't see me, they don't see the years of abused and abusing. All they see is the straight jacket.

Yet, recently i was given a choice. I was told i might end up institutionalized by my therapist. It scared the hell out of me. I immediately regreted seeking help.

I understand what she meant. I was becoming a danger to myself and others around me. I knew i wasn't a bad person. I just got aggrivated often. And i was trying to keep it together damnit. I would sit in the darkness and fight with those voices in my head. I would fight with the magentism of being bipolar not tripping off the high. And i would call people hoping somebody could help me when it just felt like i was losing my mind. And sometimes i felt the medication just made things worse.

And i felt like nobody could understand, like Tom, I didn't go to the store to get liqour, i actually went for water, I just happened to walk out with liqour. I was tired of drinking. I hate my body had gotten so weak. I hadn't the fucking headaches because bipolar takes up and then slams your ass to the ground. And i hate when other peopel say to me they may be bipolar also, it makes me want to slap the shit out of them. It's not the next social disease, for too many of is it's suicide. And i'm afraid because maniac depression turns off the lights and they don't come back on for days.

And now i'm afraid again, afraid of my split personality, afraid my drinking will take everything from me or not allow me to keep it together, i'm afraid of i've done too much, i'm afraid of my bipolar/skipzo and if i stop taking the medicine for one second it explodes again.

And then there's enlightment and i know fear is just a lie that needs or wants to be true. IT's a lonely lie.

And i've been lying with my existence, my spirit and my soul. I lied with my body. The more i'm afraid i lie to the world who i really am.

I'm still figuring it out. I know that i'm not what i used to be, even if it was yesterday.

i ain't got no jello

he says i'm be mad
or fuck or fight
when he's get paid or get attention
on his crack baby
i wish they had his welfare
maybe he would know how to apply
can't stand his poetry
saw this kid tonight
get hid in the head
by someone said that loved him
is that james baldwin
i wish those like him would just die
and got nothign to say but the obvious
ask him to say something different
like running a marathon
all he got to say he got a new newphew
fucking albino
trying to piss me
off
publishing that bullshit book i haven't even
tried to destroy
so hate on me bitch
when i gave you a free pass
hate on me bitch
the world i gave you
i will destroy
you think you mad at me yet
you ain't learned shit
i was just trying to make you a better writer
but you wanted to be notice
but let's see how they will notice you

this message is CC

Say What?

I got scolded again in one of my AA meetings when I brought up the issue of sex, this time it was in my Gay AA meeting which I thought they would be more understanding. I was told I’m focusing on the wrong issue, and I was like fuck you, every pun intended. I don’t get why I can’t talk about alcoholism and sex and how they are related. It’s very discouraging. I can’t even talk about it with my therapist. This reminds me I need to get a new therapist. It’s like the world is trying to silence me and its pissing me off. And just to piss more people off at AA, I’m going to the next five meetings and raise my hand to bring up the issue of sex again. I will kick bringing it up until they banned me from the DuPont Circle Club. I will not be censored.

The issue is this. Giving up my addictions, sex, drugs, and liquor, I guess I didn’t realize how much it would affect my life. I thought getting sober would be the key to my happiness, just the opposite; it’s only brought me more misery.

I thought abstaining from alcohol would fix my relationships yet recently another so called friend has stopped speaking to me. I mean after all the times I cursed him out drunk, insulted him, he picks this sober moment to end our so called friendship. I just brought up the fact much to his annoyance that the night I tried to kill myself I did call him. I actually called him all that weekend but he never picks up his phone. I mean, why act like you so damn surprised when that night we went to the movie you knew how depressed I was but he treated the situation so causal. And when I went missing for a month and we finally spoke again, I told him what happened, and he seemed all upset which confused me. I expected his reaction to be casual like all my casual friends, like “mike, you so crazy.” Instead what I got was attitude. He acted like he was so upset, yea get pissed off at the suicidal person, that’s fucking helpful. I mean I didn’t want him to give me a pity party, he asked, so I told him. It was no need for me to hide it. The next couple of days his response bothered me. I mean I was sober, I was in therapy, and I had been going to AA meetings with a couple of relapses because real recovery is a bitch. I’m not talking about that Oprah let’s pretend for the cameras “recovery” I mean the real deal. It ain’t fast, it ain’t cute, it’s emotionally exhausting, it’s physical because the body is going through a withdrawal and you will see who really loves you. I was happy I told that so called friend about my suicide because it showed me who he really was, I mean his bullshit. I didn’t understand why get upset when I called you. Why get upset when you purposely ignored my phone calls like he has the last couple of months. And he gives those bullshit excuses like he lost his cellphone, or he’s been really busy at work, or he’s going through something which I can understand, because we all have our moments but don’t act like you care more than you do. It’s insulting. So I called him on it. If I would’ve died he would’ve never known which put our friendship into perspective. My real friends after I go missing for a couple of weeks call. My real fucking friends actually worry. I mean I meant the dude on the internet; I really never took him serious. And that’s the thing about sobriety learning to be brutally honest. A lot of people aren’t going to like it.

