loser.

I’m not sure if I should be concerned more so for myself or for the professional who I’ve decided to talk to.

Now that I’ve come to almost complete terms with the fact that I am a complete social loser, I thought it would be helpful to seek out someone who would be better fit to judge what it is that makes me that way.

You see, on the the outside everything looks great. Great apartment, great job, great looks, and intelligent to boot. But clearly there is something missing b/c when a person looks great on paper but can’t seem to retain any person in her life to love her unconditionally there is reason for concern. Well, I’d think so.

The other day, I received an email from my Father. We haven’t spoken in a while (a month it seems, I had to check) and in this email he accuses me of changing my address and phone number. Neither of which I have done. For what ever reason he had the wrong information, though he had the correct information for quite some time. Now, if I hadn’t heard from my offspring I would have a feeling of concern rather then accusations of purposeful neglect. Now I’m left with a feeling of confusion. Was he trying to contact me out of concern? Or out of annoyance that he’s been receiving my mail but unable to send it elsewhere?

I don’t know anymore.

flip-flop.

There has never been in a time in my life in which I have doubted myself more than this moment.

Often in times of deep despair, I’ve always been able to find a way to look forward to something in the future. Something better then the circumstances I was already in. A better city, a better school, better pay, better people. But having already completed the timeline that has been set forth before me, I’m now lost.

I have nothing to look forward to. Each day is just another day closer to the end of my  life. I try to become excited about the steps that I’ve set for myself but these steps are seemingly backward. Moving back to a place that I’ve hated all my life. Going back to the company that my mother had always wanted me to work at. Even the steps of getting back to that company that I so took for granted the first time around is hesitant to take me back the second time.

And while the excitement I once had may have been from an incorrect place, at least I was excited. In this mental space that I’ve come to nothing is exciting. All things are just as disappointing as the next. I almost feel too lost to correctly describe how I feel.

In under a year I’ve flip-flopped from a complete lack of emotion to an utter loss of hope for any sense of humanity to an overwhelming tinge of joy at the glimmer of happiness.

Quite frankly, it’s exhausting.

The irony of the situation is that I am doing this all to myself. I sit and analyze until there is no possibility of coming to any one outcome. I rant and rave about the nonsensical acts of society but in the back of my mind I wonder if that’s the answer to it all. The answer to happiness. The answer to happiness is selfishness.

reading.

To my great surprise, it seems that I have gained a small readership.

I should warn those that read this blog that it will not be sunshine and rainbows ahead. This blog is an oasis away from the daily office politeness that pollutes my sense of truth.

Somethings left unsaid are better typed…anonymously.

If you leave a comment (which I hope you do) please remember that you are leaving your mark for a sensitive person who may use that comment in another post.

xx

listening

There are times at night when I miss the sex industry. The constant movement between people and places. Houses, condos, hotels, and offices. Each appointment was another opportunity to be a different person. A college student, a stripper, a porn star, an actress. It didn’t matter. Smart, intelligent, exotic or all American. As long as I was able to stick to the story no one asked any differently. Sure you’d have the occasional client who “wants to know the real you”. Saying anything they can to get you to believe that they are different. That they really care. That Richard Gere and Julia Roberts really do live happily ever after.

In the end it doesn’t matter. What’s most important is being able to key in on what kind of girl they are looking for. The kind of girl that they’re willing to spend the most money on.

Every guy has that girl that they cherish and tonight, if you want to make a good amount of money, you have to figure out who that girl is.

The skill that gets you the most money is being able to listen. This doesn’t just mean nodding your head and smiling, no. You do need to be able to do that but you also need to listen with your head. He says he likes baseball does he? Well, don’t sit there and start naming of all the best hitters, no. Make him feel like he’s the only one who knows what baseball is. Is he shy? Maybe you need to bring up a subject that he likes. Compliment him. All the ridiculous things that girls that told they’re not supposed to be – do it.

This fake listening was also easy for me. I would place a mysterious smile on my face while I went to work on his body. Creating a rhythm in tuned with the cadence in his voice. Subtle yet soothing breaths of agreement.

See, easy. The irony is now that I am out of the sex industry, working a normal 9-5 job, I find that no one wants to listen. Everyone is out to here themselves whether they’re right or wrong it doesn’t matter as long as they can hear their voices. There is little need or want for subtly. Only loud abrasive sounds crashing into one another like a thunderstorm in the summer.

These same people are the clients who desperately need to have someone listen to them. And sometimes they just want to listen to you, their cherished item of escape. There is no need for loud abrasive sounds of nonsensical meanings. Only breathy agreements or nods of understanding.

numb.

The unexpected tingle of emotion trying to break through the numb demeanor hiding pain. It comes from a not too unfamiliar place where darkness lingers. Creeping through the dimly lit passages of prior escapes where loneliness and sadness have made their way out. A subconscious battle between anxiety and emotional detachment fight to keep the numb demeanor intact.

