Not so black and gay

thanksgiving

2009-11-26T07:01:00.000-08:00

Starting this over again, since this is my longest running blog

i am going to write "In-recovery"

the five characters: Derick (narrator, sex addict, drug addict, alocholic, depressed)

Rob (negrophile, alcohlic, passive aggresive)

Michael (pathelogical liar, hustler, over educated, abandoned)

Chase(says he was healed by god)

Eduardo(blackout drunk)

Sha (anorexic)

Saprina (complicated older sister dealing with an eating disorder)

starting over. 8-21-09

2009-08-22T01:48:00.000-07:00

I needed to remember. go back. before the clubs. before the insanity. before my first time. before alcohol and the drugs. Who was I? I didn't have my first real drink until i was twenty two years old. I guess i got tired of being the good kid. the sick thing about being the good kid is that your life becomes predictable. it's so narrrow like a razor blade and if you flinch off the course those around you slash deep. So i just needed to bleed, even if that meant death.

So i went back. before the first kiss. I was always gay. I can't remember a day in my life when I wasn't gay. But gay then, just meant being different. It wasn't about sex. I just knew somehow in my subconsious my life wasn't go to be so simple. I could pretend, but a gay has needs. I knew somehow one day i would need to explore those needs even if I didn't know at five years old weren't those needs were going to be. I just knew, I liked the heat from pookie and i didn't get that heat from tameka.

so, a month from my thirty-third birthday and self imposed exile from my so called gay life, I decided to go back. I got lost, i know that. none of it didn't make sense for me anymore. So i shut up complaining. I get so fucking tired of complaing. I didn't want AA meetings. I didn't want more therapy appointments. got tired of talking to my repetetive friends about their insanity. Sometimes its like a magnetism, this so called gay life. If you don't learn to break free, it will keep pulling in a direction you in the directin in which you never made the decision because you were young, new, was only thinking with your dick and ego.

Miguel was my first kiss and it was awesome. One of the best memories in my life. So innocent. So fifteen years old. So stolen, how i snuck out that night with my best friend to go to that old man's house. I'm probably that old man's age now. Funny. anyways, so i kissed miguel. Sade, so fucking cliche was playing the back ground. I just remember feeling free. I never felt so free with anybody. I had kissed my first girl at twelve and really didn't get what all the fuss was a bout. I even had sex with a girl, it was like a chore. I remember thinking it felt like washing dishes. but with miguel, just him holding my hands made my dick so hard i thought it might implode.

So i kissed miguel, for like three hours. that's all we did was kiss from 4 in the morning unitl the sun rose. We didn't have sex. He stuck his hand down my pants and jerked me off, but being gay and young, that was romantic. I remember before we kissed, he told me to never grow and be gay, and then he kissed me. Funny, i thought at the time that was something stupid a boy tells a boy before he kisses him. It turned out miguel was a 17 year old runaway staying with that old man. He robbed him the next day and disappeared for ten years. But i guess that's when the drama began.

It was my secret. i could tell no one. I could tell my best friend and that's it. And i guess that's when the shift began. I became two people. I was straight A student at school, vice-president of student council. and then I was also the so young gay boy sneaking out my house to go to older strangers house to steal kisses a four in the morning. One life started off as the straight and narrow, the other life plunge into insanity without even thinking.

I now know how i got lost. Well, i think i was lost before that considering the many fragments of my family life. Yet, there was something whole about me before that kiss. I was just Michael.

i didn't belive me

2009-08-12T12:21:00.000-07:00

I used to say i didn't care, but i did. I just wanted to feel something. But this post is about me still being here. I had something to say. And i'm still saying it.

today, my life seems a little brighter. i have given away to the fact i'm never going to be perfect. I am never going to be like them. I can't wait to come back to this, as soon as i fine tune soem other things. The thing about me, I work a lot. I have so much energy, i am just learning to balance.

One day at a time

2009-06-17T04:22:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to understand the meaning. At first, I was such a bastard. I couldn’t see beyond Friday night. At first I felt it was not a sufficient or substantial argument. I had to question the motive. But you can’t change what you do not acknowledge. I cannot correct that will not be corrected.

I wake up everyday and I say to myself can I make it. I wake up everyday and I say to myself will I fuck up again. Some days I can make until a week, but other days it only last for a couple of hours. I’ve gotten to the point where I can’t trust days anymore. I can only take it second by second and the hours and maybe a day hopefully a week.

I do like my sober days. I do like when I wake and everything makes sense. But there is always the pain. There is always what drove me off the cliff. I have to fight it. And some days I’m stronger than other days. Some days I’m so damn weak I don’t want to talk about it. But I always know if I make it though the day, even the ones where I am weak, I can be strong tomorrow.

So it is one day at a time, one second at a time that turn to minutes that can turn to a day that turn to a week, sometimes a month and then years. Getting better is like dealing with cancer. Will it come back? Will it come back? Will this be a good day? Will it be a time when I don’t think about this? As the child said, will I have to deal with this for the rest of my life? As the adult says to the child, will this be the end of my life?

One day at a time, the struggle, the quest, the challenge, the truth.

Uhmm, k, don’t do drugs, uhmm k, drugs are bad, uhmm k

2009-03-31T02:16:00.000-07:00

It’s apparent that we live in a hypocritical culture. Parents tell their kids not to do drugs but most have experimented. Are drug people bad people? I remember getting an article from an addict talking about if drug people were bad people. I never read it. I guess I figured I knew the answer.

Lately, the Olympic swimmer Michael Phelps caused controversy when a picture leaked him smoking from a bong. It became all about is he a bad role model. It didn’t matter that he accomplished an extraordinary Olympic career, he must be told to be perfect or lose millions in dollars advertisement banked on his popularity.

I had to ask myself, why don’t these advertisers do background checks. It seems to me, anyone sudden celebrity is elevated to role model status by bored housewives. These lazy parents don’t want to parent their own kids rather hand them a television and video game, but get pissed when the surrogate substitute for guidance disappoint.

I don’t think I would care what any celebrity does with his or her life when it came to my child. Those people aren’t gods and infallible. We are all human. Not even heroes are heroes. I love Oprah but she is still a person who shits and I hope wipe her ass, and not the afterlife.

I don’t believe drugs are bad. I know some people abuse drugs. I know some people medicate their lives with street drugs. Any thing on this planet can be abused. Some people abuse food. Some people abuse sun tanning.

I think it’s greed that’s bad. I think taking something so simple to one person and exploiting for selfish need. I also don’t believe addiction is a disease. I’m not sick. I’m greedy. I’m often irresponsible.

I found with liquor and sex something made me feel good, validated, and special and I got greedy. I was like a fat kid breaking into Willy Wonka.

Did the greed make me a bad person, yes and no? I didn’t kill or rob for my addiction. I lied and sometimes stole from love ones because of my addiction. I destroyed my reputation with the addiction. It wasn’t the liquor, drug, or sex; it’s what I did with the liquor drugs and sex.

I once say a show about obesity. I couldn’t’ imagine how anyone could let their life and body get do out of control. Yet, as an alcoholic, my addiction wasn’t always so visible. It only brought attention to itself when it got out of control: running down the street naked, skipping work for afternoon sex parties, cheating, passing out in front my yard.

I’ve never been a functional addict. I’m an extremist. I was like what Charlie sheen once described, if I had one cocktail I wake up two weeks later passed out on in a pile of cocaine and a dead hooker

When I turned 30, I got to a point where I didn’t like myself anymore. I wasn’t trustworthy, I felt like I was flunking the same grade and had gotten to big for the desk therefore had to sit on the floor. I felt I was being left behind in my age group.

Yet, it took me another three years to take responsibility for whom and why I was. I got greedy. It was that simple. If my addiction was a person, it would weigh a thousand pounds. Yet, I’m six feet and weigh about 165 pounds.

Sometimes I wish I was really fat. I am big as a house and then go in for a surgery or something, and lose dramatic weight and then go on Oprah. I would be one of those people with the before and after shot. Yet, as a drug addict and former alcoholic I have no pics of what I was like before. I only have the memories and a bunch of people no longer speaking to me.

All addictions are the same, its greed and that’s one of the seven deadly sins that lead to a life of hell on earth.

Heroes, Victims, Villains or Survivors

2009-03-13T04:01:00.000-07:00

It is said life begins at conception. I believe life begins at consciousness. That first feeling you get when you realize that you are alive and one day will die. I remember the feeling the day my father died when I was five years old. It was the first time I knew death. I remember seeing him in his casket and thinking damn, it’s just a body.

I became keenly aware of myself the day my father died. It was the first time I knew I was breathing and that if I stopped I would die. I felt my skin. I felt the air. Every single object around me became real. We spend most of our lives walking around in a routine ungrateful daze. The genius of the human body is that everything is automatic. Our hearts pump without the Manuel, blood flow through our veins, our lungs take in the oxygen. Everything on this earth or universe has a purpose. Everything on this planet is energy, is alive but humans as we know it have consciousness. If I kill a bug is that the same as having an abortion? To say the bug’s life is less than our own is like saying the tree life is less than a flower. It all has purpose. I don’t mean to get all Buddhist but there is life and then there is conscious life. Just because we are born human doesn’t mean that all of us are truly aware.

I thought I was going to die a victim. The fear created anger and the hurt child decided to grow up and hurt others, so I evolved into a villain.

A lot of victims become villains: Hitler, Hussein, King Kong. Lol. It’s the hurt child who doesn’t want to be hurt anymore that seek the most power. It’s external power. It’s a way to control the pain. It’s irrational power. It’s schizophrenic. We human beings are equipped with remarkable ways of surviving. The body learns to repair itself. If one is in pain, the body would shut down the nerve endings in order to survive the trauma. I sometimes wonder if the body was designed after the soul. The soul is also capable of repairing itself. Children born in abuse, molestation refigure the world and learn to adapt their journey towards god. I truly believe the human experience is the journey towards God. When the soul experience trauma, begins to questions its existence and purpose, feel as if God is against she or he, it also rebels. I think true evil is a hurt soul, rejected soul, broken soul, when one feels the light has abandoned.

I felt for a long time the light abandoned me. I would awake and all I could feel is darkness. The sun could be shining and all I could feel was darkness. I was hurt so I grew up to hurt and I did it brilliantly cruel. I was the best at hurting myself. I became such a victim and soon the villain no one trusted, not even myself.

What changed?

Intially I rejected the idea of being a survivor. I remember watching those kids from Dafur have to cross the brutal African night for safety. I thought to myself after everything they had experienced how would they ever be sane, happy. They were kids who saw their parents murdred, mothers raped, had been raped, brutalized by a war they would never understand. It wasn’t something they created but was born into. Yet, they had decided not to become victims. The only goal, short-term was to survive. I could only think the human soul, short term always want to survive. Every animal just want to survive. But surviving for the short term can’t be enough. To live a good life one would have to want to survive for the long term.

I believe short term survival begets victim mentality. Getting high or drunk is just a short term victim mentality, it’s surviving to the end of the buzz and then back to reality. I remember when my apartment in Chicago was broken into how it changed how I dealt with people. My short term survival was to protect my life and make sure my belongings were safe. I called the landlord, demanded better security. I never spoke to strangers for a long time. I developed an angry persona. For the short term I needed to survive. Yet, I knew long term survival meant I would have to learn to trust again.

As a child, short term survival was just growing up and getting out of the hell in which I was born. When I finally made it to college and graduated and entered the real world I hadn’t graduated my short term survival, therefore, continued my short term survival mentality. I understand it now. Like a wounded animal after an attack I just needed to lick the wound for now. Like a wounded animal I just needed to get high or drunk for now. The problem, now became long term. The math or logic no longer added up. What changed? I realized I kept the wounds opened. The abuser, the war had come and gone but I was still fighting it in my mind.

The problem I have with the Jesus saved me freaks, is that once the drug saved them. Who in their right mind would just someone so manipulative. It’s drugs one day and then religion the next day as long as he or she is getting their fixed. I more concerned with “how.”
When short term becomes long term life is suffering. When those hide in the dark to escape and the sun rises the next day and they don’t seek the warmth of light soon the sun doesn’t exist anymore. The sun purpose is so that life can grow. Not much survives in the darkness. Without light everything withers and die.

Intially, I rejected the idea of surviving long term. I felt the world needed to know what happened to me. I felt if I forgot that meant it didn’t happened. I wanted my past punished. Ironically, I was my past I wanted myself punished for surviving.

When I looked in the mirror all I saw was the past. I saw my molester when I was naked how sex became so distorted. I saw all the childhood abuse would I cut myself early in the morning. I saw abandonment when I refused to let anyone in my life, quit a job, became homeless. I knew I could survive it short term. I could survive the short term lust which would probably leave me with a long term problem. I could survive the short term driving drunk and high which would leave with a long term record. I could survive short term suciuide which would leave me with having to deal with life after completely giving up—if I could trust myself again after what I did to myself. The worse was always did to me.

I knew to survive long term meant believing in a purpose. When a tree loses a branch in a storm it doesn’t bitch about it for the next hundred years. It grows another branch. It never loses its purpose to provide oxygen.

My purpose is to create. To write these words. To share the story. That’s my purpose. It was my purpose before I knew it was my purpose. Every time I write I get stronger. Every time I share the story I feel love. Silence is darkness. Silence is short term survival. Silence begets victim mentality.

The greater good: love yourself like a child of god, love someone like a child of god, and love something to survive to tell your journey back to god.

I say god not like religion. I say god like the universe. I say god like how one interrupts their meaning.

What changed?

Now I know what changed. As a victim it was always the question of “why?” Why me? Why did it happen? As a victim I thought if I forgave would make me forget. I didn’t want to forget. I needed everyone to know what had happened to me. As a victim I thought if I forgave that would make what happened permissiable. I didn’t want anyone to think I was every okay. Or that I could be every okay. I thought forgiving would make me a victim twice over. I thought pretending would make me a victim twiced over.

What changed is that I stopped asking why, and started asking how? How I could learn to forgive and be okay for real. How I could be a better person. “How” I could learn to heal, trust myself again and truly love. And with “how” came “I can.” “I will.” “I am.”

As a victim it was always “I was.” I don’t’ think short term survival anymore. I survived ocean and quick sands, now I must build.

To be continued “Long term Survivor and learning to be a Hero”

The hunger

2009-03-13T03:58:00.000-07:00

When I was eleven years old I read Anne Rice book “Lestat.” I remember being so transfixed with the longing of hunger that I wanted to grow up and be a vampire. I remember when I was fifteen years old sitting at the bus stop late at night hoping a vampire would find me, turn me and I would live forever. I guess there was something in me that need to feed on others. I felt for a long time I was starving but didn’t know for what. I never became a vampire. I did become an addict for pure destruction.

I never understood why it was a curse to live forever. I thought it was selfishly romantic. I guess it would be a curse to always be hungry and never full. It would be a curse to feel out of control with emptiness. It looked pretty from the outside, Vampires always were good-looking but they were vicious animals preying on the unsuspecting. It was not only to live forever but to kill forever even that which you think you might love.

I avoided alcohol until I was 22 years old. I was always afraid of it. I saw what it did to my family. I can’t remember a family gathering where somebody didn’t get drunk and act a fool. I avoided drugs. I knew too many drug addicts growing up. My mother is still a crack addict. My aunt was a heroin addict. I’ve seen crack addiction destroy good people. I thought I knew better. I thought if I avoided cheap crack I would be okay. I thought if I avoided paper bag malt liquor I would be okay. I thought if it came in a designer glass I would be okay.

My first cocktail, harmless. It was a whiskey sour. A sweet gay drink that seemed harmless as pink feathers blown by a child whisper. I still remember vividly the first sip, how it laid down so warm on my tongue like a sunset in Jamaica. I remember how it slithered down my throat, tickling and landing with a burn in my stomach. It was so instant, that inebriated orgasm, what I thought was an insignificant small death. Suddenly all the lights in the club got brighter. The more I sipped, the more I needed. It felt like happiness. That which was the wasteland became spring again. That which I felt was my cold heart became the fire of hell.

I remember the first time I did Meth. I met some guy at a hotel. He said it would make me feel free. He wanted to do some freaky things and felt I was too unattractively inhibited. I remember taking the pipe, inhaled the dancing ghost. He was right. I felt brilliant.

I was bitten. A supernatural beast seduced me in the night and took the blood from my veins. I was no longer human. I had become an addict. First sip, first smoke, I was an addict. Yet, I was an addict before I was an addict. I had been looking for that hunger my entire life and I found it in a liquor bottle and a meth pipe. I found it in demonic spirits and seductive poltergeists.
Like a vampire I quickly realized that I could never be full. Enough was never going to be enough. I was cursed with a hunger that was completely consuming like a black hole. Yes, in the beginning it was all laughs and giggles, dancing on table, driving fast in red cars, sleeping with so many men, and then I looked in the mirror and realized I was starving. My body was quickly wasting away. I had lost all my humanity. I was only the addiction. I was that which can not be spoken but only feared, outlawed, jailed. I only lived to feed it. I no longer cared about family, friends or a job. I no longer cared about myself.

I guess it began with the pain. It was the bullets of the past that knocked holes through my window letting in frigid rain and wind. I guess I needed something to repair or take me away from the damage.

Truth, what most addicts don’t want to speak about is that pain so we share our conquests and failures in dark rooms praying for the Jesus we so easily killed in ourselves.
The pain, the beginning, somebody got hurt, somebody refused to heal, or didn’t know how to heal. The pain, it’s the only word I can use or should I call it the haunting. It’s the past that refuse to die, how the soul overcompensates and I just wanted to feel good, maybe be loved.

The demons told me they loved me. They made me feel good. I just wanted the attention of false promises. I knew it was a lie but the truth hurt more, so l laid with my abuser thinking one day a fist would be a soft kiss.

The pain, self medication, it’s like pouring blood on a knife to stab again, thinking maybe if I get the knife bloody it get tired but the knife always want more blood.

The pain, I was an addict before I knew I was an addict, was starving before I knew I was starving, to feed on the misery that beget the misery.

The conundrum are those who get to live forever in their head, get high and forget the mirror, maybe that’s why vampire can’t se their own reflection, or why addict can’t se their own reflections living in a world they now longer reflect.

The great story about being a Vampire, even if you got seduced by the dark side you can still be human. What’s great about God, there is always a choice. I didn’t create it, it created me, but I accepted it, thinking it might love me, now I know it doesn’t love me, so I reject it. God will not save me, because that’s my choice. I turned my back on god so I can do it again.
I believe God doesn’t rescue. Jesus died on the cross. God let him die. God will let you overdose. God will let you kill yourself.

I know it’s a choice. I didn’t create it, but I accepted it. I can’t cure it but I can control it. I take the responsibility. I’m not powerless. Every temptation I know is a chance for me to be a better person.

Dead men Talking

2009-02-28T10:56:00.000-08:00

I was up late last night watching MSNB “Dead men Talking.” It’s a show about autopsies when people die under mysterious terms. I guess if you’re found dead somewhere, in the gutter, John Doe, overdoses, or something that looks like foul play, you are automatically given an autopsy. It got me to start thinking about my own death. I guess I was disturbed by the nineteen year old who committed suicide. He hung himself in his father garage. I watched as the Doctor examined his young body. How they looked for scars of past self injuries. How they checked his brain for natural diseases. How they explained that he was a very healthy person and it was such a waste. The kid was attractive. He just felt like a failure. He seemed to never get anything in his life right. He had many run-ins with the law, a strong criminal past, tried to get into the military but they wouldn’t let him join. I guess at nineteen he woke up and thought he had screwed up his life. Yet, he was only nineteen. I mean anything is possible when you are nineteen years old.

I understand suicide in a way. It’s a horrible mental affliction. The need to check out permanently. It’s a truly selfish act. Yet, it’s not rationale.

Sometimes life gets very dark and hard. Suicide is like giving God or the Universe the middle finger. It’s a belief that God or the Universe hates you. That your birth was an abomination. No one who commits suicide think that they are going to Heaven. Yes, in certain situations like what happened on 911 the people jumping out of the window so they could avoid a horrible burning death, maybe God forgives. Yet, I’m sure some religious fanatics would love to disagree.
Who knows what God wants? I mean there is the bible and self-righteous preachers but God really is a private relationship. God is selfish. We are said we are made in God’s image. I always say nobody can teach God, they can yell, they can threatened, they can beat you over the head with a Bible, but when I lay down at night, my relationship with God has nothing to do with what I know but what I feel.

When I was a kid in Church I never felt that God. I went to Sunday school, had so many unanswered questions that refused answers. Also, the God of my childhood seemed like the biggest hypocrite. I guess his followers were a bunch of evil bastards. The most evil I would see in my life. If my example of a God who teachers stole, lied, abused, but on Sunday decided to act holy than thou of course my perception of God would be extremely warped. I was also gay, so that really messed my mind up. I knew what I felt but was told how I should feel. I couldn’t understand why a God would make life so damn complicated for no sane reason. I eventually figured all the people around me were the problem. So I gave up on my childhood god.

I believe giving up on God or an idea of a God sent me into spiritual nightmare. I had suffered so much growing up, so I felt God or the universe hated me. If God hated me, I really hated me. And someone would say to themselves, how can anyone believe God hates them. Well there are many religions that teach God hates certain groups of people. They even stand outside their funerals and claim he or she who didn’t live by their rules is going to hell.

Why would there be a hell? Why would God bring a person into the world for such a short life and then punish them for eternity. That’s just sounds crazy and sardonic.
I believe my journey in this life is my challenge of a God. Sometimes I give up when it’s convenient. Sometimes I hate when I don’t get my way. Sometimes I feel like a spoil child with God. I just know there is a death. I guess God in a way is Death and the need to have some meaning to it.

As I watched “Dean men talking” I thought about each individual journey to it. There was a Muslim guy, a teenage girl murdered back in the 70s and her body found over twenty years later. There was a woman who suffered from mental illness and a young wannabe solider who committed suicide. In the end, how you go there is the same.

I also thought about the ninety something woman who died in her sleep. She had been married to her husband for over sixty years. He seemed floored and confused. They say when old lovers die, the other one is not too far behind. I guess life stop having meaning. God changes.
Funny to think that every single person on this planet has a different relationship with a different god. I mean we go to church for community but when I pray I’m not praying to John McCain’s god. When I pray I’m not even praying to my mother’s God. I pray to what I feel will help me. Sometimes it’s the devil. God can be so manipulative. Yet, I know I can’t hide anything from God. I can hide it from my neighbors and friends and family but not God. God is not a liar. God is the truth no matter how brutal.

My journey in this life is towards my own truth. Yes, sometimes that truth wasn’t so pretty so I considered killing myself. Sometimes the truth can be so difficult to accept that I find myself cutting myself in the bathroom drunk at five in the morning. Sometimes my journey is very angry and resentful. Yet, I always somehow learn to forgive myself.

I had a friend who once told me that I shouldn’t always accept everything about myself. I think not accepting yourself is Hell. I know it’s a struggle to accept my weight, height, eye color, job or stale life or sobriety, but it’s the challenge that makes me accept God. I mean, Death is real. It doesn’t matter if I die five hundred pounds over weight or anorexic, it’s the same outcome.
My God now is recovery. I have to wake everyday and pray to Buddha for piece of mind. I guess I messed up again this week, fell off the wagon, started the cutting again, did hardcore drugs and almost drank myself into a stupor. It’s funny, sometimes when I think I finally recovered I screw up again. The never ending battle. Yet, I understand why. I went out to a place I hadn’t gone in almost two years. Funny how the past seem to remember everything. I had to face me again. I didn’t like it. I was trying to explain to an old drinking buddy how I had changed. He started telling me that I used to be a mess. That I was evil and often hurtful. I started to feel insecure. So I drank. And then drank some more.

God I wish I would’ve never gone through the hell I created. Nobody liked that person, not even me. Yet, I was him. I got to accept him and all his flaws. I guess that’s what I liked about AA. I could go there and talk and not worry about being judged. I listen to everyone else’s story but refuse to listen to my own. My journey to God has become that of recovery. Sometimes I don’t know if I am ever going to make it or truly succeed. I see myself on “Dead me talking” having died of a stupid overdose or drank myself to death like that guy who died at 36 years old of serious liver damage. I know some people who say to themselves, shake their heads, and think the guy was a waste of human existence. I pray that he finally got peace. He had a reason to be here. The fact that I saw his story on TV, someone I don’t know, probably gave me another ten years on my life. Even him, the drunk, had a purpose. Even the kid who committed suicide had a purpose. Even the psychotic woman who overdosed on her mental medication had a purpose. Even the woman who live into her nineties and died in her sleep had a purpose. Even the teenage girl who was murdered and buried for twenty years had a purpose. It’s the story.
I know from what I’ve seen in life that there are four types of deaths. People either day heroes, villains, victims or survivors. I came pretty damn close to dying a victim. I was going to allow childhood abuse, molestation and abandonment lead to me to an early grave. That wasn’t until I decided to fight back. Of course I thought fighting back meant getting angry, cursing, fighting, becoming an asshole or whatever. Yet, the anger made me even more of a victim. The anger told me to close off relationship with anyone I thought I loved, admired or respected; even myself. I know that now. The anger is still there.

I know one thing for sure, I will not a die a victim but that takes recovering.
Even I the gay recovering alcoholic, sex and drug addict have a purpose. My purpose is that I tell the story as honest as I can like a spiritual autopsy. Death is the only truth. How we get there is the only truth. God is the journey. I’m not saying it’s easy. Most days I just want to drink, get high and have a bunch of sex. Yet, I sacrifice the temptation to be a better lover, friend, family member, writer, and human being. Today is a good day. I woke up sober, in my own bed, going to the gym, wrote this blog, will clean the apartment and be happy. It’s the good days that mean the most to me. I want to remember as many good days when I die as possible, that’s all I can ask from God.

Toxic People

2008-12-31T04:33:00.000-08:00

It is very important to be aware of what types of people are in your life. It’s you. I mean if I’m surrounded by drug addicts, alcoholics, queens, thieves and lairs, means I’m guilty by association.

When I started getting my life together, sobering up, asking myself the tough questions, I started to realize the people who once were attracted to me no longer saw me. I remember when I would walk down the street in the middle of the day and attract the strangest people. It was like there was a vacant sign on my forehead for all the drug addicts, liars, hustlers, sex addicts and whatever. I couldn’t understand why they noticed me, but I also noticed them. It was as if we were traveling on the same tragic level of existence.

I changed. They didn’t. We don’t see each other anymore.

I remember when I started AA, it was just a game. I was just trying to hustle it. I figured if I went to a couple of meetings my lover would decide I was trying and get back with me. I figured if I went to a couple of meetings and had proof, I wouldn’t be evicted from my apartment. My boyfriend still broke up with me. I still got evicted from my apartment. When I started AA, it was just another hustle. I lied so damn much. I would show up to the meetings, drunk. It was like I just felt the need to rebel.

What I found interesting were the types of people I started to attract in AA. They were on some bullshit themselves. I mean, they weren’t drinking or anything, but they weren’t good people.

They were toxic. AA was another hustle, game for them, the same way they used to get attention when they were drunks; they were now using AA to fill that void in their empty tragic souls. I met this one guy, and I thought he was really cool in the beginning. I started to share things with him, thought he could be trusted but then he started using against me. He would make cruel jokes about something I said to him, at first I thought that was his sense of humor and then I start to realize that’s how he got his kicks. It turned out; he didn’t have to drink to be a cruel drunk. I quickly ended that relationship.

The thing I disliked most about AA was the concept of Sponsors. I was supposed to befriend some stranger, allow that person in my life, and trust him or her blindly with my deepest and darkest secrets knowing that person has no formal psychological training. As a person with a degree in Psychology, I found the concept to be really dangerous. Trust means there is a give and take. Trust has to be earned. I would need to question everything. I would need to know if that person had sponsored others in the past and how that turned out. Every body gets sober differently. Not all addicts are the same. Not all addicts are created equal, there is a spectrum. At thirty years old and only been drinking for seven years, I had little in common with the drunk he had been doing it for thirty or forty years.

I learned in AA, I couldn’t believe every testimony that came out of some people’s mouth. Some people just liked to be Drama Queens. Some just lied for the hell of it. I was one of them. Some of them just wanted to hear themselves talk.

The stories that changed me the most were the one who were honest. It wasn’t self-serving, let me tell you how I suffered kind of bullshit, but straight to the point like the guy who said, it doesn’t matter what you tell those people or who you tell it to, it’s what you tell yourself when you are alone. If I was going to beat my addictions, it was the battle with me, not how many can I fool. I can’t fool myself. I’m the only one who knows the truth.

The truth hurts. It likes a muscle. No pain, no gain. My goal is to keep eroding my own toxicities therefore I completely disappear to those who are toxic.

Seven pounds

2008-12-31T03:27:00.001-08:00

Am I a good person?

I saw the movie “Seven Pounds” this weekend and it was a really good movie. I also saw the “Curious Case of Benjamin Button” and “Slumdog Millionaire.” All three were very profound and got me to think about my own life and position in the universe. Seven pounds demands the question “Am I a good person?” What if you’ve done something really terrible? What if you’ve done something that you feel as if you can never forgive yourself? How do you correct the tragic mistake? I wouldn’t go as far as the character in “Seven Pounds” but I understood his intentions. I’m not going to give the movie away, but he sacrifices parts of himself to give new life to those who he figures are “good people.” It’s kind of like playing god on human terms.

I used to fear that one day I might need a new liver. I did a lot of drinking in my early youth, so I question if I lived to be in my fifties and need a new liver would I deserve it. I guess some people would say it was my own fault. I guess those people would be playing god on human terms. What makes a good person? Good people have really bad shit happen to them every day. When I was a child, I once felt my heart was too pure. It was so fragile. I felt as if some family members took advantage. When I was a child with a pure heart, I felt vulnerable and weak. I had a hard time of saying no, but others didn’t have a hard time of exploiting my kindness. I learned to say no.

I remember when I first moved to the big city from Texas. I moved to Chicago. I would walk down the street and smile and say hello to every stranger. In Texas, that’s normal. One day I said hello to the wrong person. He asked me if he could use my phone. I didn’t think too much about it. It turned out he was a crackhead. I decided to help him. I called shelters for him. I gave him half of my clothes. I fed him. He then just started showing up unexpected with some woman. I would go downstairs and ask him to leave. It started to get weird. A month later, the bastard broke into my apartment while I was at work. He had been using that entire time to figure out my schedule to rob me. If I would’ve just ignored him, I could’ve avoided getting my laptop, camera and other stuff stolen.