It’s like when my sister. I had a relapse on my birthday after I spoke to her because she is bad for my soul. My soul can’t heal around her. She called me on my birthday and the first thing she said, “Are you drunk, I thought you be out painting the town red.” And she knew I just got out of rehab/mental hospital. She knew I was in AA and she just had to push “let’s piss off Michael” button.

I couldn’t understand why she would be so insensitive. Did she not take my recovery serious? Does she not take me serious? Do anyone fucking take me serious!!!!!!!!!
I mean what the fuck do I have to do? And that’s what pisses me off most about recovery and sobriety, it’s like everyone is waiting for me to go back to the old Michael. Or waiting to see if this time that “I changed” will stick. I’m actually also waiting to see if I’m really serious. I know I am. I’m just trying to figure it out.

And don’t get me started on my boyfriend or soon to be ex-boyfriend. When we argue he loves pointing out my flaws. He says I’m not taking AA serious because I’ve had three or four relapse in the last two months. I mean it’s like when a nigga join church everybody automatically thinks he’s going to become some saint. Maybe I joined church to get closer to go not become perfect. Just the fact I would go to an AA meeting the last two months is monumental change in my life. I’m in therapy twice a week and old antidepressants and antipsychotic and that’s major. I have been running from my problems since I ran away at fifteen years old and fifteen years later I’m just now dealing with it. You couldn’t tell me I had a problem a year ago. You couldn’t tell me I was an alcoholic, bipolar or skipzo a year ago. I’m trying.

Which brings me back to my original point, SEX. Now that I’m 75% sober, I don’t drink at least five days a week, maybe on Saturday; my sex life has been greatly affected. I mean I can’t do all the kinky stuff I used to do. I was high and drunk most of the times I did that stuff. It’s like I’m going to have to learn sober sex all over again and that just makes me nervous. It means I’m going to have to show up during sex. What the hell is that going to be like? I liked being high, because I was having sex with the person, they were just assisting my orgasm.

In order for me to have sex sober, I really have to be attracted to the person, which prevents me from being a whore. I can’t just get on the internet and hook up. I can’t just go to a sex party or bathhouse, that’s just tacky sober. And I’m also a very shy person.
I was molested. I normally don’t like being touched. I don’t like to kiss. I don’t like for anyone to look at me more than five seconds. I just think they are picking out flaws like one of my eyes is bigger than the other or my nose slighting leans to the right, or my ears are really small or my lips are to thin and often crack at the sides. And let’s not get me started on my body issues.

The other thing about being sober is that the liquor and drugs kept me very thin. I went from a size 34 to a size 30 without exercise. I hardly ate and especially on Crystal Meth, I could go without eating for days. And now that I’m sober, I can’t stop eating. I probably gained like seven pounds this last month. My appetite came back with a vengeance. I probably should start going back to the gym.

I wonder if I am focusing on the wrong things with my sobriety. I can’t help it, I’m extremely vain. Yes, addiction got me in a lot of crap I wish didn’t happened, but it became a lifestyle.

I guess it’s the change of lifestyle that got me really afraid. I don’t like change. I was comfortable. But I know I could no longer live that way, not just because it was court mandated. I was just tired of being sick and tired. Yet, I don’t want to become one of the “shiny happy people.” I hate those people. I liked my anger, depression, suicidal moments, slutty ways, free clinics, jail cells, mental hospitals, I thought my constant “fucking up” gave me charm.

Yet as said in the Joan Crawford movie, Mommie Dearest “When you were young you’re drinking was sexy. Now that you’re old, you just look like a drunk.”

