The Tech Support iPhone Guy and the Music Students

On the night of January 15, 2015, around 2 am, I awoke in bed, writhing in pain, consumed by an unearthly darkness that was attacking me from the inside. I couldn't breathe, and therefore I couldn't scream. My attempts to do so emanated in deep growls.

Before I continue to explain what happened that night, let me go back to August 1, 2014, when I had posted part 9 describing the end of the relationship with Jason. I went back him a week later, so, I stopped posting. This addiction is cunning, baffling, powerful...and embarrassing.

Then, in September, I was granted full custody of my son because his father relapsed on heroin, and Child Welfare Services got involved. That did finally spell the end of the relationship with Jason. I told him I could only handle raising one child, and hardly that. He ended it, because he couldn't have all of my attention any more.  I thank God, Who did for me what I couldn't do for myself.

But of course, along came #32, the Tech Support iPhone Guy, who offered to trade me his iPhone 5S for a kiss, took me out on a date, and then got me into a lot of incomprehensible demoralization. Any time my son was at school or with his grandma was fair game for him to demand I see him. Our activities ultimately left me in so much physical pain that I couldn't even have sex for a week...and the emotional pain had been mounting....so, I was able to end our little three-week stint. It's a good thing, because if we'd gotten caught having sex in his office, we'd have both been fired (we work at the same place, by the way!).

Then came #33, the Christian Latino Music Student ("Carlito") who had started poking me on facebook once my relationship status changed on October 1 (#32 had come after me on facebook, too). I think we got to something like 344 facebook pokes before I decided I wanted to try to be a grown-up and actually meet him for lunches and dinners. So we did that, and I also started going to his church on Saturday nights where he played bass in the band, and I started getting close to Jesus again, even though I was really there for Carlito.

#34 came about a month later (the Atheist Latino Music Student, "Rodrigo"). He was a mutual friend of Carlito's, and also a friend of mine on facebook. He offered to help me move into my new apartment the second week of November when I posted that I was packing, and moving, and lonely. I accepted. My son was having a supervised visit with his drunk dad (I had breathalyzed him, and he was at .08, but the court had mandated that he get six hours per week supervised by his mom, regardless), and I was depressed.

The sexual tension with Rodrigo that night was palpable. Nothing "happened" other than the move, a dinner at Robertito's, candid conversation, and a game of Headbanz riddled with sexual innuendo. But after a few days of texting-turned-sexting, he said that friends with benefits can be fun, and we should do it. And in response to my concern about "seeing" him and Carlito at the same time, he proposed, "¿Por qué no los dos?"

I was out at dinner with Carlito the next Saturday after church. I had had sex with Rodrigo earlier in the day, (I began allowing longer supervised visits for my son and his dad to allow myself to see these men). I was showing Carlito a video of something on my phone when a text came in from Rodrigo: "You drained me good."

It was a terribly awkward moment for me and Carlito, and my heart sank. I had been trying to give Carlito the impression that I was a sinner, yes, but repentant, and of course I hadn't told him about me and Rodrigo. I'm pretty sure his heart sank, too. We were both silent as I drew my phone back into my lap. We both looked down at our food and took a few more bites before he suggested we go.

There was some meaningless conversation in his car on other subjects as he drove us back to the church parking lot. He parked, and that's where he said, "So, Rodrigo, huh?"

I broke down crying. I explained how Rodrigo helped me move and suggested we become friends with benefits, and I didn't want to say yes, but that he was really pushy, so yeah, that's what was going on.

Carlito wiped away my tears and in our closeness, we kissed. It accelerated quickly, and his tone changed from the soothing, calm one of a man who cared to the prompting one of a man turned on, and he asked me if I wanted him. I said I did. He ended up fingering me for an hour, taking me to total ecstasy (and getting my entire long skirt wet), and then we drove back to my place in separate cars and had the most passionate, amazing sex I've ever had, for another three. He stayed with me for awhile after but left early in the morning; both he and Rodrigo lived at home with single mom and parents, respectively, and both had a thing about being back before mom woke up, apparently.

Being a Christian, Carlito repented. When we saw each other after that, he denied me, each time. I would try to hug or kiss him, and he would pull away. I told him I wanted us to date, but he said there's only one reason Christians date, and that's to lead to marriage. He said he was considering me for marriage before he found out about Rodrigo, but that, since he had been cheated on by every other girl he's been with (two), with what happened with me, he just didn't think he could date me.

No words can tell of the bitter morass of self pity in which I came to wallow.

When I told Rodrigo about my having sex with Carlito, he said he didn't want to share me after all, and that he was going to make me his. But I decided I needed to end it with both of them. I tried to end it with Rodrigo via text, and he told me to not text him again or he'd punish me worse than he all ready was going to, that I was his and he takes what's his, and to expect him the next night at my apartment because he was going to be there at 9 pm. I didn't text him for fear of what he had planned, and I went and hid at my neighbor Melissa's house that night, watching for his car to go by. At 9:30, there was no sign of him, so I walked down my street to my apartment, thinking I had dodged a bullet. 15 minutes later, he showed up.

Rodrigo blindfolded me, tied me up, and pierced both of my nipples (his own penis was pierced, by the way -  a Prince Albert). He said I was lucky that I did as he said and didn't text him, because otherwise it was going to be a lot worse. As it turned out, Rodrigo was a stigmatophiliac and even more into BDSM than #32.

I drove 600 miles to visit my sister for Thanksgiving a few days later, by myself, leaving my son with his grandma because he was sick. While there, I ended up texting Carlito and Rodrigo the whole time, even though every day I "tried not to".

On my way home, I had a "God moment" while driving through Monitor Pass in the Sierra Nevada on the 89. I pulled over to watch the sun rise for two hours. It was stunningly beautiful up there alone. I decided I just wanted to be with Him and didn't want to return to the "life" I was living back home. I begged Him to please just take me, as I drove the hundreds of miles back. But, to my dismay, He didn't. For a solid week therafter I still wanted to die. The world became gray, and I was numb to the ugly lot of it.

I checked all the "wrong" boxes when I went to a pulmonologist (I had also been sick, physically, for two months; I couldn't stop coughing, and enough was enough). I was honest when filling out the new patient questionnaires, and the secretary handed me an extra form to fill out about suicidal depression. Once I turned it over to her, she made a call, said something about an APB, and they rushed me into the back room where they said to wait for the doctor, who'd "be right in, so don't go any where". Uh oh.

