Another Day

Today is not a very good day.

I always begin my writing by talking about how I regret not writing more. I’m working on that. I’m working on a lot of things.

I get the feeling this little journal entry is going to be scattered.

Oh well, at least I’m writing.

My anxiety appeared yesterday. Not that it ever went anywhere, but it just kind of showed up and decided to reek havoc. It does that. It tears apart foundations, it sinks it’s teeth into life rafts, it finds the broken locks and fixes them back up again. It’s weird to think about it that way, actually, because I usually think of anxiety as a friend.

If Anxiety were a creature, a personified person, I would think of him as a friend. Kind of a shadow of me, and he’s all curled up and he’s sad, and scared, and I sit with him. When I put my arms around him they sink into his shadow skin, and inside he’s warm and wet and dark chocolate black, a safe place deep underwater where you can breathe. So it actually makes me feel guilty now to describe him the way I just did, as a snake, a serpent trying to devour me and keep me locked away with it’s fangs.

I have a feeling I’m making less and less sense the more I write. But I’ll keep writing. Sometimes that’s all you can do is keep writing.

The anxiety is worse some days than others. The depression is the same. It’s not the same disease though. It’s weird, actually, to think of it as a disease. Like, if you speak English, you don’t think of English as a disease, it’s a part of you. My depression and anxiety are a part of me, so I don’t know if I’m comfortable thinking of them as a disease. My coping mechanism has always been to embrace them, make friends with them.

At any rate. The day before yesterday I was off work, and had a pretty decent day. Then yesterday came around and I felt nervous about going to work. This is common. Lately the hours leading up to going to work have been pretty stressful, and I’ve had to do everything I can to keep myself feeling positive, listening to positive music and doing relaxing things while I wait for the afternoon to roll around. I try and make the most of the my day, even if it’s not always terribly productive.

One thing I’ve been wanting to do more is write. I used to do these kind of mashup blog posts where I’d talk about myself, my life, everything I was interested in, what music I was listening to, things I was into, all of that. I’d like to start doing it again. Creating those blogs gave my life some meaning, made me feel like I was doing something productive. I don’t really go back and read them but I know that one day I will, and they’ll be important. Just as this will one day be important.

I’ve gotten so used to the dread, the anxiety, the depression. It’s almost drab to describe them now (I’m pretending to be smarter than I am, I don’t know what drab means, but it probably works. Okay I googled it, it means dull, that’ll work). Everyone describes their anxiety the same way. Maybe I’m only thinking of it as a friend because I just want to be special, I always want to be special.

This is getting very rambley.

Anyway, yesterday I was getting ready for work, and I lay down in bed and realized I just felt shitty. I couldn’t specify what it was exactly. My throat has been somewhat hoarse, which I haven’t helped by doing a lot of singing, and I have a feeling I may be coming down with something but not for a few more days. Anyway I decided to call out of work, and I had to lie to my boss that I threw up in my car, which I felt very guilty about. I was relieved, but I know from experience that running from the thing that gives you anxiety only makes the anxiety more powerful.

I have medication but it doesn’t work very well. One is an antidepressant and that works okay, the other is supposed to relieve panic attacks. The panic medication doesn’t REALLY work, but I’ve discovered that it helps calm me down a bit, usually at the cost of making me feel incredibly melancholy and lethargic. In fact, that’s probably why this post is so melancholy, and why I feel so unmotivated. I was pretty excited to write earlier, and now here I am.

Anyway, I took a nap. I didn’t do much with the rest of my day. It occurred to me that I needed to clean my room, I always feel better in a cleaner space. I’ve been watching Doctor Who recently, I started with David Tenant (I’ve seen the first three episode of Christopher Eccleson’s Doctor, I’m sure I’ll come back to him). Parts of the show are very sad.

So today I’m off again. I’ve not done much with my day. I haven’t cleaned. I played video games for a bit. I came here, to the coffee shop, to download some more Doctor Who. I played a bit in my iTunes library. I thought about my future, about where I am. I went to the craft store to look for a nice journal, couldn’t find one. I want a journal to use as a lyric book. I can’t write by hand very well because it hurts my hand and I have too much to say, but I would like to have a physical book with lyrics. It would be a fun project, a fun thing to have.

I’ve been writing a lot of lyrics lately. I think some of them are good. Maybe I’ll post them here soon.

I don’t think I’ll have a panic attack tomorrow because of work. But I am dreading going. I know that means that I have to go, in order to beat the dread. But I am so tired of fighting it. I’ve decided that it would probably be good for me to start looking for a therapist, trying to get medical aid if I can, and looking for a new doctor as well. I don’t have insurance but I do have a job, and that’s a good first step. Maybe I’ll start getting enrolled in school too.

I’ve thought about studying I.T. and getting a job in that field. I’m not crazy about computers but it’s something that would allow me to work at a desk, and what I would like most is to have a desk job, preferably one with benefits. I also need a gym membership.

There’s so much to work on that I don’t work on anything. My diabetes, my anxiety, my health, my job, my music, my writing, my blog, my novel. Usually I just stay in bed. I masturbate and watch porn, or play video games, and eat. I eat a lot of sugar free ice cream. It upsets my stomach but I eat it anyway.

This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted to live in Delaware with my new family, with Zack and Robert and the dogs. I want to go back. But I can’t. Not yet anyway. I want to, though. I just… don’t know where to begin. I have to stop fantasizing about going back to Delaware. I’ve accepted that this is where I live now.