Let's see how far we go

If you reading this you should be listening to matchbox “Let’s see how far we go.”

I woke up crying like three years ago and I haven’t been able to stop. I guess it all caught up to me. My best friend died when I was 23. I graduated college. I wasn’t happy. I looked like I was happy but I wasn’t happy. It seemed like I missed something.

And then recently, I got into with my boyfriend. I’ve been attending AA for the last two months. I have been trying to get sober or sanity. I was trying to prove that I could look that picture I painted when I lived in Chicago. I had the apartment. I had the clothes. I had the Volkswagen. I had the big job in the big city and fucking miserable. It was like I was a fraud. And it bothered the hell out of me. I was so pretending. And the shit I was doing at night. Waking up on the weekends in crack houses. I was in supposedly great relationship, but I was cheating on him like everyday. I slept with all his friends. And when he would get home his face would light up. He was so fucking in love and I hated his fucking guts. I hated that he was happy. I hated that he was in love and I knew I was never going to feel it like how he looked at me. So I did what I knew how to do best, I self destructed. It was the only thing I knew. It was my entire life. I watch my father self destruct until he got a bullet in the back of his head. I watch my mother do until it she was homeless on the streets sucking dick for cigarettes. I saw my grandmother do it with liquor until she ruined her liver and died alone in her room. I saw every aunt do it with a man, until one beat them or one tried to kill them. I saw my uncles do it, each and every last one ending up in prison. I did what I knew best. Now my sisters and I are doing it. My older sisters is so damn fat but she want recognize the problem. My middle sister got sober but still go with men that beat her in front of her children. And I keep quitting myself. I sometimes feel so damn fragile like i'm tissue or rice paper, the slightest breeze tears me apart. I constantly suicidal that the hotline is on my speed dial. But how do we get stronger? I'm trying.

But lately I’ve been telling myself that my story is not going to end up like the script said. I was to never be shit. I know that. If I just disappeared it ain’t going to mean shit. If I die tomorrow I will be a John Doe. There’s no sending my body anywhere. I die where I stand. I don’t have a home. And there was nothing ever really special about me. And when people used to tell me to keep a good attitude I wanted to fucking hit them in their jaw. I know the fucking truth. And I heard the story so many fucking times, niggas and their promises when they don’t really understand what it means to be alone, I mean really alone, no family, no real friends, just pity or somebody's boredom and it all ends up the same. I just belong to the system. A fucking orphan so loving me aint easy and i don't love easy, i hurt easy, so i've learned to hurt other easy, because love don't come easy for me. I mean alone when you’re raped at 12 but can’t tell anybody because nobody is listening. are you listening. have i bored or depressed you. would you rather i fucking smile and pretend when i'm plotting your death when you're alseep. they always say, he seemed so normal, but what the fuck is normal when they really should say i never asked him i just assumed because i'm just pretending like the rest of the fuckign world.

my sister says i'm angry, i say at least i'm feeling something, finally. it's like sex for me for so damn long was about nothing. everythign was about nothing but the just the clown in his make-up trying not to appear sad.

And I’m beginning to understand that’s what some have hated most about me, because I’m upfront with it, I don’t bullshit it, because I know at the end of the day, I’m the one who will have to deal with it. I’m not pretending it’s easy, and I have to know people’s intentions and they hate that about me. i ask and when they don't give the answer, i listen and watch and when i tell them what i see, they wrestle with it in their mind and tell me i'm angry or noncompliant, insurbordinate or some bullshit. a fucking rebel with a cause to keep motherfuckers from thinking i don't see thier bullshit.

It’s how I've survived. I aint giving it up. Call me the con man. call me the hustler. Call me a thief. I ain't giving it up because i know if i live long enough, shit, i become the teacher.

Funny, now that I’m getting sober, the other day my boyfriend tripped out. I haven’t been doing it that is getting drunk and having my moments, so the house was really quiet for two weeks. I think it bothered him. I think he was waiting for me to go back to my old ways. I never thought me getting sober would be such a problem with others. I thought me “acting right” would be welcomed. I thought not having the police come to the house, not fighting, not yelling, not causing unnecessary drama would be welcomed. Yet, I didn’t realize that had been my role in other people lives and if I changed, they knew they would have to change.