I called my AA sponsor and confessed to her that I admitted to being suicidal on the intake questionnaire at the doctor's office. She told me that if I better get honest, because if I really was suicidal she was going to come right down and take me to lock-up herself (I had chosen her to sponsor me because her daughter had committed suicide a couple years prior, and she maintained her two decades of sobriety through it - I had needed someone whom I could talk to about Margo, my friend who took her life on November 12, 2013, who I now envied).

I told her that even though I couldn't stand being alive, I would never kill myself. Then I cried, and assured her I'd do everything I could to get better.

The doctor came in, and I reassured him that I wasn't going to kill myself, that I was just going through some things and it's normal for us recovering alcoholics to feel this way every once in awhile. He conceded to the proposition that it was simply a situational depression due to the goings on in my life - the relationship ending, the ex-husband relapsing and me getting full custody of my son who cried for his dad daily and said he hated me, the not getting to go back to school and losing that validation, the being evicted due to the upcoming remodeling of the 1949 family estate and having to move to an apartment I could hardly afford, and the involvement with men in ways that made me hate myself - and so he decided not to prescribe me anything other than an inhaler for my cough, and he put in an order for a pulmonary exam and chest x-ray.

I started going to more AA meetings, and after a couple weeks I didn't want to die any more. But I was still depressed. On December 13, 2014 I was going to go out on a date with a guy who would have been #35, but Rodrigo whined about it, so we got into an exclusive relationship.

I now was deep in the throes of my sex/"love" addiction with Rodrigo, and yet still obsessed with Carlito (I couldn't get over him). I felt like a colossal failure.

The week between Christmas and the New Year, Rodrigo was in Chicago visiting a friend of his, and on New Year's Eve he texted me he loved me. I was shocked, and didn't really believe him, but decided to go with it, and eventually responded that I loved him, too, even though I didn't really believe that, either. I told him I wanted to pick him up from the airport when he returned in a few days. He said he would love that.

But, the day before his return, when I reminded him of the above, he said he hadn't talked to his dad yet, who was planning on picking him up. Rodrigo didn't want his family to know about me, and so he didn't want me to pick him up, after all.

I still ended up going to the airport, hiding from anyone who resembled the picture of Rodrigo's dad that I had gotten off of facebook, and I surprised Rodrigo with a quick kiss when he got to baggage claim before I took off.

When I was walking to the parking lot from the airport, I realized I was, in fact, completely insane.

But, it wasn't until a week later, when Rodrigo blindfolded me and tied me up and pierced my vagina (the pain of which made me faint, throw up, and shit all over the couch all at the same time) that I really began to come to my senses. Of course, however, Rodrigo pierced me in the wrong place. A few days later he wanted to take me to get it professionally done. He kept needing to mark me his, but he conceded that he ought to leave my vagina to the professionals, perhaps.

The professional guy did two piercings - a "VCH" and a "Triangle" - and he re-did my belly button, which used to be pierced before I had a kid.

Finally, I was in too much pain to have sex again (like after #32)...but Rodrigo and I still had sex right when we got back to my apartment, despite my vagina having just been pierced three times in the past week, and bleeding - and not in the way vaginas are supposed to bleed.

I was glad that he decided, afterwards, that we should wait until it healed. He couldn't quite slam into me the way he normally liked to.

The one-year anniversary of my baptism was on January 12, 2015, and January 13 was the day of church's baptism renewal ceremony (the Methodist church recognizes Jesus' baptism each year with a baptism renewal for its members, and the year prior I had picked the celebration of Jesus' baptism as my baptism date, so it's especially special for me).

I wept uncontrollably as I dipped my fingers in the bowl and touched them to my forehead under the cross. I found myself saying, "Get behind me, Satan - you are a liar, and the father of lies!" I'm sure people looked at me as if I were crazy. And in fact, I was.

For the rest of the day, any time I wanted to text Rodrigo, the voice came again, "Get behind me, Satan!" And I would have the strength to not text him. I began to hit my knees in prayer at various times throughout the day. Then the next day, January 14, I began with prayer in the morning, then the urge to text him would come but so would a voice, "Lord, cast him out of me!" I went throughout my day with supplication and prayer, asking God to please remove this evil that I sensed was pulling me towards Rodrigo. I hit my knees before bed, and the early morning of January 15, around 2 am, I awoke, possessed.

After my writihing in pain and being choked by utter evil, with all the strength I could muster, something finally came out of my mouth in a loud, low, demonic-sounding growl, with my back arched: "CAAAASSSSSTTT HIIIMMMMM OOOUUUUTTT!!!"

Suddenly, a clean wind blew through me, and I breathed in a deep breath that I instantly recognized as the Holy Spirit.

The demon was gone.

I fell out of bed onto my knees and crawled to my window, weeping and kneeling under the open curtains between me and the stars in utter humility, unable to even express my gratitude to God. Once I had spent myself in my prayer of thanksgiving, I went back to bed.

When I woke up in the morning, I saw that my curtains were closed, and only then did I know it had been a dream.

I hit my knees and wept.

I wept for Margo. I wept because, for over a year since her death, I had been trying to cover up the pain of her death, with men.

And I wept for my son's father, who has just had his second heart surgery and could very well die - he had a drink in his hand days after his first heart surgery. I wept because, ever since I left him three years ago because he couldn't stop drinking, I had been trying to cover up the pain of the divorce, with men.

And I wept for my son. I wept because I had been trying to cover up the pain of being a terrible mom, with men.

And I wept for myself. I wept because I had been lost, since the age of nine, trying to cover up the pain of losing my faither to my parents' divorce/drugs/his girlfriend and my mother to alcoholism/drugs/men....with boys...and then, with men.

But I also wept because I knew that I had now been found. It was nothing short of a miracle, in which I fervently believe.

Today, it's day 24 of no men. I've returned to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. I am praying on my knees morning and night (or more), am reading the Bible every day, have joined a new Bible study, and am listening to at least two sermons each day.  I'm going to between 1 and 3 AA meetings a day, working the 12 steps like never before, and calling my sponsor and other women daily; I have a new AA sponsee, and I was asked to be a speaker at a meeting next week.