I don’t believe in Karma. Yet, I do believe when you harm those who have been nothing but kind, that will come back. You will have to make amends. I guess, that’s Karma.

I used to be a good person, and then things got really muddy. All my hate and rage begin to surface. I hated being so damn angry all the time. I just didn’t want to be around people. There are so many toxic people in this world, if I took everything personally, I might go ballistic.
I don’t’ want to be a good person who starts doing bad things. To remain good in such a cruel world is a burden. I once talked to my grandmother and asked her how one gets through life with their soul intact. She said, one has to learn how to deal with lost. My grandmother was a Buddhist even if she didn’t know it. Buddhism is all about the end of suffering. It’s removing all human attachments to achieve Supreme Being. It’s not easy. Every day I practice the end of suffering not just with my chants and meditation, but also how I touch and am touched by those around me. If the cashier at the grocery store has a bad attitude, I don’t allow her mood to hold me; instead I return it with a gentle smile. I want her to understand; I understand and don’t take it personally. It’s not easy because some people I really want to bitch slap. Yet, I’m learning not to allow those to reel me into their bullshit. Some people really go looking for fights. They will go on and on, try their damnest to get a response and when you don’t give it to them, they get even angrier. I’m learning to back away. (Become actualize, conceptualized, keep my sanity).
I’m learning to pick my fights wisely. I will only fight if its defense of my life or love one, not pride. I don’t need pride. I can always lose pride.

So to answer my question, am I a good person, I would say conservatively yes. I give money to the homeless with no judgment. I’m only good to good people. I guess that’s me practicing God on human terms.

Believe it

2008-12-31T02:44:00.000-08:00

I believe.

I do believe true change is possible. Yet, real change is not easy. First, I’m beginning to realize it’s not about me re-wiring my brain. I’m created this way, nature vs. nurture for a reason. I’m going to have to learn to use my soul to create the purpose of my personality.
As the year comes to an end, I’ve been somewhat successful. I’m dramtically different than I was a year ago. I’m healthier. I’m sanier. I’m more sober.

Yet, I still have setbacks. This weekend I can say was a setback. The more I recover, I find it’s so damn easy to take five steps backwards. The more I try to repair old relationships, I find it’s so easy to fuck them up again. I try so damn hard, yet I feel as if one mistake, one resemblance of old Michael Whitley behavior and I’m like, I haven’t changed at all. It kind of feels like I’m fooling myself.

Yet I must believe. I know my intentions are truly genuine. I will win this battle, with my past, my pain, my addictions and mental illiness. I will win, or die trying.

My two cents on Rick Warren

2008-12-24T04:34:00.000-08:00

On Jan 20th, 2009 Rick Warren, the author of “The Purpose Driven Life” will give the invocation at Obama’s inaguration, the first black president. A lot of controversy has emerged since Rick Warren is an outspoken bigot towards gays, have once stated (until last Friday on his website*) that gays are not welcome at his church unless they repent, compared homosexuality to criminal sex offenders (pedophilia, incest and polygamy**). It’s not only that he is against gay marriage; he is against the gay gene, thinks it should’ve been eradicated a long time ago. He enthusiastically campaigned for Prop 8***. It’s no surprise a lot of gays are dumbfounded why Obama would pick suck a divisive person to deliver the country’s prayer. Yes, there are those who say Obama said he would reach across the aisle, take hands and force us to hear their voices. I thought we heard their voices at Mathew Sheppard’s funerals, I thought we heard their voices at many AIDS funerals, I thought we heard their voices at the Gay parades across the country, I thought we heard their voices in the church growing up, but I guess we need to hear their voices again on the day we so many gays thought they campaigned, marched, canvass for someone who promised change. Yet, I decided to be open minded. I wanted to understand the meaning of “Invocation.”

An invocation is the act of invoking or calling upon a deity, spirit, etc., for aid, protection, inspiration, and supplication.

As a supplication or prayer it implies to call upon God to ask for protection, spiritual presence like the Lord's Prayer. Taken from bible, Matthew 6:9–13 (King James Version) in which Jesus says, our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in Heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.

As a kid growing up in a Baptist church I’ve probably said the Lord’s Prayer a thousand times. We said it before every meal. Sometimes we said it before sleep. I never really understood the meaning, just that it was forced into my memory like the American Anthem and Pledge of Allegiance.

I believe in god. I do. I’m not sure if I believe in my childhood god anymore. As I got older, I started becoming more of a Buddhist. I blame the book “Saddathra.” I’ve always believed in reincarnation even as a child. I know I’ve been here on this earth many times before. I also believe there was once a Jesus. I think Jesus has been here many times before, in many different ways. I don’t believe in Adam and Eve, not just because I’m gay, it just that it doesn’t explain a lot. I mean if man gave woman a rib, why do men and woman have the same amount of ribs. “Here's something else that disproves the story early life was asexual meaning it had both sex organs and reproduced without the need for a mate at all. It was only later when nature needed a way to control overpopulation that the sexes split into two distinct ones. And when all life starts out it starts out female. As far scientists can see it's the male sex that is a mutation of the female. Why? Because the design of the female body would be able to both germinate and carry offspring while the male could not.” I also believe God is a hermaphrodite. If god is everything, then god is one. Which means god is gay and straight, black and white, male and female. Why in life is there always an opposite. So if black is the opposite of white, and male is the opposite of female, then what is the opposite of straight, it’s gay.

The need for prayer on Election Day I feel is necessary. America at the moment is getting hopeless by the day. I wonder what happened to the invocation when President Bush was sworn into office. Interesting enough, the person that did his invocation, also known as the Pastor to the President was Cuban born - Reverend Dr. Luis Leon. (http://geocities.com/reunionfor1969/LLeon.html )

Usually the person who does the invocation is the thought to be the President’s Pastor, reverend or rabbi or spiritual leader. I guess Barack Obama spiritual advisor of twenty years, who married him and baptized his kids could no longer be part of his life. We all are told to forget Rev. Wright. He almost cost Obama his presidency. Yet, the choice of Rick Warren as the nations Pastor, spiritual advisor is so appalling. It’s “Gem” fantastic outrageous.
Yet, picking Rick Warren has forced the issues of gay Americans. Some people still think being gay is a willful choice of deviation. Some people still think all gays are going to hell. Hate crime has increased since the passing of Prop 8 which indirectly gives the entitled permission to their prejudice and hate. Some people still think gays only make up a small percentage of the population therefore not constitutional relevant. Some gays have gone back into the closet even farther. It scares the shit out of us, gay and straight, to have to deal with an issue.
I think it’s beautiful that so many gays (like me) have protested the picking of Rick Warren. I know some people have advised Obama must know what he is doing because he’s so damn pragmatic. Yet, I know different. I’ve said he is either dumb as a doorknob or smart as a fox. Or he is really truly arrogant and only care about his political future. The choice has forced gays, all gays across the spectrum, lesbians and gay men, black , white, Hispanic and transgender to say “hey, what the hell!”

I know many people, like Mellissa Elderidge, didn’t know anything about Rick Warren. I only knew him because I read the “Purpose Driven Life” like three years ago. It truly changed my life. I would still recommend the book.

After reading the book, I decided to see what I thought was a profound preacher was really about. I got online and researched him. I went to his website. I watched videos of him on YouTube****. The more I found out, the sicker in the stomach I got. I found out he hated me. I found out he didn’t think my life was purposeful. I found out he was a fat bastard. I buried his book in the back of the closet and decided to just forget about him. He showed up again. I remember watching CNN and he invited Obama and McCain to his church. I didn’t think much about it. I remember the day of Prop 8, he showed up on YouTube encouraging his followers to pass the bill. He again blasted that homosexuality was incest, pedophilia and criminal. The next day Obama won. It was a great day, being that I am black. It was a year I canvassed for Obama. I donated to his campaign. I felt I was part of the movement. I slightly forgot that not only was I black, I was also gay. I guess I saw myself as Bayard Rustin, the architecture of the March on Washington. I assumed when Obama meant change, he meant everyone. He said he was politically going to reach across the aisle. I thought that meant he was going to fight for better healthcare, school systems, taxes, jobs, things that all Americans needed. I never thought he was going to test a core part of his constituents.

I had decided along with many other gays, to protest inauguration day. I was going to make my signs and show up when Rick Warren gave his speech. I used to ask myself if I was more black than gay. I used to think of myself as a black gay man, not a gay black man. Yet, it’s becoming very clear that I am a gay black man. I still have my issues with being gay. I still have my issues with gay white men. I guess I considered myself black first because in the bigger picture of being gay, I am still black because most gay men are still white. It’s complicated.
I am so happy that America elected a black president. I felt for three weeks the world had changed. And then I realized it hadn’t. Homophobias in the black community roots are deep. The black churches were the first to turn their back on AIDS. The black churches felt AIDS was a gay disease. And when black women started getting AIDS, it was blamed on closeted black men living on the down low. Somehow being gay had leaked over to the black population. I guess Obama is just another religious black man.

I pray that Obama see the error is his ways, not be lead into temptation like he did with Rev Wright, like how he did with Axelrod who built his home, how like he did with William Ayers, like how he return his aunt’s contribution money when he suddenly found out she was in the states illegally, like how he is now distancing himself from the corrupted Illinois Governor. I will pray for Rick Warren and now I will begin to question Obama. The honeymoon is over. And he is not even in office yet.

The truth what Rick Warren has said, can’t be unsaid, but must be formally repented. Here are the notes for this article, since people really don’t have any idea who Rick Warren is. Listen in his own words.

http://www.americablog.com/2008/12/rick-warren-explicitly-bans-unrepentant.html (Since the outrage the page has been taken off, I’m assuming until after the inguration.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OvyyEIEDqrQ
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CRVPxK9VPEY
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7o4QqGbQmU0&feature=related (Warren endorses Prop 8)

Special Notes: I admit since the outrage, Warren has been desperately trying to do a PR overhaul. I’m just waiting to see what happens, but in the meantime I will begin my letters to Rick Warren, trying to sort out my feelings about the entire ordeal.

Shot term memory lost.

2008-12-16T05:41:00.001-08:00

Somebody asked me what I did last Thursday. I went into my head, and suddenly there was just darkness like something had gotten erased. I knew there was a last Thursday, but I couldn’t remember it. But it’s been happening on and on again.

Four years ago, I woke up on the ground. I remember spitting out blood. I remember spitting my teeth in my mouth. I remember the cops shining a light in my eyes, asking me if I was okay. I couldn’t remember where I was. It was like something got erased. I try to remember that night but it’s not there in my head.

I remember the fight. I remember that Halloween night being very angry at my lover. I remember the costume I wore. But after that, it goes blank.
I was told somebody beat the shit out of me. When I woke up that morning, I was in so much pain. I don’t even remember how I got home. I just remember waking up again. I found out that I had three cracked ribs and four teeth kicked out of my mouth. And then I remember spitting blood in my hands and the teeth. I went to the hospital. The doctor asked me what happened. I told him, I didn’t remember. It’s because I didn’t remember.

Did I really hit my head that hard on the sidewalk? Now, four years later it’s scaring me because it’s like blocks of time in my life are gone. I can’t remember what happened last week. There are people who say they know me, but when I go in my head, they are not there. I can remember long term things. I know my social security number. I know my third grade teacher’s name. Yet, I can’t remember if I woke up last Tuesday. I know I did, because I’m still here.

Maybe I wasn’t okay that horrible night when I was kicked and beaten that night. I couldn’t pick any of those guys out in the line-up. Maybe I’m still not okay. This lesbian told me she saw what happened. She said it was the most horrific thing she’s seen in her life. She said they just beat and kicked me like I was some dog. I’ve wondered what I did to piss them off. I don’t remember.

Obcessive Impulsive Personality Disorder

2008-12-10T01:32:00.000-08:00

I made the greatest discovery when I introduced myself to happiness.

I finished reading a book by Dr. Gary Zukav (Mind of the Soul). I’ve actually read all of his books. In one chapter, he challenged the reader to see how he or she saw themselves in the universe. I immediately thought I saw the universe against me. I thought god was against me. I’ve always thought God was against me. If I thought God was against me, I’ve always seen myself as a victim. Yes, I had the best excuse like my shitty childhood. Yes, growing I felt I was an easy target not having parents or anyone to protect. It was like I was easy prey as a child. I had teachers abuse me. I come home with bruises on my arms and no one noticed. I was molested for like four years and no one noticed. I move from one foster home to the next foster home, from one family member to the next family member, from one abuse situation to the next abuse situation. I stopped trusting people at eight years old. I fucking hate people. I’m always waiting for someone to disappoint me. I’m always waiting for someone to reveal their true selves. I didn’t believe the good in people. I thought it was a world get or get got.
And then I feel in love. I fell in love first with this girl, Mita. I couldn’t believe she didn’t want anything form me but to love me. To make me better. She became my soul teacher. She became my soul healer. She allowed me to trust. And then I fell in love with this guy. The same guy I’m with now. It was hard loving him. It was hard giving him love. I thought I couldn’t deal with another heart break.

Funny, yesterday I was watching Oprah and the show was about “OCD.” I understood the personality disorder but from a different perspective. OCD people have a need to control the world. I realized I was the opposite. I gave up on the world a long time so I had a need to be out of control in the world. I didn’t feel the need for responsibility because I felt everything about life was meaningless. I figured we all die. That life was just one lost after another. I got tired of abandonment. I couldn’t trust. I didn’t believe in God. So life to me was meaningless for a long.
I would consider myself with Obsessive-impulsive personality disorder. It’s like I had a need to continually to fuck up. It’s the typical rebel without a cause. I just liked to rebel. I just like to fight back. I guess in some weird way in my head that makes me feel control in a universe I always felt was so out of control. I don’t care about much. I can sleep on floors. I can eat out trash cans. I can be irresponsibly sexually, because I don’t care for the rules. I always figured the rules weren’t for me. Yet, like those with OCD, I became a prisoner of my impulsiveness. When I don’t want to go to work, I don’t go. When I don’t want to pay a bill, I don’t pay it. When I don’t’ want to pay rent, I don’t pay it. When I don’t want to have friends, I curse them out. I can never be in a relationship because I need to act on my impulsion. I had a hard time getting sober, because I needed to act on my impulsions. My impulsions became my sex addiction. I think most addicts suffer from obsessive impulsive disorder.

I had to learn that I can’t control, because I don’t want to control. I saw the universe out of control. I saw myself as so insignificant. I figured I would die a John Doe and no one would notice I was even here. Yet, things have changed. That’s what I loved about getting help and education. I knew things needed to change. I constantly challenge my personality and ego. Like an OCD person who needs to trust their ritual behavior is inhibiting, I need to understand my uninhibited behavior can be counter productive.

I’ve became good at sticking to my schedule. Its simple things like brushing my teeth everyday. It’s taking a bath everyday. It’s making up my bed everyday. Some people thing that’s normal, but I’ve gone weeks without brushing my teeth or taking a bath. I would eat off the floor. I would sleep on dirty sheets. I didn’t care. I used to not be able to walk away from confrontation. I needed to destroy people I felt were out to get me. I became somewhat schizophrenic. I figured if I was pushed, I needed to push back. I hated that part of me. I hated that prison.

Freedom is the sacrifice for love. Prison is the acceptance of hate.

I don’t feel so out control anymore. Yet, I still worry. When I go into self-imposed exile is because I felt out of control. I go silent to get my mind together. I stay away from those I feel are toxic. Yet I recognize if they trigger part of my counter productive personalities. I don’t give that power away.

Yet, I’m quickly learning control. I fear when I start working again how long will it be before I start acting up. I’m convincing myself I am not a fuck up. I’m convincing myself I’m a good person. How long will it before I get fired for not showing up on time or not showing up at all. I can’t start friendships because I fear how long it will be before I do something crazy. How long will I be before I fuck up again?

I told my psychologist that my problem wasn’t success; it was getting everything and then burning it to the ground. I’ve done it some many times
.
Now every morning when I awake, I say to myself I need to believe. I believe there is a god. I do believe the universe has purpose. I do believe I have purpose. Yet, it’s a fight. Today is a good day. I’m sober. I’m home, sleeping in my own bed. My clothes are clean. I have food in my refrigerator. Life is good. I plan to keep it that way.

My dear sir, I challenge you to a duel.

2008-12-07T16:36:00.000-08:00

I would pick the place. Rent one YMCA boxing ring, $100 dollars. I would pick the time. A month from now. I can even buy the gloves and face mask. $100 dollars. I would set him up with a trainer. I would get him a 30 day membership at the gym. I’d hire a referee. All he has to do is show his punk ass up at the place in thirty days. Total budgeted cost of the duel: $500. The pleasure of kicking his ass in front of his friends and family, priceless.

As practiced from the 11th to 20th centuries in Western societies, a duel is an engagement in combat between two individuals, with matched weapons in accordance with their combat doctrines. The Romanticism depiction of medieval duels was based on either a pretext of defense of honor, usually accompanied by a trusted representative (who might themselves fight), often in contravention of the dueling conventions, or as a matter of challenge of the champion which developed out of the desire of one party (the challenger) to redress a perceived insult to his or her sovereign's honor. The goal of the honorable duel was often not so much to kill the opponent as to gain "satisfaction", that is, to restore one's honor by demonstrating a willingness to risk one's life for it.

I think in this modern age of violence, the act of dueling should be brought back. Nobody fights fair anymore. Kids show up to school with guns and then just start shooting innocents because some girl didn’t go out on a date with him. Terrorism has taken the place of a fight with honor. It’s just murder now. I don’t think there is nothing wrong with two individuals going at it without the cheap deadly tricks. I mean an old-fashion after school beatdown. No gang fights. Let them work it in a boxing ring with witnesses and rules.

Some punk ass bitch been talking smack about me. I hate that high school cheerleader shit that goes on in the gay clubs sometimes. When I moved to DC in the beginning I was just another new face. I didn’t say much to anybody. I didn’t care about belonging to any groups. I had enough of the gay cattiness in New York, Texas and Chicago. I wasn’t about to move again.
When I first got to DC, the so call second city, or second chance city I was out of luck and broke and looking for free drinks. Somehow I got a reputation I didn’t intend. I guess because I was young, flirty, and somewhat suspicious that some people thought I was a drug dealer, prostitute or two bit hustler. They figured me trouble because I looked the part of a young black male with a cocky smile on his face. I got kicked out of a lot of clubs for that smile. A black man with too much confidence too many find a threat. Yet, at first I played the role. I liked being the bad boy. It was sexy.

I’m not a fighter. I fought too much growing up. I have 36 male cousins around my age. Everyday was a fight. I have nothing to prove. Yet, I don’t like others thinking they can just say shit about me and I not have a response.

I saw the asshole in question at the bar last Thursday. I was too drunk. The worse thing in the world is drunk fighting. I can’t win a fight if I am drunk. First, the person is unprepared. Their balance is off and emotions are running high. They can’t even use their adrenaline to steady their swings. The last time I got into a drunken bar fight, it was not good in my favor. I accidently picked a fight with a group of bastards who decided to jump me. I knew immediately there was no way I could win. When I was just kicking the one guy’s ass, I had it down but the other three fuckers decided they needed to jump in. I never believed in jumping in my friends’ fight. I feel as if that takes away their honor. I also feel it’s criminal. If my friend is getting his ass kicked, let him get his ass kicked. I once got in trouble when I was a little kid because one of my cousins decided to jump this guy who they didn’t like. The rule in my family was that if one of us got into a fight, then all of us got into that fight. I guess it worked in our favor considering there were a lot of us. It was like being attacked by a pack of wolves. I didn’t jump in that fight that day. The poor innocent guy was just being beaten to death. I was going to worsen his suffering. I wanted to stop it. I had to stop it. I guess that’s me at my heart. I don’t believe in fighting but I do believe in defending my honor.

I live in the city and people are so damn shady. They fear so damn much they are willing to do about anything to hide the fact they are cowards. They will talk about you behind your back but when confronted--they freeze up. Coward. If I say something about someone, trust me, I can say it to their face. If I stank that day, I would tell the person they need to take a bath and not giggle about it like I’m a high school cheerleader. And if I am confronted, I would probably apologize immediately because I probably been drinking and didn’t really mean it.

This guy has taken it too far. I confronted him and he would even acknowledge my existence, like I was diseased or something worse. Normally, I don’t care what other people think about me. I really don’t. What bothers me is if you said something about me, be a man and admit it. Or I will be a nigga and make a fucking scene. Yet, since turning thirty years old, I’ve consciously decided to curb my nigga moments. I’m intelligent. I am a writer. I have three college degrees. I give to charity. I give to the homeless. I don’t have the time to punch a bitch in a bar, get arrested, get a misdemeanor, have to pay bail money, have to get a lawyer and hope that’s the end of it. It usually cost around $1000-$2000 dollars. I don’t have time to end up in jail and not make it to work the next day. I hate community service. I lose money in so many directions. I think two grown men fighting in a bar is so unlady like.

So that’s why I recommend the duel. It’s more civilized. Nobody is drunk. It’s in a nice ring with proper protection. And we just beat the shit out of each other like real men. A good fight allows a person to forgive, winner or loser. A good fight says it means something. Shit I might just get my ass kicked but at least I get to defend my honor. I take back my name.

Yet, I am reminded when one of my cousins wanted to fight my best friend in high school. I feared for him. The clever best friend turned the script on my thuggish cousin. He challenged his intellect. He demanded he would only fight him if my cousin could write a thousand word paper on why they should fight. I remember the dumbfounded look on my cousin’s face. He realized he wasn't just some primitive animal and had the capability of real thought. I decided to write this blog in the same sense of my need to kick this guy’s ass. My argument is as follow:

I never liked him. I would see him out all the time but we never spoke. I just considered him part of the bar furniture. He’s one of those people you hate immediately. He has a snobbish entitled demeanor like he’s curing cancer. I don’t care. I don’t care if he has the highest IQ; I had reserved myself to no just speaking to him. But it’s hard to just ignore somebody you see every damn week. I have sometimes tried to be the bigger man and speak or smile. He usually just rolls his eyes. I try to think if I had every done anything to him. I used to drink a lot and god knows how many people I have pissed off. I didn’t want him to like me; I just wanted to know why he didn’t like me.

I heard what he said about me accidently. Funny, the irony was that I was talking smack about this other guy. This guy really did smell like pussy on fire. I couldn’t understand the smell. It wasn’t the first time he smelled that way and it was offensive. I thought it was more than him being unclean but something diseased. It’s when my bar friend turned to me and said some people have said the same thing about me. I paused. I wanted to know who would say such a thing. He pointed to the asshole in question. I decided not to care. Yet, I cared.

I was more ashamed to be honest. I immediately thought of my grandmother who would be furious I would go weeks without bathing. And then again, those were the drug years. When you are constantly high on something and drunk, time goes by so fast. I was living in a blur. I would have to be reminded by friends to bath and eat. I would go a week without eating. It was no secret to me that I often reeked of sex, weed, alcohol, and uncleanliness. I remember when I used to get on the train people immediately moved away from me. I didn’t care. I was usually high so I didn’t care about nothing.

And then I thought to myself, why I am so angry at that guy for just telling the truth. I was angrier at myself. I needed to challenge myself to a duel. I needed to kick my own ass. I was such a mess two years ago. I hate being reminded of it. I hate that my neighbors still try to get me evicted even if I haven’t done anything criminal in the last two years.

When someone pisses me off to the point I want to cause them bodily harm, I first have to pause. I have to challenge what emotion or fear in my personality was triggered. I have to deal head on with my ego and masculinity. I could kick his ass. I could really hurt the bastard. But the fight isn’t with him. The funny thing, it doesn’t matter if you get your life right, somebody is always going to remind you when you were a fuck up. It’s like people feel the need to be superior. I’m done with apologizing. I have made no amends. I was who I was because I was, that’s it.

Yet, I’m still angry. All he has to do is show up. I dare the bastard. All he has to do is say one more thing about me I don’t like. My anger may be a little misdirected, but so is he accusations. He is still a punk ass bitch.

That is Mr. Bipolar to you!

2008-12-07T05:25:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder if I am truly sick or was it all in my head. I wonder if other people believed me or just thought I was a drama queen at moments. I wonder if I just stopped drinking would my life get better. I mean would the insanity stop. But I wasn’t drinking that Monday when I refused to go to work or call. I wasn’t drinking when I cut my wrists.

It was like this noise in my head, sometimes so silent it made me feel dangerously alone, other times it was like the noise started poking me with a sharp stick for attention. The feeling often was anxious and annoyed. Sometimes the feeling made me feel so good I couldn’t stop touching myself or having sex. It was like I was in hyper drive. I didn’t know how to turn if off. But the feeling would be so crazy that it would climb tall buildings and jump off. I would crash hard, on the floor, irrationally afraid for my life. I would just lay on the floor and I would be there for days. Unable to leave the house. So afraid of something, something I knew was trying to kill me, something outside my door. The feeling, it’s so damn powerful. I’ve had it a long time. I’ve had it since I was a child. I thought learned to ignore it. I thought I learned to act normal. It was like my deep dark secret.

So something was wrong. I knew it. I knew it for a long time. I couldn’t just get control of my head. My behavior was becoming more and more erratic. I just didn’t want to hear the word: Crazy. Some people can be so cruel and ignorant. I was afraid of being labeled. I had this guy trying to be funny, talking about how my mood can change five times in ten minutes. I went quiet. It was a joke to him but it was serious to me. It hurt me to the core. I wanted to put my hands around his neck. I didn’t want to go crazy like my mama did. Like my sister did.

My life, I woke up and I was drowning in the deepest and darkest part of the ocean. I couldn’t understand how I got there. I couldn’t understand what kept pulling me under every time I managed to grab the tips of the insanity and breathe for a second. I kept slipping. And it was thundering rain, lightening striking, the heavens moved quickly, like an angry mother screaming for somebody to save her child. Somebody save me.

It seemed like I had been drowning for years, maybe even decades. I got help. I put my pride aside and checked myself into the hospital.

I was so scared that day. I had done something awful. Something that will hunt me for a long time. I just wanted to escape. I just wanted to run as far as I could. I just wanted to die. Not fake death for attention but real death. I just didn’t want to deal with it anymore. It was too hard. I was drowning!!!!! And nobody could save me.

I went to the hospital, broken, tired, my arms marked, self inflicted, and I just laid there. For almost two weeks I just woke up, took medication, talked to a panel of psychiatrists and slept. It was probably some of the best sleep in my life.

And then one day the sun came out. One day I saw land. I didn’t even know what the sun was. I thought it was something that taunted me. I thought it was warmth I would never know because my world was just full of rainstorms and angry oceans. I felt the sun. I felt such clarity on that day. I never knew my mind could be so damn clear. It was like I could feel god in me, around me, clothing me, kissing me, hugging me, telling me he loved me. And then I looked in the mirror. I was a frightening mess. My hair was all disheveled. My eyes looked wild. I had bandages on my arms. I didn’t recognize that person anymore. I knew I wasn’t that person. I was something better. I was just another soul that had gotten lost somewhere. I needed to find my way back.

I made a promise to myself. I promised myself real change. I mean the change of energy. I spent a lot of energy on the wrong things. I was going to keep a journal documenting my change of energy. I was going to constant push myself to face my worse fears. Writing this blog is part of my worse fears. It’s like screaming to the world, I am not perfect. I remember one day in the crazy house, some woman told me I was too pretty to be crazy. She said I could be a doctor. I laughed. I thought it was the pretty ones that were always crazy.

I made a promise to myself a year ago and I haven’t broken it. Shit, I performed miracles. I had nothing a year ago. I mean nothing. I didn’t have a job. I didn’t have a place to stay. I didn’t have any money in my accounts. I didn’t even own a credit card because I’d always been afraid of the commitment.

And then one day, maybe by accident, maybe by desperation, I washed up on shore. I had decided to stop fighting the ocean, and just drown, I gnawed at my wrists with my teeth, and just let go. I let my body sink. I swallowed all the emptiness and got so full I sunk to the bottom. I hope to never wake. But I did wake up, choking on the frustration on dry land. The ocean had gotten tired or pitied me and threw me out. Maybe God said I will give this nigga another chance.

So there I was on dry land, the sun smashing down on me like a foot on my neck, the sand sticking in my back like chards of broken glass and I was naked. I had nothing but my soul. Before I was just ocean and the storm, the rain and thunder, but under that sun, I was just bare. That scared the shit out of me. I had too many secrets to be naked. I had too much shame.

So here I am on dry land, confused, traumatized and very pissed off. Why did it take so long for me to arrive? Why did I have to first give in to death before God decided I should live.

I wasn’t promised anything. Nobody said I could be happy because I wasn’t drowning anymore. Nobody said life was going to be perfect. I had a broken child in me to fix. I started to learn only I could fix him. I believe we die heroes, victims, survivors or villains. I was tired of being the victim.

Now the real work begins. All I want from my life now is to be grateful. I am grateful to all my good days. A good day. I wake up and I’m sober. I'm in my own bed. Not at the bathhouse or bookstore or crack house, my own bed. I first pray. I pray for strength. I pray for faith. I pray for gratitude. I always start my morning with being grateful for the day that has passed. I always do something today so that my tomorrow will be grateful. It’s simple really. I brush my teeth, facial, do my nails, make up my bed, clean the dishes, take out the trash, do my thirty minute exercise and fifteen intense minutes of yoga and I am ready.

My five prayers through the day. I first pray for faith. I start with I believe. It’s simple. I believe I woke up. I believe there is a god. I believe I have purpose in my life. I believe my dreams will come true. And I believe like I breathe. I know if I stopped believing for more than two minutes I will suffocate to death. I finally believe I am a good person. That’s most important. It’s because I believe I am enough.

The prayer of gratitude. It seems as if I’ve been in and out of the hospital my entire life. I almost lost my left leg at age 4. I got bitten by a rat that same year and lost the hearing in my right ear. I’ve been shot. I’ve been hit in the head with a brick twice. I once stepped on a rusty nail and it went through my foot. And all that was before ten years old. I grateful that I have the ability to walk. I’m grateful I have one good ear. I was told I would be deaf by that age of twenty five. That didn’t happen. I am grateful to be health. I had pneumonia and I know what it feels like to no be able to breathe. It is true, if you don’t have your health, you have nothing. You can’t play, have sex, watch television, walk around the block, laugh; all you think about is making it to the next second. It amazes me how quick some of us are willing to give up our health. Some of us are willing to do things with strangers who wouldn’t loan you a dollar but fuck you raw behind some tree in the parks.