A quick story, before I got to DC I stayed with this guy named Charles, and one night before we went out I had him stop by the grocery store to get me a bottle of wine so that I wouldn’t have to spend a lot of money at the club. He went in the store and got the wine but as I poured it in my Big Gulp cup, he started yelling at me. He called me a drunk, trifling, sad, and pathetic and I sat sipping my cheap wine hoping it would drown the bastard out. But what I didn’t realize at the time, I played that role in his life. He yelling at me actually made him feel better about the fact he was a borderline pedophile, gambler and fraud. And when I tried to stop playing the role, I remember how he would try to tempt me like give me money or give me the car. It was as if he needed me to play the “fuck up” in his life. And at the time in my life I needed to play the role myself because I was trying to act out childhood pain. I wasn’t trying to heal. But I never thought I would get typecast in my own damn life.

This brings me back to my current relationship. Tom and I have been together on and off the last nine years. I feel as if I put him through all kinds of hell. I cheated on him. He has bailed me out of jail at least five times. He has sat by me through three suicide attempts. He’s been there after I quit many jobs. He’s taken care of me. He has sent for me when I found myself in cities I didn’t know how I was going to get out of. When I started AA and therapy, I thought in the back of my mind it was attempt for me to save our relationship. I hadn’t thought about my role. After two weeks of sobriety the house was quiet and then one day Tom came home and exploded. There were three dirty dishes in the sink. I had just gotten home from getting a new job, so I didn’t understand the problem. He started yelling and throwing things around. I sat and watched him calmly. I was trying to figure out exactly what was the problem. And then I realized, he was playing my role. He was doing what I would normally do and I suddenly became him, trying to get him to calm the fuck down. It disturbed me. It was as if even sober our relationship was the same. It was as this guy said in AA, you can take the rum out the fruit cake, but you still got the fruit cake.
Getting sober wasn’t just the issue. It was the first time in my life I knew the relationship had to end. Tom needed to be the savior and I didn’t want to play the drunk fuck up anymore. I knew the relationship had to end because he wasn’t going to change. He didn’t even feel as if he didn’t need to change. I asked him to go to a friends and family of alcoholics meeting and he refused. I knew I couldn’t be healthy with him, not in the long run. I knew I would go back to playing the role and I didn’t want to do that. Of course, the next day feeling guilt I decided to take a drink. I acted out. We had sex that night and I felt so stupid. He was suddenly happy again and I was fucking miserable.
I’m still figuring it out. One day I think I’m I got the answer? The next day I lose it. I also feel as if I’m needlessly stressing myself out. I guess it’s the 4 As, acceptance, approval, applause and appreciation.
Now I’m wondering what my life means. I have found a way to be happy but it means the world I knew is burning to the ground. But I want to see how far it’s going to go. I’m not afraid anymore. It’s the first time in my life I’m being honest and sending the world to hell.

It always seemed forced, change. Birth, didn’t even ask me if I was ready, nine months of gestation and then eviction. We all supposed to come into this world screaming. It’s the only the world know we are alive. Can’t go back. And there’s sucking on the tittie. The first food. I don’t even remember the taste. Was it good? It stopped around age two. Or when mama got tired of the selfishness. And then they stop picking me up. Make the baby walk. Take pictures. No more being held in arms and carried no matter how much I cried. Change, it always seemed forced. The diapers had to come off to be a big boy. Then it came about approval. I want to be a big boy. I want to please. Then kindergarten. Then middle school. Then high school. Soon you’re graduated. Supposed to go off to college. Grandpa told me a happy life was a good Christian girl, the fear of god and a good job to get a good house and work a hard life. I had different plans. I wanted to runaway to New York. I wanted to dance. I wanted to kiss men. I didn’t ever want to grow up. But change it always forced. Youth is a lie. Don’t learn that until it’s gone. Re-birth, didn’t even ask me if I was ready, thirty years of aimlessly searching and now its time to grow the fuck up. I didn’t know wanting to be happy was so damn selfish.

Read it again.