And I'm present for my son. I'm helping him with his homework and spending time with him instead of texting or being with men. He's seeing a counselor at school. I'm not pawning him off on his grandma so I can engage in demoralizing activities that make me want to die. I don't want to die.

But yes, although it lessens each day, I'm in pain. But it's a different kind of pain than the pain I felt from within the throes of this nearly 21-year addiction. It's a pain that I welcome.

I've waited to write about all this, because every day I fear that I'll fall again. I hate being the girl who cries wolf, over, and over, and over. Rodrigo watched the movie Thanks for Sharing with me before our relationship ended, and it was actually he who suggested I go back to SLAA. I had told him about my addiction from the very beginning, and before he "fell in love" with me, he said that my sex/"love" addiction sounded "fun". But then, in the end, he did say that all he wants is for me to get better, and he does support me having my SLAA-prescribed 90 days without him.

90 days of no men. I'm thinking more like 6 months...9 months...a year...

...or more.

Romans 8:6 New International Version (NIV)

6 The mind governed by the flesh is death, but the mind governed by the Spirit is life and peace.

Amen.

The Poetry Slam Emcee

[Disclaimer: This didn't occur during my current relationship; sometimes I jump around in the timeline to write about someone in my inventory. See the inventory on the left side of my blog for details.]

I was wearing a full suit of black, shiny leather, all the way down to the boots. It made sense to me at the time. Jazz, Poetry, Leather. They just seemed to go together.

I sang Johnny Mercer/Harold Arlen's "Blues in the Night" with the university Jazz Band, and I was damn sexy. I didn't really think of it that way at the time. I really didn't. I'm one of the most innocent people I know - or maybe I'm just the most naïve. At least, I used to be innocent, before all "this" happened. You know, the Fall. It's what this whole blog is about. How a sweet, innocent, straight-A student like me ends up in all leather singing a sexy blues tune with a jazz band. I wasn't really attractive growing up, so I still get surprised when I get asked out. Even after a performance like the one I put on that night.

He was black. I hadn't dated a black guy yet. Is it racist to feel like I've accomplished something? He was talented, charismatic, the host of the show - just the kind of guy I'm attracted to, and just the kind of guy who knows what to say to a girl. And I'm just the kind of girl to fall for a guy who knows just what to say to the kind of girl who's gonna fall for what he's gonna say.

He came up to me with a single white carnation in his hand. "Here. Great job tonight. I think I might have to ask you for your number. But first...what's yo' name?" It took him a second to get into the groove.

I laugh nervously any time this happens, and guys love it. They think they're so funny and attractive. Go me. "Adora...what's yours?" Tee hee.

I'm smiling and looking him right in the eyes. He bit his lip. Real smoov, dude. "Emmanuel."

My heart's racing, I can't lie. This is the nature of things. I'm not really that interested in anything except the feeling. I want more of it.

"Say, Adora, why don't you let me buy you something to eat? Then maybe I can ask you for your number."

"Sounds good to me." I was starving.

We went out to his car. It was in bad shape. He took me to IHOP. Meanwhile, I'm letting him lead the conversation, and I'm just responding. It's really not hard work at all.

He flirts with the waitress who seats us at a booth. He's making her laugh nervously, just like he did me. Wow, what a player.

IHOP had a special bacon menu at the time, and we both ordered from it, plus we both added extra bacon to our meals. We started getting into some meaningful conversation after we bonded over our bacon. I told him about my recovery from alcoholism, and he told me about his mom with mental disabilities. It was getting interesting now. I could see us becoming friends.

He thought he was going to shock me with what he said next. "I don't tell any body this...but for some reason I just feel like can tell you. So here goes, ready?" He took a sip of coffee and raised his eyebrows. I'm thinking AIDS.

"I'm a sex addict." Close enough. Shit, if he only knew.

"Hey, that's cool," I said, shrugging my shoulders. "No wonder we get along so well." It's true - addicts of whatever kind find each other kindred.

"But I want to change," he said. "Like you. Two years sober, that's so inspirational."

Should I tell him? Sure, why not. "Actually, Emmanuel, I'm a recovering sex addict, too."

"Really?! You?!"

(Told you, I'm so 'innocent', people just have no idea. But it's about powerlessness, not purposefulness.)

"Yeah, but I'm trying to change that, too. No sex til marriage. That's my new thing."

"Whoa, I wanna calm down, but....I don't think I could do that."

We kept talking for a little longer about it; he told me how many women he dates (and usually "does") a week. Between one and three (and now I didn't feel like such a slut). He told me how he goes to salsa dancing every weekend and picks up women without fail, every time. Even at the beach - he had sex with a random chick last week just hitting on her in the water. Did I believe it? Yeah. He wasn't bragging. He was remorseful, because most of them end up wanting relationships, and he just wants to do it once and move on to the next one.

We moved on to talk about the poetry slam/jazz concert, and I volunteered to start a facebook page for him. It sounded like a great plan - he wanted to expand to other colleges and universities in the area. I work in performing arts publicity, so I wanted to help. We exchanged numbers, he paid the bill, and he took me back to my car at the university.

"Adora, thank you," he said. "I really like you. You're one of the most amazing women I've ever met."

"Thanks," nervous laughter. "I'll send you an admin invite once I get the page set up." I grabbed my box of bacon pancake leftovers and got out. No kiss. Just a hug. Refreshing. "Have a good night."

"Thanks, you too!"

The next day was Saturday; I got the facebook page set up, and called him. It started off okay, but then he started talking about how he's never wanted anyone so badly in his life, and he wanted to see me again. I told him no - let's just be friends. I don't know where my power came from all of a sudden - probably from his talk of how many chicks he bangs every week and how much he hurts them. I didn't want to be one. I had been one too many times with other guys.

But he wouldn't let up. Being turned down must have really turned him on. I tried to talk to him a few more times over the next couple of weeks to discuss what school he wanted to put on the next poetry slam at, and when, but the conversation would always revert back to him talking about what women he wanted to do (but didn't want to do - the struggle of an addict), and of course, how he wanted me most of all.

So I handed the page over to him, blocked him on facebook, and deleted his number.

I know he wanted to change - we all do - but it's just not possible on willpower alone. And I couldn't help him in that regard worth a damn. Quite the opposite. That's like telling your bartender you want to quit drinking...after this one.