The prayer of work. I believe in a good work ethic. I believe in the Booker T. Washington work ethic. You get good at what you’re doing now and that will open the door for you tomorrow. I didn’t use to believe in a good work ethic. I used to feel as if I owed something.

The prayer of fear. I liked to face my fears. My worse fear is rejection. I don’t know why I decided to become a writer because that is a life of steady rejections. I fear not being good enough. I fear that people are going to find out about so many lies I’ve told over the years. I try to correct those lies as much as possible.

The prayer of love and trust. I like this prayer the best. It’s the prayer before I go off to sleep. I ask myself did I love myself today. Did I tell myself I loved me? Did I respect myself? I ask myself did I love my friends and family. Did I give love instead of take love? Funny, babies come into this world ready to give love. As we get older and forget, we think we are here to just receive love. I used to cringe at the fact my mother didn’t love me enough. I had to accept that in order for me to be truly happy; I was going to have to give her love anyway.

PTSD

2008-11-23T08:23:00.000-08:00

I had that dream again. It's been over sixteen years since I left home and I'm still having that dream. It's like I am constantly running away. I have put over thousands of miles away from San antonio. It's like i moved to the opposite part of the map and I am still having that dream. I wonder why it won't go away.

Change

2008-11-17T03:17:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning thinking about change. I don’t believe it. I feel as if I’ve been the same person since I was born. Yes, my body changed. I got bigger. I learned to talk. I learned to walk. I learned to use the bathroom properly. I didn’t learn to tie my shoes until I was like in the second grade. Yet I could read at five years old. I didn’t learn to tie my shoes until I was in the second grade because I never wore tennis shoes. I usually went barefoot or sandals. I guess during those days, Child Protective Services weren’t that active.

I woke up this morning thinking about change. So much this past year has changed. I moved three different times. At the beginning of the year I moved into this really nice house with some psycho guy. That only lasted for like a month. He taught me some great lessons. Don’t trust crazy people. I used to think I was crazy, but that dude was really crazy. And then I moved into a transitional house. I hated it. I decided to move back in with my ex. I felt like Anne Frank at his house. It was important that none of his neighbors knew I was back. I had actually gotten kicked out of his place in 2007. Lucky for me, all the old residents moved out. Then I moved to my own apartment. I found that living on your own was a little overrated. “I need supervision.’ I don’t trust myself alone. I moved into my own place but never unpacked; instead I paid the rent via mail and stayed with my ex. I liked his place better. After a year of wasting money, I decided to not renew my lease and moved back in with him temporarily. The truth, I never moved out.

Change, I don’t believe in it. I believe we just refocus our energy. The only reason I’m up writing this blog at 6:30 in the morning is because I’m sober. When I started getting blocks of time with sobriety, I found I had a lot of energy I didn’t have before. I don’t drink as nearly as much as I used to. That changed. I didn’t change. I just refocused my energy.

I believe we evolve or die. Its how man went from ape to walking up straight. Its how the brain grew when humans started using tools. Its how the world is getting smaller by the second.
I don’t believe in change. Change can be a lie. If someone changes their clothes and start speaking in a different accent, is that change or something they’ve consciously decided to manifest? I don’t like those make-over shows. Just because for one day a person gets a new pair of teeth or a new dress don’t make them a different person. Usually they go back to being the same person about a month later. On that show the Biggest Loser, yes during the show they lose weight but they end up gaining it back as soon as the camera stops rolling. They changed their physical looks for a brief moment but who they were internally hadn’t evolved.

I knew when I seriously considered getting sober I couldn’t listen to other people tell me how to do it. I knew I didn’t need rehab. I stopped going to AA. Most important I knew I could lie. I’d been a liar my entire life. Yet, I also knew I couldn’t lie to myself. I knew the truth. I knew what I did alone. I knew only I alone could stop me. I also knew I needed to evolve in order to survive. I was going to die. I thought at the beginning that’s what I wanted. I didn’t die. I decided to reexamine the experiment we call life. My life.

I was dying. I had been standing in my life in one spot away from the sun. I was slowly withering. I could see it when I looked in the mirror. I could feel it in my sleep those nights when I wake up gasping for air. I knew all the debauchery was finally catching up to me. I couldn’t outrun it any longer. I finally understood when people would say “I had to quit or die.” Yes, as an addict I could’ve lived a couple of more years. But being an addict it only gets worse. It never gets better. Nobody has figured out a way except “William Burroughs” to control it.

I needed to evolve. Just like I learned how to walk. Just like I learned how to talk. I needed to learn how to live. I had to understand the definition. It’s how the internal and external balances each other. For a long time, externally people used to think I was doing great in my life. I hid my demons well in the beginning. I was the most miserable person I felt. I hated everything about me. The hate used to be so evil sometimes it felt like it was strangling me in my sleep. The depression used to be so deep I felt I had drowned. My soul was just a ghost haunting me.
I believe if addicts really begin to understand why they self medicated true change can happen at the soul level vs. the human level. I’m still working on it.

Today, at this moment, I am sober. I am happy. Internally I feel great about myself. I didn’t die. It’s miracle. I am a miracle. I bask in this sobriety. I wish it for those looking for it.

The worse I did, i did to myself: A year later in recovery

2008-09-24T11:14:00.001-07:00

Damn, last year about this time, I was just getting out of the mental hospital, I was homeless, jobless, broke, and it all seemed so damn hopeless. I was also very sick, had walking pneumonia and didn’t even know it because I wouldn’t stop the drinking and meth to get better. They tried to tell me in the hospital but I hadn’t decided if I wanted to live or not. They sedated me and gave me a flu shot. I told them I would sue them.

I thought I wanted to die.

I didn’t die.

I got sober and it wasn’t the end of the world. I started consistently taking my meds, and I didn’t lose myself. I thought being on antipsychotics and antidepressants would make me a zombie. I thought it would take away my creativity and edge. It didn’t.

I didn’t think I could turn it around. I got an apartment. I got a job. I grew up.

Yet, it hasn’t been easy. It was like the second I got some insanity, a lot of shit started happening to me. At first I thought it was karma. The first place I found to live ripped me off. It was such a nightmare I just forfeited deposit and down payment to get out of my lease. I lost like two thousand dollars. I had to move back in with my ex until I got a new place. I also started getting sick. I thought it was withdrawal symptoms. I kept going to hospital but they would just tell me it was the flu or bronchitis. It was pneumonia. I had to stay in the hospital for like a week. I lost my job. I found another apartment but without a job I completely wiped out my savings account. I got a new job and got sick again. Another two weeks in the hospital. It was like god was fuckign with me. I swear everything that could go wrong, went wrong. I fell off the bus and sprang my toe. I got gout in my right big toe. I found out that I was anemic which explained me passing out all the god damn time. My dentist ripped me off, so I can’t forget that.

Anyways, none of that I saw as setbacks but blessings. I didn’t belong in that apartment. I couldn’t afford it anyway. I need that job, I wasn’t happy. I also finally faced my health. Years of drug and alcohol abuse catches up to you. I wasn’t afraid of the failure anymore.

A year later, I knew I had changed when I met up with a friend to go hang at his house. I hadn’t seen him in a year. The last time I saw him, he was sick. He said it was just the flu but I knew it was something more. He didn’t mention it. I didn’t mention it but he was already skinny and had lost more weight. I was supposed to go visit him in the hospital when I realized I didn’t know his real name. I’d know that kid for five years and didn’t know his real name. The problem with my friend, I used to look at his life as romantic. I thought he was just as a lost soul as me. I went to him often not just to score drugs or the latest sex party, but also advice. It seemed that he always had men around him, the latest raw fuck session, getting high. It was my dream of nasty, no consequences. At least thought I pretend like there were no consequences because I figured I‘d be dead before thirty years old. Nothing really matter to me.

But it was all a lie. That’s what I knew for truth staring into that tin mirror at the state mental hospital. It was all a lie.

I went to my friend’s place and I knew I was going to get high with him. That was part of the problem with my past, all my friends did drugs. Anyways, I got to his place; I hadn’t done Miss Tina in like a year. I wanted to see if it had gotten better because the last time was really shitty. I hadn’t had really good Tina in years. I just started doing cocaine at the end of my breakdown. Anyways, I got to my friend’s place and we smoked. It wasn’t good Tina. I couldn’t feel a thing. What I really wanted was a cocktail but I hadn’t drank in like a month. At my friends house we talked about dental. He smoked so much his teeth were rotting really bad. They had been rotting for like a year, but I never said anything. My teeth were rotting from Tina smoking also, so when I got into that fight at the bar and those boys jumped me, kicked me, bruised my ribs and knocked out four of my front teeth. I couldn’t slow down enough to fix the problem. I stayed toothless for a year.

I couldn’t get high at my friend’s house. I also snorted some pain killers at my place and they weren’t giving me that much of a high. It was frustrated me terribly because what I really wanted was a drink. I decided I go buy a bottle but it wasn’t that simple. It was liquor or dinner for two days. A year ago that wouldn’t have been an issue. It would’ve been liquor. Hands down, no fucking thinking about it, it would’ve been liquor.

I was walking home with having decided that I rather eat than get drunk, when I passed a member I used to see in AA all the time. She smiled at me. I smiled back. That was it. I made it home safely.

I don’t know why her smiling at me in that moment, meant so much to me. I was half high but I wasn’t drunk. Drugs never did it for me anyway without the liquor.
I’d just miss it or want it more.

Lastly, when I got home. Tatum O’Neal was on Oprah. It was like god was trying to tell me something. She had gotten busted trying to score cocaine on the streets. That is so risky. She was ten months sober. She just got back her kids. I didn’t feel sorry for her. It’s part of the process of recovery. No one is perfect. If I saw her on the street, I’d just smile at her. “I know”

And what I know for sure after this year, AA is not for me. I go to meetings every once in awhile but I felt it hindered my recovery more than it helped. I would leave AA meetings feeling more alone and misunderstood. But I kept going until I started rebelling. Until I started drinking again and lying about it. I felt like a liar in AA because I would get a good period of time sober, then I would tell the group
And they applaud and give that token. The token would burn in my pocket and I hated counting down days like until I drank again. I felt like a failure most of the time. I felt as if I couldn’t be the perfect recovered addict. I decided to stop trying and that’s when I got free.

What I know for sure. True recovery is about self. It was about “me” I knew what I did alone when I was alone. I knew I could hide it like I did for years. I wanted to become a better alcohol, addict like some criminals do when they go to jail or prison. Not get caught the next time.

I don’t believe in rehabilitation. The system doesn’t care about the individual, just the statistics. I felt in AA I was losing my individuality and my so called “diseased” was being generalized. I knew if I wanted I could hide behind the cloak. It made people smiled when I said I was in AA or in rehab. AA taught me how to get the applause. I didn’t want to lie to myself. I know who I am when I’m alone. When I think nobody is watching.

A year ago, I looked in the mirror and I knew I had nothing. When I sought recovery, I really meant recovery. It wasn’t about drinking. I didn’t drink twenty two years of my life. It wasn’t about the drugs. It wasn’t about all the sex. It was about pain. It was about suffering and thinking that’s all I knew how to do. I grew up being abused so I thought that was life. The pain tricked my brain where I constantly lived in the past instead of reality: Real time.

It had to stop. I had to get angry. I had to get fed up. My genius plan of suffering wasn't working out anymore. I had to give myself freedom to change my mind. Even that came with consequences. Not because I won’t people to think I’m a nice person, normal, because I’m not. I’m just human. I just a human being the best I can given the circumstances.

I also know for sure, nobody gives a damn about the recovered addict. Most just waiting for the relapse like a fat person who has lost a lot of weight. “How long will it last”

When I told my landlord I was in AA and just completed an addict and alcoholic program, he still told me I had to move out of the apartment. I could no longer stay with my boyfriend. I didn’t get my relationship back. I had put him through so much he told me he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. It was weird because it felt like our entire relationship was based on me being a “fuck-up.” And the second I started acting right, he wasn’t attracted to me anymore. Aint that some shit.

Truth, I don’t count days anymore. Who gives a fuck if I’m sober a year or ten years, all they really care about is if I’m displaying erratic behavior. I get so tired of people (celebrities) say I’m going to rehab or AA like Tatum O’Neal when they really don’t believe. When they only fear the consequences of their addict behavior so they fake “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry these days is just good public relations. It’s like a husband buying his wife flowers or expensive jewelry after he cheats to deal with his guilt and delude himself he is still a good person. I say fuck the flowers and jewelry, just stop cheating or end the relationship. I say fuck Rehab and AA, stop drinking and driving. I did. After my DWI back in 1995, I decided to move to a city where I didn’t have to drive. And I say, fuck it. I’m not sorry.

The worse I did, I did to myself. I alienated a lot of people so that’s why I have very few friends. I burned a lot of bridges and opportunities because I refused to control my behavior. I was selfish. I tried to act like I didn’t give a damn, and that made me psychotic.

The worse I did, I did to myself. Fuck everybody else until I’ll have to say “I’m sorry again.”

Insecure Dyslexia

2008-09-17T01:25:00.000-07:00

Recentlty i sorta of ended a "internet" friendship. I felt he crossed a very sensitive line with me. I know a lot of people think I don't have feelings or safe because they are miles away from me bitch slapping them. He said something about my grammar. It was as if he was calling me stupid or something. It wasn't put in a nice way.

I know i have grammatical problems. It's been my issue my entire life. It's like my mind could always figure a math problem, anything logical, but when it came to disseting a sentence, my mind went blank. Like there was a wall and I couldn't just understand it. It wasn't logical. Grammar isn't logical, but a descendent of the word glamorous. It was for rich people.

I didn't want to become a writer. I felt my grammar would get in my way. I would always have to have people read over my stuff to find the mistakes. But that's not all that easy. I used to think I would pay someone, but until i get my book deal, that's not all that easy.

I know what my issues are. One is past and present tense. I think in both. Edward Albee told me that all writers think in both tenses, but getting from our mind onto paper sometimes can be the problem. I know another issue of mine is fast typing and fast thinking. I often forget to put in words. It's funny once it's on paper, I can't see it anymore. It's like my mind is playing tricks on me. I know the word should be there and in my mind it's there, but a month later when i go back and re-read, it's not there. I feel so stupid.

Another one of my issues is words that look or sound alike. For a long time i was using the word "bowel" thinking "bile." When i look back at it, it' fucking funny, but at the time, catty queens used to love to point out all my mistakes.

I started my blog to help myself with my writing. I figured if i wrote more, then i could catch the mistakes before I started sending things out professionally. The thing about a blog, is so calvalier, I usually write them in a rush not caring for grammar or anything. But lately, I told myself i could do a lot better.

Writing for me is such an explosive process. It's like an orgasm. I just want to get it out and feel the rush. Afterwards, I don't want any cuddling, just clean up the mess until the next orgasm. But since I've fallen in love with a good man, myself, i think i know love, now writing for me is love. I want to caress it afterwards. I want the world to see it as beautiful as it flows through me.

I will keep looking at my three major insecurites with grammar, try to get better, try not to be so lazy.

Rice

2008-09-13T16:43:00.000-07:00

Rice

I remember going without dinner many of nights not really knowing why. At the end of the month, all we survived on was rice. Butter rice. Pepper rice. If we were lucky, a slice of government cheese on top of that rice. I remember the look on my grandmother’s face every time the lights got turned off. I was poor but never really felt poor. I knew or accepted really early in my childhood that we didn’t have much, so part of me decided that I should never ask or want for more and that would guarantee my happiness. I kind of still live my life that way. I have an apartment, but for the last year I slept on the floor. I tell myself it’s because the floor is more comfortable but it’s because I’m still sleeping on the floor in my own life. It’s that deep.

A funny thing happened the other day. I was at my ex’s apartment, mostly because I had no food at my place, but he was also broke. He was spending all his money to go on some big Carnival cruise. It was funny; he said he was cooking dinner, just rice. I asked, just rice, nothing else. Then he replied he loved rice. I almost screamed. I felt tears building up in my eyes. It had been like 15 years since I had just rice. I was thirty one years old, a grown ass man with no children, and I was still eating just Rice. I felt poor. "I still ate the damn rice." I felt as if I wasn’t getting anywhere in my life. Yes, I was in an apartment I really couldn’t afford. Yes, I went through all my savings taking off work to write that damn novel but only ended up drinking and eating a lot of Popeyes chicken. Gained like twenty pounds.

My entire life I never really wanted much. As a kid, I never cared for toys because I thought they were wasteful and broke too easy. I felt all I needed was a good book and I could get that for free from the library.

But it’s nothing like eating Rice on a Sunday night with less than a dollar in your checking account that reality is humble. It was some bullshit. I needed to budget better. They say 90 percent born in poverty, return to poverty. I wonder if I really got out. I now understand poverty is not about money, it’s about perception of one’s life. I will never be materialistic. I am a very cheap bastard.

Yet, i know one thing has changed. It’s what I feel I deserve. When I was a kid, I had to accept things I couldn’t control. I never really complained because I was grateful. Really grateful just to eat. But as a man, it’s not acceptable for me. I used to think that was pride. My grandma used to say don’t ever get caught up in pride. She said she had known people who have starved or got them selves killed because of their damn Pride. I don’t have pride, but now if I’m eating rice, I want it with some chicken and a biscuit damnit. I want to get a comfortable enough bed so I can get off my floor in my overpriced apartment. RISE.

Lil Wayne kissed a boy and he liked it

2008-09-07T18:45:00.000-07:00

Feeling fucking old because I'm five years older than MTV targeted audience. The Family guy on Fox was a rerun and on BET that every stereotype in the book "The Salon" was on. I just happened to flip on MTV that's because Vh1 was holding my Sunday shows hostage to bitch at me why I am not watching the MTV music awards. I was like what the fuck. I'm not watching because i was planning on seeing "New York" or whatever crap they have on which would've been so much better than the Jonas brothas.

That I kissed a girl wannabe was on, of course masterbating every heterosexual fantasy. At first i wasn't going to give in to but one night it somehow miracoulsy appeared on my Paradox, I guess because I was listening to Pink. Anyways, I did like the beat. It was fun. I also liked the lyrics, the girl seemed intelligent and feminist. But, why should i a black gay male give a fuck that she kissed a girl. I kissed a girl and I DIDN'T like it. She was drunk and her mouth seemed like she was trying to swallow my head. And then she stuck my hand in her pussy. I mean my entire hand!!!!! I got the hell out of there.

But the song "i kissed a girl" is so soft porn. I mean what girl hasn't kissed a girl. I'm sure all the president daughters kissed a girl. One of the nominees republican kids got pregnant. I think that would be a better more interesting song.

But i call it soft porn because it says nothing real. It she would've said i kissed a girl and ate her pussy to an upbeat, that would've shocked.

It's so lollipop. I hate the censored version of Lil Wayne's Lollipop especially when he says something about the girl pitting his nutt back in his mouth. I WAS HELLO. and to think he likes the handcops and ghetto BDSM scenes. I guess two guys singing about kissing each other is a little too gay for me but with a tight beat, i may be a little more intersted. for you old school girls, "police office, police offer, where is you Brother."

Re-born Virgin

2008-08-31T21:35:00.000-07:00

It’s been like a year since the last time I had sex. It wasn’t intention celibacy more that I had more important things to focus on. Also, the medication I was on completely took the urge away. Sometimes I would try to jack-off and I couldn’t get there. It was very frustrating so I first told my Sexual Addiction Group and they recommended me to tell my Doctor to lower the dosage. I decided to go off the drug and just take my antidepressant. The antidepressants make it hard to cum also but not so difficult like the antipsychotic. And when I climax on the antidepressants I swear I feel as if I’m going to pass out in the middle. It’s so fucking intense. But when I told my Doctor, he increased my dosage from, 25mg to 50mg. I still don’t know why he did that but I just split it in half so that I could get my OMG ejaculations.

It’s been like a year since I had sex. I almost had sex a month ago. Shit, I’ve been such a whore; I now feel the need lie to my friends not about my suddenly nonexistent sex life. They wouldn’t believe it anyway. I almost had sex a month ago. The guy had been hounded me for like three months. I finally figured it was like losing my virginity again. I just hated carrying baggage around like it meant something being celibate. It was just coincidence like self-imposed solitary. I hate a right hand and a dirty mind, so I wasn’t backed up. Actually getting myself off for a year was pretty damn cool. I didn’t have to worry about being good enough. I was always excellent even when it was bad and especially when it hurt.

So when I finally decided to attempt to make naked in front of another man, I wanted to get it over with as soon as possible. We met online so even after a year, it felt as if nothing had changed. His first mistake after I gave him my information, he was at my apartment in ten minutes. He said he lived on the other side of town. I thought it would be like an hour. The first thing I wished for was liquor. I felt I needed liquor. Fuck sobriety. I also needed poppers and weed. Maybe some meth. But I hadn’t done hard drugs in over a year, and the liquor stores were closed.

I wonder how I would act. I got so damn nervous. I defiantly didn’t feel sexy. I wasn’t for sure if I was even horny. I wanted sex so I could stop saying I was celibate. He got to the door. He wasn’t bad looking. I decided I wasn’t taking off my tank top cuz I didn’t feel like showing my Krespy Kreme stomach.

God it felt so strange. He was a stranger. We talked, but I’m not up for talking. Most of the time it’s just lies. So I said “get naked.” He took off his clothes. I really did care about the size of his dick, but he was average. I liked seeing dick up and personal instead of on a computer screen or TV. He was a nice guy. We play around. He sucked my nipples. But no kissing. And then he turned me over and started to eat my ass. That I loved. I hadn’t had my ass eaten in like two years. And despite the condoms lying next to him on the bed, he still attempted to stick his dick in me raw.

It pissed me off. It’s not that I hadn’t had raw sex. Shit, there was a time all I had was raw sex, because I liked how reckless it was, but I wasn’t so reckless anymore. So I turned over, and I wanted it. I did. Not for him but for me. I wanted him to care. I told him to leave. He looked shocked. He asked if he did anything wrong. I told him my mind wasn’t in the right place. I was better. He took that as I was saying I was better than him. I was moving too fast. Even if it had been a year, I was moving too fast. So he left, I locked my door and went to lie in my bed. I put in a video, jacked off and went to bed.

I know if I would’ve been drunk and high, I would’ve gone through with it and dealt with consequences later. But I was a better man. Trust, I still want the sex, I just don’t know how yet.

Mama, wherever you at, it's been 25 years

2008-08-31T14:38:00.000-07:00

i know, you know. I'm still standing here. I'm getting better.

John Edwards, you are the father!!!

2008-08-13T06:49:00.000-07:00

I love it when politicians get caught. Especially those wide smiled, left wing, I’m more perfect than god politicians who behind close doors are cruising in airport bathrooms and paying for sex with high class prostitutes.

If I voted, I would consider the politician who outright said I smoked a lot of weed in college and because my job required urine tests, I quit. I don’t want the half baked reply that I didn’t inhale. It’s like saying I sucked his dick but I didn’t breath through my nose. Or I spat it out, so it doesn’t count.

The latest Politician to get caught with his dick out is John Edwards. I remember when I first saw him, he reminded me of Ken from Barbie. He seemed a little too polished and that creepy smile like I’m father of year --I knew was so bullshit. All women swooned because he decided to stay with his wife during the hardship of Breast cancer but still used her inconvenience as a platform for his own personal agenda. He seemed like the perfect husband, father and politician. I knew he wasn’t. I knew behind that cosmetic bleached smile and highlighted blonde hair was a secret. I thought maybe he dressed drag on the weekends, or maybe he was an alien who performed alien probes on unsuspecting homeless people. Or maybe he liked little boys, but having an affair with a hot employee, that was too typical.

I would like John Edwards to go on the Maury Polvich show. I think they should have the blonde sexy mistress and the cancer stricken wife. They should shout obscenities towards each other and then show the child in question on the tv screen. It would be fun, when Polvich tells Edwards, you are the father, and the wife jumps up from her chair, slaps him and then runs to back and throws herself on the floor, crying and screaming. That would be awesome.

Then again, who can blame him for wanted some in-shape pussy. I mean, have you’ve seen his wife. I know she has cancer but I thought sick people got thinner not fatter. I’m just saying. And it’s interesting that all these women who get cheated on usually have let themselves go. I know we heard "but she had three children" -- so did Kelly Ripa and she’s a skeleton.

I think it should be a rule, if your wife doesn’t make your dick hard, cheat on her. But I say that with fair warning because I foresee some heavy black girl stomping through the yard, knocking me to the ground, “You told Harpo to cheat on me.” Anyways.

John Edwards you are the father!

Rest in Peace

2008-08-09T07:27:00.000-07:00

Bernie Mac dies from pneumonia. It’s not that I’m a fan but I had pneumonia twice this year. I knew I was very close to death the first time because breathing was hard and I had no energy. I remember when they sent the chaplain in my room. I was concerned, but thought it was just hospital procedure. I didn’t know the doctors didn’t think I was going to make it.

I remember the day before I started gettibg better that I could feel myself slip away. I was given a decision, to live or die. I could’ve just stopped fighting and give in to it. But I didn’t. I decided to live. I decided to get better.

I wonder if Bernie had a secret about his health. Hmmmmm

Jesus loves fags

2008-08-01T01:37:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: After writing "Who is Sean" I knew what I had to say about love, pain and addiction wasn't finished. I really don't consider myself a poet, but to finish exercising my demons poetry became my refuge. I just needed to finish the story now I feel I can move on from my youth. I ain't apologizing anymore. Jesus loves me.

Jesus love fags

Who cares?
I don’t
Why am I doing this?
Is so that my soul can be free
You see
I made it across the hard part
Now I got live with the decision
Cuz it wasn’t no way I was going to love
If I didn’t love myself
It sounds like bullshit
I know

And I want to say it wasn’t so hard
Once I learned to get out of my own way
And I want to say once I started to listen
Time didn’t seem so urgent
But love did
It sounds like bullshit
I know

I used to think I ruled the world
Or was I just its fool
I was here
What the fuck did I go looking for?
There
Trying not to be saved
Couldn’t save myself
I was at that party
At that club
Dancing on the dance floor
Sweat staining the tip of my jeans and underwear
Thinking I would be young forever
I was here
In dark corners flirting for erect favors
And the attention I didn’t get from my mama’s titie
On my knees, pants at ankles
Cruising parks
Sniffing poppers
Puffing cigarettes
At Man’s country, the spa
Follies in DC
Studs bookstore
Couldn’t be saved
Wasn’t trying to save myself
Thinking I’d be young forever
Early morning free clinics before work on Tuesday
I was there
Here
Painful shots in the ass for taking it up the ass
Couldn’t be saved
Wasn’t trying to save myself
In the hospital for two weeks
Then back at the drug house after discharge
Trying to charge
Youth is just another credit card
And the bill collectors were calling
Wasn’t trying to save myself
Couldn’t be saved
I was high
Smoking that 420, partying and playing 24/7
Up for four days
Drinking just to calm the nerves
On the streets
Asleep at the bus stop
Homeless
Can’t keep a job
Selling body for a hamburger
I was there
Here
Trying to be saved
Razor blade to the wrists
Didn’t think I could keep living that way I was
And I was right
So I died
Maybe it was the drug overdose
A bullet to the head
Found dead on the side of the road
My sister said I die of some fag disease
But I did die
Love killed me
Killed that life
I was here
And now I’m gone

***********************
Bathhhouse

The white towel hangs low on my hips
The cockring keeps the blood warm
My dick print teases hungry eyes
In the steam room
I reveal beaded sweat of nakedness
I part my legs on the bench
& wait for those brave enough to touch
I’m looking for touch
That’s why I paid twenty eight dollars
I want that fast love
No exchange of names
The fantasy
But it never works that way
Always a compromise
And it always feels like I’m waiting
For flirting eyes
I keep my door opened and lay on my stomach waiting
For creeping souls afraid of light
I stroke my dick
Waiting for a firm sloppy mouth
Waiting
And waiting
But it never comes
He just cums
I get off like a car that’s run out of gas
Waiting
and waiting
maybe next time
and they call my room # and try to decide if I want
to pay
another 28 dollars to wait some more
I beat my dick
slap its stubborn head around until it spills
the frustration of the wait
I decide to go home

***********************

I know I’m going to die
the Doctor at the hospital she was a bitch
they always give that same speech
I want to scream at her that I’m a grown man and don’t like lectures
but I need drugs
I want to feel clean again
she don’t understand I like to drink and get high
and I don’t always make the best decisions
she don’t understand I don’t always like myself
that I’m just a man
and I hate that feeling of failure in the daylight
I didn’t want to wake that morning with my dick leaking
and I still had to go to work
I knew I shouldn’t did what I did behind that building with that guy
but it was dark and I was high and my dick was hard
so I didn’t need the lecture
I needed the drugs
I’m going to die
I know that
probably of some stupid disease
rotting away in somebody’s hospital with bitch nurses
alone
because I’m a fuck up
I could never get it right
and I wonder if I could save myself
that after I get the drugs and clean again
if I could save myself
start over
but I’m never going to have a family
I want to scream at her that I’m gay
and I don’t believe in monogamy
and I like to drink and I don’t like rules
I’m just another tortured soul
So bored with my misery
damn I’m so bored I could just die
so I know I’m going to die
stupid and alone
just another tragic fag
so just give me the drugs to stop the leak
give me my breath
stop the night sweats
take the yellow from my eyes
heal whatever STD this is this time and tell no one
I don’t need the lecture

***********************

What do addicts dream?