I finally got step 2 and 3

Higher Power
Do I believe in god? The major part of me beginning the twelve stop program was deciding if or how I believed in god. I had to come to learn that the point of the twelve steps was a spiritual awakening and promise to myself and God to change the direction of my life. I had to accept that my life had become unmanageable, in my case directionless and hopeless. I had to accept that I was tired of being sick and tired. I had to get angry. At first the change felt confrontational, forced, that I had gotten arrested and needed to pretend I was sorry or something was being taken from me and I needed to prove I was serious or I wanted to get some control back so I needed to explore my option. I didn’t like the word “recovery.” I didn’t like the word “addict.” I felt I just like to party and sometimes it just got out of control. I felt the world was the problem and not me. I felt the world was trying to ruin my buzz and fun like damn can’t I do anything. I really meant damn can’t I just do what the fuck I want. I really meant fuck the rules. I just wanted self-indulgence. I just wanted unlimited pleasure. I just want to be out of control.
I came to AA a broken person. It was after another night of drinking went too far. It was in the hospital after I got drunk and high and ended up slicing my wrists and taking a bottle of pills. I was beginning to understand I had a problem or was out of control that’s why I attempted the suicide. I just wanted to escape and not take responsibility for my decisions. That night I cut my wrists I felt as if I was the worse fuck up and there was no help for me. I felt I was better off dead. I thought I could never get control. I felt as if putting my life back together or in my case putting a life together was impossible. Shit, my life has always been unmanageable. I was born into chaos: a drug dealer father who got himself killed and crack addicted prostitute for a mother. I was born into alcoholism and other addictions, I was born into the rape and molestation, I was born in the physical and emotional abuse that lasted until I ran away at 15 years old and picked up my first drink and just kept running. I thought getting away, that was it, I wasn’t in that city or state anymore, but I was still running. I didn’t think too much about my soul, that was some church shit, but my soul was telling my body it hadn’t healed, that it was starving, so my body started acting out. It kept trying to feel itself with liquor and drugs thinking I was feeding my soul but starving it more. I was feeding what I had originally started running from. I kept trying to numb the pain or memory or resentment or insecurity but indirectly and ignorantly feeding it. I couldn’t understand why what I kept running away from kept showing up and the farther I ran, the stronger it got, the bigger it got, the more out of control it got.

The most important thing I had to learn, with wounds, you can’t run. If I broke my leg, I wouldn’t move to another city hoping that would fix the problem. I would go to the hospital and seek medical help. If I got a finger cut off, I wouldn’t start drinking large amount of liquor hoping it would just grow back. I would have to bandage it, medicate it, go to the hospital, make sure it doesn’t get infected and then my arm would have to be amputated. A unaddressed wound, especially a deep wound, only gets worse. It become vulnerable to infection, opportunistic germs and viruses looking to hurt the already hurt. I used to say, when you’re hurting, it’s funny how you find more people to hurt you. I had to understand a wound to the soul is the same. It didn’t help that I moved across the country or to another country, it was still deep wounds.
The only difference wounds to the soul need spiritual intervention. It’s the unseen that need addressing. A wound to the soul that go unhealed gets infected, and opportunistic germs and virsuses also known as “trouble” show up to hurt the already hurt. It took me a long time to get it. I needed a spiritual intervention. I needed a spiritual awakening. I needed a spiritual healing.
The spirit meant the soul. My soul meant my connection to God.
soul /soʊl/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[sohl] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation,
–noun
1.
the principle of life, feeling, thought, and action in humans, regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body, and commonly held to be separable in existence from the body; the spiritual part of humans as distinct from the physical part.

2.
the spiritual part of humans regarded in its moral aspect, or as believed to survive death and be subject to happiness or misery in a life to come: arguing the immortality of the soul.

3.
the disembodied spirit of a deceased person: He feared the soul of the deceased would haunt him.

4.
the emotional part of human nature; the seat of the feelings or sentiments.

5.
a human being; person.

6.
high-mindedness; noble warmth of feeling, spirit or courage, etc.