The Hillcrest Prostitute

When I took Gary hostage, I didn't know he had Hepatitis C, or that he used to hook around Hillcrest for meth. He was three years sober when I met him. He was such a nice guy - slow, brain-damaged - but sweet.

I was pretty lonely after finally leaving #1 (what I thought was) for good and having sex with a couple of guys who'd choked me, scratched me, and slammed me into walls (#15 and #17).

I had also gone on a date with a guy (#18) who'd told me he was a sex addict while we were eating dinner at IHOP. I told him that I was a sex addict, too, but that I was in recovery and wanted to change. So I didn't see him again after that.

I didn't want to have sex with Gary, but I wanted him to come home with me after the recovery group's Christmas party that we were both at. My-then-sponsor/former-OC-model Jane had taken him hostage plenty of times, so I figured I would, too. Neither he or I liked her, so, it gave us a chance to vent our shared frustration over this woman who was verbally abusive, full of pride, and deep down, very, very damaged.

We played guitar and piano for awhile, and then we talked about Jane...all night long. We finally fell asleep around 4:30am, curled up on opposite ends of the bed.

The next day, I called Jane, and when she started cussing at me, I used the night before as a source of strength to drop her as my sponsor. I picked my son up from his dad's, and, after a long nap, drove us 600 miles north to visit my sister and her family for a week. I obsessed about Gary the whole time I was there. When I got back, I took him on a date to see The Hobbit and to dinner at Jack in the Box - my treat.

Then I took him to my house and kept him there a couple days/nights. He told me his story, in detail. I found that I genuinely cared for him, but at the same time, I realized that I was just using him to help me not feel lonely. So on the third day we talked about how we probably should stop what we were doing. He acknowledged that he was probably using me, too, and we didn't want to use each other any more.

But I still obsessed about him for almost a month after that - until I met #20.

The Satellite Communications Engineer, part 3

Last night was our second date. He was perfectly respectful. He provided me with a fulfilling dinner. We had deep, analytical conversations. He played a couple of his compositions for me on his smartphone out of the speakers at Best Buy. The kisses and holding hands and hugs were nice. He dropped me back off at my car at 9 o'clock. We talked about what our strategies would be to not have sex, and he even set some boundaries. I talked about my recovery, and he fully listened. We were attracted to each other. There shouldn't be any reason for me to not see him again, except...

I was crawling out of my skin. I felt inadequate, insecure, out of place. I felt like I was from another planet, wearing a bad disguise, afraid of getting found out and being deported from Normulus back to Terra Weirda. I didn't feel the connection that I thought we'd had before. I tried to manufacture it, but it didn't work. I tried to look deep into his eyes, but all I saw was myself trying to look deep into his eyes for something I couldn't see. I tried to speak, but all I could say were things I thought I should say. I tried to listen, but all I could hear were my own thoughts, going, "Okay, nod, smile, look really interested, and hurry, come up with something honest and meaningful to say to relate to what he's saying when he's done." I'd try to impress him, but then I'd recant and say that what I'd just said wasn't entirely true, that I was exaggerating, trying to impress him.



If I have to try so hard, am I really "being myself"? Hell no! And who the hell am I? I still don't know. That's the problem from the very beginning. Being a serial relationshipper means I have absolutely no identity (I did record at a music studio this weekend, and I sang in church, but I was a horrible mother to my son because I was obsessing about this guy and freaking out about where it may or may not go and what I should or shouldn't do, I hardly contacted my friends as much as I normally do to ask how they're doing, I ceased writing my inventory of my past relationships in order to write about this relationship, I stopped thinking about and feeling the loss of my mentor Margaret, I didn't get any chores done, I lost a ton of sleep, and I just felt completely derailed, in general).

But it's not his fault, even. I had assigned him the same "magical" qualities I always assign men when I want them to want me and I want to want them (although I probably gave him more of 'em than any of the past guys combined, and the following list doesn't even cover 'em): "intelligent", "healthy", "sane", "normal", "musically inclined", "mathematically inclined", "physically active", "family man", "driven", "kind", "vulnerable", "honest", "handsome", "traveler", "Christian", "gardener", "affectionate", "composer", "fearless", "performer", "successful", "engineer". And my motives were all wrong. Damnit, successful guys always foster in me that Ooh,-he-could-take-care-of-me bobble-headed fantasy. No matter who he is, that's my motive. Oh, fuck, it's so messed up.



And another motive: Thursday, the day I met him when he first asked me out, was, not just in correlation but in causation, the first day I didn't have the searing chest pain that had, for the prior week on a (sometimes twice or thrice) daily basis, prompted me to scream uncontrollably and cry to the point of exhaustion over Margaret's suicide. Dating James was a way out of that pain; when the opportunity presented itself, my depression gave way to excitement, joy, thrill, happiness, and gratitude. I had no willpower to decline. I couldn't foresee that I would actually miss the pain, that yesterday, when it came back, after I'd heard from her lawyer that she'd put me in her Will and that I needed to go in for a reading of it tomorrow (today...in about an hour), there was something comfortable about it. It felt right. The pain of loss felt normal. What doesn't feel normal is dating someone so I don't have to feel it. That feels wrong.

Margaret's fiancé died over a couple years back. Within a month, she was with Crawford, and within another month they were living together, and within two years he broke her heart, and she killed herself. She told me, one of the nights we spent talking about our dismal experiences with men, "I just don't want you to be 53 and having to go through something like this. Please, please learn from my mistakes. Promise me." Her "mistakes" are resounding with me now, saying, "Stop dating...it's too soon...". The sex and love addiction book says that "wherever and whenever we are vulnerable, we will be tested". I've failed the test, damnit.




But...okay...stepping back here...I want to acknowledge that this is what my Catholic "ex-gay" best friend Peter calls a "Cadillac" problem (I don't know why I had to add the descriptors; he's just an interesting guy). One reason I hang out with people with much worse problems than mine (other than to fulfill my *ahem* purely angelic desire to be of service to them) is to get out of this deplorable self-centeredness and be grateful for the good in my life. There was this guy, Cecil, in the substance recovery meeting I went to yesterday, who has been living in his car for the past couple of years...former vet, now coming up on 3 months sober...who got a job. But, he didn't have enough gas to make it back "home" where he's used to parking his car. So one of the ex-cons who sells newspapers at an intersection threw him a few bones and said, "I'm supposed to give 10 percent of this to a charity, but I ain't gonna give it to nobody I can't see. I can see you need it, man." And Cecil was overflowing with gratitude as he shared about all this with us, his Bible clutched in his hand. It made me beam, and it put me right-sized.