I slice open the blunt with a razor
take out tainted tobacco and replace with green
baby shits in so many colors
I crush the crystal in powder because I lost my pipe
I part the coke with my credit card that bill collectors keep calling about
I filled the sprite bottle with vodka
I’m safe
for a moment

when I inhale the ghastly smoke
let the vodka tickle my throat
the meth tells me to give it everything
and I’m safe
because I’m dreaming
that life could be better

what do addicts dream?
I yell into the coke mirror
trying not to breathe so hard to blow away the powder
that’s my life
trying to not breathe to hard that I blow away

and when I’m high
that feeling that’s so numbing, that I feel nothing
just want to feel good
that’s what addicts dream
to be nothing

and I hate my mother
and I hate all those motherfuckers who gave up on me
and I hate so damn much these days
and then the tears swell
and I could feel myself feeling again
so I take another drink from the vodka
hit the blunt some more
snort the meth
and then I feel safe
like I’m in my cage
because the world is a cage
and if I don’t tweak
and they don’t’ see I’m so nervous
like the a dead man walking
maybe they will love me
maybe that’s what the addict dreams
to be loved

***********************
Raw

Should never stuck in it
But I was tired of playing it safe
I was nineteen
dark skin so drowning
ass a full moon
laying like a dead body on stains sheets at the bathhouse
he always had his door opened
inviting the wicked to his flame
the only guy I could fuck because I never saw his eyes
he was my nigga fall
I didn’t want to be real
he was like my rape when I was five years old
loved how he just took and never told
loved how he arched his back
wanted to be him
he was nobody like the used condoms on the floor
loved how he made me feel normal
when I fucked him, I always
gave him my babies
and when I finally saw his face
eyes like knives, lips like sandpaper
old like not too many years to celebrate birthdays
so I kissed him
wanted his death to take me to the grave
with him
but I was still too young

***********************
Looks how it shines for you

When I’m in love
I’m in love, so tragically
Write you love poems, bring you roses everyday
But when I hate, everything must end
Kick you out of my bed; tear up all your pictures
Plot murder
Everything about you must end

When I’m in love, we have romantic dinners
I try to be good, love you like Jesus would
But when I’m rejected
I’m the last circle of hell
Burn nigga
make sure the world knows you’re a fraud

so when I’m in love
I’m waiting to hate you

when I’m in love
I’m hold you close, play with your toes
cook you pancakes for breakfast
but when I think you leaving me
I call the landlord
take you off my lease, close the all the accounts, want you to starve to death

when I’m in love
I give you my wallet
try to buy you the world
but when I hate you
I want to destroy everything you were
get you fired from your job
thinking about killing you in your sleep
picks fights
bloody your nose
make you plot to kill me
fuck up your life like calling all your co-workers and tell them you a child molester

when I’m in love I think about our kids
us as old folks feeding the birds
but when I hate you
I’m not myself anymore
gave you too much

when I love you
don’t want to be your past mistakes
don’t want our happiness to be a lie
so when I love
I’m scared
because I need to survive you
everybody is always lying
they say shit and don’t mean
they act like there’s no consequence
they act like others don’t mean it

so when I’m in love
I’m waiting to hate you

***********************

The pretty tortured souls

they look so innocent
how can something so pretty ever hurt you?
be so destructive
somebody took his pride when he was eight
mama lost herself on crack
daddy got himself killed when he was five
nobody was there to protect, he was just another nigga sacrificed
so he fucked him hard behind a tool shed, he’s only been meat
grew up to be bought
nobody ever protected him
arrested development
somebody was always going to use him
they look so innocent like leopards
grew claws to get back at the world
even if he pays money he has to pay for past wrongs
somebody didn’t love
maybe that’s what attracts them, that pain in his soulful eyes
he sees the old man like death
didn’t have a relationship with men who grew up to be men
only had relationship with men who used, told himself he must use first
they drive around in their fancy cars; want to spend crisp ATM bills for fantasy
it’s like the zoo, don’t feed the animals
he’s so young and full of cum
the wild animals attract to kill
old men chasing footprints of their youth like picking out coffins
nobody is trying to get saved, what would Jesus do, get his dick sucked?
he’s so beautiful he must be slaved, too easy to love
we let the ugly ones die
he so starved not eating for days
he needs the money
until the ugly reveals itself
until the threat reveals itself
until the truth reveals itself
until he reveals himself
no more illusion
no more artificial
and then they leave when it gets too heavy
he got too deep
the pretty tortured soul drinks too much
can’t be control, throws fits
he hits and curses and destroys
he can’t be control
the pretty can’t just be hung up on a wall
everything rots

***********************
Tina hit a three in the morning

he says gay men are all the same
we need the addictions
that we all drink or do drugs
I was thinking he was just talking about people like us
the others lie
try to pretend they don’t go to bathhouses, weren’t getting fucked on camera at Blkatino
aint picking up the trade boys
too many saying keep my secret that I’m a HIV counselor but don’t wear a condom
I got to his house and he had porno on all the televisions
the fuck music basing in the background
I was just trying to get high
ran out of liquor decided I needed drugs
he says gay men are all the same
I was just thinking how he was gong to get my dick hard

***********************

Fisted

change
maybe I wanted to be changed
it was kink
thought it was just the next level
already been pissed on
first time tasted like purple
laid on my back legs opening like I was giving
birth to myself
he said he could show me
something different like the conspiracy
a whore virgin I said cool, thinking there were no more doors
I took a hit of “I don’t want another hero”
my water broke, or was that him pissing on my hole
the cold jlube ice cube
the strange sound of Crisco lubing hands bawling to fight
feeling filed down fingers
he said breathe

so intense, I think I’m losing my breath
reminds me of the first time I was fucked
thinking he’s never going to get that in me
and then the robbery
felt myself stretch like I was going to break
but remembering flesh isn’t glass
asking him to stop and then start over
but he said he couldn’t, there’s only one window like time traveling
feeling myself push out the wound
and I hate my mother
felt the knuckles push pass the resistance
I took a sniff of poppers
and he was in
my body re-calibrating
my mind trying to fight it
my body not trusting it
my soul wanting it
he pulls out, and I cry like a new born baby
this is my life now
I don’t hate my mother anymore
I’ve been fisted
The story of my life
But this time it felt good

***********************

He lied

He used to make it look so easy
Like it would never hurt you
The marathon sex parties
The drugs
Life was no rules
But it was all a lie

Tim
he doesn’t understand that I’m trying to change
I got syphilis the last time
at his raw sex party
got spots on my body I have to explain
and he was the first person to introduce to me the drugs
and I wanted to be free
but didn’t know that was suicide
and I’ve always been a fucked up
and they always expected that of me
but I was once the hot boy
and now I’m the leopard
leprosy

Tim
the last time I saw him
we got high on “I don’t want another hero”
two lost souls the world had forgotten
he said he was in the hospital for year
he called his mother and she blocked the phone number
he almost died, alone
I guess that’s gay

and I remember my uncle in the back of my grandmother’s room
nobody was to touch him
he had AIDS at the end of the eighties
all those he dance with on the floor, disappeared
those he rode in the convertibles with their hair blowing in the wind
abandoned
all those said they would love his beautiful youth forever
got old
most gay men are cowards
that’s why we die so easily
and don’t we all go home
back in that dark room we so tried to escaped
isn’t gay life just about being used and used?
and the family we needed to get away
that which we thought wouldn’t accept us
bury
I don’t want to die alone
trust me all the fucking compliments never keep you warm
when your temp is a 105

Tim called to read me his obituary
he didn’t really had nothing to say
it was more like a kid begging his parents to love him
just dates nothing why he lived
I hung up the phone in face
The next week I found myself in a mental hospital

I used to think
when I died when I was old
didn’t think that would be thirty years old
and it’s not a moral lesson
fuck the PSA
when I thought when I died
I would think of all the sexy men I fucked
and that would give me peace
but the truth when you’re dying
you think of all the sexy men that fucked you over
the ones that lied
the ones to coward to say anything
that you didn’t say anything
nobody wants to die
even the suicidal
nobody said anything

Tim
he’s like the devil calling
I get online and I’m not really looking
I told him I was clean now
He laughed; told me to come over, quit my lies
I told I would come over but never showed up
A month later he called again
I told him I was sober and working
He said it wouldn’t last
I missed him
I thought we were more than just drug addicts
Six months later he called and just rambled
I listened
I told him I was still sober
I gave him a number to call if he wanted
He stopped calling me
I am waiting Tim
It looks hard in the beginning
But every dick goes soft and we always have to come back to reality
Call me when you’re ready

***********************
one last time

it’s always one last time
like one last breath
play and be serious tomorrow
but tomorrow never comes
I’m constantly lying to myself
maybe I am an addict

***********************
Wild Eyes

I thought of you the other day
in the mirror
saw your reflection
as I fired up my meth pipe and inhaled bitter smoke
I had your eyes
those wild eyes like a car crash and nobody survived
I wondered if you would’ve been proud
or just want a hit from my pipe
I wondered if I would’ve shared
mommy and son getting high together
maybe sister can share too since she lost her baby to the courts
we could take a picture for the Christmas card
and then I laughed because I’m a grown man with my own problems
and I always knew what you did in that bathroom alone
because you always had those wild eyes
My wild eyes made me feel closer to you
As I sat in the bathroom alone firing up my pipe
Trying to figure out
If I had a problem
Because I didn’t recognize myself anymore
I wanted to be sober

***********************
ACT II, I ain't apologizing

When they ask
I’m going to say
I just got tired
Staring into that mirror at the State mental hospital
Eyes red, hair wild
Bandages on my wrists from self mutilation
I just got tired
It was that simple
I had enough of punishing

my mother

the rape

my family

me
I forgot what the fight was even about

I just realized I wasn’t the person staring back at me in the mirror
they told me i was the demon

that i was crazy

tried to over medicate me

i tried to to medicate me

but i wasn't that demon

just pocessed

and that day i finally saw him in the mirror

scared the shit out of my like finding the monster under the bed is real

i then knew i could heal

I wasn't crazy

I can’t say one day I woke up and just starting loving myself
Love isn’t a destination
Happiness isn’t a destination
I guess I woke up and decided to respect myself a little
I changed my mind

I haven’t made it to heaven
I just got across the hard part
Now I must live with the decision
To not die today
That’s all

So I ain’t saying I changed
Lord knows how many times I’ve said that bullshit
But I no longer lose my soul after the first drink
Just got it out of the pawnshop
Plan to keep it this time around

I haven’t learned a damn thing.

2008-07-30T07:04:00.000-07:00

It’s been a year since I started my so called “recovery.” Since that time I spent a month in program. I went to AA and stayed sober for 90 days. And then started relapsing like crazy. I quit AA because I couldn’t deal with all those boring people and their boring stories and feeling like I wanted to drink more every time I left a meeting. Actually quitting AA helped my drinking a lot. I did less.

In the past year I’ve been fired from five jobs mostly due to illness. I was in the hospital five times this year. It was like once I gave up the drugs and alcohol my body went into shock. It was as if the addictions were keeping me alive or oblivious that my body was falling apart.

This past year I also started my mental illness medication. That was a rollercoaster ride. In the beginning, they had me on seroquel and I don’t recommend it. I also had to change my therapist because I felt she wasn’t listening to me. I wasn’t getting the help I need. I went on so many anti-depressants and anti-psychotics. I kind of felt like a lab rat. It was ironic because the meds seemed to drive me more insane. I finally got a dosage my mind and body could handle. I finally feel somewhat balance.

I guess in reflection, I am still somewhat crazy. I still get drunk but not as often. I still fight to control it but I know deep down I just wanted to slow down not actually quit. I managed to slow down so I’m happy for now.

I am also happy I got my bipolarism and depression under control. I hated the depression. It’s so consuming. I haven’t thought about killing myself in months. I guess that’s progress.

I’m ready to move one with my life, focus on something different than my issues. I still feel very strongly about addictions and mental illness. It’s been really therapeutic talking about my issues this past year and if I bored anybody out there, go suck on it.

Now, back to the regular program.

Am I addicted to poppers?

2008-07-24T12:47:00.001-07:00

I knew I was going to get attitude. Every week I go into the same bookstore owned by this hippie looking Asian guy. He is usually cool but he does watch you like a hawk as if I might steal something. On Tuesday, I was in a rush; I just ducked in and got my popper. I asked specifically for Jungle Juice plus the big bottle. I’ve tried pretty much every popper there is, but I like Jungle Juice the best. I didn’t notice until I got home that he had given me the wrong poppers. He gave me Jungle Juice platinum. There is a major difference. The latter sucks, it’s not as strong but it gives you less of a headache. I don’t like Jungle Juice platinum. I don’t like the smell and it really doesn’t do anything for me.

So the next day I decided to take the poppers back. I knew I had opened it because I didn’t notice the difference until it was too late. I thought about just keeping it, but poppers are fucking expensive and I didn’t want to just throw twenty five dollars away. I decided to take the poppers back.

Of course I knew he was going to give me attitude. It was a very bold thing for me to do. I didn’t care. It took about twenty minutes of us arguing before the bastard finally decided to give me the right poppers. The customers in the store looked at me like was it really that serious. Yes, it was that damn serious. I’m serious about my damn poppers.

I do need to leave them alone.

Letting myself go

2008-07-22T19:05:00.001-07:00

My therapist told me I was letting myself go. I guess cuz I showed up at her office in flip flops, gym shorts with stains on them and a torn t-shirt. I really didn’t want to go to therapy that day but was out of my meds. I haven’t cut my hair in three months or shaved or brushed my teeth. Well I figured rinsing out with Listerine was enough. It wasn’t like I was trying to impress anybody.

I was walking down the street and a friend passed me right up. I knew he wasn’t being shady. I called out his name and at first he just looked at me like I was some social terrorists. Then he looked deeper and realized it was me. He seemed shocked. It was as if I had become some crackhead. I was just going to the grocery store I didn’t feel like getting pretty.

Actually I haven’t felt like getting pretty in a long time. In a way I kind of felt that my looks betrayed me. I hated being good looking. I really did. I hated strangers constantly stopping me on the streets. I hated that stupid question, are you a model. I hated how some guys I knew became so possessive. I hated that my best friend was secretly jealous and often took it out inconveniently that’s why we aren’t friends anymore. I felt like being good looking was a curse that I wanted to get rid of. And maybe that’s why I got into so many fights, trying to get bruises on my face, ugly myself up. I hated jealous bitches always wanting to start something for no reason. I know some people would say, being good looking should be a good thing and looks don’t last. Yes, they don’t last so why waste my time obsessed with it. When you’re good looking people like to see you age. They are waiting for the flaws. They say shit like he used to be as if they owned something.

I agree, looks will get you in a lot of places. I didn’t pay rent for ten years. I got into clubs and went on vacations for free. I did modeling and some acting, but all that was professional. I didn’t want to be a professional good looking person. I didn't feel like the upkeep. I figure if i get fat one day, i will just start one hell of a porn collection. I think sometimes we all should just let go. I see those make-over shows and you know the person goes back to looking like their tired self in about a month. I ain't Tyson Beckford. I got a gym membership but only used it to go to the bathroom.

But I had a moment the other day. I had to wake up early to go to the post office and then I was off to McDonalds. I grabbed my change cup filled with quarters, nickels and pennies because I didn’t want to use cash. I like to make the fast food workers use their math skills. It’s my way of giving back to society. Anyways, I just jumped out of bed, my hair all wild, slipped on my flip flops and a dingy t-shirt and went to the post office. At McDonalds I was in line counting my change when I realized that I might’ve looked homeless. It was a surreal feeling. I asked myself if I cared that the cashier was being an extra bitch and turning up her nose like I stank, which I did cuz I hadn’t put on deodorant in like a week or took a bath. I wanted to scream at her that I graduated college, had an apartment and in 2004 and 2005 I was hot boy of the week. But it didn’t matter. I was hungry and just wanted my food.

I got home, and after eating my food I decided to shower, brush my teeth, shave and cut my hair. I shaved my entire body and splash myself with my favorite cologne. I felt clean and pretty and like a sell out.

I haven’t let myself go. I let myself out of that damn gay box of gyms, designer knock-offs. I’m not pretty, never wanted to be pretty. I wanted to be tough, dirty, messy fingernails, maybe a black eye and a couple of missing teeth. That’s how I see myself. I see myself as cockeyed and snaggle tooth and you're still going to love me.

Smile, bitch

2008-07-16T17:55:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my horoscope can be on the mark. Today it said "Don't be impatient with yourself right now. It takes time to learn something new."

Funny, it couldn't be more true trying to recover.

Sex change

2008-07-16T17:35:00.000-07:00

I’m making the decision today to change my sex sites internet profiles. I really don’t use the internet to hook up as much as I used to. Actually I haven’t had a hook-up from the internet in over a year. What changed?

First, I guess I got tired of the energy it took. I would sit there with my cocktail and just go back ad forth from one site to the other, hoping for something tasty. I usually didn’t get tasty but fat and desperate, and as the day dragged on, I realize I had been sitting in front of my computer screen for hours, sometimes days especially when I was doing crystal meth. It seemed so unnecessary. I knew I could be out in the sun, at a movie, hanging with friends, instead I was feverlishly looking for sex. I started to dislike myself. I felt addicted.

Funny, every day I check my sex site messages. I guess it’s like checking my yahoo messages. Every day I sign on to all my sex sites. I’m not really looking, I guess I’m just seeing if anyone is looking for me. It feels good to get messages. I like the attention. It’s not about sex but the pic I have up is sexual. I laid across the bed buck naked. I know to a stranger it conjure pornographic fantasies. I’m selling sex but not really looking. I get all kind of crazy replies. They say stupid shit like “I could ride that all night” or “me and my boys are looking to cum bang that” or “I bet you can take some good dick.” Even if all the above is true, I’m not always in the mood. I feel guilty for have logged on because I don’t want to be a tease.

So what is my problem? I guess for me it’s all changed. A friend of mine hit me up the other day and he said he had been having a sex orgy for a week. He wanted me to join. I had no desire. I was’t the ho I used to be I guess. I couldn’t think of anything more boring than going to a sex orgy. I also knew he was lying about how many guys were coming over. They never show up and I’d just be at his house, getting high and trying to look for sex online. I didn’t want to waste the time. It’s all fantasy. I guess that’s the problem. Even gay men lie about their so called hot hook-ups. They exaggerate. I’ve exaggerated. But really, most of the time my online hookups sucked.

So what is my problem? I guess I’m trying to decide if I still want to play the game. I guess I’m trying to decide the new direction in my life. I was reading this book about energy and it really got me to thinking. I wanted to stay conscious of the type of energy people bring into my life and what I give out into the world. It’s said people either take or give energy. I never understood that more until I was in the hospital. I was sick and needed to recover but hospitals can sometimes be madness. They come in and just start poking, checking blood pressure and temptature, asking the same damn questions over and over again and making incorrect assumptions that constantly need correcting. And nurses were like one night stands, most of them just doing their shifts, rushing into the room to take blood or vital signs or give pills, but it was their energy with each nurse that affected me getting better. Some nurses were just bitches, they came in entitled like just because they went to nurse school for two months they were experts or something. They didn’t look you in the eye, they grabbed your arms aggressively, or where at little too aggressive, they ruined your entire mood for that five minutes. They came in and took energy because I went from sick to angry to frustrated to hopeless and depressed. I would feel so weak after those nurses left having to argue about my medication or something stupid. That I didn’t want the windows opened. That I didn’t want to walk around but sleep.

And then there were nurses who brought me energy. He came into the room and smiled. Who explained to me my medication. Who when I asked for a bucket of ice didn’t like at me like I just spit in their face. I felt safe when those nurses left. I felt rejuvenated and that would make me want to get out of bed. It would make me want to get better.

I know I probably just rambled there for a second but I guess that’s how I’m beginning to see my sex life. I’ve become aware of the type of energy people bring into my life and if it’s stealing or giving to me. I’ve had hook-ups that just drained my energy. Nothing went right and when the person left I would feel depleted. I’d never want to see that person again. And I’ve had hook-ups that were just beautiful. The person gave me energy because they showed up with no bullshit. They looked me in the eyes. There was a connection.

So what is my problem? What about me? I have to first recognize the type of energy I’m advertising. I guess my energy used to be just sex. It was that of a lost soul. I put up a lot of walls. I guess my energy had always been that of mistrust so I attracted a lot of bastards I couldn’t trust.

Honestly, I need to accept that I’m no longer looking for fast love. I’ve someone become a romantic. I’m looking for sexual rejuvation. But what happens when I get horny? I got no where with this blog. I just talked myself into a circle.

please stop falling down drunk

2008-07-15T18:25:00.001-07:00

2008-07-15T18:10:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1FchXXDs84

Uncomplicated

2008-07-15T16:06:00.000-07:00

Well I know i often make my life more complicated than it should be. I don't really try, i guess it's part procastination, nonchalance and laziness. I'm very lazy. I mean I'm like fungus lazy, just lay there until someone notices that i probably don't belong.

Life really don't have to be that complicated. I try to remember that when i get overwhelmed especially with all the problems I'm having with my ex. I tell myself to just walk away which is really hard because i want to be right. I want him to know that i was right. But now i just look at him and think to myself what am I winning. It's obivious i already lost, so i decide to not make it more complicated. I just go quiet.

I think life becomes complicated when we stop paying attention, get lazy and then suddenly we're drowning. I think life becomes complicated when we think we're smarter than the truth. I think life gets complicated when we try to take shortcuts. I know for sure there are no shortcuts.

Why am I still here?

2008-07-13T22:54:00.000-07:00

It seems lately my blog has been about my ex. I guess for the tenth year breaking up is still hard to do. I mean we have been breaking up for fucking ten years and it’s nerve wrecking. Our relationship went from New Orleans where we met, to Chicago where I lived with him, to a long distance relationship when I moved back to Texas and then I moved to New York and then I moved back to Chicago with him and then I left him and moved back to Texas for Grad School and then I moved back to Chicago to be with him and then we broke up again and I moved back to Texas and then he moved to DC and a year later I moved to DC to be with him again.

Actually we living in DC has been the longest we’ve been together. I think its five years. Well, actually I didn’t move to DC to be with him, I moved because I had no where else to go. I love him, lord knows I do, but the fucking merry go round is enough to make me want to really hurt him physically.

Lately we’ve been arguing a lot. Actually I think the last year has been the worse of our arguments. He’s been distance, bored, detached, don’t want to touch or be touched. He looks at me like he just wants me to disappear but can’t find a place to hide my body yet. I look at him as judgmental, he always got something to say, he’s so fucking routine, that I should stay at my apartment more because he has too many rules for his damn apartment. It’s like living with your grandfather. I don’t need him. Those days are over. I used to need him financially because I was unemployed but that has changed.

The other night he wanted to argue because I decided to go to the bar which I’ve been doing a lot lately. He said he didn’t want me to come home drunk. OF course I was coming home drunk. He doesn’t like me drinking in the house. He says I get to talking and won’t shut up. He’s right. I guess I’m that cliché drunk. I like my rum and coke and start listening to music and suddenly I got an opinion on everything. I like to talk. I know it annoys the hell out of him because I’m disturbing his computer time of downloading porn all damn day. That’s all he does lately is download porn and illegal movies and music. It’s like he’s waiting to die or something. He just goes to work, come home, get on the computer, stay there until bed time, go to sleep on the couch, wake up, go to work and do the same thing everything day. He doesn’t want to go out; he hates restaurants, move theaters or anything with crowds of people. He doesn’t go to concerts because he says I just complain the entire time, which is true.

And we don’t have sex. We haven’t had sex in years. I always found him boring in bed, like it was a waste of my time. In the beginning I guess the sex was okay, but he wouldn’t grow. He wanted to do the same thing over and over again. Of course that led to WW3 with him. I first ignored then and then it just got insulting. I mean, there is more than one sexual position and he was so damn stubborn about it. He just refused change. IT was his way or no way. So it was no way and I started cheating.

Considering our arguments from the last couple of month, he is right, “Why am I still here?” I have my own apartment, I take care of myself, and there really isn’t any need to just hang around. I used to consider him my friend, like my best friend. I don’t really have any other friends anymore especially in DC. It’s just been us for the last five years. I do everything with my ex. I can’t just stop.

I guess what I can’t get through my head is that he doesn’t consider me his best friend. I think I just go that.

Breaking up is so hard to do. I can’t imagine what divorce would be like especially with kids. It’s enough to avoid love. Why do we fall in love? I’ve had this happen to me before and it took so damn long for me to get over it.

Damn, I just want him to act right, act like he used to act, why did he have to go and change. I just want to act right, be whatever he wants me to be without too much compromise and I went and changed.

And for your question “T*****” I’m still here because I don’t know how to leave. I mean I try. I try to put one foot in front of the other and it’s just like a dog chasing his tail. I keep going round and round. And then I’m also scared to leave because the second I do something will happen and I am back.

It’s like death. When my best friend Mita died it was hard in the beginning. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t be with her anymore. I couldn’t hug or kiss her anymore. I missed her physically. I couldn’t just pick up the phone and call. I had to learn to live without her because she wasn’t there, anywhere only in my mind and dreams. But with my ex, he is still there. I can touch him but don’t. I can call him. He will pick up the phone but I can’t do it. It seems so stupid to me.

Somebody once said, the most difficult part of life is dealing with all the loss. One day he will look up and not have to ask why I’m not there, because I won’t be there. But I will always be there.

blame it \o me

2008-07-13T03:16:00.000-07:00

tonight my feelings were so hurt and i don't understand why he would do that. i mean, the information he has, maybe he's not smarter emotionally than a fifth grader.

so it's supposed to be about how others thinks they know where you going. We're just going to die. I'm so fucking angry right now.

Round and Round

2008-07-10T17:57:00.000-07:00

Last night I found myself passed out in front of the Smithsonian Art Building downtown. Well I went out to the bar which I haven’t been in like seven months. I don’t go out on Wednesdays anymore because I always felt it was too much drama. Anyways, I decided to go out because I was bored and I just gotten fired the week before and I had nothing to do the next day.

I told myself before I went out that I wasn’t going to get drunk. I was only to take five dollars with me because the drinks were free from 10-11, but I ended up grabbing a twenty out of my wallet, just in case. I didn’t want to be stuck at the bar wanting a drink and not being able to have a drink. I guess that was my first mistake.

My thing with drinking these days is the type of liquor. I used to cheap the cheapest crap I could find. It wasn’t until I started drinking what I would consider quality rum that the hangovers weren’t so bad. I went back to Bacardi because it seems to agree with my body more, but is still not say I don’t overdo it. But cheap liquor I find dangerous. It’s that rotgut, it makes you crazy. I guess that was my second mistake last night was the cheap liquor at the bar. Of course my limit of just four drinks turned to about ten drinks. I started feeling good. I wasn’t angry or anything. I fought feverously the voices in my head that begged for me to start something stupid shit like a fight. Of course by the end of the night, I was failing miserably trying to be a decent drunk. I got into some arguments with some idiots. It was as if I picked up where I left off the last time I was at the bar. I thought I had changed.

I guess that was my main problem last night realizing that even after almost of year of disappearing from the scene, I came back and nothing had change. It was the same people. I mean some of them had gotten a little fatter or older but in the dark and cocktails it was like time was still. I seemed to be really upset that nothing had evolved. I don’t know what I was looking for. I guess I was looking to see how much I changed hadn’t been away for so long in AA meetings, therapy and recovery. But it was so easy to go back when I started drinking. I didn’t want to feel like I didn’t belong anymore. The bar used to be my friend and I missed it.

I was in the bathroom and I was staring in the mirror when a bunch of young queens burst in the door. The stood behind me as I washed my hands. I just happened to look up and see their youthful faces clash with my aging eyes. I guess when they looked in the mirror they just saw their perfect smiles, small waistline, not the truth. They were young, the truth would come later. I stared in the mirror and realized how much time has passed staring into that mirror. I’ve seen myself in the mirror for five years. I seen me desperately try to hold on to the frivolousness of youth but time is sober. I remember smiling in that mirror behind the young queens and I knew I was no long part of that reality anymore. I was just an aging drunk. I had become the old man.

I left the bar and head home. I felt conflicted. I was still in the transition trying to figure where I belonged in the black gay community again. When I was younger, it was because I was young and cute and others acted like that was enough. It wasn’t enough. I thought to myself I should be happy with my life because not once did I have to flirt for a drink, not once did I feel as if I had anything to prove but I was still lonely. I guess that was what it was, I was lonely. Old men don’t find comfort so fast because no one is trying to save them.

I got home and I just wanted to cuddle up with my ex. I remember when it used to feel as if he was holding me back, that I felt he was ruining my sex life pushing the monogamy thing. Now, I sometimes can’t wait to get to him. The world isn’t so easy for me anymore. I just want to get home because I know at least one person still sees me. When I got home, I was drunk and convinced myself I was angry. I didn’t know why. I guess I felt my ex hadn’t been paying me enough attention. When I got out of my clothes and got in bed with him I could feel him stiffened like someone covering their nose from a stench. I probably reeked up liquor. I lay next to him naked, pulled him closer but he refused. He woke up and yelled at me that I was drunk. He wasn’t in the mood. I got pissed off. I felt that he should just accept the situation, that all I was going to do was passed out. But he wanted to argue about it. I decided to get up and get dress and go to my apartment. But it was three o’clock in the morning which meant I was going to have to wait until the Metro opened. I got dressed and left. I was so pissed. All I wanted was some damn affection. I didn’t find in the bar. I didn’t find it with my ex. So I got downtown and the Metro was closed. I went to the steps of Smithsonian to just wait it out. I passed out on the step. The six o’clock morning sun woke me up. And then suddenly it all seemed so stupid again. I knew I was going to have to apologize to my ex. I decided to go back to his apartment and go to sleep. For him, it was just another night. For me, it was the desperation of change and not knowing exactly how to handle it. The life I knew had ended, I was somewhere in limbo.

Still sober

2008-07-09T09:19:00.001-07:00

When I was a kid I used to think not having parents was the greatest thing. It was like living in ghetto “Neverland Ranch.” It was as if I was Peter Pan, never to grow up. I didn’t know it was a curse.

Yes, my father died with I was five and mother was never there, but in the beginning I flourish in independence and what I thought was freedom that is until system stepped in and the government wasn’t going to just let an eight year old boy run around in the world like a chicken with its head cut-off. I moved from foster to orphanage until finally my mother decided to drop me off at my father’s family. It was such a shock to the system I’ve still haven’t fully recovered.

Anyways, when I finally decided to run away at fifteen years old, all of my friends thought I was so cool because that meant I would have no parents. I guess Peter Pan had become a teenager. I never really understood what they meant by parents. I never had any real Sense of a mother or father, I just had my survival. I made no formal attachments to anything. My trust had already been ruined.

