Him

It never matters who “he” is,

I always miss “him”,

Until I have “him” again,

And then,

When I do,

“He” won’t be enough,

Because I’m not enough,

And since I’m not enough,

No one else ever will be.

Winter is Coming

Having my daughter with me is really my favorite thing (and my son, too, of course).

She just fell asleep on me while watching “A Bug’s Life”. In the movie, a group of gang-banging grasshoppers force a colony of ants to fork over their harvest each year, and this year they decide to be especially mean, doubling their order. So, the colony’s mad scientist, Flik, who is usually making a mess of things, comes up with a way to save the day. He volunteers himself to go on a trek to find a troupe of bigger bugs to hopefully help the ant colony fend off their foes - but the bugs he finds are circus bugs, not fighters. They think he’s hiring them to come put on a show, and neither party know the real truth until much later, when it’s just about “go time” with the grasshoppers. Flik, the colony inventor, still manages to come up with an ingenious plan using his skills and smarts, and of course, it all works out in the end.

And isn’t that just what life seems to be about - problem-solving? We’re hungry, we have to eat. We’re tired, we have to sleep. We’re cold, fix that. Dirty, fix that. Bored, fix that. Broke, fix that. Lonely, horny, sad, angry...accept, change, or suffer. Over and over, day in, day out, ad infinitum.

Until last year, one of my “problems” had always been an oppressive, angry alcoholic who wanted more from me than I could give. It’s no wonder I still keep trying to be “rescued”. A 28-year pattern isn’t going to change overnight, so I’m gonna cut myself some slack on this one. 

I am no longer living with an oppressor, so that problem’s finally been solved. No more grasshoppers - check. But my colony of three is a small one, and I’m the only one sowing and reaping, here. So, it’s time to get creative and come up with a new harvest plan - and fast.

Winter is coming.

Meanwhile, I’m grateful for what I’ve got - and for what I’ve not.

Meeting My Own Needs

By the end of the next two weeks, I will have needed to secure some kind of additional employment, since winter is always a slow season for wedding, engagement and family photography. I have a gift-certificate promotion ready to pull out of my sleeve, but it won’t be enough to make January’s rent, let alone provide for Christmas. Tax season and a Valentine’s Day wedding balance will soon follow, but unless I make some other money somehow sooner...

I’ll be fucked.

At least, in one sense of the word. 

Instinct... survival. I’ve come to understand that that’s what this has all been about, all along. A (heterosexual) woman looks to “get a man” to help provide for her and her children - and she uses sex to do it. 

It’s only natural, I especially realize after looking at Maslowe’s Hierarchy of Needs:

Basic survival instinct. 

Unfortunately, and ironically, using sex to survive sure backfired like a motherfucker when I contracted a deadly virus that way.

(And I always thought I just wanted to be “loved”.)

Without being able even to meet my own basic needs, it’s no wonder why I could never meet my “esteem” needs, either, fucking men “for love” when all along I really just wanted them to fucking provide for me. Using people isn’t esteemable at all. And it’s no wonder why all of my intimate relationships have heretofore failed. Always needing something from someone else, “In time, all [her] protectors either flee or die, and [she] is once more left alone and afraid.” (43, Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions) 

But I can say now that God did for me what I couldn’t do for myself here. The more I rely on God, and do what I think He would have me, the less fear I have. With His help, I know I can provide for myself and my kids, and hey, when that happens, the higher my self-esteem will be.

I might even achieve my “full potential”.

I just hope to live long enough to see that through.

God’s will, not mine, be done.

Divorcing Self Pity

For a very brief moment, there was someone who was saying good morning and good night every single day. For a very brief moment, there was someone who cared about me “that way”. And why? Because he was hoping to have a place to put his dick. Someplace soft and warm and wet. 

A contract. But I breached. 

So “love” is the agreement, “Fuck me and I’ll let you feel cared for”? 

Whatever happened to, “I care for you, so when we see each other, I know our love will be there,” and we let things unfold, naturally?

Nope. There has to be a “sex agreement” in advance, apparently. 

I 

AM

SO

TIRED

OF

THIS

SHIT.