Because I do have so much good in my life (my son, my church, my blues band, my recovery meetings, my sponsors, my sponsees, my friends, my family, my reading, my writing, my singing, my cats, my place to live, my jobs, my God), I do wonder, why does it matter so much whether I have a man in my life or not? Why does that have to be my focus? Why can't I just forget about the whole damn thing and just go help people?

I guess it's because this aspect of my life makes me feel so...lost...and it's driving me absolutely crazy. I do try to help others, but I don't have a lot to give just yet. I feel like I need to find myself -- and pull it all together before I'm just completely gone (like Margaret...although I would never do what she did; I'm an optimist, as it turns out). Right now, I'm scattered in pieces that I've left with every man I've been with along the road. I heal more and more as I go back to gather those pieces (even if, here and there, I still drop some). Through writing, however shabbily, I absorb the pieces of my self back into, what I hope someday will be, a whole.

"Being whole means being healthy, feeling content, fulfilled, and proud of one's accomplishments.  It means being confident that you can handle whatever challenges might come your way.  It means that you know that you are worthy of happiness; worthy of respect.  It means you have the motivation and ability to follow your dreams.  It means you are proud of who you see looking back at you in the mirror.  It means you will be proud at the end of your days as you look back at a life well-lived." http://www.onbeingwhole.com/

Here's a quote I really like: "I'm not a bad person trying to get good. I'm a sick person trying to get well."

The Satellite Communications Engineer, part 2

James (click for prelim info) (11:56am Sat, Nov 23): Hi Adora. Hope ur having a good time with your son. You've been on my mind :)

Me (12:06 pm Sat, Nov 23): Yay! Thank you. I am having fun with him. You've been on my mind too. (Understatement. Better to say I've gladly rented you a prominent space in it, and by the looks of things, you ain't gon' be goin' nowheres none time soon.) Hehe. Mwah.

James (12:08pm Sat, Nov 23): Xoxo :)

James (6:44pm Sat, Nov 23): I've been thinking, uv inspired me...Can I see u Monday?

Me (7:13 pm Sat, Nov 23): Sure! Sorry was on the phone with a former sponsee calling from a foster home. Off the phone now.

Me (7:14 pm Sat, Nov 23): I get off work at 5:30.

James (7:17pm Sat, Nov 23): Perfect! Would u like to do dinner?

Me (7:18pm Sat, Nov 23): Definitely.

James (8:03pm Sat, Nov 23): Great! Come on over when free and we'll carpool. C u then!

Me (8:22pm Sat, Nov 23): Okie dokie artichoke. Oh um...text me ur address k. :)

James (8:37pm Sat, Nov 23): [texts address]

James (8:37pm Sat, Nov 23): :)

Me (8:38pm Sat, Nov 23): Ankthay ouyay ;)

(READ THIS IF YOU HAVEN'T YET.)

Me (1:35pm, Mon Nov 25): Would you mind if I had you pick me up from [work] instead? I know the no sex til marriage idea is extreme but I would just feel more comfortable if we had a few more dates first before adding that back in. Are you okay with that?

James (3:07pm Mon, Nov 25): yes!! that is what i wanted to talk to you about actually. i want that too. no sex till marriage. i can pick you up at [your work]. coming from [city], might be a cpl mins late?

Me (3:19pm Mon, Nov 25): Really? Wow! Well no worries about time. I have plenty of work here to do. I can just stay late. Also if you need to go home first for anything that's no problem either. Just lemme know.

James (5:17pm Mon, Nov 25): I'm running late, I hope to be there maybe in another 30-35 minutes?

Me (5:18pm Mon, Nov 25): No prob, behind on some projects, no rush

James (5:28pm Mon, Nov 25): ur the best. ill txt when i leave work..

Me (5:28pm Mon, Nov 25): No UR the best. Lol.

Boundaries; and Margaret, part 4

Here's the draft I wrote this morning:

"Okay Mr. Awesome, lemme lay it down for ya. :) First, I'm quite taken with you, and am certain that you're 20,000 leagues above any one I've ever dated in as many ways as I can think of, and, I feel an uncannily strong connection with you.

"Second...Okay, so, the whole no-sex-til-marriage thing might have been extreme...ly impossible....to uphold. BUT...can we try this?: Rather than using what you consider to be a too-rigorous and out-dated socio-religious more (accent on the "e") to dehumanize my own personal journey, considering my no-sex boundary meaningless, can you allow me to just be certain that you like me for me before we get intimate again (for THIS, truly, is the point)?

"I have to be honest: I held back the other night/morning because I was specifically trying to not impress you in the sexual arena (which is just the opposite of my ideal sexual situation), just because I didn't want you to want me for just that. So, here, I'm granting you honesty, rather than ducking and running (my old modus operandi). So...would you be willing to wait, say, 10 dates, and THEN let us go totally buck wizzild?"

But after sitting on it and having more time to think, I realized that to set a boundary all I really have to do is set the boundary, with no lengthy, groveling, rambling, TMI-explanation necessary. So, here's what I actually texted him (and it's still totally passive):

"Would you mind if I had you pick me up from work instead? I know the no-sex-til-marriage idea is extreme, but I would just feel more comfortable if we had a few more dates first before adding that back in. Are you okay with that?"

No response yet. Who knows, maybe I won't get one. Or maybe he does actually like me for who I "am" (to the extent of the "me" that he could possibly get to know in less than a day).

And why does the no-sex-til-marriage idea have to be extreme (if it's my idea)? If that's truly what I want, then why can't I just have it? And how the hell did 10 dates go down to "a few"? I shake my head at myself.

From the website Daily Plate of Crazy, here's a snip of an article entitled Sexual Boundaries: When No Means No, by D.A. Wolf:

"All joking aside, we need to set boundaries even when we’re open to exploring them, and communicate – like adults – when we’re uncomfortable or unwilling to pursue an activity further.