I’ve found this new guy named Wayne Dyer, “the father of motivation.” He has written over thirty books and lives in Maui. For some reason, I felt a connection to him accidentally finding him at four in the morning surfing the internet because I couldn’t sleep. I was so amazed how our stories were so similar. I mean he grew up in the depression, his father abandoned and he was also left with the rage of abandonment. He talked about the day he finally visited his father’s funeral after decades how he stomped on the grave, how he used to have dreams of punishing his father, picking a fight, needing to release that insufferable disappointment and what once felt like a personal attack on his existence.
But suddenly he just let go. He realized I guess that his life, his addiction, his pain was about finally learning to forgive. I say he finally realized his own responsibility. He was no longer Peter Pan. It was no longer cool to have grown up without parents because a major lesson wasn’t transferred that we’re just human.

I remember my mother this morning. I have no idea where she is or if she’s even alive. I haven’t seen her in almost ten years and then I didn’t speak. I used to have a picture of her but I burned them. I think of her this morning because it is as if I’m waiting to hear that she died so that I could finally forgive her or stomp on her grave. It amazes me that after all this time that the hurt child still resides in me. I don’t want to be Peter Pan anymore. I never did. It was a lonely life trying to convince trying to always be so strong when I was just a kid myself. That I wanted my mama and daddy. That I just wanted to feel safe.

I mean to meet Wayne Dyer one day because he is one of the first self-help professionals I feel really understands the real issues I’ve struggled with. God knows I’ve been resolving a lot of problems in my life, especially having to deal with all the decisions I made in my twenties. The healing has not been a fairytale cuz I found just because I stopped drinking didn’t mean my life got better. And then I tried to be slick and go back to drinking thinking I could take up where I left off and that didn’t work because I was already aware. I learned dealing with my mental health was no excuse for past or future behavior and I am mostly accountable. Nothing really changed when I got sober except I started to hear people around. Before when I was a raging addict, I couldn’t see or hear anything around me. I had no idea what others really thought about me or if I even cared. It turned out when I got sober I did care. That was the hardest part for me, accepting that I cared what others thought about me when I knew I’ve done a lot of embarrassing and unexplainable things.

Anyways, I don’t want to ramble on that. I just feel I’m at a point in my life where the mountain cracked and the hills fell down. I want to see what’s on the other side. I understand the law of attraction now.

Sitting on the dock of the bay

2008-07-09T00:45:00.000-07:00

Wow, sitting up in the hospital having my kidneys flushed because of some bad medication I realize that it's been sixteen years since I've run away from home. I used to hate saying that i ran away, more like to think I just moved out at five o'clock in the morning without nobody knowing. I still remember that day like yesterday. The decision was final like escaping Alcatraz or something.. I was so damn scared. I had no idea where i was going or if it would accept me. I just wanted out. Living where i was living was like pure suffication. I felt as i was starving everyday. It wasn't my intent to hurt anyone,, I just needed to get out. I look at some fifteen year olds who run away, the street kids knowing that once i was one of them and sometimes i know it's tragic but in thier hearts they are free. I know that freedom. It's a hard freedom. I remember David this really beautiful boy back in Texas who parents kicked him out at thirteen years old. He was dead ten years later from HIV and drug overdose. He didn't survive that hard freedom. I sometimes wonder why I did. Now that i'm thirty one years old, i accept that fact i ran away from home. It means that i didn't deal with the issues why i was running. Well it's actually taken about fifteen years to deal with those issues, to get clarity, to try to heal.

I don't regret it. It was the best decision of my life. I don't think you're too young to not know what you're doing. I think you just have to follow your heart. I say to all those kids packing their bags and heading out to the big bad world at thirteen years old or seventeen years old, help is there if you need but you can't RUN from your past forever.

Happy Father's day

2008-06-16T13:57:00.001-07:00

Bored at work as usual, I was surfing the internet and ran across the website “the daily voice.” I didn’t even know father’s day was yesterday. I started reading all the different entries from black gay men on their fathers and I couldn’t relate.

I don’t care about father’s day because mine died when I was five years old. I remember that I didn’t like him. I thought he was an asshole. I also remember that he didn’t like me much. He thought I was too effeminate. I sometimes wonder if he had lived what type of relationship would we have had. I am his first born son.

I like to fantasize that my father would’ve saved me from many years of abuse, foster care systems and my mother being addicted to crack. But the truth, my father was kind of the reason my mother first started smoking crack. I don’t know the whole story just what relatives tell me. The truth, if my father had lived he probably would've been another deadbeat dad. I mean, he had like ten other kids by ten other women. I remember when he was alive, he was never around.

As I gotten older, I think more about my father. When I turned twenty seven years old I knew that was the same age in which he died. He was still so young. Growing up I always wanted that male figure in my life: somebody to protect me, teach me about sports, and teach me to ride a bike or tie a tie for an important interview. I learned most of that stuff on my own. Growing up, I guess I wanted my father to teach me how to be a man. I know he probably just taught me how to be a criminal. It’s the sad truth. I just wish my father could’ve been a better man and then he wouldn’t had gotten himself shot in the head. Happy Father’s day dad.

Today is a good day

2008-06-10T18:06:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine said he was reading old blogs of mine and noticed that I’ve been going through recovery since 2005. I laughed. I call those the crazy years. Actually I didn’t start recovery until September of 2007 and didn’t get serious about it until January 2008.

I believe everyone goes through their own journey in recovery. I used to think it was about being fixed. I understood why Amy Winehouse rebelled about not going to rehab. I just thought the world wanted to change me and I didn’t want to change. I thought I was having fun. I didn’t want to become lame or conformed. Everybody would say that I needed to get some help but I thought that just meant they wanted me to be somebody else’s problem.

I find it funny when I see celebrities on television boast about how much sober time they accumulated like Tatem Oneil running to an AA meeting after she was busted for trying to score crack. I think it would’ve been wiser to have gone to the meeting before the crack run. I don’t believe rehab or AA is the “save all” unless the person seeking enlightment and freedom from their addiction is willing to surrender their ego and deal with the real issues.

I used to think it was about the alcohol, the physical bottle and that tempting liquid inside. I never really got passed the first step in AA because I never believed that I was powerless against alcohol. It wasn’t like somebody was holding a gun to my head. Yet, I do believe alcohol affects people differently. I know I can’t just have one drink. I know it takes a longer time and more alcohol for me to really feel it and by that time I’m already drunk. But I have never been powerless. The fact that I can stay sober for good periods of time is a testament of my power. I understand the pitfalls. Yet, they are the urges and some days the voice is louder than others. I learned what my triggers are and how to be preventive.

I guess I started blogging about my addiction as a reminder of where I’ve been and how far I’ve come. Yes, I still drink occasionally. I still working on it. But I haven’t lost my sanity. I used to drink with no knowledge or introspectiveness. It’s like having a disease and knowing nothing about it. First, I think it’s the diagnosis and then it’s the recovery.

Who cares

2008-05-27T09:52:00.001-07:00

This past weekend was black gay pride and I couldn’t help but ask myself, “Who cares.” I really wasn’t in the mood to mingle this year. I wasn’t promoting a book. I didn’t want to see old faces that probably tell me I gained weight or I’ve gotten older. The entire thing actually felt depressing to me. I wanted to stay as far away as possible.

As I lay up under the covers I couldn’t understand why I was so bothered. I guess because black gay pride brings up issues. It’s like having a high school reunion every year.
I thought about my life and how much it had changed from a year ago. I no longer speak to half of the people I was friendly with a year ago. I changed so much. I’m not as crazy. Yet for the first time in my life I didn’t feel good enough. I used to rely on my looks but those are also fading. I feel myself becoming one of those bitter drunks.

Yet, after a day of self-loathing, I decided to pick myself off the floor and clean my apartment. I felt a certain sense of self-empowerment as I scrubbed the toilet and bathtub. It was like I could finally see my life. I felt in my twenties there were too many distractions. There was the starving trying to look like the magazines. There was the promiscuous sex trying to find love and acceptance in all the wrong places. There was the over drinking trying to drown my insecurities. But alone in my apartment just making the bed I felt like I was finally home. Shit, I had nothing to prove to anybody. Somebody once told me that getting older was learning to deal with lost.

I need to start learning to look at my life different.

Understanding the truth.

2008-05-20T16:16:00.001-07:00

The American idol finale is coming on tonight. I know I need to go home but I’m afraid because I know I will drink. No witnesses. But I’ve been thinking about that no witnesses delusion because when you become a alkie, there are always witness. Shit, alkies go out and find them. Yea it would be great if I didn’t get on the phone, email or go outside and nobody new, but I guess that wouldn’t make me an alkie.

Anyways, the need for me to drink is really about routine. Back in the day on the show’s I love finales, I always drank with friends. But that was years ago. The friends are gone. If I go home, I’d be drinking by myself. I get that now. I’m not drinking tonight no matter what.

Buying liquor at ten o’clock in the morning

2008-05-19T13:22:00.000-07:00

She never apologized. My grandmother once accused me of trying to kill her. I was only making a sandwich. I was ten years old. She was drunk. It was a late evening and I was still hungry. I decided to eat the last two pieces of ham with mustard and bread. I was slicing the sandwich in half with a butter knife when she came stumbling in the kitchen. I thought I’d get in trouble because my grandmother had a strict rule about kids being in her kitchen. She only saw the butter knife. She was so drunk. She screamed like I was about to attack her. I stood frozen. She ran to me and knocked the knife out of my hand. She beat me to the floor with her fists. I was so confused. I begged for her to stop. The next day when she awoke me for school she asked me where I got the bruises on my face. I wanted to slap her. One of my cousins told her she did it. She denied it. She told me if anyone asked I got into a fight with one of my older cousins. She never apologized. I never forgave her.

It was not the first time. Every time when I awoke, I’d feel shame. I’d look at the clock and determined that I had an hour before the liquor store opened. I wondered what I would do with the time. I always questioned if I had a problem. I figured the private torment kept me aware. I decided to cook breakfast and pretend I’m not counting down the seconds. I was on unemployment so I knew didn’t have worry about work. I felt anxious. I needed my medicine. I wished I gotten an extra bottle the night before. I wished I lived in a city where they sold liquor 24/7.

After breakfast I decided to get dress. I put on jeans and a hood shirt. I picked a baseball cap and the darkest sunshades I could find. The liquor store was seven blocks from my apartment. At 9:45 in the morning I stepped outside into the wet snowed streets. The wind was brutal but comforting, I liked the distraction. I felt exposed as if everyone was watching me. Like everyone knew my dirty little secret. I’d been trying so hard to keep it under control but there were times I fucked. My neighbor once found me passed out in front of my apartment door. I tried to make her laugh, telling her it was one hell of a party. It was a life of fear.

I arrived to the liquor store a couple of minutes before ten. They were not opened. I’m not alone. At least 15 other people were waiting outside the doors. I watched them carefully. I wonder if I looked anything like them. I tell myself I am nothing like them. They look broken and desperate. Half of them were homeless. The other half look as if they have given up on life. We all had that addict impatient look in our eyes like a racing heartbeat that needed to slow down. My clothes were different. I wore bright colors they wore dark. I looked like I was still trying to hide the fear of loneliness they looked as it they had gotten comfortable with abandonment. The addiction had taken everything. I once went to an AA meeting. It was after a really bad weekend of binge drinking. I woke up in alley on a pissed stained mattress and decided that I’d probably hit my rock bottom. I called the number I found in the phone book. They made me call back like five times and then put me on hold for like thirty minutes. I figured they were testing my commitment. They gave me an address of a meeting. I couldn’t think of anything worse to happen to my life than going to an AA meeting other than going to prison. Of course I needed a couple of drinks just to build up the courage. I was facing my failure and didn’t want to do it sober. I got to the meeting. I was horrified. It was nothing like I’d seen on television. It was nothing like the rehab memoirs I’d read. I thought it would be clean, maybe a couple of celebrities and welcoming. It was dark, filthy, the people looked so downtrodden. The stories were so pathetic like who drinks rubbing alcohol without thinking they may had gone crazy. I felt sane compared to their hopelessness. I was just at the first level of Dante’s inferno. I saw a guy throwing up in a corner. Another alcoholic who’d fallen off the wagon fashioned an obvious piss stain in front of his pants. Those people didn’t look salvable. I ran from that meeting. I never went back. I didn’t drink again for a month. It didn’t last.

As I waited a block away waiting for the liquor store to open because I needed enough distance from the crowd, I thought about my grandmother. I remember she drank from the time she woke up in the morning until she passed out at night. She didn’t drink the hard stuff just beer. I remember when the doctors demanded she give up the beer she started drinking non-alcoholic beer. She said she liked the taste. She went back to the real thing after the frustration. I never thought of my grandmother having a problem. I just thought she went crazy sometimes.

I always knew I might be predisposed to a substance abuse problem because addiction ran in my family. My mother was addicted to crack. My favorite aunt had a long battle with Heroin. All of my uncles on both sides either had crack or alcohol problems. I thought I was different. I graduated at the top of my class in high school. I was the first in my family to go and graduate from college. I was the first male in my family to not have a criminal record. I figured myself different. I was nothing like them.

I never wanted to grow up and become any of my relatives. My uncle once got drunk and decided that I was too uppity, so he decided to hold me down at thirteen years old and pour bottle after bottle of beer in my mouth. He thought it was funny. I was sick for two days. I never drank beer again. Every holiday someone got drunk and became belligerent pulling out their guns or beating up on their wives. As a child, I never thought much of it. I just knew I wasn’t supposed to give three of my uncles money because they liked the crack. I just knew my grandmother usually passed out around nine o’clock at night. I never thought of it as a problem just an annoyance. I thought it was normal. How was I to know what’s normal growing up in a family addicts?

I looked at my watch and noticed that the liquor store was ten minutes late opening. It angered me. I thought about walking another three blocks to the next liquor store but decided to wait it out.

I didn’t have my first drink until I was twenty two years old. I never did drugs before. I was a good boy and fucking tired of it. I craved excitement. My first drink was a whisky sour. I remember it was bitter but it wasn’t beer, so I felt safe. I had ten. I remember that feeling of being drunk. I liked it. I was suddenly social, smart and attractive. I was a bad boy. I flirted with strangers. I danced on top of tables. I was aggressive and didn’t care about reputation. I wasn’t so repressed anymore. I didn’t think it would be a problem to just have some fun. I remember when I used to say I’d never drink alone. I’d never drink depressed or angry. When I got drunk, I started doing a lot of things I never thought I do.

The liquor store finally opened. I felt relived but decided to wait five more minutes. I didn’t want to look desperate. I didn’t want to be part of the crowd. I was always amazed how many people showed up so early in the morning. Some had taken breaks from work. It made me feel not so alone, almost normal, but not safe.

I thought of my grandmother again. She was always self-imprisoned in her room watching her soaps or whatever was on television getting drunk. She had a green Kool’s cigarette cup the size of a gallon of milk and every hour she would yelled at one of us kids to go fill it up with cheap beer. She was always alone in her fire hazard room. In the winter a portable heater sat atop of blankets kept her brittle feet warm. In the summer, in the same spot, a portable fan circulated the cool air from the air-conditioning. My grandmother didn’t need anyone as long as her Kool’s cigarette cup was filled with her favorite cheap intoxicant. She didn’t need anyone for a conversation because she had them with herself or at the television. She didn’t need anyone for entertainment because she was always laughing at something in her head, or on the television or crying about something she would never explain. She died in that room, alone, clinging to her Kool’s cigarette cup. It seemed to be her only happiness.

I finally decided that I waited long enough. I try to give a polite smile. The liquor store owner always recognized. Actually, all the liquor stores in a mile radius knew me. I’ve tried them all. I like the Asian liquor store the best. The prices were cheaper and they seemed a little less judgmental. It was just business. I didn’t even have to tell him what I wanted. He grabbed the bottle of rum. There was no talking. I handed him my money. It was simple. It was guilt free. With the other liquor stores they wanted to talk. They wanted to ask questions. I felt I had nothing to explain to nobody.

As I walked the seven blocks back home, I knew there was a liquor store at the corner of my block. I didn’t like them. They changed management at least three times a year. The first owner was a black man, his brother and his wife. They were a shady looking group of people. I think they sold liquor and crack. One thanksgiving I had a party at my place and we ran out of Vodka, it was just my luck the liquor store was opened. After my purchase, I made one small joke that it was great for him to be opened for the alcoholics. He didn’t laugh. The next time he saw me, he handed me an AA pamphlet and refused to sell to me. I was pissed. I hardly ever went into his liquor store, he never seen me drunk, I was always sober, but one tasteless joke, he made me walk the three blocks to the next liquor store. The great thing about my neighborhood there was a liquor store and church almost on every corner. A couple of months later, a new group of owners arrived, they were Indian. The guy was really cool, very friendly. I spent at least seventy dollars a week at his liquor store. The only problem, when he saw me out, be it the grocery store or bus stop he would always try to sell me liquor. I couldn’t walk by that store; it was as if he had a tracking bug on me, he run out his store and try to sell me liquor. He acted like he was my dope dealer. The third group of people I hated the most. They never put their prices up. It was as if they could charge you whatever they felt at the moment. They made me nervous. They never looked happy to see me.

Four blocks on the way home, I pass my old stomping ground liquor store. I thought about stopping in and saying hi but I knew it was ridiculous, they didn’t care. I remember the cashier was mother of the owner. She was at least eighty years old, could barely stand up straight, her hands shook like a withdrawing addict and her neck wobbled like a wild turkey. She had a look in her eyes of too many bad decisions in her life. Shemanically puffed those long thin women cigarettes. I liked her. She reminded me of my grandmother. She always appeared drunk. Maybe she was just old. I had a weird relationship with her. It was as if I was seeking her approval. I remember in the morning she baby-sat her great granddaughter. I found it old for an infant child in her Walt Disney playing pen at a liqour store. She seemed peaceful. I never heard her cry. It was a mom and pop store, one of the best in my gentrified neighborhood. The other liquor stores didn’t display their liquor out front, instead it was hidden behind bullet proof glass along with the store owners and you have to yell through a hole in the bullet proof glass for what you wanted. They always heard you wrong and you have to yell again, then go point, and play the “you’re getting warmer” game. It was annoying. I like the mom and pop store because I got to peruse my liquor and not feel like a criminal.

As I passed the store, I remembered even at ten o’clock in the morning at the “Mom and Pop” liquor store I always purchase the largest bottle because it was usually on sale and saved me money in the long run. I also figured by purchasing the large bottle the store owner wouldn’t think I was some drunk. I wanted her to think that my purchase was maybe for an important party I was to attend later that evening. I remember I always dressed my best. I made sure my fingernails were clean and my teeth sparkling white. I wanted her to know that I was different. I didn’t know why. I always made conversation. I knew that her grandson wanted to be a singer, she handed me his demo one day for no particular reason. It was awful. I told her I loved it and couldn’t wait for his album to come out because it was going to be huge. I knew that the liquor store had been in her family since she was a child. I knew that her great-granddaughter loved Snow-white. I bought her some exclusive DVD and told the old lady I had gotten it free from a friend who worked for Disney. It was a lie, it cost me twenty bucks. I didn’t know why I was trying to impress that old woman. She just made me feel guilty. I stopped going to that liquor store because I couldn’t handle the pressure.

Two blocks away from my house, I passed the church and have to wait at the corner for the light to change. I see the church people and I hug my brown paper bag. It’s obvious what’s in it. I pretend they don’t care. I had nothing to prove. I was the good kid growing up and it really pissed off a lot of my relatives. I was the kid who always had his hand in the air with the answer at school. I was polite and well groomed. I respected my elders. I took shiny apples to school for my teachers. I got straight A's. I was in the boys scout. I helped old ladies and the blind cross the street. I cut the church’s grass for free. I never cursed. It was no fun growing up the good kid in a family of degenerates. They treated me like I was an angel sent down to hell to make them feel bad about their lives, therefore the desperately needed to corrupt me. They would always play cruel jokes on me. My cousins tricked me into asking my grandmother questions like what is a “clitoris” or if she liked “golden showers.” Of course my drunken grandmother would go ballistic. They jokes never stopped. They would stick pictures of nude girls on my back at school. They try to get me to smoke weed. I stopped waiting to be good. I started waiting to be liked.

When I got inside my apartment, I felt relieved. I went to the refrigerator, opened the freezer door, and got some ice for my big plastic cup that I got from one of those themed restaurants. It was my favorite. I filled it up with ice, some rum and coke. I went to my bed, turned on the TV. The View was so much funnier with a big plastic cup of rum and coke. As I sipped my freedom and the rum ran rampant, I felt alone. I wasn’t doing anything productive with my life. I felt like I was stuck in quicksand and running out of time to be rescued.

I rushed the liquor. I finished the first cup so I could enjoy the second cup slower. I just needed to feel that first buzz. I thought about my grandmother again and how I never forgave her for some of her evils. I never thought she had a problem. I just assumed her flip personality was normal. I thought about some friends I’d lost because of my drinking. I never felt I had a problem. I just felt bad shit just happened sometimes. I didn’t think I had a problem. I thought I was normal. It didn’t help that I grew up in a family plagued with addiction. It turned out I wasn’t so different.

Maybe that was the shame I was feeling, that I thought my grandmother had wasted her life sitting up in her room getting drunk everyday. She no longer wanted to see the world or control her anger. I suddenly felt as if I never really knew my grandmother. I only knew the craziness of her addiction. I knew I didn’t like that person. So what did that say about me? I fixed myself a third rum and coke and decided I was nothing like her. How was I supposed to know normal growing up in a family of addicts?

It's never over

2008-05-19T12:51:00.001-07:00

I say people do dumb shit all the time. I think about the weed smokers how they sit in front of their television and just get high, giggling like the crazy man at the rain. People jump out of planes just for the thrill. We get tattoos, body piercings or ridiculous plastic. It’s in human nature to be dumb. I say we do dumb shit all the time because it’s fun and life boring. I remember when I turned twenty-five years old and realized I was so bored. I figured there was nothing more to life but I had to keep living so I started doing a lot of dumb shit. I started drugging and drinking. I started having a lot of promiscuous sex. I started getting into the fights just collect wounds. I started self-mutilating. I considered it fun. I liked the thrill. I liked feeling like a badass

I believe we are all addicts. Some people just haven’t found their addiction, that insanity or dumb shit. I found mine accidently. I really didn’t have my first drink until I was twenty one years old. But it hit me like a brick.

This past week I hit another wall in my so called recovery. Actually I relapsed badly. It’s not what most people would think of a relapse because it was very quiet and intelligent. I knew something was going on so I tried to isolate myself from the human race as quick as possible. Funny, before I knew I had relapsed, I was already drunk. I was already falling down drunk. Of course I tried to continue with my life, waking up the next morning and going to work. That was a mistake. I hurt somebody I liked feelings. I gave myself another reputation. I didn’t plan any of it. I was just doing some dumb shit.

It’s never over, this annoyance that seems to keep taking over my life. I just want to have fun. I don’t want the rest of the crap. It’s never over.

CVS

2008-05-14T11:22:00.000-07:00

As I get older there are so many things that just get on my fucking nerves.

I was in CVS and noticed they had a sale on noodles. They were like a dollar so of course I decided to stock up. I get to the register and the lady asked me if I had a CVS card. I look at her blankly. I search my pockets for my wallet and begin rummaging through the tens of card some store gave me a long time ago. Of course, I wouldn’t have a CVS card so I offered her my GNC card. I figured they were both three letters. The cashier didn’t get my joke.

I didn’t like her attitude. I asked her what I was supposed to do because I wasn’t going to pay full price. I mean, why put crap on sale and make it only available to a certain crowd. I get so tired of needing a different discount card from every damn thing. I need a card for the grocery store and if I happened to go to a different grocery store I need their card. It’s insane. My wallet is gorged with plastic I never use. It’s a waste.

When your looks fade

2008-05-14T09:00:00.000-07:00

This fat bastard going to tell me unsolicited that I don’t look as good as I looked a few years ago. I laughed and replied, “lucky for me I have a job that doesn’t require me to be good looking.”

At first I wanted to be offended. I mean nobody asked him for his opinion on anything. We were just standing in the grocery line and I hadn’t seen him in years. I was just catching up.

As I walked home from the grocery store I knew I had stopped going to the gym. My social life consisted of me and a bag of Doritos sitting in front of the television. I wasn’t interested in impressing people anymore. I just cared about hiding my hangovers at work.

Honestly, I never wanted to be good-looking. I considered it too much work and having others so invested in my attractiveness. I’ve seen the shows on TV where people got so obsessed with a beautiful person they ended up killing them. As a kid I just wanted to be naked and eat as many oreo cookies I could fit into my mouth. I had desires to become so fat they’d have to bury me in a mobile home. I guess because I was a poor black kid who was often starving I thought really fat people were the idea, that it meant prosperity. I thought the really fat people lived the best lives just eating and farting. All that changed when I became a teenager and wanted to have sex.

When I got home after being insulted I went straight to a mirror. I didn’t think I looked so bad. At least I wasn’t fat.

Karma

2008-05-14T07:48:00.001-07:00

Growing up every time someone pissed off my Grandmother she used to say “You better be glad I’m saved.”

I always thought it was funny to imagine my Grandmother going around bitch slapping people because Jesus wasn’t in her life. Instead she went to church four or five times a week. She gossiped behind people’s back. She took her physical fustrations out on moping floors and beating the dusts out of rugs. Jesus was always there by her side like a parole officer I guess waiting for her to fuck up and lose holiness so that he could send her to hell. I wondered before she was saved what type of woman was Grandma. Was she in a street gang?

I recently decided to get me some spiritually like ordering knives off the QVC channel because in the moment it felt like I needed it. I guess I wanted to be a better person. I was tired of celebrities getting all the credit. I wasn’t going to adopt an African baby but I could at least smile at people.

One day after a night of binge drinking I decided to go to church. Well I was just getting home and I passed several churches on a daily basis I decided to stick my head in and see what was happening. First, I learned they do not allow liquor. I found that contradictory because what I remember as a child Jesus blood was liquor. I didn’t fight usher on the issue and just discarded my bottle of snapps. I decided to sit in the back of the church because I didn’t want to bring any attention to myself. As I stumbled to find the perfect seat I tripped on my feet and knocked the pew over. Everyone in the church turned around and sneered. The ushers rushed over and helped me. They asked me if I needed some water or coffee, I really wanted a burger. I promised them I was okay.

As I sat listening to the sermon I realized church was really fucking boring. I couldn’t sit still. I kept nodding off. I couldn’t imagine why anyone would torture themselves every Sunday. I decided to leave. I stole a bible and left.

Gotta go

2008-05-12T08:25:00.001-07:00

And then I asked myself how do you commit yourself? My relationship with Thomas is getting really complicated in the end. I don’t know how it happened. I mean it’s been so rocky the last couple of years. We are not romantic. Two weeks he pushed me down on the floor. I jumped up and grabbed him by his throat and choked him. I looked down on his and saw the fear in his eyes like he was so tired of his life it didn’t mattered if I killed him. I let him go. He threatened to call the cops if I didn’t go home. I told him it was four in the morning and the trains didn’t start until five. It had been like the fifth time he’s threatened to call the cops on me in a month.

Somebody asked why we are still together. We aren’t together. We don’t even sleep in the same bed. Tom sleeps on the coach. Somebody asked me why I still stay there when I have my own place. At first it was because of habit. I mean we had a routine. I guess also I didn’t take our breakup that serious. I thought it was the neighbors who were trying to get rid of me not Tom. Now I feel different. I stayed so long because I felt I still needed him. I guess I wanted to need him.

I’m also afraid I can’t make it on my own. At tom’s he cooks dinner, he washes my clothes, folds them and put them in the drawer. It was a great situation. He picked me up off the floor when I got too drunk. He took really great care of me and of course I abused the hell out of it.

But it’s over. I need to get the point through my thick stubborn head.

John Doe

2008-05-08T10:10:00.001-07:00

I’m dying. They have the oxygen mask over my face and pumping me with electricity. And it feels so good, the jerk. That pushing on my chest. That slapping my face cuz my eyes going crazy

I went to gay pride. Not the black gay pride but the white gay pride. And it’s the parade. I went with a drug friend. He handed me 8 cherries. I didn’t think so much of it. When went out to eat and was having a good time. I thought they were just cherries. So I ate them. Even if he was a drug friend and the person handing out the cherries was a drug dealer. So suddenly I started feeling good. It was the best fucking pride I’ve ever been in my life. So I kept eating cherries. Nobody told me there were drugs in them. I like drugs. I do them often. And I was feeling good. And everybody kept taking my picture. I was the fucking star of gay pride. I went walking in the streets. I was feeling so damn good. If it looks and feels so good, how could it ever hurt you?

And that’s when I saw him again. We keep seeing each other. He thinks I’m so mysterious. He says he can’t trust me cuz I won’t tell him my real name.

So I was walking home from gay pride for the bar. And everybody was telling me I was on something. And i kept saying that I was just drinking alcohol. Everybody kept telling me my eyes were wild. I only had a couple of martinis. So I started walking home. And then I couldn’t breath.

I like him, He’s cute. He’s tall, he looks like a person I could wake up in the morning and not be ashamed of my hard dick. He looks like he wouldn’t mind me watching jeopardy and jacking off. He wouldn’t punish me for being a Freak. I like him, he’s so debonair. And when I kiss his lips, he’s so giving with tongue don’t act like he’s kisses everybody. I like him. I know I could have fun with him, but he kept asking my name.

I told him so many names. Maybe I’m Chris. Maybe I’m Sean. Sometimes I’m Josh. Other times I’m Nathan. What’s so fucking important about a name? I’m reinvented, not born. I’m rebellious not nurtured. I think to myself could he understand. My name doesn’t’ get my dick hard. A named doesn’t get a dick hard. I could tell him Sean, but he knows that a lie. What if I actually told him? Would he care the story behind it? Or is my name something he needs to cling to like something falling off a cliff.

What can’t he understand I’ve been so disappointed? The name is the oldest magic. If I gave my name then I’m own by artificial. If I know I want him to get to know me, I don’t tell him my name. I see if he’s really interested. It ain’t the glory some dick sticking out to be sucked. It’s the decision of love. I can’t understand why he need to know my name unless he serious about who I am. Unless he wants to know the story. So I tell him Josh. the nest week I tell him Nathan. After that I tell Sean. I make him keep asking. I make him keep questioning, not that I’m a liar but somebody is behind the dick print and cute smile. I’m like, don’t kiss me and think you’re not paying half of the rent.