Four break-ups in one year. It’s the same shit - different year. Reminds me of 2012 through 2014, before my last suicidal depression. Yep...this is familiar, all right.

Damn these thoughts...

“And now there will be no one.”

“I’m not worth the risk unless the sex is that good? That often? Vagina videos and sexting every day?”

“And he was the last one who will ever want me, and I screwed it up. Just because I wouldn’t screw him soon enough.”

“It’s all over now.”

Seriously, Self Pity - we need a divorce, bitch.

I need to let go and let God. Then this too shall pass. I’ll become a mother-fucking (yep - self-fucking) super-hero single-mom who is both woman and man, nurturer and provider all-in-one. Two jobs. A vibrator, and Star Trek: Discovery, where the black female Commander Michael Burnham rocks a pixie ‘do, kicks ass, and takes a man’s name. I can get off to that.

As long as I can survive this fucking self pity (sign the papers!), I think I’ll be all right.

Break-up number five. Let’s go.

Bullshit

Just before I was diagnosed as HIV positive, a man I had been avoiding messaged me (see “Deniro” in my sex inventory post)... and he said something to the effect of,

“Considering that all the other men you encounter are boys, you might want to keep your options open, as far as I’m concerned. With 7 figures, I’m the only one who can provide you with the financial security you need. Just an observation.”

I took the bait. When I got my diagnosis, he was the first person I called, even before my sponsor. He told me, at his age (72), what did he care anyway? And he knew about the antivirals available these days, and wasn’t too concerned. But he did use it as another opportunity to corner me.

I was especially weak and vulnerable in that moment, so when he promised to love me and take care of me, I felt relieved: Thank GOD I wouldn’t have to be alone forever - that there’s still someone who wants me. And he wants to take care of me financially, too? And all I have to do is visit him once in awhile and fuck him?

Okay, I can do that, I thought...

For awhile.

Until, earlier tonight, he detected that I was “less than enthusiastic” about the whole deal. He expressed his desire to see me before January, and I reiterated the impossibility, with my business and my kids - it would have to be just after the holidays, while my son is visiting with his grandma, and my daughter might be able to stay at dad’s, and my work will be all caught up.

At some time after midnight, he texted me about his problem with me not jumping at the idea of coming down to So Cal to see him sooner.

So, okay, he knows.

He knows I’m not too keen on trading my vagina for money. I mean, I used to do that for nothing - well, for “love,” but that never worked. If I wasn’t “done” with that lifestyle before (I was not, clearly), I definitely want to be done now. And I can no longer play the actress. I can’t act enthusiastic about it. 

So he and I are “done”, I think.

I wonder how long I can handle being “done” before I stop being “done” again. I’ve sucked at being “done” for years now. Failed completely. Hence, the HIV. 

If one good thing - one really great thing - can come of this... I’m hoping it will do for me what I could never do for myself.

As long as I can survive the aloneness of not being loved “that way”.

For a love addict, it feels like death.

Only, death would be easier.

Of course I would never go there. I’ll pick up my cross and raise my two kids to the best of my ability, by myself. It’s what I’ve been wishing I could do for years - not “needing” a man.

So, here goes nothing. Or should I say...

No one.

This is such bullshit.

A Short Life Wasted

A Short Life Wasted

by Self Pity

Oh, woe is me!

What little have I accomplished!

No one loves me the way I want to be loved!

Who will mourn me?

No one, save those who benefitted from my being alive!

To all else, “Yes, how sad,”

And not another thought.

My life is meaningless.

What’s the point of it all?

Raise children just long enough for them

To become the next dredges of society,

My son will use women,

My daughter will use men,

And neither of them will ever truly 

Be happy.

They may end up with some disease 

Like their mother

That makes them unwanted, unworthy of 

Anyone’s love.

My blood is poison

My vagina is death

And no man wants a woman

That he can’t fuck.

I take pictures for a living -

One among many.

Everyone’s a photographer 

So who cares if I’m gone?

Life has no meaning -

And I’ve all ready said that.

See, even my words are meaningless,

Repetitive, empty,

Heard by no one,

Going nowhere,

I might as well be dead.