Friendship are what make and break the internal struggle for sanity. When the feeling of acceptance is sustained, so is sanity. When the insecurities begin to break through, sanity is often questioned.

Questioned not only for it’s necessity but also for it’s worth. What benefits do I gain from being sane? Does being sane qualify for a happier existence? Does being sane quantify the meaning of contentment?

Being a person who often times feels there is a right answer to everything, these questions become hard to decipher. Not only because I seemingly can drive myself mad with all the potential answers but also because there has not been a person who I could consistently go to for the answers.

Friendships much like relationships, are not something that I pride myself on being good at. Somewhere between birth and now there was a mix up in the delivery of how to sustain them. For the majority of my life I have been told that the only people I need are in books. But much to my mother’s dismay even people in books have friends.

It would seem that speaking with a therapist may be to my benefit. Logically it is. Emotionally, I don’t think I could take it. Not only because I’ve been told by the therapists that I’ve called to schedule an appointment that 1) they have no available appts 2) they don’t take my insurance 3) they don’t deal with people like me (meaning that while I’m seeking out help, they don’t have the answers or know anyone who does). As such, I am strangely thankful for the consistent theme of being alone. Had I not been left to my own devices I may not be writing this right now.

Ironic.

Though the pain can be unbearable when I realize there is no one to call in times when I desperately need that human contact, I still try. I still lay in bed with the same tears of filled with loneliness like I had done in high school. I still go to that image of a mother that I wish I had, waiting for me to call her telling her that all I want is to come home. I still say, “I miss my mom,” although deep down I know she can’t coddle or help me. The fictional portrayal of being coddled is what I hold onto. The dream. The need that is fulfilled – if only in my mind.

And for this brief moment, while I type this, I am able to let the numbness subside. Accept the insecurity. The inconsistency in people who call themselves my friends. The people who come in and out of my life. The men. The women. The people who throw words around like family, love, and trust.

I don’t think I’m better then them as I’m guilty of the things that they do which make me cry but often times it’s me who apologizes for the lack of communication. I am the one who reaches out time after time in hopes of reconciliation.

But perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps I should take the hint? Or do I take it too personally? Are people generally that selfish?

It’s time to bottle up those insecurities for a while. Stuff them deep down to the place where no one goes. Back through the passages through the corridors and beyond the patches of realization.

Deep.

Deep.

Deep.

I’m five years old today!

A little girl swings her arm with her father’s hand clasped around hers.

“How are you today? Four?”

With a wide smile she proclaims, “Noooo! I’m five years old today!”

Oblivious to her comment her father continues to walk forward, her hand still in his.

She continues, “And I’m going to get a princess bed!”

She looks up to her father as if to receive confirmation that she will indeed get a “princess bed.” Smile still wide.

“Yes you are sweetie!”

Validated in her comment she seemingly skips along to keep up with his pace.

As we walked along and my mom picked out the princess bed that I was going to get, which I didn’t really want but I knew my mom wanted me to have it, I didn’t know that was going to the last memory I’d have of being truly happy.

It just felt so right. Both my parents were there and amazingly they weren’t arguing. Even though I didn’t really want a “princess bed” I knew that pretending to like it would make my mom happy and that made me happy.

I’ve spend a large portion of my life trying to figure out what makes me happy. Why do I always feel alone and abandoned? One of the very first memories that I have is of feeling alone, insecure, and unwanted. How can a toddler of two understand those feelings? How are they supposed to deal with them? But more importantly, why do I remember them still to this day? If I were a better artist I could draw pictures of the event. Like a storyboard. So vivid, down to the probable time of the event.

I tried to do all the things that children and teenagers are supposed to do to get reactions out of their parents. To feel like I was a good child. Quite the opposite happened. I had my mother tell me that I wasn’t her child. That she had disowned me. All because I was caught shoplifting.

I then became a feral child. I lie. It was much before then. I’m a product of ABC Family television programming. The over used feel good story plots that is never reenacted in real life. At least not that I’ve been able to experience. Doing bad things tend to have bad endings. Hell doing good things even end in bad endings. There is not rhyme or reason to life. Life is unexpected even if you plan for it.

And now, in a roundabout sort of way, I’ve achieved the goals that I have set forth before me. Living a large city and making my own money but still I feel almost as empty as I was when I was two years old. Although, now, it’s almost a numb feeling. Calloused really. Years of tears, wrenching pain, and blood covered exacto blades has left me without feeling. Well, feelings in the sense of emotions. Now, I just turn it off. I become numb. It’s not a good feeling, like I said it’s empty but I guess it’s better then the heartbreaking dark cloud of worthlessness of a few months ago.

quiet.

