I believe I can see the future, ’cause I repeat the same routine

Today I found a hard-copy of a blog post I wrote almost 4 years ago, one that I never published or made public.

And it was astounding to realize that it could just as easily been a month old.  Or one year. Or two.

The same rants about the same stuff.  The same frustrations, the same needs, the same worries, the same.

I need more sex, then and now. It was interesting to see that of the particular needs I have in that regard, the same things I needed most then are the same few things I’ve never gotten much of; while the kinds of sex I’ve had and my discovered interests have been much more varied, the same few things I’ve needed throughout are the ones I’ve consistently gone without.

I was dealing with way too much noise, then and now.  Back then I wasn’t aware just how “good” my hearing is (if you’re “normal,” then my hearing is “really good.” If you’re clued in, you know my hearing is “hellishly sensitive,” which is not an unmitigated blessing.) Now I know that what passes for “a nice quiet neighborhood” to a lot of people is a neighborhood so full of non-stop noise that I’ll guarantee my lack of sanity and sleep there.

I was frustrated with the people I was living with at the time.  Granted, I was living with some pretty shitty people.  The woman I was renting from had flat-out lied to me about the circumstances that led to the previous tenant leaving with short notice, and when I was on the way out myself, she spent almost an hour screaming at the top of her lungs through a floor-to-ceiling barricade to me and the couple of friends who were helping me haul my stuff out about how I was such a “self-centered bitch” and how she was glad I was “getting the fuck out of her life.”  She’s the same woman who wrote in an email to me that “If I can just avoid renting to folks on SSI, I’ll be fine — because y’all are fucking crazy!”  Now I’ve lived with much worse people, and less obnoxious ones as well… and I have pretty solidly figured out that even with people I really like, I don’t do well sharing a space with others.  I don’t know how I’m going to manage, because I can’t afford to have a roof over my head.

I was worried about money.  Didn’t have enough back then, although at the time I had internalized the messages that told me I was a worthless piece of shit because I couldn’t afford the same things as others around me, and it must be my own fault because I clearly couldn’t handle my finances right.  I was stressing over dollar amounts — trying to justify each meal’s cost to myself, trying to find ways for others to pay for things as much as I could manage.  These days it’s not much different, except that I have slightly more predictable support from several directions.  Back then it was hoping I could talk the sugar daddy I had at the time into making something happen, which usually meant ending ending up with something A. different than what I asked for, B. inferior to what I asked for, and C. nearly guaranteed to be secondhand.  Oh, and it also meant sucking off an old guy who pushed for sex every time he was around, even when I’d made it clear that it wasn’t going to happen that particular time, and he had a really difficult time with my particular genital configuration.  As Hedwig exclaimed, I often felt: “Love the front of me!” Hey, at least I ended up with several pairs of good boots out of it…

I was struggling with depression.  The lies I repeat to myself haven’t fundamentally changed, though in some ways they have gotten less vicious, and I’m often much better now at seeing the lies for what they are, and working to respond to them differently.

And I’m still occasionally writing long rants, either here or on Facebook.  I just dug back to my post from December last year so that I could share the picture at the bottom on my Facebook page — the sentiment is the same, then and now. “Just fuck me for Christmas” is written in gel-pen on strips of duct tape across a door.  Well, here’s hoping.

Black is white, up is down, and short is long.

If you tell me that I’m a lazy good-for-nothing, I’ll hear you saying that I lack worth and value, and that you think I don’t work hard enough.  If what you mean is that you wish you could keep the same sleep schedule as I do, that’s a really ineffective way to get your point across.

If you express amazement that I managed to tell a funny joke, and furthermore that you’re not surprised that it took hard work to do it, I’ll hear you saying that I’m not very good at comedy, and that when I am it’s either accidental or the result of significant labor.  If what you mean is that my wit comes easily and often, and you appreciate my great sense of humor, that’s a really ineffective way to get your point across.

If you say to me, “SPAM?! No friend of mine would go near that filth! And you said you had good taste… As if…” I’ll get the message loud and clear that your friendship is a flimsy thing, predicated on sharing your opinions — and I’ll hear a hefty dose of judgmental attitude about my differing opinions.  If what you mean is that you don’t share my opinions but you don’t have any problem with mine, even when you don’t understand them, that’s a really ineffective way to get your point across.

And if I react to what you say — instead of what you mean (but didn’t say) — then telling me that I need to “chill out,” to “stop being so emotional about it,” that you were “just teasing,” and that I should have known… or for good measure, maybe even throw in a bit of wondering statement about whether I’m “looking for things to get upset about,” are really ineffective ways to address the issue of being ineffective at getting your point across.

I don’t read minds. If you want to tell me something, tell me. Please, don’t assume that I can look past your hurtful words and somehow glean a compliment or an expression of affection from them — I’m about as likely to pick up a pile of dog shit to try to figure out where the $100 bill in the middle is!

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