But some part of me still won’t accept it. I don’t know. I wish the future were bright, like it was in Delaware. I wish there were promise, and hope.

I wish I weren’t near my mother. I wish she didn’t drain my will to live with her presence. No matter how nice she might be, still, being near her is terrible for me. It hurts me.

I’m hurting.

I’m afraid. I’m always so afraid. All this time has passed since I was that boy in 2010, writing about discovering Tori Amos. And really, where have I gotten? What’s changed?

Today I feel useless. I hope tomorrow I don’t feel so useless. I hope that one day it won’t all be so hard. I hope one day I can do something I’m proud of.

I hope one day I can have a friend who’s close by, who I can touch and hug and kiss and fuck. A boy who I can love. Someone I can come home to. Someone I can look forward to things with.

Today, I’ll just survive.

If I were to die, I would want someone to know about my writing. All the work I’ve done on my book, even if it’s all notes in emails and Google Docs.

But I shouldn’t talk like that. I don’t want to die and I’m not feeling suicidal. I guess maybe I just wanted to write it down just in case. I’m not going to delete it. I’m just going to keep going.

Some days your writing is good, some days it’s awful. Same with your mood, with your voice, with your achievements. But if you keep moving, something will change, for better and worse. And the promise of change, maybe that’s what hope is.

Keep moving.

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I’m A “Full-Time” Writer Now!

Look at my “serious writer” face

So I’ve come up with a little idea.

Far and away the worst problem I have as a writer is the motivation to sit down and write. Every single day I come up with ideas for blog posts, ideas for my stories, ideas for my novel, ideas for music, but I never sit down and do it. So in order to help keep me focused on writing, and also to help my writing ability improve, I’ve devised a system that I think might help me.

One of the things that has really inspired me most as a writer is hearing about comedian Mike Birbiglia, who wanted to devote his life to his comedy and to writing, so he started doing it as a full-time job. He rented an office space, set up an office, got up in the morning and went to work, and sat at his desk and worked. And that’s what it is to be a writer. And that’s what I want to do.

However, I’m also not oblivious to the fact that my writing muscles have not been getting stretched a lot, and because of that, my writing itself has suffered. Not so much the fiction, I think that I tend to write fiction in short bursts when I’m feeling inspired, but on days like this, I want to create a blog post and I have ideas, but when I sit down to do it… I just feel yucky. I feel like my voice isn’t on, like my writing ability isn’t with me, and I can tell from the quality of my writing that the style is conversational in a way that makes me feel I could do better.

But a long time ago, I heard an interview with Gregory Maguire where he said that the number one thing to do if you want to be a writer is to write. Write every day. Write something. It doesn’t have to be a novel, but write something. Work those muscles.

So my plan is to combine these two approaches: that of Gregory Maguire and Mike Birbiglia, and hire myself as a full-time writer. My job will be to write something every day, Monday through Friday, with weekends off, unless I feel especially inclined to write on the weekends.

This is necessary for several reasons. Firstly, because I have a Patreon, and because people are literally paying me to write. Not much, of course, because I only have a few patrons, but still, they’re giving me their money and expecting writing in return, and even if it isn’t all top-shelf, I can’t actually CREATE great short stories, poetry, and novels if I’m not constantly writing.

So that’s the plan. As of now, I’m a full-time writer. Well, full-time in the sense that I have to write something at least once a day Monday through Friday, but of course I don’t actually make enough money (YET) to do it as a real job. Still, this will be good for me, for my writing, for my creativity, and hopefully for the people who enjoy reading what I have to say.

At this moment I have a list of things I want to talk about. I have four lists, for what I’ve been reading, listening to, watching, and playing. To tackle all of these in one post would be messy and would probably require more time than I’d be able to put in, but this is a good starting place.

I’ve tried several times to “number” my blog posts. I’ve come to accept that just isn’t going to work. The first reason is that it’s difficult to tell WHAT constitutes a blog post. I have several posts talking about music and books I’m reading and rants about social issues, but also entire posts just dedicated to telling a story about having a meaningful or intense sexual experience. Does one count as a blog post and the other as a journal entry? Where is the line? I’m not really sure. At most recent count, the number of “blog posts” (meaning: not poetry or fiction) numbers somewhere in the 200’s, and as I’m writing this, this post is literally number 303. I couldn’t really make a big deal out of my 300th post because I honestly didn’t know which post WAS the 300th. And right now there are a few posts I’m considering deleting, as they’re just pieces of yet another rewrite of my novel.

I tend to get into this “ranting about blog numbering” and “complaining that I’m not writing enough” thing a lot, but the reason for that is that I take such a long break between actually posting. I’m hoping that by giving this little explanation and by preparing myself for daily work, it will help my writing to be more interesting, and help me to get better as a writer, and ultimately this will help me get better and knowing when to follow my inspiration and sit down and write, as well as develop the discipline to do so. And it also means that what I create will be better-written, because I’ll be used to flexing those muscles.

So, that’s the plan. And though today’s post is short, I’ll stop there for now, and I’ll be back tomorrow.

Thanks Gregory Maguire, and Mike Birbiglia. One day I’ll be a real writer like you guys.

Operation Organize Everything: Part 2

(Note: Some of the following journal entries have some really explicit sexual stuff in them. I didn’t want to slap a “NSFW” in the title, so I thought I’d just include a little note/disclaimer. If you want to read some sexually explicit tales from my life, have fun!)