“Shut up! Sit there and just be quiet!”

I could see the vein on his neck straining to escape the rest of his blood red neck. Standing more then six feet above me I had the perfect view of his five o’clock shadow.

Skinny with sharp features, I didn’t notice when he threw me across the room.

“You’d be nothing if I didn’t find you. Slutty piece of shit. Don’t you get it? You’re my bitch now.”

With every kick of his foot another nickname was shouted. “Whore.” Thump. “Slut.” Thump. “Skank.” Thump.  He made sure not to mess my face too much this time. I had a hard time getting any clients when he smacked me for talking back.

When I finally woke up he had a client on top of me. I was just grateful I couldn’t feel anything.

DNA

For as long as I could make my own decisions, I’ve always tried to go against the grain of my DNA. My Father is a Republican, I’m a Democrat. My Mother wanted me to be a nurse, I’m a designer.

I wanted so badly to grow up so fast and be my own person. I was too busy trying to not do what my parents told me I SHOULD do that I never took the time to really listen to why they might be telling me to do those things. This is where I’m supposed to say that,”well my parents were right all along!” but if anyone knows me that’s not what happened. Turns out, I still believe the opposite of most of what my parents believe.

Sure, I take the Christian morals with me where ever I go. I could recite certain biblical stories to you if you had the right beginnings to get it going but that doesn’t mean I think it’s any more justifiable then Scientology.

And yes, I do have some conservative views on the economy but socially you couldn’t put me in the same room as a Republican without there being a strong debate on any major topic.

But simply b/c I can at least see from their point of view doesn’t mean that they were right. The older I get the more I start to accept the fact that they will never be the parents that I not only want but need.

The majority of my life was spent in front of the television. Thanks to ABC family programming, I turned out all right. I never really put much thought into why I always have the TV on until my roommate mentioned it. She grew up in an environment where there was only one TV in the entire house and they only had basic bunny ear reception. She just couldn’t understand how I was able to just lay there for hours on end flipping the day away with each channel change. It’s ok, she just doesn’t understand. While we may both be from households that had only one child, her upbringing was much more of the Leave it to Beaver arena while mine had a liking to My So Called Life.

Television not only comforts me but it’s like watching your Mom make dinner. All the different ingredients, so many choices of what to make, and how to make it. That interest that small children have when watching her cut the carrot a certain way is how I feel when someone gets kicked off of Dancing With the Stars. The how’s and the why’s are the same, just for a different cause.

You see, while my roommate was busy sitting there waiting for the next healthy meal to be made I was holding my pee for the next commercial break.

My feelings for TV can be equated to the love that a child feels for their Mother. It soothes me when I’m sad. It has advice on everything from make-up and boys to saying no to drugs and drinking responsibly. None of those topics were ever mentioned in my household unless it was followed by a threat of going to hell or being in trouble.

TV is the security blanket I never had. It coddles me when I feel the worst. It helps me come to terms about the loneliness I feel. It helps me figure out what to wear in the morning. Frankly, it’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had.

I love television. I always will.

I have to let myself love something, right?

lonely.

The suddenly realization of the deep sense of lifelong loneliness. The dripping wet drops of sorrow. Sorrow buried deep beneath the fears of failure. Constant accusations of whoring, endless nights of darkness filled with deep sense of despair.

All my life I’ve only ever strived to make my parents happy. Each day hoping that it would be one that they would tell me how wonderful I am. How happy they are to have me in their lives. So proud to be my parents. I’ll never get that. Not because they’re not proud of the things that I’ve done but because they don’t know how to say it.

blood.

Have you ever visualized what it would look like to slit your wrists?

The steam from the water gushing out of the facet as your fill your tub with warm water. Warm enough in order to get your blood pumping at a decent rate. You take off your clothes and step in, feeling nothing but warmth gradually climbing from your toes to all the way to your chest. A surreal experience as you stare at the newly bought one-sided razor blade as it glisten from the steam rising engulfing the room

Being that you’ve thought out every detail of this occasion you know that everything is taken care of. Your letter is set to send out an hour after the event. Your belongings are meaningless and the people who need things from you will know where to find them.

As your body regulates to the temperate water you know it’s time. Taking the razor blade you make sure to slit in a downward motion rather then across like they show in the movies. First your right hand then your left. Your right hand collapses across the edge of tub, razor still intact. A steady stream of maroon liquid flows down your finger tips and ends on the bathroom floor.

In minutes it’s all over. Numbness takes over your thoughts. Your body feels nothing. The water is cold the flow of liquid dries from your body.

Left of you is nothing but a slippery mess on the bathroom tile. Pools of blood gather as time passes. Before your letter is sent out, your body is blue. Soon it’ll start to smell and the only reason that anyone knows how to find you is because of complaints of an odor.