It’s how stories end, it’s how stories begin. Let me re-introduce myself. I first ask for forgiveness, because I no longer feel the need to pretend your fucking fantasy of the tooth fairy leaving a quarter under you slobbery’s pillow because you lost something that you vomited. I aint got no teeth no more. Somebody kicked my ass outside the bar and stomp out four of my front teeth and I ain’t got no insurance. So I aint dressing up in a hot ass Easter Bunny suit hiding eggs so that you think Jesus didn’t get his ass beat like a slave. And don’t get me started on Santa Claus and how poverty makes kids think materialism is happiness and their parents don’t love them because they on food stamps and couldn’t afford the Toys R us bullshit that told them to never grow up. Read it again. Read it again, bitch, read it again and slowly and understand the set up for failure.

You see I had to create this persona to survive because I wanted to be normal. I knew if I grew up to be the fuck up they predicted, I get to be normal. They would say I would always grow crazy like my mama. Shit, I was molested. I was raped. Mama got addicted to crack and abandoned. Grandma fed us from dog bowls. Daddy got himself killed. My uncle Fred liked kicking my ass. I knew I needed to create a persona that was unforgiving so they wouldn’t think I was a freak. If I forgave too quickly, they wouldn’t trust me. They treat me like Sadam Hussein. They would constantly accuse me of weapons of mass destruction. They want to take me to labs and opened me up and see how I ticked. So I had to create a person that was so damn wounded they would think it never healed. I knew they would understand knife wounds. I knew if I didn’t show some sign of inflictions, they would think I was a fucking freak. They would think I was normal.

You see, I kept healing. It was some weird shit. Everything that kept happening to me, I just heal like a fucking super hero. I never forgot my purpose. And I hated that about myself, having those fucking super hero powers. So like Superman, I created the weakest exampled of humanity I could think of, Clark Kent. I made him mild mannered. I made him the boy next door. I gave him glasses and clumsiness. I called him Carmichael.

But in my case, I created Sean. The black ghetto kid. I gave him a drug problem. I made him so hopeless that everyone who met him would think he was a waste of time. I then eventually gave him a drug problem. I lied to everyone about him. I never told anyone my real name. It was the only I could tell the story. It was the only way I could tell the story without being cold. They could pity Sean. They could think he was sexy. They could think they could save him. It gave them purpose. IT made them feel better about their fucking pathetic lives. I did them a service. Cuz otherwise they would’ve said why does he keep healing. They would wonder if my mother was on crack why I had such good English. I dated this guy once. I would always tell him I was from the ghetto but he would tell me that I was the prince of wealth. I would cry to him at night that my uncle Fred used to beat my ass and I got raped at five years old and he would tell me I grew up in a mansion and got a pony at five years old. So I lied. I created somebody predictable. I knew it would explain the story better.

The problem with alter-egos, they take on a life of their own.

So I created this persona I couldn’t’ no longer control. It was what I needed because growing up; my cousins would throw my books on the top of house. My grandmother’s punishment was taking away my library card and all my books and pencils. It was putting me in that room, face forward with no television and no creativity. So I had to create this persona, to make them think I was like them, that I wasn’t some damn cat with nine lives.
That I wasn’t some voodoo witch casting spells. I had to make them think that I died.
.

What I didn’t understand, the oldest Magic is a name. It’s how parents name their born. It’s how we grow to become the wounds of the original wound. Why name me Michael? When my name has always been Sean?

So I had to create a person to get free. I had to keep them distracted. Because I didn’t believe in their suburbs, baseball or apple pie. I knew politicians came to the ghetto to score crack and I was that drug dealer.

As I lay dying in that ambulance, I think if I tell him my name, does that mean I tell him my story. Does it mean he could love me? Am I setting myself up for disappointment? If I tell him my name, the oldest magic would he get scared. To give him my lips would’ve been easier. To give him my dick, my ass, my spit, or whatever would’ve been easier. But my name was the only thing I reserved. It was mine. It belonged to me. He could only have the illusion. Superman don’t go around telling everybody he’s fucking Clark Kent.

So I don’t tell him. When I die, I’m a John Doe. They are going to bury me in some place I don’t know. That’s my name. I don’t exist.

Fat ass Al Gore isn’t missing any meals.

2008-05-06T09:47:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the toilet at work, I suddenly think of Sheryl Crow. I ate some bad chili for lunch that fought with my stomach like two angry kangaroos in a boxing ring. I needed to go sit for awhile and not to pray but give birth to something messy. After the convulsions and explosions, I stared at the toilet paper. I had one of those diarrheas that didn’t just wet the booty hole, but flooded and wet the booty crack. I tore off one sheet of paper and wondered how it was going to work a miracle. Jokily, Sheryl Crow once said that in order help with global warming we should only use one sheet of toilet paper. She obviously didn’t know my situation.

Sometimes I feel the Global Warming goes too far. It’s the fat and rich and elitist trying to create some new trend to entertain their boredom. Recycling isn’t anything new to the poor. I grew up dirt poor, government cheese poor, and been recycling since I knew how to breath. I’m the youngest of six children, so my mother’s uterus was used and abused when I got to it.

Al Gore was on Oprah talking about Global Warming. He looked like he hadn’t missed any meals. I’m sure all the trash that comes from his snacking is enough to at least save a Polar bear. I watched him on Oprah giving tips to the average folk how to save our planet and it seemed sort of pretentious. I mean Oprah lives in a 50 million dollar house, and have several others in Hawaii and other places. She’s taken up enough space to at least save a forest our something. Think of all the trees had to be cut down. And that Leonardo DiCaprio didn’t he have the ultimate “Green” house built from scratch. I mean wouldn’t it had been easier to just buy a “used” house. I mean, recycle the economy damnit.

Recycling isn’t anything new to me. All my clothes when I was growing up were hand me downs. We recycled everything. When the bread went bad, it became bread pudding. When the bananas went bad they became banana bread. We had to bath in the same bathwater until I was at least thirteen years old. Fifty percent of our groceries were non-perishables because they were cheaper and last longer. There was hardly any waste in my impoverished house. Even soap was recycled. When the bar got to small to hold in the hands, it went into a jar for latter use.

I decided to ignore the wishes of Sheryl Crow. I grabbed a huge wad of toilet paper and wiped my shamed into submissions and flushed it down the toilet. And then I decided for desert I’d eat that fruit cake I got for Christmas because when you’re poor you waste nothing.

I am a fighter, there is no turning back

2008-05-05T09:43:00.000-07:00

Well I finally got myself a new therapist. I just felt like I wasn’t being listened to or help. I felt my psychiatrist get throwing drugs at me like I was a lab rat to see what worked and didn’t work. And my therapists she made me feel like she was just recording statistics. They were both recommended by the hospital after I checked out of the mental hospital back in September. They were what my insurance covered. At first I just went with the flow. I really didn’t take my mental illness that serious. I figured I’d probably like the drugs once I amped them up with the street drugs I was already taking. But as in previous blogs I stated, that was a HUGE mistake. I almost went crazy. For an entire day when I mixed alcohol, seroquel and crystal meth I felt as if my heart was going to jump out of my chest. It was horrible. I realized I couldn’t “use” and be on anti-psychotics, so I gave up the anti-psychotics. But that was before I got deep into recovery. When I finally gave up the streets drugs and drinking, I went back on antipsychotics. I didn’t like it. I was sober. I only acted up when I was really drunk. I figured I could make it on my own without any influences. I guess because I was already an addict, I knew I would just start abusing the anti-psychotics. I actually found out that if I mixed the Paxil, energy pills and drank red bulls all day, I’d get the best highs. So I decided to just go cold turkey.

Of course when I told my therapist she adamantly was against it. I’d just pour the pills down the toilet.

I was walking to work this morning and I thought of my sister. She’s on the same anti-psychotics I was on. She claims she can’t live without hers because she is afraid of going back to the old addict she used to be. I don’t think she fully understand her disease. But I’m glad she finally got help. I’m glad I finally got help. Funny, we both ended up at the mental hospital after suicide attempts. I guess suicide runs in my family. I wish my family was closer so I could get more answers.

The reason I thought about my sister was because living in darkness and not knowing what’s going on with you is awful. I suffered with it for ten years before I got answers. And it feels so good to have answers. I’m not completely sane or sober, but I have answers.

I don’t plan to ever go back on the drugs. I just plan to continue with my therapy. I really don’t believe every bipolar person needs to be on drugs. It’s just a process of learning to control one’s emotions and irrational fears.

I know I’m aware because a year ago I could have never been able to write this blog. I just thought I was lost and hopeless. And I knew it was getting worse. But somehow I stumbled on the education and began the healing process. I know there are others out there suffering and not really knowing why. I pray they find the light exactly when they need it most.

Reality Blog

2008-05-04T12:31:00.000-07:00

I feel as if my blog has become my own reality show. I guess most bloggers feel that way. My last outburst kind of reminded me of Kanye West. i guess I can be a drunk diva sometimes. i got into it with my ex over something stupid. It's always something stupid. i think i started thursday night argument. Breaking up is hard to do. It's like i can't critize him anymore without it getting all personal. And then i was also drinking like a fish. i didn't go to work the next day knowing i had rent to pay with that paycheck.

I'm beginning to realize with every slip up there's a chance to learn something about myself. It's still a process trying to heal from old wounds, recover from addiction and became a proper adult.

Fuck you

2008-05-02T05:46:00.000-07:00

i guess if i wanted to make a career of those who paid me to leave them alone, i got a business. But i was always in love and i just wanted them to know if they tried to leave i would destroy them. I would send naked pics to all their co-coworkers, call the IRS and tell on them that time when they claimed thier cat as a dependedent with thier dead father's SSN, or the old man who liked young boys who mothers were willing to testify. So i get paid constantly, that's how i keep moving from texas to miami now Dc. But it always hurt.

and now my boyfriend called the cops on me last night. i may not be on the lease, but i got squatters rights. he signed for drivers license. i got him by his balls. and he attacked i just defended myself. he tried to pay me so many times to leave. i took the money and stayed. what's different about this relationship..

this time i ain't playing motherfucking charles. don't pay me to get out of Texas and think i won't call all you co-workers. I'm a bitch. I'm a vendictive. I will destroy anthing after me. And Tom thinks that after i leave it's over. Let's see how his parents like to see our sex tape on thier 50th anniversary. I don't give a fuck. I;'ve been to jail. I've shot. I shot ppl. So if i can get what i want, let's see if he can live with that. let's see if he can breath

I love me today

2008-05-01T13:09:00.001-07:00

I was reading my old blogs and all I have to say is thank god for growth. I sometimes go back and read old diary pages from high school and college and I’m like growing up is a motherfucker. I mean all the insecurity, societal pressure and feeling just lost. Of course each of our processes are different. I had a rough upbringing with the crack addicted the mother and violent criminal father. It was going to take awhile for me to see the light.

But now, I’m so happy to at least to feel like I’m moving in a different direction. I’m secure in the fact my life is changing for the better. It feels good to blog about something positive. But I still hope those who are looking for peace read the old stuff and see change isn’t easy. It takes time. It takes many mistakes. It’s not about being perfect. It’s just about learning to love yourself. I love me today.

Distractions

2008-04-30T13:07:00.000-07:00

A year ago it seemed impossible for me to turn my life around. I considered myself fucked. I was down in the hole addict and alcoholic, jobless, my credit was bad, my health had been detoriating, I had no friends or connection because I burned every bridge that offered me help. It really did just seemed hopeless I knew I was going to slip into obscurity, become one of the crazy homeless or a john doe at the morgue.

I had no idea how to turn it around. I started reading a lot of self-help books. Shit, I had been reading the self-help books for years and nothing ever seemed to work. I even went to one of those “Secret” workshops hoping to get some inspiration or something but walked away even more disappointed. It just seemed they just wanted to sell me more crap and I didn’t have any money.

Change isn’t easy. I figured I make up my own guide to success and follow it. I didn’t want to hear or read about those who already made and living in their big mansions or whatever. I was still in the struggle. I didn’t want to become a better person, I just wanted to not have to live from check to check. I suddenly had an American dream.

Why do we change? I guess there comes a point in our lives were we just need more. I guess there comes a point in our lives that we haven’t found what we’re looking for. I guess you really can’t change unless you know what you looking for. Unless you’ve gotten angry and understand the sacrifice.

I think change is a fantasy. I think people believe if they switch their friends, neighborhoods, jobs or city, that’s change. What they do is just recreate old situations.

My two cents on blogging

2008-04-20T16:18:00.000-07:00

Can you really know a person from their blog?

I often think that I’m misunderstood, and that’s in real life so I can imagine the confusion I must create in my blog. Sometimes when I’m out someone will come up to me who has been reading my blog and tell me it’s really dark and sad at times. They ask me if I’m okay. I laugh. I guess the subject matters I discuss like drug addiction, alcoholism, suicide and mental institutions and illnesses gives them some concern. On surface in real life, I come across as a happy go lucky flirtatious guy. It wouldn’t seem I would know about so many dramatic issues that I put in my blog.

I wouldn’t say I’m exactly what I write about in my blog. It’s part of my personality, actually a really small part. I try not to get too personal even when I’m writing about very personal issues like break-ups or relapses. I try to be sorta of general but still tell my truth.

The problem I found with writing about personal issues sometimes is that some people automatically think they know me. I remember after I published “Who is Sean” I was talking to some guy I had known for like a year. When he read my book, his entire perception of me changed. He automatically thought the character “Sean” (a promiscuous parti boy)was verbatim me. He started making very aggressively sexual advances towards and telling me what he thought I liked. He wouldn’t stop until I hit him in his jaw. I felt that was the scary thing about being a writer. Sometimes you unintentionally invite insanity and freaks.

I am not my blog. My blog is just a part of me. A person who hadn’t seen my picture couldn’t pick me out of a police line-up just from reading my blog. People who read my blog should like what I had to say, not assume how I am living my life. It’s just a glimpse. It’s not the story.

It got me to thinking, why blog? I guess I can say I started blogging before it was popular. I had a tacky website years ago where I posted my bad poems and short stories. I didn’t even know I was blogging. It didn’t have a name back then. I suddenly started writing about my life. I guess I just wanted to document my life for a year. I guess I started blogging because I saw it as a virtual journal. I didn’t tell anyone but people find out and I made some internet friends.

I came into blogging again a little more professionally or neater when my book was published. I figured it was a good way to promote myself and give a glimpse of who I am as a writer. I figured it would sell books. Besides, it was doing the time when all the black gay writers had websites or blogs so I didn’t want to be left out. I wanted to put my mark on the blogging world. After a few months, I didn’t upkeep. The blog changed from explaining my personality to me just posting naked pictures of myself. I called those the heavy drug years. I was still young and discovering my body and just wanted to show it off. I was looking for attention. I guess that’s when blogging turned into me looking for attention.

I’ve had many blogs. I start a blog, hate the title and then just delete it. I couldn’t make up my mind about what I wanted to call my blog. I couldn’t make up my mind how I wanted to present myself to the world. But I always kept my original blog “a life not so black and gay.” Mostly because it was free. The blogs I paid for usually went into collections.

Now why do I blog? That’s a good question. It depends. Sometimes it’s a form of exhibitionism. I like writing about my life and lately my recovery. I think of a journal, something I can look back at and see how I’ve grown. I’ve grown a lot in my blogging. Sometimes, it’s to strengthen my writing. Sometimes as a writer you must write just to write like exercising. I also like testing out short stories to see if they get some type of reaction from anybody in the virtual world or maybe an agent.

I’m glad I’m writing this blog because it brings clarity to my blogging. I don’t have to do it. It’s not like I’m getting paid, net yet at least.

A friend of mine recently asked me what he could do to make his blog better. At first I didn’t understand the question. I really didn’t feel as if my blog was spectacular. I sorta knew what he mean, which was how could he get more people to pay attention. He’s a nudist and exhibitionist so the more people who pay attention to him the happier he is.

Blogging has taken over the last couple of years as in everybody and their mama has one. It’s just as common as email so the intentions of blogging are really different. I’ve found with blogging it’s really the intention of the blogger that determines the direction of their blog and who they will attract. I write about addiction, alcoholism, so I get a lot of AA people ready my blog or recovery addicts. I used to get a lot of black gay men who commented on my blog, it various.

I think the first issue when a person decides to blog is that will it be personal or business.

Business blogs are those who are actively seeking advertisers so their visitor counts usually have to be high. The business blogs are usually those who are self-promoting some type of product. Also another business blogs are the celebrities blogs. So business blogs tend to be a lot more focus and maintained to keep their audience.

A personal blog has no financial personal interest. It’s really just for friends and family and the voyeurs. It’s true that some personal blogs eventually become business blogs but most are just ranting geeks with computers. I feel with personal blogs the blogger has more freedom because there’s no pressure which is a reason why personal blogs aren’t updated that often.

I know my blog is a personal blog. It really doesn’t have a real direction. I just write whatever comes to my mind and the upkeep is sporadic. I also don’t solicit for visitors; people usually find me some way. I don’t think too much about it.

But as I think back why I originally started blogging I remember it was another form of expression for me. I just wanted to write. I just wanted to be part of the virtual world. I was a writer and wanted to tell the world. So even if my blogging has gotten a little bipolar recently, my intentions are the same therefore in the future I will try to be more consistent.

So to answer that friend questions how to make his blog better is to decide if it’s personal or business and the intention. If you blog it, trust me they will come read it.

Back to reality

2008-04-17T01:26:00.000-07:00

I’m trying to figure what I’ve learned since I began recovery almost a year ago. My knee jerk reaction would be I haven’t learned a damn thing. I know that’s a lie. It’s a hard road full of a lot of guilt and anger and depression.

I think the most important lesson of all I’m learning is to trust myself and know who I am. I trust I will not drink during the weekday because I know the consequences. It’s hard because my drinking schedule usually started on Wednesday but I had to change a few things in order to live. I trust that I’m the type of drinker who doesn’t stop at one bottle of rum. I drink literally until I pass out. It’s hell the next day trying to recover. I used to do that four or five times a week.

I’ve also learned forgives. I think forgiveness is most important. In the beginning of recovery, I was so damn hard on myself. I had so much to prove with my sobriety. I didn’t want anyone getting in their head that I was a drunk. I knew I was more. Yet, I struggled. I was so concerned what it looked like to recover, I wanted to be the “A” student of recovery that when I relapsed it sent me into a downward depression that was worse than the drinking. I wouldn’t talk or call anyone for days. I just walk around my house in shame because I failed again. I had to realize I wasn’t perfect. Forgiveness for me wasn’t an excuse to continue drinking, but that hug I needed to continue to try and get better. I have to love myself first. I can’t do anything unless I love myself first.

The last thing I’m learning is patience. I have none. I want the instant gratification. I’m a pleasure seeker. I can’t stand to wait for the miracle. I want to cut the line. But the truth, I can’t rush it. It’s not in my control. I just have to give in to it.

At first I thought recovery and rehab was going to be so Hollywood. On television and the movies they often make it look so sexy. Funny, what I’m having a hard time letting go is the Hollywood image. But I know the truth. I guess you can say that is something else I also learned this past year. Is truth. I started learning to tell myself and others the truth. It’s so powerful because I’m not healing a lie. I’m healing a human being.

For the future, I want to start setting goals. I guess that’s what I didn’t do when I started recovery in the first place. At first, I was so damn skeptical. I was also so afraid. I didn’t want to turn into bible carrying fanatic preaching about the devil ways. I still wanted to be cool and young.

For the future I want to practice “acceptance.” I can’t cry about it, I can scream and shout, but it is what it is, I am an alcoholic. It’s not the end of the world. It’s just the beginning.

I'm getting close

2008-04-13T08:03:00.000-07:00

Life before the first drink.

After what happened this past Tuesday, I would think I’d know better. I’m beginning to realize it’s not about knowing better but wanting better. I liked to drink. I used to like to do drugs but the culture ended up getting on my nerves.

Before the first drink, right now I feel sober. I mean, I have energy, my mind is clear, I’m not hungover. But that’s tomorrow. Why am I drinking in the first place. It’s Saturday night. I’m bored. I want to go out and flirt and maybe pick up sex if I am lucky.

Of course after I pour myself the first drink I’m anxious. I pray the night want end with me over doing it again. The last time I drank I felt really suicidal. I mean it was after a liter and a half, but it scared me. I was hungover for three days. Well here is goes. I guess I should say goodbye to my sanity for now.

Drink 4, I just got back from the bar. I know it’s surprising that it’s drink 4 but I’m counting those drinks that were two as one because they were so weak. I guess I’m on drink five. But this is the crying part of my drinking. Well just tears. Not crying, nothing ugly, nothing babyish, just reminiscing. This is what keep me in the past. I think about friends I lost. Last week I dreamt my sister died and it brought me to my knees, so I’m on my 5th drink I think about how much I would hurt if it was real. I think about grandma. I think about how much I love my ex-lover. I guess my 5th drink is sentimental. But I know something my sinisiter is waiting around the corner. It’s sadness first and next is anger.
Should I stop drinking now, I ask myself, just go to bed, don’t piss anyone off, don’t go to jail, we will see.

Drink 6, all eyes on me. I’m sexy. I look in the mirror and like what I see. I just want to dance and feel good. Because I’m feeling so good right. I shaved in all the right places and want to show it off. I don’t care who, I just care how.

Drink 9, I’m home and pissed. Maybe I fucked somebody, who knows, who remembers. And now I feel lonely. And now this anger starts. I feel unappreciated. Why I can’t make them stay. Hmmmmm

And then the suicide thoughts start. Why couldn’t make you stay Mama. And I know what that means now. I drink to revist my pain of abandonment. If it ain’t there I will create. But why

Drink 10-11

And this is when I feel if I will be criying for the rest of my life. I try to be so quiet, have no issues, and the seconed I do everying have issues with me. It’s like please redo my resume but don’t act like you have no illegiencce. That’s my lie. And that’s why I have my drama, most ppl are dumb

Drink 12

Don’t know if I can’t type this. Maybe this I show we give up. He tells me to go to my apartment. When he knows that’s not finicially capapble. But maybe he doebns’t he cae. I tryt to make him think life is more than his issues. And when I want ot destry let me

Dtink 16

It’s 11 o’clcok in the morning and I still have enough bottle. I feel like a failure and on’t know why. But I know why. I call my ex and I like the fact he is still in love with me. And the world gets narrow. I need to get a job. I need t finish my novel. The last time it was I need go back to the pschtriatic hospital. But this time I’m learning to love myself. I want this experimient to be more dramatic. But sometimes we grow. .

My broken record

2008-04-12T02:49:00.000-07:00

When I said I was going to stop drinking, damn I didn’t know it would be so hard. I don’t consider myself a hardcore drunk, more of a binge drinker who takes it too far sometimes. I think that’s part of my problem, because when people say “one day at a time” I figure that’s so of easy. I don’t need to drink everyday. I don’t need to drink every week. But when I do drink after a long hiatus, the beginning is usually mild. I don’t over do it. But a couple of days later, I’m at the liquor buying bottles and planning on staying up all night. I don’t even go out, unplug my phone and it’s just me and the liquor in my apartment alone. I’d drink until I’m falling down, listening to music, looking at old pictures. But sometimes what I consider my “me” time seeps out. Listening to the music, old pictures and videos begin to bring up not so pleasant memories and I want attention. That is when the phone calling start. That is when the suicidal feelings begin to nag. It’s like I use the alcohol so that I can stay in the past.

When I finally come through off of my binge, I feel so guilty. I miss days and can’t remember. I know I have harassed or pissed off some people. I usually blame it on my bipolar or something. I’d feel so guilty like I want to hide my head in shame for at least a month. I don’t want to talk about it.

I’ve experience people who repeat the same mistakes over and over again that it’s their broken record. I think most of us have broken records. I get so sick and tired of mine but every once and awhile I need to play it. Maybe this time it won’t scratch or skip. It’s my most unattractive flaw; I know it, but those who really love put up with it.

What makes a racist

2008-04-08T00:43:00.000-07:00

The Theme of Dharma Practice
"The foundation and initial goal of [our] transformation is avoiding doing harm to others. Whether alone or with others, we must strive to avoid doing harm either directly with our words or deeds or indirectly with our thoughts and intentions. We may injure others with abuse, slander, sarcasm, and deceit, or by acts of omission due to insensitivity and thoughtlessness. The most subtle way of harming others is indirectly by means of our thoughts, judgments, and attitudes. When the mind is dominated by hostility, we may be viciously attacking others with our thoughts. Although no apparent injury may be inflicted, these thoughts affect us internally and influence our way of interacting with others, and the long-term effect is invariably harmful. So the initial theme of Dharma practice is a nonviolent approach to our own lives, to other living beings, and to our environment. This is a foundation for spiritual practice, and can provide well-being for both ourselves and others. On this basis of nonviolence we can look for ways to serve others keeping in mind that any work will be altruistic if our motivation is one of kindness and friendliness. --B. Alan Wallace"

I had a friend many years ago back in Texas who got into a relationship with a white guy. Being from Texas I got used to a lot of overt racism, I mean people coming right out and saying it in your face. I have never been personally been called a “nigger’ but I been made to feel like one.

My friend who is which I had no problem with him dating a white guy I felt was in the strangest relationship. His boyfriend was always using some type of racial epitaph around him. Or saying something that could be conceived very racist. At first I thought my friend was progressively human, that he didn’t take his racist boyfriends comments that serious. I mean, after all the white guy only dated black men. I figured he couldn’t be that racist. Yet, it always bothered me that their entire relationship was based on the fact my friend was black and that somehow gave the white guy permission to be rude and racially insensitive.

I have dated many white guys. My first boyfriend was white and hot. I met him at a foam party in a club. At first I was disturbed that he only dated black guys, but he grew up in a black neighborhood, went to black schools, so it was just like dating any other black person. The only problem I had with him was that he was very clingy. The thing I loved about him, I never felt black around him. We were in a colorful relationship. Actually race never came up.

Many years later, I dated another white guy, this time, older. He was very much older in his late forties. He used to go on and on how he loved my black skin. I felt like a commodity with him. He was always pointing out some black guy on TV or the streets. I tried to be open minded. Yet, I was completely turned off by him. We never had sex. And then that “gold digger” song came out. He used to play it all the time in his car just so that he could say the word “nigga.” I didn’t get it. I couldn’t even understand why it was so important.

I know black guys who are very adamant about never dating white men. I have a friend who if I told I ever had sex with a white guy would never speak to me again. But he’s an asshole so it wouldn’t matter.

I have been thinking what makes a racist a racist. Is it the insensitivity? I don’t throw around the word racist because I think it’s a legal term. It’s someone abusing their position of power. The dictionary defines racism as “The belief that race accounts for differences in human character or ability”

I have another friend, and I like this friend, I think he’s cool. He is the reason for this blog because our conversations tend to be racially focused sometimes. He’s boyfriend is black. He only dates black. He has a saying that he’s “black by injection” I’m like just because you got fucked by a lot of black guys don’t make you black. Yet, I don’t say anything. I take the snide racially toned comments and think to myself it’s nothing personal. And then I think to myself, is this going to be our relationship like what I had with Richard and like my friend had with his boyfriend. I mean, is he a racist and don’t know it. Or is he just racially insensitive?
Being from the south, I know a lot of god white people who just flat out racist and didn’t know it. They smile in your face and call you nigger behind your back. I think racism is a sneaky disease. Somebody people don’t even know they have it.

The New Earth

2008-04-07T23:54:00.001-07:00

Sometimes when you least expect it, you change. It's a beautiful thing.

Forgiveness, part II

2008-04-03T12:23:00.000-07:00

Every morning I wake up (since I got fired from my job two months ago) I have to go through my forgiveness meditation. It’s basically because when I wake up I feel like shit. I hate everybody. I don’t want to open my eyes. I feel as if every thing around me is burning down. I’m late on my rent. All my bills are overdue. My relationship is over. And I’m a recovering addict. And then I want to either sleep more or find me a bottle of rum and weed and watch TV all day. But I did that for ten years so that makes me even more depressed that I wasted my life. That I was so stupid. So I go into self-pity mode for another thirty minutes after waking up, I may even cry a little. Instinctly I put the covers back over my head and sleep for another hour or two. I don’t want to deal with the world. I feel as if the world hates me. I feel like a freak. I just want to go back to sleep and not wake up.

An hour later, I started screaming at myself to get my lazy ass out of bed. That I shouldn’t waste my day. That I shouldn’t be so damn depressing and under any circumstances I will not drink that day. I hate drinking when I’m depressed. A depressed drunk is an annoying drunk.

I start my forgiveness meditation. It’s more of a prayer or release. When a negative thought enters my mind, and trust me I have a lot of them, I tell myself to forgive. It begins with me getting out of bed. I have to forgive myself for waking up. It sounds bleak, but when I open my eyes the reality of my life usually come rushing at me. It’s like waking up with the same headache everyday. I forgive myself for not having a better life. I tell myself its okay. And then I have to get out of bed. I hear the phone ring and I know it’s just a bill collector. I get pissed that they call so much because it’s not like I’m hiding money under my pillow or something. I need a job. I need someone to call me about a job. I forgive.

I believe forgiveness is about letting go what we can’t control. If we don’t learn to release we carry the issue and punish ourselves. And I get so tired of carrying bullshit that makes me feel worthless. I refuse to carry it any longer. So when I wake up in the morning, I know it’s there when I open my eyes, I pray that soon it will get better but for right now I forgive. I then jack off and take my shower and get ready for my morning talk shows and sending out my resume.

Old Queen

2008-03-24T05:20:00.000-07:00

When I first came out into the scene, became gay, starting going to the club or whatever you want to call it, I remember there were gay men I said I never wanted to be like. My friends and I called them old queens. It was the usually older gay man on the floor trying to drop it like its hot or dressing young or thinking they were still competing with the young crowd. They were considered jokes.

I had no idea what I would be like in my 30s or 40s a gay black man. I still had a lot to learn.