Journal Entry: Nov. 12, 2014

I spent the evening with a boy. Wow. It was pretty unbelievable. We met online, he seemed sweet and clever and he made me laugh. When I met him, he gave me an affectionate hug. He came over to my place and brought in a six pack of beer. I had one. We talked. He seemed to be a little awkward being in new surroundings, but when I invited him to come sit on the bed with me, he came right over. He actually wanted to watch Will and Grace instead of a movie, which was awesome.

We were watching an episode, chuckling, and then I turned to face him. He knew I was going in for a kiss. He kissed me. It was a deep kiss, he likes to use a lot of tongue. He likes to bite my lip. I held him close. He offered no resistance when I ran my hands along his lean body, feelings everything. He was the first one to make a sexual move, he pulled my pants off and sucked my cock. It was pretty awesome. When it was my turn, I was amazed at the size of his when it bobbed out from his underwear. I could taste his precum when I put it in my mouth.

I licked his asshole. It was his first time. I fingered him, and he loved it, it was his first time for that too.  As we tumbled around, kissing, feeling, sucking, touching, I asked him if he wanted me to fuck him. Through his heavy breathing he nodded and replied he did. I got him ready, I fingered him, let him get relaxed, and then I entered him. I was the first to ever be inside of him. I’ve never known what that felt like. It’s not that it gave me some kind of sexual pleasure to know it, but an emotional connection to him. I whispered to him that he was safe, that I had him, that I was taking care of him. He became accustomed to the new sensation quickly. We ended up fucking in several positions. As he came closer, his moaning became beautiful whimpers of pleasure. His orgasm was beautiful, and mine followed soon after. We spent a long time each other’s arms.

We held each other close. I whispered that I liked him, he said he liked me too. He told me I was cute. He didn’t say very much, but the few little compliments he paid me made me feel so happy. I held him close, his hairy, lean chest against my own, feeling his heart beating fast, kissing him, giving him soft little kisses on his cheeks and anywhere else. I laid my head in his lap, I absently played with his cock and his balls. I kissed them affectionately. I kissed him just about anywhere. We talked more. He told me about himself. I shared my stories. We finished our episode of Will and Grace and I held him close.

My whole life since I started dating I’ve been putting pressure on things. The first time I fell in love, I sat down and wrote my thoughts on a wordpad document, like I’m doing right now. And things happened on their own. I did some of my usual needy things, I asked if he liked me, asked if I’d see him again, I even asked him if he would consider us “dating,” (meaning that we aren’t boyfriens but we’re seeing each other), and he pretty much agreed that we were, though he doesn’t like labels. He said he didn’t plan on seeing anybody else right now. I told him I didn’t either.

I’m tired. I’m fulfilled. I’m calm. I haven’t even had my medicine and I’m calm. I’m relaxed. I’m sitting hear, my body spent (we had sex a second time too, he was the one who wanted to do it, how wonderful that I’m not the only horny one around here), my head swimming, my eyes heavy, feeling so relaxed. It was nice.

He said my name for me just before I came. And his name, by with way, is Tyler. I call him Ty.

Journal Entry: Jun 25, 2015

It’s been a while since I’ve written. The last couple of months in my life have been full of change. Until a few months ago, most of my energy was dedicated to overcoming my recently failed relationship, and coming to a better of understanding of what I believe about spirituality and the Universe.

There was a day when, for whatever reason, I decided I was simply through looking for love. I wanted it, sure, and I felt a desperate and consuming loneliness. But then, I’ve always felt that way. Since I was a child, I’ve lost myself in my memories, and felt alone, and sad. It’s just the way it is for me. There are certain things about myself that just are the way they are: I can only do things in extremes, I either fully love or fully hate things, rarely can I find a middle ground, even about things I truly don’t have much of an opinion on. It’s just more comfortable for me to choose a side and switch later if I need to.

On this particular day, I decided it wasn’t worth it to keep searching aimlessly for a partner. I probably wasn’t ready for a new one anyway, I was still getting over the last one, and projecting my fears and insecurities the last relationship had left me with onto new people, all of whom it seemed weren’t the right match for me anyway. But then, no one had ever seemed like a real match. It was possible that I was simply matchless, and I do think that all people are unique so why couldn’t I be so unique that I just didn’t have a perfect match? Don’t get me wrong, I don’t believe in having a predestined soulmate or even really the idea of having a “match,” but it did happen that I hadn’t yet met anyone who aligned with me even to near-perfection, much less perfectly.

This realization came with sadness. I was going to dedicate my time and energy to better understanding myself, to educating myself, to searching for my own beliefs, discovering my truest identity, making myself into the most authentic version of myself I could be. But this came at a cost: even in the most unhappy of times I’ve kept hope alive that I can still find someone who will be good for me if I just keep trying. It’s not really in my nature to give up hope. It’s happened to me before, and there have been plenty of times when I’ve given up through my actions, but rarely has hope been entirely extinguished for me, if ever. I found myself curled up in my bed, listening to sad music on a loop, and crying until I fell asleep.

When I woke up I felt a little better. It was the first day of the rest of my life. I was dedicating myself to me now.

I really don’t like how they say that love finds you when you stop looking for it. How cruel is that, that if it were true, only the people who didn’t appreciate love, who didn’t care enough not to give up hope, would be blessed with it, whereas those who sought it tirelessly and never stopped hoping could never find it?

For whatever reason, it’s one of those weird little addages that seems to constantly happen to everyone, the idea that you can finally find something when you’re not looking for it. I don’t know if it’s a cosmic joke or something to do with balance in the universe, or if life just sucks that way, but for whatever reason, things changed for me that night.