I had to ask myself did I have a soul? It was a rhetoric question. I knew I had consiconess, that in which was shelled inside my body, the body that will die, but my soul was that gave my body it’s animation, it’s personality, that part of me only I knew but had to translate via my mouth, touch, actions and connected me this physical existence. When I would get high, it was my soul that was going higher, tripping off the pleasure I gave to my body. I know there have been times my body was sick, and I ached with it, but my soul was still intact. I’ve seen people die, watch them in pain, but their soul didn’t blemish. Of course I’m connected to my body, it’s like a compass for my soul, like god gave me a map so that I wouldn’t directionless. If I touch fire I know it burns. I know if I keep doing it burns worse and the scars. I know not to do it anymore. Pain is my compass and pleasure is my compass, the direction I’m suppose to go. It’s the motivator. So when the drinking only kept bringing me more pain, it was my compass telling maybe I was going to the wrong direction. It was just the same as when I stuck my physical hand in the fire, I immediately redrew, I didn’t keep it there.
So I had decided there was a god and I knew I was in pain, sick and tired of making the same mistakes. I was tired of leaving in pain, humiliation, feeling out of control, wanting to escape my mistakes, wanting pleasure but thinking I left myself to long in the fire that I was all scared up and ugly and worthless.
And then I think of that five year old kid who was drug from his home, gasoline poured on him and set ablaze. His mother said his spirit died that day. She said all he did for a year was cry not just from the phsycial pain but the emotional, the nightmares, that other kids teased him and didn’t want to play with him. That he lost all his friends. I asked myself what kind of God would allow that to happen to a child. And then I prayed for him. In my prayer I knew in my heart he would find love one day. He would learn to love the scars. I knew the physical pain wouldn’t hurt that bad one day. And if I was praying for him, I knew others who read the same story was praying for him, and one day somebody will help him, and one day love will look pass his scars and pain and see his beautiful soul. I knew his soul was beautiful because it was god. I prayed for him until tears were in my eyes because I knew that was god. All I had to do was connect to it. I can’t tell people I have a soul, because they can’t see it or touch it. I can’t prove it to them and even when I look in the mirror, I know when my soul shows up and when I was drinking real bad, how it disappeared. I couldn’t even type these words now a year ago, because my soul wasn’t there, it was still wounded.
And now that I’m healing, finally went to the hospital and got the help I needed to address the deep gashes of my spirit. And when I accepted my Higher Power as I understand him or her, I was finally ready for my spiritual awakening.
I think it’s very important before anybody truly begin the twelve steps, the must first let the miracle happened. It takes time. It takes letting go of the anger. It takes trusting. It takes honesty. If you don’t understand, don’t fake it. The miracle isn’t approval. In fact, it’s the oppostite. I’m glad I didn’t rush the miracle. I’m glad I questioned it. I’m glad I got pissed at it. I’m glad I told god he or she was an asshole. I’m glad I turned my back and ran. It’s because now that I’m home, I know what a real home is.
I needed a change. I needed trust the compass gave me and go a different direction in my life. I was tired of running and living on the hopeless streets, I just wanted to get home.


admitting that one cannot control one's addiction or compulsion;
recognizing a greater power that can give strength;
examining past errors with the help of a sponsor (experienced member);
making amends for these errors;
learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior;
helping others that suffer from the same addictions or compulsions.


These are the original Twelve Steps as suggested by by Alcoholics Anonymous.[5]
1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol—that our lives had become unmanageable.
My worse alcoholic moment was the night I cut my wrists. I had been drinking for five days straight, about seven liters of rum, my life was hopeless, I had been punching holes in the walls, my ex-boyfriend was making plans to just move out, I had been locked out of the landry room because somebody found a drug pipe down there and assumed it was mine, it was, every neighbor in my apartment building hated me because every time the police showed up it was usually for me, and I’ve been making so much noise, cursing out ppl, having around shady people, one of them broke into the apartment downstairs, it was crazy, but to top it all off, that night I went out to the bar, I got into another fight, a shoving match and then on the walk back to my apartment, I ran into some guy, didn’t know him, I somehow ended up sucking his dick in my hallway, so unaware of time, my neighbor was about to take his kid to school and caught me, started cursing up a storm which woke up my ex who came to calm the situation down but that’s after the guy woke everybody up cursing talking about I was putting everyone’s safety in danger, that he had wife and kids and didn’t want them seeing that, so it all started crashing down on me, I went to the bathroom, got the boxcutter, first swallowed the pills, then cut my wrists and passed out on the bathroom floor. My roommate found me a hour later, called the ambulance, and I spent a week in the mental ward.
2. Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
I believe there’s a god. I don’t really consider myself insane. I think I’ve had problems. But I do believe God has given me the compass to go the right direction to get home. Whatever home is.
3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
God as I understand him or her, I really do think my God is a woman, it would make the most sense to me. I think step 3 is really about trust, that I have to trust there are no mistakes with my life. I have to trust my inner compass and intuition.