My best friend called me who lives in Los Angeles, the vainest city on the planet complaining that he felt like an old queen. He is only thirty two years old. I laughed. I’m a year younger than him, so I wanted to know what that made me. Funny, it just seemed like yesterday that we were twenty something year gay boys in tight outfits giving attitude, drinking techno colored drinks and dancing on the floor. All that has changed. I wouldn’t step foot in a club to save my life lately. I stopped going to the gym a long time ago when I discovered I could just jog in my neighborhood in the summer. I had no need for attention. When I was younger, it was all about my ego. Looking back, I couldn’t understand why I starved myself, bought clothes I couldn’t afford, and still was insecure.
But I was young, and didn’t know there were other choices. I didn’t have to follow the crowd.

Suddenly, I’m offended by the term “old queen.” I dated an older guy when I was like twenty two years old. He would get on my nerves because he was forty something years old trying act like he was nineteen years old. He would wear baggy clothes and try to talk in slang. I felt it was pathetic. He was obsessed with younger guys and I knew I was just another collectable to him. I didn’t mind because it was free dinner dates and cash when I needed it. He was my sugar daddy. But I liked him as a person. He was very intelligent, we were both writers but his need to not act his age was a major issue in our relationship. It was the main reason we don’t speak anymore. It wasn’t that I didn’t want him to not enjoy his life or feel youthful. I just wanted someone to look up to I guess. I wanted him to enjoy his age because I knew I would be there one day. I felt he was insulting me by trying to stay young. We only get to do it once. I felt he should’ve been a better role model for his age being black, gay and older. It really angered and I would yell at him about it. I just didn’t understand.

Suddenly, I’m offended by the term “old queen.” Both words are negative. It’s like saying someone is worthless. I would never consider myself an old queen because I’m not worthless.

I asked my friend what it meant to be an old queen. I mean why the label. Why the judgment. I guess that’s the part of getting older you start realizing it’s all an illusion. To be young is an illusion. It’s not happiness.

Yes, life is not what I though it was going to be when I turn thirty years. When we were young, we were going to be fabulous. I guess sex and the city fabulous. Or some television show fabulous. We used to talk about how we were going to vacation in France, Jamaica, and St. Tropez. We were going to go to the fabulous party and were fabulous clothes. But no said how we were going to do it. What type of work would we do to get to that life? I, of course, was the “writer” so my life was meant to be broke. One of my friends was a “singer.” I’ve had friends who were designers, models, actors, but not all of us make it. Maybe that’s how we turn into old queens. Maybe it’s because we don’t give up the illusion.

I think I’ve given it up. I honestly don’t have anything to prove anymore. I think for my friend who worries he’s too old, he’s now worthless is greatly undervaluing him.

no witnesses

2008-03-20T12:58:00.000-07:00

In Alcoholic Anonymous, they call this telling on yourself.

After maintaining 90 days of sobriety, I got bored. I was also feeling lonely and missing old friends I hadn’t seen since I stopped going to the bar. I decided to venture out. I really didn’t have a desire to drink I just wanted company. In AA I don’t consider those people my friends. I mean, AA is like checking in with my parole officer. I’m not going to tell her or him everything. I actually had stopped going to AA for awhile because I wasn’t drinking nor did I feel AA really did anything for me.

So I went to the bar. I decided I was going to drink. It wasn’t that I was going to start drinking again on a daily basis. I figured it was just a drink at the bar with some friends. Of course I got drunk. It wasn’t so bad. I mean, I didn’t do anything stupid. After I started drinking, I couldn’t imagine why I had stopped in the first place. It was fun. All my old bar friends hugged and kissed on me. They thought I had gotten arrested or something. It was fun. I missed the lifestyle.

The next day waking up with the hangover, I remember what I hated about drinking. I didn’t stop drinking that night until 4 in the morning. I was still an addict. The good news, I didn’t do any drugs. With me it was usually getting drunk, getting bored and then start looking for drugs. The good news, I didn’t miss work. The bad news, the hangover. I hated feeling sick and tired.

Of course, at first I felt really bad for drinking. I felt as if I let myself down. I hated that I was going to have to start all over with my days of sobriety. I felt I was never going to be one of those people who can say I have a year sober or something. 90 days was hard enough.

I have a friend and he’s in recovery. I think he has like a 120 days or something. At first I wasn’t going to tell him about my night of drinking but it slipped. I don’t know why I wanted to keep it a secret. Well I guess because I like my number. I like having over 90 days with no drink and also I didn’t want to discourage his recovery. It wasn’t like I fell off the wagon. I didn’t have another drink again until a week later.

So I am drinking again not alcoholically or anything, just at the bar. I’ve just admitted it to myself. I hadn’t really thought about and I know I need to be careful. I haven’t really told anyone because I didn’t want lectures or bullshit.

I didn’t want anyone saying but you were doing so well or judgment or pity or thinking I failed. I just wanted a drink. I just wanted something familiar. I was bored.

So yesterday I was walking home. I live alone now which means no witnesses. I can do whatever the hell I want. When I lived with my ex I had a witness. He was always counting my drinks or saying something about me being high. He was always finding my drugs. I hated witnesses.

So yesterday I was walking home and decided to stop by the liquor store. I hadn’t been there in like four months. I used to be there like every day, sometimes twice a day. The owner would see me coming and just get my bottle.

I decided to stop by the liquor store because I knew I had no witnesses at home. I could drink in peace. I knew it was dangerous territory. I thought I was just drinking at bars now I was back doing it alone.

Yet, I struggled. I did. I wrestled with not going but I knew I was going to stop. I made myself promises I knew I wasn’t going to keep. I said I would just have a couple of drink while I cleaned the apartment. I said the drinking would be my reward.

I got to the liquor store and the owner didn’t even recognize me. I guess because I had my work clothes on and eyeglasses. I hadn’t been in that liquor store in some long it no longer looked familiar. It actually looked sad. I got my bottle. I went home.

I am such an alcoholic. It’s funny to me that after not drinking for so long that it was so easy to pick back up where I left off. I got a liter of rum. I did clean the apartment. I ironed my clothes for the week. But when I started drinking, each cup got empty too quick. I said only three drinks, but they went so fast. I said only half of bottle but I didn’t feel drunk enough. I wanted to feel drunk. So I drank almost the entire bottle. I didn’t get to bed until 4 that morning and had to be at work at 9.

Again I had failed with alcohol. I always fail with alcohol. It’s not the same with me. Some people get home from work and have a glass of wine. I need four or five bottles. I don’t even taste liquor anymore. I just want to feel it.

The good news, I made it to work. I was an hour late. I knew it was going to be a rough day. I told myself I was never going to do it again. Lord knows how many times I’ve said that.

I think I’m drinking again. The other week I had what they call a drug dream. I dreamt I was doing crystal meth and it felt so real.

I don’t know what’s going on with me right now. I just got bored with being sober. I mean I will remain sane. I have no desire to live the life I lived before. But I have started drinking again. I don’t want to stop.

I wonder if this is normal. I think I will call somebody.

Forgiveness

2008-03-20T12:57:00.000-07:00

Wow, forgiveness, that’s a hard one for me because I’m known to hold grudges. I take stuff in and never let it go. I still haven’t forgiven people from elementary.

I don’t consider myself a bad person. I know I’m not a bad person. I’ve done some bad things like lie, steal, and cheat. But my heart is good. When I’m wrong, I admit I’m wrong. I don’t try to get away with anything. I try to be as honest as the situation will allow.

When I was an addict, there was no good or bad, just the addiction. I look back and amazed at some of the stuff I did. I lied to everyone. I stole from everyone. I just wanted my high. I just wanted my next cocktail. I felt I deserved. I didn’t even see it as stealing. I saw it as what I was owed. I always figured I give it back. I was just borrowing. But I never gave nothing back.

My most shameful moment was when I took my ex-boyfriend’s wallet. I knew rent was due that week but I didn’t care. I took his wallet and emptied his bank account. I figured he was a fool for giving me his PIN #. I didn’t even know what I was thinking. I remember just feeling suicidal that week. Actually I had meant to go kill myself. I was going to check myself in a hotel and overdose. Of course that didn’t happen. I went to the hotel, I did a lot of drugs and then changed my mind about killing myself yet I still had to go home. I still had to deal with reality.

I call my boyfriend at the time and told him what I did. He hadn’t even noticed that his bank card was gone. He was furious. He started crying and yelling. I was scared to go home. I did some more drugs and decided to just face the music. I got home and he had put my stuff on the sidewalk. He wanted me gone. I begged for his forgives. He slapped me to the floor. We started fighting. It was crazy. My boyfriend and I had never been violent. I didn’t even know he had a violent bone in his body. It was strange. The struggle only last for like a minute and we just lay on the floor. I regretted not killing myself.

We still had to come up with rent, so I had to pawn my camera and other stuff. We had to go get those payday loans with ridiculous interest rates. I just felt so much shame. I knew at that moment I had some type of problem but didn’t know what. That’s the problem with being an addict, I just wish I would’ve figured it out sooner, I was in so much denial because I didn’t want the stigma. I thought being an addict was a bad thing, I knew I wasn’t a crack head, I figured I was functional. That was the problem, I just wish I would’ve said it out loud earlier, freed myself. My disease had a name which meant I could get help. It wasn’t just about discipline.

My ex forgave me, but he changed his bank account. He started hiding his wallet. I never forgave me even when I paid the money back. I felt I had misused his trust. I felt dirty and like a common hustler or thief. I started to feel like a drug addict. I hated myself. I never did it again.

But why did he forgive me? I used to think because he pitied me. Maybe he knew I wasn’t a bad person. Maybe he remembered how I was when we first met. I remember him telling me when we first met he knew I like to drink, but he couldn’t predict it would become such a BIG problem. I couldn’t predict it would’ve become a problem. My ex was good at forgiving me but each time it changed him. It changed us. It eventually ended the relationship.

When I think of forgiveness and betrayal, I think of my best friend. We had once stopped speaking because I felt he betrayed my trust. It was something simple but big enough for me to not speak to him for a year. I wanted to forgive him but I couldn’t until I figured out why he did what he did. I knew that the apology didn’t mean anything; I needed to know what was going on his mind. I needed to know why. Eventually we talked and he told me the truth. He was jealous. I knew he had a lot of insecurities he constantly struggle with, and envy can sometimes get the best of us. I was able to forgive him because I knew his heart and mind. But it did change our relationship. I could no longer put myself in situations with him that I was in jeopardy. We could be friends but the fairytale was over.

I guess I believe that forgiveness is not a clean slate but more introspective. It’s not forgetting the act but truly understanding why it happened. It’s like if someone cheated on me and I forgave that person, it’s because I understood why it happened and that it’s forever changed the relationship. People are just human. We all make mistakes. We all have problems and issues, but it’s when they are revealed that we need forgiveness.

I need forgiveness. I need to forgive myself. I guess my relationship with myself has changed.

And when I think about it, I have learned to forgive myself. I guess when I decided to get sober and stop punishing myself was my way of forgiving the years of abuse. The main reason I stayed an addict for that last year because I wasn’t finished with punishing myself. The more I spiraled down, the more I hated me, the more I felt I couldn’t forgive what a mess my life had become. But one day I just stopped, I decided that I had enough, I wanted to be friends with myself again. I wanted a normal life.

I knew some things had to change, I was weak, an addict, I had to stay away from temptation but mostly I had see the humanity in myself. I think when we stop seeing the humanity in other people makes it hard to forgive. I don’t forget. I can never forget where I’ve been or done.

I feel better. When I think of that neighbor who sneered me, I smile because I know there will be those who are going to hate me until I die. But I don’t hate myself. I’m no longer punishing myself. I wake up every morning now and forgive myself because I know I don’t want to carry that burden. It’s hard when you don’t forgive.

In Recovery?

2008-03-19T14:02:00.000-07:00

I had actually given up blogging about my “Recovery.” Mostly because I’m lazy and I figured no one was reading, but when I look back at my old blogs, I think it’s more important that I re-read and remember. Also, I’m here when the addict will come looking like I did when I was desperate and needed answers and to know I’m not alone. You’re not alone.

Hi, I’m Michael Whitley and I am alcoholic, drug users, compulsive liar, bipolar and schizophrenic, and sex addict. When I think about all the things I am, I could add so much more like the childhood abuse and molestation. It’s funny, when I started to “recover” –Well, I actually consider it “In recovery” I didn’t know where to start.

How does one heal a broken heart?

Well I had to start at alarming problem and that was my drug use and alcoholism which landed me in the Psych ward for like a month. I was mixing my antipsychotics, drugs and alcohol and that was not a good thing. I lost my mind. I never felt so out of control. I couldn’t control my maniac swings, I was all over the place. And then I ended with trying to kill myself. But that’s just the synopsis. That’s the car hitting the wall.

The reason why I started writing “In Recovery” because I finally got me some sober time. I got out of Psych Ward. I finally started getting some help. I started taking the meds properly. I started going to AA meetings. I got me a therapist. I got me a job. I was going to live right whatever the hell that meant. That last for about two weeks before shit started falling apart again. Funny, I got sober and my life got so much harder. It was like I woke up and realized I burned down my house and had no where else to live.

Some more time passed, months, I stayed sane, because I stopped calling it sobriety. I started getting a new perspective on my life. I was sober and sane, but what did that really mean. I was in “recovery” but what did that really mean?

I wanted everything back I had given up. It was like that commercial where the teens are burning their trophies and college applications because they smoke pot, like saying how addiction will take everything if you let it. I mean it’s not instant. I know it doesn’t happen to everyone. A lot of “say no to drugs” campaigns are propaganda. I don’t have anything against drugs because I don’t think it’s just drugs that make addicts. It’s so much more complicated.

I wanted everything back I destroyed. After months of sobriety, I had a new perspective. I felt older and wiser. I felt I could use my own mind.

So now, in recovery has become about putting my life together for real. I’m thirty years old and it feels like I’m just graduating kindergarten. It feels like I’ve been flunking the same grade over and over again for the last ten years. I mean in the beginning, it didn’t look that way. I was just having fun. And I was having fun. I had a lot of fun. But it changed. Somehow it changed for me. It was like I didn’t leave the party. My friends left the party but I stayed behind for just one more dance and drink. My friends moved on, kept their jobs, bought houses, and I was still at that party with new people I didn’t know or trusted but I didn’t want to leave the party. And soon the people got worse, and there was no more music or dancing, just drinking and getting high. And soon there were no more people, just me and the drinking and getting high. I became an addict. Just me. Not any of my old friends, I had to go find other addicts to keep company or get drugs.

Now I’m in recovery. It’s not an easy process. Ironically, it wasn’t giving up the drugs and alcohol that was really the hard part or has been the hard part. After I was thirty days sober, I really stopped craving. The hard part was learning to live again. That’s the real recovery.

So here I am, the last three months I was evicted, hospitalized for a month, lost my job, my ex broke up with me but I’ve been sober.

I started to realize I wasn’t going to easily escape my past. And not many really gave a damn I was “in recovery.” I thought sobriety was going to be like a baptism, I go under the water and everything was going to be clean again. That didn’t happen.
The hard part is forgiveness. I haven’t forgiven myself becoming an addict. When I go home to my shitty small apartment and think all that I squandered, and lay my head down to sleep hating that I’m starting again at 30 when I should be so much further, that’s why I need the forgiveness.

Funny, I saw an old neighbor the other days. She was one of the tenants who banded together to have me evicted. She sneered at me and rolled her eyes. I hadn’t seen her in months, but that look she gave me made me so damn angry. I wanted to spit in her face. I felt she was looking down on me and then I turn that anger on myself. I hated myself in that moment. I felt dirty. I wanted to drink. I wanted to forget. And then I decided to just forgive myself. To smile at the old neighbor and wish her a good day. I struggled with those feelings for days, going back and forth. I still don’t think I've forgiven myself.

My dick is one inch long

2008-03-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

My therapist is a prostitute. I pay her two hundred dollars. I strip naked and we talk about my dick. I make her look at it. My dick is so short I don’t even feel it in my hand when I jack off. It’s so short my orgasm feel like popping a pimple. I make the prostitute yell at my dick to grow. I just think it needs discipline. Growing up I was told to never touch it or feed it, so I think it stunted its growth. My dick can be very insecure. It hated gym in middle school. My dick has self esteem problems.

The last Wednesday of every month the Omega Bar has its strip contest worth $50. Intentionally it begins right after the shirtless men drink free from 10-11 p.m. I’d seen it hundreds of times. It’s not like I needed the money. Actually the drag queen begged me to participate. Well, she didn’t beg, just mentioned it in passing. Well she didn’t just mention it to me as she announced it on the microphone but I knew she was talking directing to me. I tried to play coy and shy, but after seeing the hundreds of inebriated rejects who obviously needed attention fail miserably. I convinced myself I could win. I could do a better job. I told myself I had nothing to lose. I told myself it would be great self-esteem for my dick.

In the contest, the person had to strip to their underwear in front a dick hungry crowd. It was a gay bar. They were all old and fat and hadn’t’ been laid since the Civil War. I knew they would stare. I knew they would outline the print, measure the inches by how far their tongues stuck out. I wasn’t trying to embarrass myself. I was making a statement. I was refusing any longer to feel ashamed. I was taking those pills they advertise a four in the morning and send to my email. It was as if everybody knew my dick was on one inch long.

Immediately, there was regret after I gave the DJ my name and picked out a song to take my clothes off in front of a group of strangers. Suddenly, I wasn’t drunk enough. The shirtless men drink free hour went by too quickly and I needed more liquid courage. I sprinted to the bar. I figured vodka always made me do stupid things, so I ordered vodka and cranberry and then another one, and then another and another one. My heart began to pound. I told myself I should have done those fifty sit-ups. I looked around the bar, at the strangers who would judge me, and they looked ravenous. On my fourth vodka and cranberry in less than 15 minutes, I heard my name. The drag queen had yelled my name like Grandma calling me in from the streets to eat dinner and get ready for bed. I wanted to back out, run the opposite direction. She called my name again. I lowered my head. And just when I decided to avoid a very awkward situation, the drag queen noticed me, pointed the light towards me, and commanded me to come to the stage. I felt trapped. I screamed in my head, “What the fuck did I agree to?”On stage with the lights shining directly in my face, on my body, I froze. I looked out in the crowd for a friendly face, but nothing but disappointing one-night stands, disses and misses, no friends. Nobody cheered me. I felt utterly alone and naked and I hadn’t started stripping. They started the song I handpicked. I closed my eyes. I tried to find a beat. I tugged at my shirt. I tried to remember scenes in movies and television, something I knew I could mimic, grab, hold on for dear life. I remembered “Footloose” where Kevin Bacon taught that idiot how to dance. I quickly realized that I was the idiot and was making a fool of myself. I knew I needed another movie, and thought about “Dirty Dancing” but I couldn’t figure if I wanted to play Patrick Swazee or Jennifer Grey. Next, I remembered Demi Moore in "Striptease" but I wasn’t so ambitious. Lastly, I remembered the tacky “Showgirls” with that “Save by the Bell” hooker Elizabeth Berkeley and knew I found my muse. I just needed to be as tacky and offensive as possible. So I took it off and folded it neatly like I worked at the Gap. I placed my clothes neatly on the side stage like undressing for a one-night stand, making sure to remember everything so I wouldn’t forget nothing when I woke and suddenly knew it was a bad decision. I got to my underwear. I could feel my dick retreat like the coward it was. I slapped my balls, felt the pain shot through my body like burning down the house to make sure my dick was could out to play. I teased the crowd. I figure I show them some ass, make them think of pussy, but I knew they all just wanted dick.

I shook my ass to Tina Turner “Rolling on the River.” Did I mention it was a gay bar? On stage, drowning in the bright light with no lifesaver was beginning to feel like a bad Lifetime movie. I felt my dick smash against my underwear like I just hit the brakes at a 100 mph and it came flying forward. The crowd just looked at me like they were all on painkillers and I was a freak in a cage at an insane asylum throwing himself against the walls. I kept dancing. I was spinning like Tina Turner, throwing my hands out in the air, playing with my nipples, hopping to get some damn attention. I tried to smile, so that the starving crowd figured me friendly and could be petted, tipped. I could tell they were bored and embarrassed for me. I could tell them the drag queen who shook her head thought she was going to have to take off her Judy Garland over the rainbow heels and put me out of my misery. I shook my ass, trying to get at least a smile or sign of life. I felt as panicked as a paramedic pumping on the chest of a geriatric yelling at him to live. LIVE DAMNIT!!

I played with the tip of my underwear. I stuck a finger in my ass. I straightened my socks. I crawled around on the floor like in that movie “Flashdance.” I did anything to live in that bright ass light. I’d watched so many drunks before on Wednesday night die miserly in that bright light and I thought they were just retarded. I thought it would be so easy to take off my clothes in front of strangers; after all, I’d done it so many times before. Two minutes into the song, I just wanted the nightmare to end. When I was just about to quit, storm off stage, I got my first fan. He shoved a dollar down my underwear, maybe out of pity. I could feel my eyes fill with tears. My dick was happy somebody liked him. The winter finally started to thaw but I felt tired going into the second minute of the song, clinging to my breath. I shook my ass. I bent over. I tugged at my underwear. I winked. I licked my nipples. I did a split. I begged in my eyes for the indifferent crowd to love me. To please love me! And all I got was four damn dollars.

The hardest four dollars I ever worked for in my life. Then it was over. The drag queen told the DJ to stop the music. She had had enough. She instructed me to pick up my clothes and exit the stage. I felt used. I felt like I just had sex with an entire group of men and didn’t get off. But yet as I put on my clothes in a dark corner, like I’ve done so many times in my life, I had no regrets. My hands shook as I button up my shirt because gallons of adrenaline were pumping through my veins. I felt exhilarating. Most importantly, I felt I was in a good place in my life. Years ago, I could have never done such a thing because I hadn’t accepted my dick. Now everybody had seen it. They saw the freak. It was only one inch long. It was no longer a secret. I felt free.
A hour later and many more drinks, I was back on stage and I knew I was going to lose, and not to the hot Latino with the “Jennifer Lopez” wide ass in his grandma underwear, but to Edgar, the lovable and lesser intelligent black Forest Gump with one arm. His song of choice, “Like a Virgin” by Madonna. The crowd cheered as the drunk Edgar started unbuttoning his jeans with his one arm, then in a very bold move he revealed that he wasn’t wearing underwear, in which of course the crowd immediately jeered, yelling for Edgar to keep his clothes on rather than take them off. He had already revealed too much, the head of what seem like a very large penis. It had the biggest dick I’d ever seen.

His dick made my dick look like one of his pubic hairs. Edgar, in his toothless grin, crawled around on the floor. They just threw dollars at him. He was like the big headed slow girl with big tits. He was Anna Nicole Smith. I felt so damn flat chest.

They quickly forgot about me and my naughty performance to Tina Turner’s “Rolling on the River.” They had forgotten how I shook my ass and did that Tina Turner dip and spin. I was going to lose.

When I awoke the next morning with the hangover, then memory, I just screamed in embarrassment. I felt something move in my bed, that’s when I turned to my left and it was Edgar. What the fuck! He was in my bed with that toothless grin; both of us naked, his big dick gently cuddle my small dick like it just had a baby. I knew I was going to have a lot to talk about to my prostitute therapist.

The first time I…

2008-03-08T19:11:00.001-08:00

The first time I…

Blood, shit and a lot of cum is what I remember about my first time. I was sixteen, a couple of weeks from turning seventeen, and he was twenty-three, in the army and an asshole. Well, I didn’t learn he was an asshole until after we fucked. Anyway, what happened was, I was trying to be grown. It was the beginning of my senior year in high school, and I had already been out for about a year, but I wasn’t doing anything serious. I went to just a couple of parties, had a first kiss, been to the club, so it wasn’t like I was totally naïve but still new.

The night I met him, I was out with my best friend who had just recently graduated from High school that past May, joined the army and was now finished with basic training and about to be shipped to Korea for two years. My best friend at the time was fucking gorgeous, lean and pretty, so you can imagine hanging out with him that night I was getting no attention. I didn’t like that at all. I was still young, hadn’t really fully grown into my looks, so in a way I was use to being his shadow, the one everyone referred to as his “ride”, that is until Vincent (his real name) came into the picture and swept me off to the bar. I was already on my second rum and coke, watching my best friend giggle and caress against every cute guy in the club, but Vincent changed everything. When he whispered in my ear if he could buy me a drink, I automatically thought he was just trying to use me to get to my beautiful best fiend, but me being me, an opportunist, I wasn’t going to turn down a free rum and coke. We walked over to the bar, I confidently ordered my third rum and coke at age sixteen like I’ve been doing it my entire life and he paid for it. When I was about to walk away with it, he grabbed my hand and pulled me back close to him. I was now looking into his eyes and a little confuse. Of course me being the bitch I can sometimes be, and totally insecure, I violently yanked myself away from him, and told him I wasn’t my fucking best friends’ messaging service, so if he had something to say to him, he needed to do it himself, and thanked him for the drink.

When I tried to walk away the second time with my free drink, he grabbed me again and pulled me closer to him, this time he was smiling. I wasn’t. I looked him up and down, and he was cute, especially when he smiled, and he was taller than me, which I liked, and young, but not younger than me. I asked him what he wanted, and he deviously said “you.” Well that changed everything. I don’t know if it was the alcohol or the fact that someone was paying attention to me, but suddenly I felt like dancing. I pulled him to the dance floor, and my stomach was feeling hot, and my head kind of light, but the music moved my soul. We danced so close, hip grinding close, and when I could feel him rise, I would pull away because it made me rise, but he kept pulling me back, like a wave in an endless ocean, overflowing and out control and I just knew I was going to drown. We were dancing, dicks hard and sweating, and then he took off his shirt and wiped the sweat off my forehead. I guess it was a romantic gesture or a ploy to hook me, because there we were, him bare-chested, the streaming lights hitting every curve and muscle in his six pack chiseled stomach and I found myself falling, to my knees, well that would happen a couple of hours later. When we were talking, I think I told him I was nineteen years old and a student at the University, and I know he told me he was in the army and just turn twenty-three, so he had no idea when he was licking my belly button later, that he was committing a felony.

I don’t remember how it happened, I think he told me I should come back to his apartment, to talk, and it wasn’t like it was a school night, or that I had a curfew, because I didn’t. I was living with my older sister, after just recently moved out of my grandmother’s house because the bitch was ruining my social life. I don’t remember being nervous, but excited to talk. I thought in a way I had found my soul mate, someone who saw me in spite of my best friend’s beauty, and wanted me, not him, but me!! Vincent was so charming and classy. He kept telling me that I was beautiful, and was laughing at all my jokes. We talked about so many things that I can’t remember, but it all came to a silence when he asked me “ Are you a top or bottom?” I didn’t have an answer and told him I didn’t know. He kissed me. The heat from his lips numbed my body, and I found myself crushed underneath him, kissing him back, wanting him as much as he wanted me, out of control, and knowing from the raging fire brewing at the bottom of my stomach that I wasn’t going to refuse anything he asked of me.

Slippery naked and spread out on his bed, I knew I was way over my head but I couldn’t stop. His hard chiseled naked body was pressed roughly against mine, and I could feel the weight of his hard dick on my back, which poetically blended his sticky tongue in my ear, biting and caressing and abusing my weak spot, and then moving to my neck, like a snake, onto my back and down it’s empty river, stopping at the small of my back and biting gently. I was laying so still, not wanting to disturb the groove, wondering what he was going to next, and that is when he moved into a part of my body that was so intimate, that no one before him had ever visited, especially a man, and Vincent was man, musk, facial hair and everything. What he did next, I didn’t even know men did that to other men.. He placed his warm hands on my ass and spread the cheeks apart, leaving the middle vulnerable and sensitive to the stale breeze in the air, before he buried his face down there and stuck his tongue in. I was so sensitive and could feel everything, his lips, his tongue, his smile, and the hotness of his breathe, the heaviness of my breath, him spreading me wider, and biting gently with his teeth, me purring and try to fight it, try not give in, try to not show pleasure, try not to feel like a bitch, his bitch, but I was losing and my moans were the evidence. He turned me over and started attacking my nipples. My right nipple has always been my favorite but he was on my left, making me want him more, so I moved his head to my right nipple and he smiled because I was now participating. I was touching him back. I pulled myself off the bed and started kissing his neck, rubbing my hands across his stomach, very innocent until he took control back and stuck his dick in my mouth. At first I refused, because he was so big; I mean really big, porno star big. It was thick, long and black, and in my mouth, it filled me up, making my jaws weak. I tried for a couple of minutes but it was too much, so I pulled him out of my mouth, his monster, and it feel heavily still erect and very wet with my spit. He turned me back over on my stomach, this time kissing even harder, touching deeper, and we were moving so fast, like a hurricane, and I found myself spinning. I remember thinking to myself that he was never going to get that monster inside of me, so I must’ve thought about him fucking me, but I wasn’t ready. He was so big, at the least 11 inches and thick. It was going to hurt. I remember thinking when he was down there the second time, him and his tongue penetrating into my black hole, that I knew he was going to try and I was gong to let him, but I had faith it was never going to happened. What was supposed to happen, was that he would give up after a couple tries, tell me that I was too tight and that be the end of it. I wasn’t worried. He pulled out a brown bottle with fluid in it and asked me to sniff it. I saw him do it, so I did it and didn’t ask any questions. My head suddenly went very light, and I felt really hot, like I wanted him inside of me, and before I knew it , and much to my chagrin, this surge of unbelievable pain went soaring through my body and I cried out like a wounded animal, because he was inside of me. He told me to relax, to stop screaming but it was hurting so fucking much and he kept pounding and I tried to be silent, to let it just happened, so I bite my bottom lip and took it like a man. I felt him when he shot. I mean, I really felt him and haven’t felt a man do it the same way since. I felt the pressure, it building up, and then him exploding inside of me like a fireman’s hose. I felt it, all him oozing out, and it was like thunder and then rain, flooding my insides. Yes, I was in pain, but for those seconds, I felt euphoric, a certain sense satisfaction, that my body was capable of creating such a storm and it seemed worth it, that is until he pulled out and I was empty again, except for his waste.