Lifescript’s article offers this, which is essential:

Your partner should respect your boundaries… If he presses you at all, consider whether he’s the right guy for you."

It would have been better to slap that initial boundary back on and say, "Look, pal, if you wanna see me again, you're gonna respect me and my boundaries, period. If not...I'll find a different ambitious, intelligent, handome, spiritual, 30-something engineer/composer who travels around the world and has his own place...who is willing to wait for marriage to fuck me." Ugh. I guess I could always try e-harmony or match.com. Or nothing. This dating thing is...difficult....to say the least.

Thank God I didn't include the I-held-back-during-the-initial-sex-but-if-you're-willing-to-wait-I'll-become-your-total-sex-slave-and-rock-your-world bait. Jesus.

I posted this on my facebook page, but I'll share it here as well:

"Eesh, the pain's back. Chest, throat. Nagging, heavy, wrenching. I miss you, Margaret*. Read my journal entries last night from January 2013 when you were trying to teach me how to set boundaries with people and stick to them. I want to do a better job, in your honor (and mine). I can't let the things you taught me go to waste. You told me, "The first time you set a boundary, you're gonna feel like you're gonna die." Yep, you knew it'd be hard for me. Then, "The people who accept your boundaries are the healthy ones; the people who don't accept your boundaries are the sick ones." You also taught me to "stick with the winners" so I wouldn't get hurt (meaning spiritually-fit people). And, you said that "people will show you who they are, so pay attention."  

"Margaret, you were the strong woman I want to be. Thanks for taking the time to help me, and I'm sorry it took me losing you for the things you were trying to teach me to really sink in. I'm going to make mistakes, but I'll have you with me, always, to remind me to keep loving myself first and not let any one take advantage of me, period."

It's just too bad Margaret just got sick and tired of it all. Maybe she just didn't see any more winners out there.

The pain started when I got a call from her sponsor letting me know that she had just gotten out of Margaret's lawyer's office for the reading of her Will (that she'd sent in before she offed herself). He sponsor said my name was mentioned and gave me the number for Margaret's lawyer. I just called, and she's having me come in tomorrow at 10 am for another reading. Apparently Margaret left me with something tangible, too.

God, I really feel like shit for having sex with this guy when this whole time (the 37 days since I entered the sex and love addiction recovery with gusto) Margaret was right there with me, cheering me on, and she was shocked that I was actually able to do it, but she was so proud of me. And then after she takes herself out, what do I do to cope but take the first opportunity do the very thing she was trying to help me not do? Well, it wasn't the first opportunity from the very beginning. I'd turned down a total of seven guys over the course of my sex/love recovery. But, dur, when I saw this guy's suicide video, I thought the hand of God was upon me. But now...man, it just feels...icky.

You live, you learn. I'm just not so fond of the whole learning-by-pain bit. But eh, guess it's really the only thing that works, in the end.

*As usual, that's not her real name. Thought I'd go ahead and disclaim that for any new readers. With few exceptions, due to the "racy" nature of my blog, most names have been changed, including mine.

The Satellite Communications Engineer

Well, I'm not sure whether to call him The Satellite Communications Engineer/Composer, or Maybe THIS Time...?, or Oops, I Did it Again...and Again...and Will Probably Do It Again...and Again. See The Inventory if you don't know what I'm talking about.

Look, I didn't mean to. Here's what happened: I was at the college Concert Hour where I work as usher/program designer/set-up/break-down person blah-blah-blah and one of the composers who was showcased was this guy who'd scored a film he'd created about a guy who'd committed suicide. So, since Margaret's all I've been able to think about lately (see my last 3 posts), the vid struck a chord.

So I went up to him after the concert and I told him about how a dear friend of mine just committed suicide, too, but that, strangely, his piece gave me some peace, and we got to talking about Church and Star Trek for some reason and our connections just fired like a Tesla coil. He asked me for my number and I gave it to him without a moment's hesitation. Then later, I added him on facebook for a little extra yep-I'm-interested-so-go-ahead-and-call-me hint-hint. And he did call me after his second concert of the day and invited me to a different concert that night that he wasn't in but was going to (Steve Poltz), and I said yes, I'd love to, after choir rehearsal. So he picked me up at the church, we told each other our life stories on the way over to the Belly Up, and we got up close and personal over bacon cheese fries and silly sing-alongs. Was I in heaven? Hell yes I was.

Our souls had mated in a matter of hours and he figured why not seal the deal with hey-can-we-go-back-to-my-place?-I-promise-it-won't-be-a-one-night-stand [after I'd told him earlier in the evening, during our rigorously honest no-subject-barred initial convo in the car that I was waiting to have sex until marriage after the 27-guys-in-2-years debacle]. I thought he meant we'd stay up all night drinking hot cocoa with marshmallows, crying and laughing and cuddling and bonding, but as he bent down to unzip my boot the moment of clarity slapped me on my naïve little ass and I stopped him before he got to do any ass-slapping (or similar-type I'm-a-fucking-liar-and-I-just-wanted-to-fuck-you activities).

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Heyyyyy. No. Uh-uh. We're not having sex, remember? What ever happened to the whole this-won't-be-a-one-night-stand thing?"

"Well...oh." He was speechless and his shoulders and arms dropped as his ego deflated from the inside out. I could almost detect tears in his eyes. "Well...um...I guess...you got the wrong idea...I just meant this wouldn't be a one-night stand...like...this won't be the last time we see each other?" Hurt, pleading puppy dog face.

"Uh-uh. I said I didn't want to have sex 'til marriage. I thought we were gonna, I dunno, talk, and stuff."

Does anybody have a temporary DUMBASS tattoo I can put on my forehead? (Temporary is wishful thinking, I know.)

Well anyway, there that ball went a-rolling. It went, "Okay, I'm sorry, you're right, no sex," to "Well, can we sleep next to each other without our clothes on?" to him trying to have sex with me again, to me telling him about the potential herpes (see #27: The Propane Truck Driver), to him not even caring and trying to have sex with me again, to me saying I really don't like condoms and I don't want to have sex any way, to him still trying to have sex with me, to me telling him I'm not on birth control so we shouldn't, to HIM TRYING TO HAVE SEX WITH ME AGAIN, to me finally just letting it happen, what the fuck, let's get it over with (but out loud I'm like, "Okay, sure, why not"), and he used the pull-out method. Then, more sex that morning, even though I was exhausted and was so not into it. It's not even that the sex itself wasn't good. It had been a long 42 days.

