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.