When it was over, I remember laying there thinking so many things. I was happy it was over, I was also happy that I pleased him. I kept thinking that I was officially gay and not a virgin in any sense of the word anymore. I also remember how quickly the room went cold. He was no longer smiling, but stiff and withdrawn as if he just emptied his soul in me. He kept going on about how I couldn’t spend the night and how he had to get up early in the morning and how he doesn’t do relationships. Just moments before he was saying that he was going to worship me, that he was going to call me just to tell me how sexy I was and all of that bullshit I obviously fell for. I remember asking to use his bathroom because suddenly I had to shit all the cum his just shot of my ass. It was painful, the bathroom and when I went to wipe my ass, I saw the blood, shit and cum. It was staring back at me, the fact that I didn’t use a condom. I remember leaving quickly and him telling me that he was going to call me and he did, like two weeks later. I remember driving home, feeling ashamed and used. He didn’t even try to get me off, he didn’t even care. I remember getting into the shower at home and crying. because I was still dealing with so much, still coming to terms with being gay and facing the reality that I might’ve just fucked up my life.

The irony is that after all those years of sex education from the time I was in elementary school, in one brief second of passion, it was all so quickly forgotten. It took me two agonizing years to get tested. There wasn’t a day I didn’t think about it. I finally built up the strength to get tested, and I was negative. I never really trusted men after Vincent. I learned quickly the cruelty that comes with “living the life,” that there are too many asshole out there who don’t give a fuck about anyone else, just trying to get their nut and don’t care who they use or what they got or give, and no one can be trusted and the simple fact is: if you aren’t responsible to yourself, you can’t expect anyone else to be!

If you got your health…

2008-02-08T15:23:00.003-08:00

Old folks growing up would always say, if you got your health, you got everything. I never really understood what that meant because I was always a healthy child. I just thought life was a big playground as if the sun shines everyday.

But sometimes it rains, thunderstorms and scary situations. I mean 70 tornadoes attacked Alabama and nothing is the same anymore. That’s how I feel about health. I mean it could be all normal then a medical thing happens.

Well I’m sick, at home for the week suffering from pneumonia. I can barely eat, coughing all the time and a lot of vomiting. I wish things go back to normal because I hate being sick. In the middle of the storm, it feels as if I’m never going to be better. As if there will be no more sunny days. I sit staring out the window, jealous of others who are well and can go to work or fly a kite in a park.

I also think of my life as I cough hysterically like I’m about to vomit something vile have I been wasting my life. I think about what if I died and how the process would be to notify friends and family. I think about if my family will honor my will and cremate me because I never put it in writing. I think about my unhappiness and if I had more time what would I do different.

It’s hard because living a good life isn’t so easy. I mean I watch Oprah and I read a lot of self-help books, but I still feel trapped by my job, my past, my own issues and addictions.

I ask myself when this virus passes, would I have my health when it’s sunny again. I mean even if I’m not coughing or shivering with a fever, am I living a healthy life.

I think the term if you got your health you have everything just doesn’t mean not being sick. I think it means if you’re living a life you love, you got everything. So many days of sun in my thirty years of life, but many of them I was passed out drunk or something worse.

As I take my antibiotics, I’m glad I’m reflecting on not just healing my body but also healing my soul. I want my life to be healthy. Being sick reminds me how fragile life is, and I know I’m rushing to get well so I can go back to work and not worry about losing my job. But getting sick was a way of telling me to slow down. It was a way to make me look at what it really means to breathe.

I’ve been miserable all week, in and out of the hospital, thinking the universe was punishing me. But this is just another lesson.

When I get better, I will re-read this post and be reminded, enjoy the simple day. Because I know I would give anything to just eat a burger. Or hang out with my friends. Or go walking on a beach. Or stop and smell a flower. It’s so simple life. It’s so simple and the things I would give anything for don’t cost money. It’s not about my ego. It’s not about proving anything. I just want a sunny day and bask in its glory.

So for those of you who are well, breathe in and for a second enjoy it. I need to remind myself daily to enjoy my life. It's so short and fragile and we only know that when we lose our health.

What if Britney died?

2008-02-07T11:38:00.000-08:00

Sitting at home because I have this year’s flu and got pneumonia, I’m gifted with many hours of just watching bad television and surfing the web. As I flipped through the channels, I see on E and VH1 the latest Britney drama. I get on the web and on most of the information sites: yahoo, msn, there’s something about Britney. On the morning talk shows they are talking about Britney. That perezhilton.com guy is obsessed with Britney along with TMZ. And I’m thinking why the fuck should I care?

I admit I was a little bit intrigued in the beginning, the cutting off all her hair, her crazy mood swings, in and out of rehab. It reminded me of my youth. And then it turns sick, her kids got involved, she lost them, paparazzi followed her every move. They started saying she was mentally ill. The freak show turned into a countdown to another Anna Nicole situation.

I don’t know Britney personally. I’m not even a fan; well I did buy her last album because it was good.

Part of me loved the downfall because the machine at first made her to be such “virgin saint” and then tore her apart. I never thought her career would last past her 21st birthday. She has no real personality or direction. The real Britney Spears is just an employee of the Britney Spears image. It’s like she goes to work like the rest of us when she puts on that blonde wig, acts sexy, say what her latest manager tells her to say and then clocks out.

The problem has been the real Britney has been bringing her home problems to work. It’s like me showing up to work on Monday not trying to hide my hangover. When I’m at work, I’m employee, nobody at my job knows I’m bipolar, nobody at my job know what I really did with my weekend. It’s important for me to protect the reputation that let me pay my bills. But I guess with a person like Britney, she’s made enough money on that image, she doesn’t need to protect it anymore.

So what if Britney died? I don’t think I would be that sad. I’d be shocked of course like when Health Ledger died. I would still get up and go to work. I don’t think I would learn anything.

I think Britney teaches me about reality. I read all the stories and I’m like it must be awful to be so disconnected from your life. To not have any real control. I don’t look at Britney just as some pop star that everyone has said “yes” too. I look at her as a person who never exercised “no” or been forced.

Britney make me say to myself, what is life. I mean with all the money and unlimited resources, why isn’t that happiness. I think it’s sick. I go to work everyday just to survive and I keep thinking if I just win the lottery I be happy because I wouldn’t have to struggle. But then I look at Britney and I know it’s more than just money or fame. It’s life. It’s what I’m doing with my life.

If Britney died, I say good riddens, because it’s sad to see her waste her life. It just makes me want to pay more attention to mine.

Part 2, the day after suicide

2008-01-25T14:14:00.001-08:00

The day after

When I awoke, the nurse was changing my bandages. The look in her eyes was sadness and pity. She couldn’t understand how I had given up. I also felt some anger, as if my life belonged to her or she felt what I had done was senseless or just dumb. I wanted to scream at her that it was none of her business. She looked at the wounds on my wrists and just shook her head.

I was told I was to see the Psychritrists. It was obvious I wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. I knew the procedure. It wasn’t like it was the first time I tried to kill myself.

The Psychritists came into the room and sat down. He was a nice looking guy. I had doctors who were really bitchy and made me feel confrontational. He said he just wanted to talk. My hospital records indicated I had been there before. He asked me if I had ever been put on any medication. If I had ever been diagnosed as depressive. I told him no, because every time I found some way out of the situation.

The other attempted suicides I kinda played light. I thought I was just being dramatic. And when I ended up in the hospital, I just made a lot of jokes and tried to explain to the doctors it wasn’t as serious as they thought. I would say I just took too many pills or I would say , I would just trying to get attention, and I use big words and smile a lot and they usually let me go home in a day.

But that time was different. The wounds were cut too deep to say I was just playing. It was obvious I was serious. But I had fears of being diagnosed. I stayed away from therapists. My mother was crazy, so I had fears of becoming her one day. When I was a kid they told me I was going to grow up crazy.

But I couldn’t run anymore. The cat was out of the bag. I wasn’t doing so well with my life. I thought to myself, that maybe I was crazy. I got scared. I thought they would test me and then put me in a mental institution for the rest of my life.

The doctor said he wanted me to stay in the hospital for a couple of weeks. He said he wanted to run some tests on me, talk some more, get to the bottom of my recent break down.

I knew right then, it was more than just me acting out. It was more than just me having a lousy childhood. Something was really wrong with me. I needed to figure it out. I didn’t want to go back into the world if I didn’t figure it out.

Part 3, Getting processed into the Psyc Ward

Suicide, part 1

2008-01-24T14:07:00.000-08:00

September 16, 2007, I tried to kill myself again. I took some pills I knew I was highly allergic and sliced my wrists with a box cutter. I ask myself why, but mostly because I was sick. My drinking had increased exponentially. I was drinking a liter of rum a day. I didn’t know I was bipolar and I kept having intense mood swings. Some days I be high as a kite, so happy, and invincible and then some days I be so low that I couldn’t get out of bed for days. Those days it was like I was so afraid of the world. It was like I knew somebody was coming to get me and do something bad to me, so I coward under the covers. I was convinced somebody was waiting outside the door and the only way I could deal the fear, was drink. Alcohol gave me courage to go outside but it also kept me a prisoner.

The day I tried to kill myself my mood changed really dark. I felt as if I was already dead. I felt as if my life was nothing. I felt like a joke, that everyone just saw me as a joke or cheap entertainment. I had fallen apart. All the insecurities I’d been dealing with since childhood finally clawed me apart. I felt as if I was walking around with my insides handing out, claw wounds on my face, open flesh. I just felt as if I was constantly bleeding to death. And then it happened. I did something real stupid. My neighbor caught me and some guy I just met on the street making out in the hallway at 4 in the morning. I was embarrassed. He made such a scene about it. I was embarrassed because I felt it made me look like I was less than human. Not because the act was homosexual, but because I was acting like an untrained dog. I didn’t even know that guy, just picked him up on the way home. And I was embarrassed because I was staying with my ex, and it was just one more thing another neighbor was going to report the landlord. Everybody in the apartment building looked at me as a crack head, like I had no morals or self-respect. And I didn’t.

So after the scene in the hallway, I went upstairs to the apartment. I felt devastated. I felt as if my ex was going to kick me out of the streets and I had no money, no job, no friends, nothing. I was completely broke: emotionally, spiritually and financially. I just didn’t want to live anymore. I felt as if I couldn’t save me. I just didn’t know how to get out of the hell I created for myself. And my mind was short circuited. I couldn’t understand why I constantly shut down. I couldn’t understand why I was so depressed all the time. I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t stop drinking and drugging. Nothing felt good anymore, not even sex. Everything had just become a blur and I could feel the trainwreck coming.

So I tried to kill myself. I guess I was checking out early because it was inevitable I was going to get myself killed. When I woke up in the hospital, there was a peace over me. I knew I wouldn’t die. It sounds arrogant but I knew I wouldn’t die. I thought maybe I just needed attention. And then I thought, maybe I should’ve taken more pills.

When I woke up in the hospital, I felt safe. I knew I belonged. I was sick. I wanted help. I needed help. I knew I needed help and I wasn’t going to fight it. I was tired of pretending like everything was okay. I had reached my breaking point. I was ready to explain.

Part 2, the day after suicide.

A new year, a new me!!!!!

2008-01-24T14:06:00.000-08:00

I know it’s a little late in the year, well it’s only been a couple of weeks for 2008, but I’ve decided to do my New Year resolution.

As I reflect back on 2007, a lot of good and bad happened. Well it became quite obvious that my mental and addictive problems surfaced and exploded. The good that came out of 2007, I finally was diagnosed and got the help I needed. I finally started dealing with my alcoholism and drug addiction. I finally woke up and realized I was fucking up my life.

The bad that happened in 2007, because I was at my worse and getting worse, I fucked up a lot of relationships. I burned a lot of bridges that could’ve helped my creative career. I wasn’t focused and still lost. I sort of feel in 2008 as if I’m starting over as a writer. I thought what I initially wanted: the book deal, fame, respect, money wasn’t so easy. I thought the industry would just open up its arms and let me in. I realized I still got a long way to go as a writer, well to be the type of writer I want to be.

In 2008, I will begin to take my writing a little more serious. I think I will send out more. I only sent out a couple of things in 2007. I didn’t even look for an agent in 2007.

I guess in 2008, I want to change the direction of my pathos. I don’t want to talk about my party lifestyle anymore but focus on the mental health issues I suffer and addiction.

I also want to explore more of my alter-comedienne personality “Lazy Cheap Bastard.”

I guess this is where I am now. I need to make sure to continually remain present. I have a thing of escaping. I need to make sure to continue to speak up for myself. I have to keep myself grounded when it comes to temptation. I also need to remain positive because I’m very discouraged and self-loathing.

Some people say they want a better life, I mean it. I know it isn’t going to be easy.

I write this for you. You who will come looking like I did when the world was enough anymore. I used to ask myself if I can save myself. I knew I couldn’t be saved, because I refused any help. I knew I was the only one who could stop the madness. Yet, I wasn’t done with punishing myself. I wasn’t done with the pain I lived with since I’ve known consiouness.

I felt that pain was the only thing that loved. I knew I could trust the pain because it was predictable. I was afraid of knowing anything different because the pain told me so many lies. It told me nobody would ever love me. It told me I was a freak and should remain in darkness. It told me because all the shit that had happened to me that I was always going to be angry and just drive everyone away. The pain made distrust people. It make me keep my distance. The pain squash my dreams. It kept me a prisoner. I used to ask myself if I could save myself. If I could escape. But the pain was inside of me.

Recovery is not an easy process. I know I probably never be healed, but I can be better. When I think of recovery, I know most people go straight to “rehab” or the symptoms like alcoholism or any addiction. But I know recovery is a lot deeper than that. It goes back to birth. I was going to have to retrace my steps back to God.

After I was 37 days sober, I could finally start seeing my life. I had to get far enough from alcohol, sex and drugs in order to see how I was really hurt. It’s like getting in a car accident, in the beginning because of the shock, medication and hospital, the person doesn’t know how much they are really injured. Some people break legs, arms or ribs. Some people have to learn how to function again. It isn’t until a month or two into physical therapy that some people reazlied that recovery isn’t so easy. People begin losing their faith. It’s hard to stay optimistic.

In my recovery, some days I just want to give up. I think it’s too hard. I fear relapsing most days. I fear going back to what I used to be. I fear losing my job. I fear I won’t be able to put a decent life together because of my past and everything I did.

But that’s the recovery process. I will not win any awards because recovery is about life not a destination. And there are so many things working against me. I’m bipolar, schizophrenic and a maniac depressive. I’m also a compulsive liar and suffer from multiple personalities. It’s all stems from a very abusive and negligent childhood, but as an adult the wounds I carry sometimes don’t want to heal.

So where do I begin? I want to begin with the psych ward. No, I want to begin with why I tried to kill myself, again.

growing up: watch me

2008-01-16T20:21:00.000-08:00

why don't you want me

you wanted me to change
so i changed for you
six years old watching the cosby show
hopoing someday i can do shakespeare
or have family values
when mama was on the corner smoking crack
nigga children dreams
like dafur
had this alibino wanting to know my pain
like it's stamps to mailed for communication
so tired of being angry
couldn't it be easier if we just accept the pain
and happiness
and accept it all as love

again

2008-01-08T13:34:00.001-08:00

I was reading Gary Zukav’s “Mind of a Soul” today and the message of choice stuck with me. It is as if choice is creation. That what we ch0ose or do not choose we are creating our own reality.

I had to put the book down for a minute. I knew I was the type that didn’t like to make choices. I just wanted life to happen somehow in my favor. And when I think of all the chaos that has happened to me over the last decade, I would say I didn’t choose any of it. But I did choose by not choosing. I have always been afraid to decide, thinking somehow or another I’d make the wrong decision and pay the consequences. I figure if I let others make my decisions, and then I could just blame them in the end. My latest drama is very much an example of that. If I would’ve trusted my own instincts and not listened to others, I would not be homeless. But now I have to deal with the consequence no matter what.

I was thinking to myself earlier that for some reason I’m really calm in crisis. It’s when it’s quiet that I start acting up or out. The thought scared me because I thought my life’s goal was to get to a place of no more drama. Yet, I still have a need for it.

Where am I going? What am I doing? Why am I still writing? What is it that I want? Do I still want it? Is the passion still there? Does anymore care. Do I even care? I have all those questions going on in my head.

But I know I still got something to say. I haven’t said it yet. It’s been so unfocused. It’s been so distracted.

i miss my mama

2008-01-01T11:13:00.000-08:00

Mama's Medicine

Shawn are you listening?

I have a question to ask you. How do you get to Sesame Street? I don't know. I asked Mama and she say follow the yellow brick road. She crazy. She know there aint no yellow brick road. Cause if there was she know she be trying to pawn it. She and her stupid head boyfriend. I hate him. He make Mama do nasty things. I saw them both in the alley on their knees making Rice and Patrick moan. Rice like Mama stupid head boyfriend. He call him his Bitch. I call him a Bitch and Mama slaps me in the mouth. I saw Rice kiss his lips. Mama stupid head boyfriend don't like that. Grandma say he show is a pretty nigga, cause he have green eyes and everything, but she say he ain't worth the pot he pissed in. You ask me he ain't even worth the piss. I asked Mama what do Rice and her stupid head boyfriend do in the backroom, and why do he make so much noise, and why do she sit outside the door? She slapped me in the mouth and told me to shut up.

I love Mama, but she's sick. She always shaking. She always talking about that she need her medicine. Sometimes I have to hold the belt real tight so that she can take her medicine. I love my Mama. I wish she get better so she can play with me like she use to. I pray every night that Mama stop shaking. I don't like it when she is shaking real bad because the big bad man won't give her no medicine, cause she ain't got no money. When I grow up I'm going to be rich and buy my Mama all the medicine she need.

Shawn,
This ugly fat boy in my class said once that my Mama was a crack head. I told him he a damn lie! He say yes she is because his uncle sold my Mama some drugs because she had sold him some food stamps and sucked his dick. I told him he a damn lie! He say that I'm a crack baby and all the kids started laughing. I don't like it when the kids laugh at me Shawn. It makes me sad and all I want to do is cry but I don't cause I ain't no punk.
I told them, "I don't know why you laughing cause your Mamas get welfare to. All you bitches Mamas get food stamps." They stop laughing. The ugly fat boy then said that my Mama sold her food stamps that's why we don't have any food. I told him he a damn lie! They start laughing and calling me a crack baby. I got mad. I told them "fuck you" and ran far away. I told Mama what they said and she laughed. She say," don't worry about it baby." But I ain't no crack baby! Just because I shake sometimes don't mean that I'm a crack baby, and my Mama ain't on no crack either. She sick. She need the medicine that man give her so that she will get better. She's going to get better and take me to the park so we can play like we use to. I don't care what them nappy head black kids say. What the fuck they know! They don't know shit. I waited for that fat nappy head boy after school. I hid in the bushes. I waited and waited and when I saw the top of his fat nappy head as he walked by, I picked up the biggest rock I could find and hit him in his fat nappy ass head. He ran home crying. I laughed.

Shawn, sometimes I dream like dolphins.

I dream about Sesame Street. I hate living in this house. I want to go to Sesame St. because I love Bigbird and Elmo. I want to go live with Bigbird sometimes when Mama hits me when she don't have her medicine. If I was to go to Sesame St, I would sing the Sesame Street songs everyday because it comes on almost everyday. I would visit Oscar the Grouch and he won't be mean cause he my friend. I would count with Count Dracula and he won't bite me cause he ain't no real vampire like on scary TV. I could stay with Ernie and Bert and we play games everyday. Shawn, it would be so fun.

Shawn,
I hate it sometimes sleeping on the floor. My friend down the street sleep in a bed. He came to my house and laughed. We ain't friends no more. This house is cold too much Shawn. I don't have the blanket that Grandma gave us for Christmas anymore because Mama sold it. I had to use the sheet that Mama stupid head boyfriend pissed on. He nasty too much. I asked Mama to wash it and she say wait to tomorrow. I waited to tomorrow but she never washed it. So I washed it myself with ivory soap and now it smell good. When I think about it I hate all Mama's friends. They come in and out late at night and I can't sleep. I told Mama I couldn't sleep and she say shut up and go to bed.

Shawn,
I want to go to school today but I can't. I passed out the other day at school. I was at the board doing a math problem and my head started hurting and then I couldn't breathe. I was so hungry that day because it was a Monday and Mama don't cook on weekends. She never really cooks. When I fell to the floor the kids laughed at me but my teacher didn't. My teacher like me and she say I smart. She also say I number one in my class. She told me one day that I'm so pretty to be so dark. What that suppose to mean? I asked her and she said nothing. She meant something. I told her I ain't pretty but handsome like my grandma say. I told Grandma what she said and she said," that white bitch don't know what she talking about." Mama calls her the crazy white bitch. But I like my teacher. She bought food to the house that day I passed out at the board. Mama didn't like that but she still asked her for money and my teacher gave her a twenty and Mama was real happy. She gave her a hug and everything and told her that God will bless her. I laughed.

Shawn,
My teacher is so nice to me but she ask too many questions. Questions I know my Mama wouldn't like. She want to know what my Mama do for a living. I say "nothing." She want to know if we get food stamps. I say "no." I told her we rich. I ain't like those other black nappy head kids. I told her my Daddy own a company and he buy me things. I told her that he going to buy me a bike for my next birthday. I be ten. I told her my Mama love my Daddy. She asked me where my Daddy at. I say in Europe. I saw this girl once on Sesame Street and she talked real funny and she was from London, Europe. I looked it up on the map. She was pretty that girl from London. I want to go to London one day and visit her. She my friend.
My teacher told me to bring my Father to the "show and tell" one day. I told her I can't because he don't like kids, and that he sure ain't going to like those black nappy head kids in my class. I told her my father was white and black, that he mixed. I told her he just look white. I told her my Father is just like Bill Cosby and my family is just like the Cosby's kids. I wish sometimes I was a Cosby kid. Then I have a Dad and a Mom. Rudy's Mama on the Cosby show is never shaking and she never hits her. I don't see her in the alley on her knees. She doesn't need any medicine and if she did Bill Cosby is a Doctor so he can fix her and she want shake anymore. I love Bill Cosby and the Cosby's kids. They my friends.

Shawn why my daddy dead?
Mama said he died when I was four. Why he have to die? My Mama hated him. She always thinking that he is in the house. She say she can feel him. She say I smile just like my Daddy and then hits me in the head. A man killed my Daddy my Grandma say. My Daddy tried to rob this man and he killed my Daddy. I'm going to kill that man when I grow up. I'm going to buy a gun at Big Tim's house around the corner and kill that man. I told my Mama this. She laughed. She say my black ass Daddy better off dead. She say that man did her a favor. She say if my Daddy hadn't died he would have killed her. That explains them black long marks on her back. She say my Daddy was a evil black bastard, with eyes that cut like knifes and hands that never stop loving her and when he died she danced on his grave. I think Mama crazy sometimes. Mama say I look just like his blackass. I tell her I love my Daddy. She say you sure is stupid to be so smart. She say at least we get a check every month because my blackass daddy died. What check? She spends up all the check every time it comes getting her medicine from Rice. My Mama stupid-head boyfriend laughs when my Mama talks about my Daddy. I hate him. I hate his eyes. I hate his face. I hate that he breathes. When I get older, I'm going to buy me a gun from big Tim's house around the corner and kill my Mama stupid head boyfriend.

Shawn, guess what I broke my leg last week.

My mama stupid head boyfriend left me alone at the bottom of the stairs. It hurt. I cried loud from the bottom of the stairs. My Mama didn't hear me, and she never came because she was in the alley. A old man took me to the hospital. I seen him before. He comes by often and he and Mama go to the bathroom, and he moans and yells and then he leaves. I don't know what he and Mama do in that bathroom but he gives me a dollar when he comes out. I like him. He found me at the bottom of the stairs. Mama wasn't home so he took me to the hospital. He sat in the hospital with me, stroking my forehead as the Black doctor just like Bill Cosby put on my cast. I asked him was he a Cosby kid and he laughed. I don't know why he laughed cause it was a serious question. I told him when I grow up I'm going to be just like him. He smiled and signed my cast and my name as Dr. Jamal Wilson. The man who brought me to the hospital smiled. The nurse lady made me take off my shirt. I didn't want to take off my shirt. She took it off anyway. I was mad. She asked me how did I get all those marks on my back. I say, "I dunno kno?" I didn't want to tell her my Mama sometimes get mad when she don't get her medicine but my Mama loves me. She just need her medicine and the man won't give it to her because she have no money. She can't sell nothing because everything is sold. She cries sometimes when she can't get her medicine. I hate to see Mama cry. I cry to. I cry because she hits me. I hate it when she hits me. She real angry when she don't get her medicine and I only make her more angry when I tell her I'm hungry. The lady wouldn't understand. I tell her nothing. The doctor asked me how I broke my leg. I told him I fell. I lied. I hate my Mama stupid head boyfriend. He pushed me down the stairs. I accidentally made him drop his medicine and he pushed me down the stairs. I told my Mama later on and she did nothing. She didn't even say nothing. I should have told that Doctor and he would have told the police and my Mama stupid head boyfriend would have went to jail.

Sometimes Shawn, I miss you real bad that it hurts my stomach.

I miss how we used to play. Remember when we used to play toy war with G.I. Joe toys that we stole from Kenneth's house around the corner. And we used to also pretend that we were Thunder Cats and sword fight with the swords that you beat up Billy for. I loved it when we use to wrestle and we used to fight. You were my best friend Shawn and my big brother. You always took up for me when these nappy head kids tried to beat me up. You was always there. I remember when we use to stay up late at night at Grandma's house and talk about stuff. I remember when you taught me how to steal cause you could steal real good. You never got caught either. Everyday when you came home from school you would bring me candy that you stole from Stop n Go. I miss you a lot. It didn't matter either that we had different Daddies and Mama didn't know where your Daddy went. She said that nigga disappeared when she told him that she was pregnant. You didn't need a Daddy. Mama never got over your death. She still look at your picture and cry sometimes. You were only four years older than me and taller but we still look a like having different Daddies. I remember when they found your body in the streets. Grandma didn't want to tell me. She said you were sleep but you wouldn't wake up Shawn. Grandma said that bullet was meant for someone else and not you. Mama should have never sent you to the back to get her medicine. Grandma still haven't forgiven Mama for doing that. She told Mama to never send us back there were all the drug dealers are, but you and I both know that Mama need her medicine. Grandma wouldn't understand. Remember when Grandma once tried to take us but my Mama stole us back. I wish Grandma would have took us far away then you will be still alive and we can play like we used to. Shawn I wish things were different. I wish you were alive. Shawn, what does it feel like to be dead? Does it hurt? I hope not. Shawn, I wish Mama was better. She keep taking her medicine but she ain't getting no better. I'm just tired Shawn. I'm so tired of going to bed to gunshots and police sirens. I'm tired of getting laughed at when I go to school because I stink and my clothes are dirty cause Mama don't wash them. I just wish I was normal, like the Cosby kids. I wish I had a normal family and we play and had fun like the families do on TV. I wish I was at Sesame St. were it is clean and safe. Shawn, I was watching Sesame St. the other day and I swear Bigbird spoke to me. He said my name. Bigbird wants me to come to Sesame St. and live with him. But I don't know how to get there. I really want to go.

Shawn, I'm so sad today and it's raining.

I don't want to think about what I have to do today. I just don't want to think. I just want to go back to sleep and dream about cotton candy, rollercoaster and you Shawn. I want to go to school and do math problems at the board and talk to my teacher cause I like school. I hate this world. I hate that my Grandma been crying all week talking about she should've raised my Mama right. I hate that my Mama is dead. The man sold her bad medicine and she died. I found her shaking and white stuff was coming out of her mouth and her stupid head boyfriend just ran away. I tried to clean her up like I always do, like you taught me to do, but she stop moving Shawn. She even went to the bathroom on herself. She wouldn't wake up. She was real bad. I ran to the payphone to call 911. They came and I didn't want them to see Mama like that, cause she went to the bathroom on herself. They didn't even want to touch her. They put on white gloves. They kept slapping her face, and banging on her chest, and I just got so mad. I started hitting them for hitting my Mama like that. They held me down, and I was crying and cursing, but they wouldn't let me go. They took her. I called Grandma and told her they took her, and when we went to go get Mama, they said we couldn't. Grandma started crying, saying Mama wasn't coming home with us, because she's dead. How she going to die when her medicine was suppose to make her better. Shawn, I think she was taking the wrong medicine. She had to. Grandma keep saying it's going to be alright. She's lying. She know my Mama is dead and it ain't going to be alright! How Grandma going to lie like that. Everyone is always dying. You dead, my Daddy dead and now my Mama dead. I asked Grandma when I am going to die and she start crying again. I wish I was crying with Grandma. Then I won't feel bad. I'm just tired of crying. Shawn I want to die. Then we will all be in heaven and we can play together and go to the park in heaven. I wonder is there a park in heaven. Is there a park in heaven?

Shawn?
I wish I was at Sesame St. with Big Bird and Elmo because they would know what to do. We will sing songs, count, do the alphabet and math problems. We will go to the park and swim, bike, play football and skate, and then we will go back to Sesame St. and visit all the other people. We would have fun and then I wouldn't have to go to my Mama's funeral. I wouldn't have to see my Mama dead. I wouldn't have to cry. I have to go now Shawn. Grandma is calling me and I have to get ready. Grandma bought me a suit to wear and she say I look just like grandpa. I wish you were here so that I could hug you and we could play with our G.I Joe toys. I miss you so much that it hurt too bad that I can't breath sometimes.

Shawn will you do me a favor, promise me if you see Mama in heaven to tell her I love her and I miss her. Tell my Daddy to that I love him and I miss him even if I don't remember him. Also Shawn, could you asked Jesus how do you get to Sesame St. and if he knows please, pretty please ask him to tell me so that I can go. That is all Shawn, I love you.

I let go

Dying
I let go
That which was killing me
Myself
I let go
Pain, suffering and anger
I let go
And when I get free
I'm free to form my own shape
No more mistakes
I am perfect
I am the reflection of God
so I let go of anything that tells me different
I let go
Of shame and pride
And I'm no longer afraid to cry
To be real, feel or be flawed
Because I let go
To get free
To love me
To get closer to truth
To remember roots
So I let go
Got to love me
Got to accept me
So I let go
To fall
To fly
To be
I am free

Grow the fuck up: It's over

2007-12-19T13:38:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-19T13:36:00.000-08:00

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...

2007-12-19T13:35:00.001-08:00

”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

2007-12-19T13:18:00.000-08:00

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.