I was on Facebook and I happen to be part of some group that’s purpose is to connect LGBT people for dating, and this particular one happened to be for gay men, including transgender men. I had joined a lot of these groups when I became single, and I found such freedom in doing so. I saw a post from a guy who said he and his boyfriend were looking for a third partner in the hopes of creating a polyamorous relationship. I’ve really loved the idea of polyamory and particularly on some spiritual level the idea of three people in a relationship, there’s something inherently mystical about the number three, and a long time ago I came to the conclusion that if I were to be comfortable in a relationship, it would have to be one where I’m free to explore and feel whatever I want to, with no limitations.

At any rate, I wished this guy luck on his quest, and said I was sure he’d find someone because he was a cutie. I don’t remember exactly what happened next but I must have went to go have a look at his profile because I found him attractive, and that’s when I realized that he lives nearby. So nearby in fact that he was only about fifteen minutes up the road. I sent him a message and decided to chat with him, and within an instant we were conversing, and it was really good. There were so many things about him that I found attractive: he was a writer, he was intelligent, he understood the things I made references to, he had great taste in music (and it also happened to align pretty well with my own), we had so many similar interests. I found myself getting really excited. Could it be that on this day, when I had decided to stop looking for love, the right guy had just wandered into my life and found me?

I called him and talked with him a bit. His boyfriend was nearby and the first thing I noticed was that they laughed a lot when I spoke to them, they found me interesting in funny. I’ve always found that to be missing in my relationships. My high school best friend always ends up with people who have a good sense of humour, and who she laughs with. They have inside jokes and they smile and laugh and have fun around each other, but I’ve never had that in a relationship before, and there have been times when I’ve seen them acting that way and it’s made me feel incredibly disheartened about my own relationships, which usually involve me and someone else peacefully coexisting at best. Maybe I did love those guys, but that doesn’t mean we had fun together, or that I was fulfilled.

This new guy on the phone told me he and his boyfriend were going to go get something to eat so he should probably go. It was the middle of the night and only a few restaurants were open so I asked if they wanted to meet up, and they were both very excited about the idea. My best friend did a little bit of research on this guy, as he is wont to do because he worries about me and wants to make sure I’m safe, and he pretty much gave me his blessing by saying that this guy seemed really interesting and had published a lot of books online. I was actually starting to get very excited, but I remained skeptical: something will come up. Yes, he does seem to be an incredibly good match for me, but I’ll discover something unpleasant about him that changes it all, or we’ll meet and have no natural connection, or something. Things don’t just fall into your lap like this without some kind of consequence.

When I met him, I literally found myself unable to speak in the middle of sentences because I would get distracted by how beautiful his eyes were. Both he and his boyfriend were attractive, and the more we talked, the better we all got along. We ended up going back to their place and having sex, and it was the most incredible and sexually fulfilling experience I’d ever had. I felt so safe and affectionate and frankly I just kept waiting for something bad to happen. I shared this with my new guy friend and he said he’d been thinking the same thing.

But nothing bad happened, at least not as far as our connection was concerned. The more time went by, the more we seemed drawn to each other. I found myself missing him terribly when I had to go home to go to work, and spending ever free second with him and his boyfriend. The three of us would drive around town, eat, go to the movies, and everywhere we went, we laughed. That was the thing that really got me: we just kept laughing. We were always smiling. And my new love interest seemed to know all the right things to say and do. It just kept getting better.

As nothing can be without balance, however, things in my life did become incredibly turbulent. My mother became increasingly difficult when it came to me spending time with my new friends, and I wasn’t sure exactly what to call them, they were definitely love interests but I was terrified of making any commitment, or even thinking of calling anyone “boyfriend.” Being someone’s boyfriend had always turned out bad for me, that kind of commitment was restraining and counterproductive, it stifled who I was, destroyed my creativity, and kept me chained to someone else. It wasn’t something I wanted to experience again.

As I said, my mother became more and more difficult to be around. Honestly, I could go into the specifics, I could recount the incredibly hurtful and bigoted things she and her husband both said to me, but what really matters is that it got bad. She kicked me out of the house and made me live outside in a camper. Now, this isn’t actually all that terrible a turn of events, since I used to live in their backyard in a camper for about a year, and I had a pretty peaceful existance out there with my own TV and music and space. But this time was different: I was only allowed inside the house to use the bathroom (and even this was actually prohibited, I’d been told that if I needed to use the bathroom I could drive to the gas station, but luckily I didn’t really get much argument when I decided to come inside anyway), and I wasn’t allowed to eat any of their food.

This was essentially my mother’s way of putting me on the street without actually putting me on the street. From the outside, she’d just made me live outside, where I had my own space away from her and we didn’t collide so much. But in reality, I was living in a sweltering hot camper in the middle of a very hot spring that was already turning into summer, with no air condition, and no food or water of my own. The first night she put me out there, the family had not only made dinner, but there were three boxes of leftovers from eating out nights before in the refrigerator. My mother left a single bottle of water and half a bag of potato chips on the back porch for my dinner, and refused to share any of the food inside the house with me. I became increasingly anxious, there was no way out of this situation. My two new love interests could provide me a place to sleep for a night or two, but they were living with family and couldn’t just let me move in, and though they were trying to get a place of their own, in which I’d be more than welcome to stay, they hadn’t been able to yet.