But what bothers me is that I went from NO DATING and NO SEX TIL MARRIAGE (remember the whole "done with men" thing?) to DATING and SEX ON THE FIRST DATE. So it's just my latest "What the hell just happened?" moment.

And yet, despite all this, I'm totally blinded by "what this guy has to offer". By all appearances he's amazing: he's 34 (four years older than I), he's a satellite communications engineer full-time and a film-score-etc.-composer/musician/film creator on the side, he has his own (very nice) place, he's been to 25+ countries (he wants to take me on his next business trip to Canada), he was raised well and just re-joined a Christian church to re-connect with the faith of his upbringing, he runs marathons and goes hiking, he has chickens and a garden and a piano, he's a math/science geek, and he's absolutely brilliant-minded, driven, motivated, exciting, ambitious, tall, bearded, handsome, funny, analytical, and is self-admittedly the kind who falls "fast and hard" and is looking for love.

Nevermind that he doesn't respect my boundaries and he's the prime example of self-will run riot. But, he sure knows what to say. "I don't want to jinx this, but...maybe we've been doing it right all along, just not with the right person?" Hook, line, sinker.

We've got another date for dinner tomorrow night. He wants me to park my car at his house and have us go in his car from there. Gee, what could possibly happen? Stay tuned for more #29 as The Fall of Woman series continues.

But who knows? Maybe THIS time...he is The One?

[Cue audience laughter]

The Shakespeare Connoisseur

I completely forgot about the old retired lawyer from Chicago who took me to see Shakespeare at the Old Globe (I'll have to adjust my number scheme accordingly). He bought me a rare edition of Midsummer...the text of the First Folio, with Quarto insertions, from The Collector's Library of Famous Editions, commissioned in 1938, edited and amended where obscure by Herbert Farjeon and illustrated from water colors by Arthur Rackham, and bound in genuine leather by The Easton Press...as a memento. He also got my car in at a mechanic friend's of his who owed him some favors, and took me to brunch about 20 times so we could have "highly intelligent" conversations, and so on and so forth. Of course, he stopped contacting me a month ago when I told him The Propane Truck Driver might have given me herpes (for the record, it appears that he didn't, from what I can tell, but I'm still grateful for the incentive to fucking stay away from men).

His name was Deniro. I had questioned his motives outright and out loud. He was really pressing me to go see Shakespeare with him, once he found out that I was considering writing a paper on Hamlet's ghost for my History of Literary Criticism and Commentary class. He asked me about seven times over three months, before I finally said, "Fine, I'll go." And he assured me, repeatedly, that his intentions were good; he enjoyed my company; he just wanted to see a single mom stay sober; he appreciated my "joie de vivre;" he thought my intellect refreshing; and he wasn't interested in "a relationship" or..."anything else".

Note to self: Guys from recovery meetings are like cars at the shop -- they're broken, and need a lot of work, and sometimes, no matter how much work gets done, you really just don't know how reliable they're gonna be. (But I guess that goes for me, too.)

My hope is just to have better standards when it comes to letting someone of the opposite sex into my sphere (in other words, I really need to learn how to firmly use that highly under-rated word, "No"). When I'm ready to date again (which I'm not letting myself do until I've completed this exhaustive inventory of all my relationships), I should make myself ensure that the guy exhibits certain qualities, other than "is male," before I let myself be with him...like, he: isn't just trying to fuck me (not sure how I'll discern that, but maybe it'll come to me)..................oh, and, supports himself, is educated/enjoys learning, lives by spiritual and moral principles, cares for children and animals, has compassion, helps others, takes time to get to know himself and share himself honestly with others, takes responsibility for his choices and actions and makes adjustments as needed; is positive, grateful, humble, respectful, patient, tolerant, forgiving, loving, kind, balanced, rational, not afraid to be vulnerable; weighs decisions, asks for/takes advice, makes a God of his own understanding his higher power instead of other people or himself; is a leader in the spirit of God's will; and, cares about me as much as I care about him (assuming that once I learn to care for myself, I'll have the capacity to truly care for someone, too). I'm sure I'll add more to the list, the longer I don't let myself be with just any man that comes along and tells me I'm pretty and smart just so he can take me somewhere and...well, you know.

So for now...it's Jesus. Hey, if a girl needs a man, it just don't get any better than this guy.

The Propane Truck Driver

I wanted to be with him from the day I met him. He was sexy, masculine, a father, a traveler, fully employed, spiritual and sober. He stood tall and sat with his legs wide open, leaning back with his hands behind his head in ego, confidence. I wanted him to provide for me in as many ways a man could provide for a woman, because I knew he could….if only I could get him to.

At first, I was intimidated by his strength, sanity, healthiness. I was shy. Sick. Damaged. It wasn’t until I had some sobriety did I feel even worthy of speaking to him, of looking him in the eyes. When I did, for some reason I found myself telling him of my encounters with men. My boyfriends, my dates, my one night stands. I told him of the demoralization of each encounter, explaining to him that I just wanted to be treated like a lady, but it just wasn’t happening. I wanted a man to take me to dinner without expecting me to fuck him. Sterling was the caring but unaffected confidant, always willing to listen, always offering a consolatory hug. He had a girlfriend, so he was off limits. But he listened. Sometimes I would even cry in his arms. I wanted him to be the knight in shining armor and save me from the heathens…and then whisk me away and put me on his stallion for a good, long, hard ride.

Finally, after a year, I started to flirt with him a little, at first only indirectly. I would go to meetings just hoping he would be there, as I had done for the prior year. I started telling a mutual friend that I thought he was “hot”, within his earshot. I wished he would break up with his girlfriend. I wanted him for myself. But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. As a matter of fact, I let it go, and I got over him.

Then, a year-and-a-half after I’d met him, the unexpected happened. He and his girlfriend of two years broke up. I couldn’t believe it. I was extremely afraid. I had messed up so many times with men, I didn’t know if I had what it takes, this time, to do it right.