It was a confusing and incredibly upsetting time, probably for everyone if not just for me. My new boy was talented, creative, interesting, fun, and beautiful, and his boyfriend and I were becoming closer too. We all ended up staying in a hotel together for a few days, and on my new boy’s birthday, I was in bed with him, laying on top of him and smiling down, when I went to say something, and I honestly don’t remember what, but I prefaced it with a “Guess what?” He got excited and told me he thought I was going to ask him to be my boyfriend. At that moment, seeing the joy on his face, feeling the rush of heat through my chest, and how much I already knew I was falling in love with him, it seemed, for the first time in my life, like asking someone to be my boyfriend might not come with the messy consequences of feeling trapped and unable to breathe.

I warned him. I told him I’ve had serious trouble being in relationships before, and that I often feel stifled, and that I may need more freedom than he realizes, that the terms of our relationship might need to be altered as the need arises. He didn’t mind any of this. And so I asked. And he said yes. We were officially boyfriends. The smiles on our faces and the passion of our kiss told me I’d made the right decision. The best thing was, I could feel all of that doubt and indecision and fear that always accompanied the beginning of a new relationship creeping up on me, but it didn’t hurt, it didn’t cause me anxiety, I just simply saw that it was there and smiled, because I knew I truly didn’t feel that way.

As for my new boyfriend’s current boyfriend, I waited a little while before I was ready to ask him too. I wanted us to have a special moment too, and eventually we did. We reached a point where the three of us were not only in a relationship, but the situation demanded that it might be a good idea for all of us to find a place.

Now, I know that’s not a good idea at the beginning of relationship. The strain of living in close quarters destroys relationships, I know from experience. But we didn’t seem to have many other options: they needed to leave their family’s house, and I clearly wasn’t going to survive living with no food in a hot camper in my mother’s backyard. There are a million details about what happened, but an apartment was found, and a move-in was arranged. The only real problem was that we’d have to wait for essentially another month.

It was a long month. I went back and forth between my boyfriends’ family and my family, and I no longer had a job since I’d been working with my mother before and she, of course, fired me (as she is prone to do at the slightest provocation). Eventually there was a tenuous agreement between myself and my boyfriend’s mother that I could stay there for a short time, but she wasn’t really incredibly keen on it, she just didn’t have the heart to put me out on the street. I say that it was tenuous because not all of this was ever really said, it was more implied. The situation became tense: my bofriends and I started to argue, and moving in was suddenly becoming a very shaky situation where it looked like we might not have the money or the means to move in. I was terrified, I had no other options, even if I broke up with these guys, moving into this apartment was the only option for me, I had nowhere else to go.

The fighting was tense for a few days. It wasn’t physical fighting, just arguing, hurt feelings, but we always made up, and it was real making up too, not the way my previous boyfriends and I had pretended to make up and just endured one another for another day. We got the apartment, we moved in, the arguing calmed way down, and after a few weeks and a failed attempt at working in retail again, I went back to my job with my mother, who has so far been much easier to get along with. Her response to learning I have two boyfriends was probably the response you would expect from a conservative Southern Christian, but I don’t really care.

Journal Entry: July 7, 2015

One very frustrating area of my life is relationships, and that’s mostly because I suck at them. I really do try my best, but not only can I never make them work, they just never feel right. It’s ironic because I can be so emotionally dependent and so overly nurturing and caring that it seems like a stable relationship would be ideal for me, but strangely, I become very quickly unsettled every time. Every time I’ve had the “let’s be boyfriends” talk with a guy, it’s strangely never very exciting. Usually it’s incredibly stressful.

This is the way relationships typically go for me: I meet a guy, probably online or through a friend, and we start talking, usually over the phone. I really love being able to have long conversations with people, and I know that I’m interested in a guy when we can carry on conversations that last well into the night and eat up every minute on my cell phone. I’m talking six-hour conversations here, usually with a lot of “Whoops, my cell phone died and I had to plug it in,” or “I’m just walking around the block in the middle of the night while talking to you.”

When we meet, usually for a meal, there’s a mixture of feelings: on the one hand, there’s an instant grinding neediness that wells up inside me. I may not express it to him, but inside I’m thinking “Okay, he’s cute. Maybe this feature could be better but it’s alright, maybe he’ll love me. Maybe he’ll hold me and whisper sweet nothings into my ear at night, and maybe our warm bodies will caress in the moonlight and my heart will race and his lips will kiss mine and I can spend every night safe with him, not alone, tossing around in an empty bed in an empty room and an empty life with no love!”

I know, and this is just what’s going through my mind while I’m smiling over the chit-chat before our meals even arrive. By this point, I’ve already started to doubt the relationship that doesn’t even exist: “Am I ready for this? What if he doesn’t really get me? What if I end up being the only one who cares? He seems nice, but do I really want to be with him FOREVER? I mean, if things go well now, then eventually I’ll have to make a decision about whether or not to commit to him, and if I commit, well then there goes my chances of ever being with anyone else, ever experiencing the excitement of meeting someone new, ever having another first kiss or a first night in bed together or a first holiday together or meeting his family for the first time, now it’s just me and this guy forever. And what if things go bad? Then I have to break up, and I have to deal with my heart being broken and taking his stuff out of my room and giving him back clothes that he left at my house and spending six months crying myself to sleep at night and having crappy self-pity hookup sex with guys online to try and fill the void he’s left in my heart. Maybe this isn’t worth it. Maybe this was all a bad idea.”

When he smiles and asks what’s on my mind, I laugh nervously and sigh. Try to take a breath, I tell myself, and I just say, “Oh, nothing.”

But that’s the thing, I can’t NOT over think things. It’s just in my nature. I’m not actually sure that I NEED to change that about myself. People over the years have told me to stop thinking so much, but I’m sorry, thinking is what I do best, and I can’t just stop because it’s inconvenient and raises a lot of questions. If things are going well between me a guy, I start to suffer this really bad separation anxiety when he’s not around, and I’ll become really depressed, just eating or playing video games or going to work to have something to do to occupy myself until the next time I see him. I’ll keep on rolling over every question and concern I just mentioned, but I’ll miss him at the same time, and to a degree that is probably unhealthy for having just meet someone. I’ll talk to him on the phone and say, “You know I really missed you today,” and I’ll hear him smile and say “Yeah I missed you too.” But I doubt he really missed me as much as I missed him. He probably missed me in like, a normal way, whereas spent the entire day thinking about our entire future together and how terrified I am of making a commitment to marry him, and exactly how I’m going to deal with raising children when I’m not grown myself, and we haven’t even agreed to a second date yet.

So yeah, I jump the gun, emotionally and mentally. The saddest part is that I don’t do it on purpose. I’ve trained myself NOT to go bat shit crazy on day one, and I do this to the best of my ability, but some things I just can’t avoid doing. Sex is another big thing that I have to deal with. I’ve always had a very open attitude about sexuality, and I don’t mind being as graphic as the other person can handle if they’re willing to talk about sex. When I meet a guy and I think he’s cute, I do this thing that I know is really stereotypical and probably makes the whole gay community, or men in general look bad, because I’m doing something that people might expect me to do, but I just start wondering about his penis. I want to know how big it is, what it’s shaped like, if I’m going to like it. I prefer big ones but I don’t mind if it’s average, but what if it’s just average or it’s small? Now I have to spend the rest of my life with this guy whose dick isn’t satisfactory and I’ll be constantly wishing I could experience sex with a guy who had a bigger one. As I’m writing this I understand how incredibly shallow this sounds. It’s not my intent to be shallow and I don’t actually judge whether or not I’m going to be in a relationship with a guy based on the size of his cock, but I would be lying if I didn’t say these incredibly base sexual thoughts didn’t fly through my head.

Then we actually have sex, and it’s usually VERY quickly. If we don’t have the full-on penetration, there’s usually some form of fooling around on the first encounter. Now, I’m inclined to think that a lot of the guys I’ve met would be just fine saving that for a second or third date, but since I happen to come on to them on the first meeting they don’t mind going there too. The problem is, now in addition to the worries I’ve already amassed in my own mind, I have a whole new load of sexual issues to worry about (no pun intended).

If the sex wasn’t that great, then I’m thinking, “Great, he’s really nice but I don’t think I’m satisfied by him sexually, and now if we end up together I’ll be sexually unsatisfied for the rest of my life,” because in my head we’ve already made a commitment, gotten engaged, and we’re getting married tomorrow and having a baby the next day. I can’t NOT look at the picture, I can’t just live in the moment and leave my worries about tomorrow for tomorrow, because I know that if things continue to go well with a guy, I’m well on my way to saying “Let’s be boyfriends,” which is, in a sad way, like saying “Let’s be in a relationship with no foreseeable end where I have no way out without causing us both incredible pain, and I give up my chance of ever meeting someone who IS perfect for me if you turn out not to be, and I have no sexual or emotional freedom, and I have to edit what I say and do to conform to the way I’m supposed to act when I’m in a relationship, and I can’t hit on other guys or even think about other guys without feeling inadvertently guilty whether you want me to or not, and I start to cause you intense levels of anxiety because I worry about every little thing.”

Now, almost invariably, I express some or most of these feelings to the guy in question, and in most instances, he smiles and says it’s cute that I worry so much and kisses me. And yes, I am human, and yes I will forget about my worry for a little while, and just enjoy spending time with him. And sometimes it goes really well. But in the back of my mind I’ll be thinking, “So, is this it? It doesn’t FEEL like I’ve found my soul mate. I didn’t fall in love with him at first sight. I don’t even believe in soul mates or love at first sight, but is this someone I feel like I’m going to wake up every morning smiling at because I can’t believe how lucky I am to be with him, or am I just moderately happy with him? Am I settling? And if I am settling, why? Why do I continue to be in this relationship if it isn’t filling me with constant beatific joy? People talk about being in love and wanting to tell the world, shout it from the rooftops, but I don’t feel that way. Does that mean this isn’t right? Oh god what am I doing, I already made a commitment to this guy and now I’m not sure if I made a huge mistake or not!” Then I’ll take a breath and tell myself, “No it’s okay, it’s still early, give him a chance, take it slow.” But the next time we’re together, all I’ll be thinking is, “Is this the one? Have I made a mistake? I’m trying to give him a chance but I don’t feel like everything is perfect yet.”