But attracting and seducing Sterling made me feel…worthy. Powerful. He expressed his interest in dating me, but I said I wasn’t ready to date any one. I kept him at bay while I played the mouse and made him the cat. We started talking every day. He said he respected me and didn’t want to lose our friendship – it was very important to him. We should remain friends, he conceded. I was invited to his house a few times. Invited to spend the night one night. We cuddled. I told him that cuddling clearly wasn’t something that “friends” do, so we should consider ourselves “dating”. So now we were “dating.” I was ecstatic. I felt like my dreams had come true.

I went to a convention that weekend and thought about him the whole time. We texted and talked the whole weekend, every day. When I got back he wanted to see me. I went over. This time, we kissed. It made me nervous. I asked him if we could date exclusively (I didn’t want to date more than one person at a time; once I had gotten sober, it just wasn’t the way I’d wanted to do things any more). He said he didn’t like “the dating game” either, that he was looking for a long-term relationship, and he liked the dating-exclusively idea.

He was looking for The One.

I wanted to be Her. 

I started telling our mutual friends that he was my boyfriend. It made him uncomfortable. He said he didn’t want people gossiping.

One day we started sexting. We had agreed before that we were going to take it slow, then one day – bam! The floodgates opened and the sexual tension broke with the force of a typhoon. We described to each other, in detail, all the nasty little things we wanted to do to each other. It was quite exciting. After the sexversation, he asked me out to dinner, and he would pick me up later that night. I went and spent money on lingerie and a dress and panty hose. Money I didn’t really have to spend.

At dinner, I didn’t care for the conversation, for some reason. I was actually turned off by his attempts at having me get to know him. He was all he talked about. So I mostly just watched the reggae singer on stage and sang along.

I pressured him to ask me to dance, to display his fearlessness. I wanted him to be a man.

After we danced, I had him take me home. It wasn’t working for me any more. I had a plan. I was going to go have sex with someone else. I felt uncomfortable with Sterling. There was something in him that I sensed wasn’t right. He was way too concerned with what I, and other people, thought about him. It was a turn-off. That, and, he had suggested a “view point” as our after-dinner destination. We had eaten dinner at a resort – the least he could have done was buy us a room! So high school, I thought. Been there, done that.

But…it was late, and I imagined that the other prospect and I would most likely meet in a parking lot, any way. So I went into the house for a more comfortable pair of shoes, and off we went, to the view point.

There wasn’t much of a view, though – a fence, and a freeway. And I was annoyed at his lack of initiative. Talking, talking – more talking? I hated having to try to be – or at least act – interested in anything he shared about himself. I really didn’t care about his kitchen remodel, or about his family problems. Finally I put my leg on his. “What kind of a man is this,” I thought, “not even willing to make the first move?”

He did kiss me, finally. We kissed passionately, hard. He had told me before that I was a good kisser. I knew I was. That’s how I do it -- I make them want me.

I just want to be wanted. My mom and dad didn’t want me when I was growing up. The only people who wanted me were men – older men. I felt it. They always told me how pretty I was. They came into my room at night, drunk. Mom’s friends. Mom was behind a closed door with her boyfriend who drank and beat her. She drank. He beat us. She let him. Dad worked hard and when he came home, his girlfriend yelled at him. Threw things at him. Yelled at us. Threw kittens against my bedroom door, and killed ‘em.

Sterling was ten years older than I. He was a man. He could take care of me. He could love me. I didn’t need to know him. All I needed was to give him me, and he’d be mine.

He got on top of me before he asked if it was okay. I said yes. I took off my clothes, and so did he. He put himself inside me. It was hard, fast, good, and quick. I feel good when it’s quick. It means I was good.

I had him take me to his house. I didn’t want to feel demoralized. I wanted it to feel like a relationship. We did it again in his bed. Longer, harder. Finally I couldn’t go any more. I wanted to stop, but it kept going for a long, long time. Finally it was over.

I got a urinary tract infection and was sore for days.

It took me four days to tell him I had an infection. I didn’t want to worry him. But finally I mentioned it, and he said – he had a habit of saying – “If there’s anything you want to ask me, anything at all, go ahead, okay? You can ask me anything.” Usually I couldn’t come up with anything to ask him. I thought it was a strange prompt. But this time, I responded, “Just be honest with me, all the time, about everything. That’s all I ask.” 

After a moment, he texted me and asked me if I could come meet him at his work. I thought that was strange, but it excited me. “I want to marry you,” I imagined he was going to say. Or “I want you to move in with me – today.”

I went the nine miles to meet him. I was there within fifteen minutes. He was filling up a propane tank in a church parking lot.

There was a lot of small talk. Shooting the shit. Beating around the bush. He picked me up and let me sit in the driver’s seat of the propane truck. He showed me what all the buttons and knobs were for. I wrapped my legs around him as he brought me down.

He was mine.

He finally started to tell me why he had asked me to come to see him. “I’m a very private person,” he said. “I don’t like gossip. I don’t open up to just anybody. But I know I can trust you.”

He continued, “I just want you to know that neither my last girlfriend or my ex-wife had any problems from what I’m about to tell you. I was with my ex-girlfriend for two years and my ex-wife for seven years. Both of them were fine.”

My heart sank. Something was telling me that whatever this was, it wasn’t going to be good. It had struck me early on that he must have some dark secret. “Is there anything you want to ask me? You can ask me anything you want.” I was starting to put it all together. But he was taking too long. Something in me just blurted out, “Look, can you just, cut to the chase – what, is it genital herpes or something?”

I was half-joking, hoping that was nowhere close to the truth.

But his face was dead serious, as he nodded, and said, “Yes.”

I kept my jaw from dropping, but I imploded from within. He began to apologize…but then the apology turned into an explanation about why he didn’t tell me. He was afraid of how I would react. He didn’t want anyone to know. Everybody gossips in this town. His ex-girlfriend and his ex-wife never got it, so I probably wouldn’t get it. It can only be transmitted if there are symptoms, but there were no symptoms. He felt so bad for not telling me. But when I had told him that morning that I had a UTI, he started to worry. The bottom line was – see – it’s just that he didn’t know we were going to have sex.

Outwardly, I was calm. I thanked him for his honesty. Inwardly, I wanted to rip his dishonest fucking head off.

I think the reason I was calm was because I could immediately see my part in it. I made him The One. I trusted him without knowing him. I didn’t want to know him. I just wanted him – for me. I was gonna get him – and I did.