Journal Entry: November 20, 2015

Bad things that happened today: I was very nervous about my new job. My feet hurt and I was feeling pressured at the cash wrap to deliver on the metrics and promotions. I was a bit overwhelmed. I felt conflicted about the bank vs. the bookstore. I wasn’t sure retail was where I wanted to be, even though I like the bookstore as a customer. The bank rejected me after two interviews and a few forms, possibly because of my credit.  Roxie scratched me when I got home, grr. I felt a little guilty for feeling up Zack today when we cuddled. I don’t think Robert would mind THAT much, but I know I was being bad. Even though I liked watching HP and the Deathly Hallows (Part 2, for the record), it changed up my routine, I watched it in the dark, and it kind of stressed me out a little bit, though it did inspire me. I parked too close to the store on my first day of work. I want a lot of stuff from the bookstore I dont’ have money for. I’m running out of negative things to say but I’m trying to get it all out. I’m not crazy about doing a fake-ish customer service persona when I’m at work. Oh I forgot a big one, Kris shot himself in the woods near someone’s house, my mother is very upset. I talked to her on the phone. Just hearing her voice shook and upset me. Guess I’ve learned I’m not really ready to talk to her yet. It is very sad about Kris. I don’t know if it’s inappropriate to say I saw it coming, I noticed he was getting rid of his stuff, or selling things, and seemed to be getting his affairs in order like he was ready to go. I hope he’s at peace. I believe people have a right to choose death. It’s their life, they can choose to end it if they can’t bear living. But I do hope people can also heal and have happy lives. I don’t know, it’s a weird thing. Also I’m spending too much time on Facebook, I want to eliminate that, and get all my writing in one place on a blog, and then put my creative output there.

Good things: I got to play FFXIII-2 when I got home. It was relaxing to sit down after working. I took a nap with Zack. I’m enjoying playing FFXII: Revenant Wings, and also reading Lord of the Rings. I posted on Facebook a brief summary of my experiences so far in Delaware. That should update people. I’m getting inspired just by playing Final Fantasy XII: Revenant Wings. I’m excited to get a journal and write things down in it (I may copy all my old outlines). Random: I have Darren Hayes’ song Talk Talk Talk stuck in my head. I’m enjoying Mozart. I like Sirius XM, they have a Broadway and Classical station. Also, I’m kind of thinking I might get more into Missy Elliot. Though I can’t torrent anymore. That should go in the bad things section. Nah. Okay I’m tired and running out of stuff to say. I have Pepsi! Yay for soda addictions! And I am hopefully going to fall asleep at a reasonable time. Goodnight!

I’m Still Trying

Caesar

I’ve wanted to write again for over a month. That seems to always be the pattern: I want to write, then I don’t, then I’m mad because I missed all these observations and thoughts I could have chronicled, and then when I do write I’m apologizing to myself for not writing. But I’m going to keep trying, even if it’s hard. I want to get what it’s my head down.

I started a journal once before online (actually many times before online, but this is one in particular), on LiveJournal. I wanted to try something new, but I ended up only writing six entries. Since this numbered series is supposed to be similar to that, and I’ve already cross-posted my LiveJournal entries over to this blog, I considered making the previous entry number seven and this one number eight.Maybe I will do that. I don’t know.

I realize that’s a boring thing to start this off with. I have a thing about numbers, and organization. I have literally spent most of my free time in the past six years organizing and maintaining my iTunes library: keeping the B-Sides and Demos in proper order with uniform cover art, keeping everything numbered properly, having things in correct chronological order, organizing and re-organizing and re-organizing bonus tracks and B-Sides. It’s labor intensive but it gives my mind something to focus on.

I honestly want to go back to the beginning of this entry and just erase everything I’ve just written because even I think it’s boring.

But that is not the point!

The point is to get it out of my head and into here. The point is to have a living record (what does that actually mean, anyway? I’m totally bullshitting on using that term properly) of my life and my thoughts.

So here’s what I did today.

It’s Saturday. Blessed, sweet Saturday. The Thursday two days previous marked three months that I began working a full-time job, at a desk, in front of a computer, for eight hours a day with an hour lunch break. When I first started, I was deliriously satisfied at having landed full-time work, much less in my dream environment of an OFFICE. I couldn’t believe it.

But as time went on, it slowly starting dawning on me that this wasn’t an office. This was a retailer I worked for, and I was in their office space, and yes there were desks and computers and cushy chairs, and a coffee machine and conference rooms, but there were also things MISSING. Windows, for instance. Our office is actually just two huge warehouses that are somewhat insulated and the walls are strewn with huge ceiling to floor curtains. There are no windows, there is no sunlight, there is something that almost passes for a skylight above but really doesn’t because it’s just one dirty covered window that lets in some small amount of light. Two weeks ago the power went out for a while and we were on various backup lighting systems and it was like it was the dead of night in there. It gets incredibly hot when it’s hot outside, and freezes when it’s cold outside.

It seems to be devoid not just of light, but of hope. I’m reminded of the lyrics to that one Radiohead song that I’ve never heard the original of before, just the Regina Spektor and Amanda Palmer covers: “A job that slowly kills you, bruises that won’t heal.”

After my life was saved by two friends who allowed me to move away from the Carolinas and from my dysfunctional family and incredibly abusive mother, I spent the first month or so having crying breakdowns every night. I was like a dog that had just been adopted from the pound, and I was still so scarred by my past that I couldn’t accept that I might have a home, or safety, or love. But over time that fear went away and this became my new home.

I lasted about a month at the new job before I started to realize that I not only hated the job itself, but the whole concept of full time work. I always thought working full time with weekends off would give my life some kind of structure, but it turns out it just fills my life with forty-five hours a week spent in a muggy dark building away from the sun, and away from my actual LIFE. I hate being hidden away like that. I get two days off but I feel like I need much more than that. I honestly am beginning to doubt whether or not I can work AT ALL.

What would a happy work-week look like for me? I have no idea. Unless I were doing something that I love, and I don’t really know if I can paid to play piano, write books, and play video games. I want to go to college but how? I’m twenty-five now, I don’t have as many resources available to me as would have been when I was eighteen and just graduating. Even if I go to school I need to work a full-time job at the same time and how do I do that? What would I even go to school for? I say English, music, or literature, but what would I do with that? Would I teach? Could I handle the stress of teaching? I’ve been warned against teaching by everyone and I’ve never been particularly interested in it. If I were a teacher I’d have to hide who I am too.

I’d like to live in a hippy commune, rolling around naked in the flowers every afternoon, fucking boys and maybe sometimes girls throughout the day, reading at night, and falling asleep in the arms of friends. I’d like to wake up to the smell of nature and the wet dew and the rising sun, and yet I don’t want to live out in the woods. Maybe a cabin somewhere? I mean I’m genuinely trying to picture what my perfect life might look like. I guess in my dreams for the future I’m always rich and successful, and I’m either at home writing novels or out on the road touring as a musician, playing piano and singing to adoring friends every night.

Will I ever get the chance to do these things? When I was twenty-one it seemed like there was still all the time in the world to figure these things out. Now I’m twenty-five, almost twenty-six, and it seems like while there may still be time, there doesn’t seem to be any MEANS to make these things happen. And what do I need to do, keep on slogging through work full time, having unfulfilling Grindr hookups that leave me grossed out and ashamed when I have a few moments of free time, spending the weekend sitting still and trying to recuperate as I recover from the withdrawals symptoms of leaving one antidepressant behind to start myself on another?

It seems like I’ve gained so much of what I thought I wanted: a safe home where I live with friends, a stable job, good income, the ability to get food when I need it, a place to put my books and my music. And I do still want all those things, but I didn’t know I would still be suicidal once I got them. I didn’t know I would still struggle against the debilitating tears, fear, and loneliness, pushing down on my chest every day. I didn’t know I would still reach over to the other side of the bed at night and wish Nathan was there to hold.

It’s been over a year now and he’s still on my mind all the time. I feel lost without him. I think of things that I want to say to him, I see things around me and I want to show him, but he isn’t here, he’s back home, in Georgia, and he just isn’t going to be a part of my life no matter how much I miss him. And it isn’t that I want him to be in my life, or that I want to get back together, but I do miss him. Even though I don’t regret my decision to step out of our relationship, I still spend a lot of time thinking about him, missing him

I want to find a new person, but last year I was with a new person for three months and I genuinely forget that he ever existed in my life. I had a new relationship with not one but TWO guys, in a polyamorous relationship, they were both Pagan, and I even ended up homeless and they gave me a place to stay. Then there was upset, an actual physical fight, lots of screaming and wailing and at one point I even tried to cut myself (unsuccesfully, as I grabbed a butter knife), then ended up being made to leave. And I forget about those things ever having happened all the time, I forget that I had a relationship with those two guys, I talk about Nathan and say he was my last boyfriend but I forget that there were two in-between then and now. Why do I forget them so easily? I had thought I was happy. It turns out I was just as unfulfilled as before.

But doesn’t having a rebound relationship mean it helps you to get over the old one? Well, yes and no. It was nice, but still unfulfilling.

And I spent so much time last year being an atheist, and now I feel like I’m going back down the path to being Pagan. Which is great, I like it, but I always feel insincere. I’m not brave enough to be an atheist, and I don’t have enough faith to truly believe in the Divine. I want real life witchcraft and magic to influence the magic in my book, but where is my book going? It’s changed so much in my head. Characters that used to be the most important have left entirely, and I don’t know what’s happening anymore. I finally started over in first person and I love it so far but I haven’t written anything more after the first chapter, which I need to revise.

I’m feeling so lost. Why, after gaining so much, do I still find myself faced with the same problems?

Today I walked dogs at the animal shelter. Zack drove us there, I was going to go by myself but I’m glad he came. First I walked a pitbull named Caesar who pee’d on everything and then kept trying once he ran out, and cuddled with him a bit before we swapped him out for another pitbull named Gunnar, who was a bit more distant but really interested in walking around and exploring. I got a lot of good exercise from it, even though I was literally so exhausted from walking down to a culdesac and back twice that I ended up taking a three-hour nap when I got home. How can I ever start working out regularly or running / walking / jogging, if I can’t even handle taking a dog for a walk?

I don’t mean to be negative, if I am being negative. I spent a lot of time when I first started this blog trying as hard as I could to be positive because I needed positive energy in my life. Now I’m not even sure what a word like “positive energy” means. I don’t like faith in God, and I don’t really care enough about science to truly seek the answers. Maybe I don’t like what I know I’ll find: that the universe is vast and my existence in it has little meaning either way. That’s what atheism has brought to me, a feeling of knowledge and even of boastful, arrogant pride that I’m now trying to unlearn, and also a fear of oblivion. I don’t want to stop existing. Can it be so easy to just stop existing? Can it be so easy to believe in an alternative?

I’m filled with questions. I’m tired. I’m always tired nowadays.

I have to get away from this job before it kills me. I have to keep trying. I have to keep doing good things in my life.

I ordered two books on Wicca. I jogged last week and walked today. I’ve stopped drinking soda from the machine at work and almost entirely switched to drinking Powerade when I’m working. I bought tea and chai. I’m trying.

I need to stop staring at my phone all day. I need to get online for a good purpose, to write or to do something productive. I have to stop wasting so much time.

I want my body to be better. I want my heart to be better. I want my life to be better.

I’m trying.

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