Here they take their sweet repast, while house and grounds dissolve

Already the guests begin to arrive.  All boys — that’s all the company she keeps — slowly trickling in, one and then three and soon to be followed by many more, if history and routine have any bearing on the matter.

The rich, spoiled bitch-child celebrates 20 years on this earth today, a day often used to celebrate fools, to mock and laugh at the gullible and to take glee in the guile by which we can trick those we deem more dim-witted than ourselves.

What better day for her to party?  Let the fool celebrate. The booze will flow, the weed will burn, likely other substances will wend their ways through bodies and brains.  As I left the bath moments ago, the sweet perfume of pot smoke hung thick in the air — good shit, it seemed, from the moment of scent I sampled.  Deep voices conversing, the basses and baritones carrying their banter and chilling my bones.

It does seem quite the shame, though — she may be a year older, but she’s not one second closer to growing up.  Her verbally and emotionally abusive relationship with her boyfriend frightens me, to regularly hear how she screams at him, telling him how stupid and worthless he is, almost as often as she lavishes praise on him — the “best boyfriend ever” just hours before he’s verbally lashed — “how could you do that? I told you, and you fucked up again! I’M NOT YELLING AT YOU! I’M NOT YELLING AT ALL, DAMN IT!”  It sickens me to understand completely and intuitively why he stays, too; great sex as often as he wants it?  Score.  A place to live away from his folks? Hot damn! Cost-free room and board — and no “crust of bread, cup of water,” either, but the finest gourmet that money can buy? You might hang around, too!

If it means having her laugh to all her assembled guests that “yeah, he breaks all the glasses, and doesn’t clean them up.  We clean them up, at least, because we’re not like that.” — well, what’s a little public humiliation in exchange?  If she insists that he sacrifice his health for her codependency — telling him to skip his psych meds because he is making them late for the rock concert by trying to go back and fetch them, spending half an hour telling him how dumb he is for forgetting them and refusing to move an inch until he capitulates to her every demand so that she doesn’t have to spend a single moment functioning on her own… well, again, why is that a problem?  Plenty of awesome shit to balance things out!  Besides, she’s always right… he must just need to work on understanding that, right?

Still more boys coming in, even as I write this.  Tonight will be loud and potentially very difficult — but I begin this night with wonderful preparation, with a day full of beauty and joy and fantastic good things coming to me throughout.  I’m in a good mood, and a good space.

I also have a secret weapon… acquired later than initially intended, as I had planned for it to be my birthday gift to myself in mid-February, but I now have my own Tango III vibrator — and tonight will be a good, relaxing, fun night no matter what else surrounds me.  Perfect peace amid the tempest, filling me completely… even if my toy doesn’t!


I hear the doorbell ring and suddenly the panic takes me

I need to write.
I want to write.

But I’m balancing that need
That desire
Against my physical exhaustion
Against my minimal food intake today
Against the enormous effort that it takes
To remain outwardly calm
While the sounds from the next room
Fill me with


No, it’s not a “logical” connection.
No, I can’t explain why those sounds affect me as they do.
No, it’s not just me finding something to complain about.

I have worked over many years
Learned very carefully
Through practice
Refinement of technique
To appear relaxed
And pleasant
And friendly

Instead of screaming as loudly as my lungs allow
Smashing any solid object within reach
Against any other object in my swing
Stomping and smashing
Making noise and breaking things
All in a feeble and ever-failed attempt
To demonstrate to others —
But no, not a demonstration —
It’s an attempt to harm others
In a fashion that they can comprehend
To a degree equivalent
To the harm they inflict on me.

I have learned to be mute
I have learned to accept harm
I have learned to do nothing in retaliation
I have learned to turn inward and die

And I am praised for my “success” far too often
Told that I am “strong”
That I am “brave”
That I have “accomplished so much”

How is it
That so many seem to envy
This so-called “skill”
Of saying nothing
Doing nothing
Lying on the ground after being driven there again
And most of all for my friendly smile
And calm, even voice
As I am kicked again and again and again?

You value self-restraint
You value compliance
You value non-violence and avoiding confrontation
And I have learned these things you so value

But you never taught me when to stop holding back
You never taught me how to say, “Fuck no, and fuck you!”
You never taught me how to knock a motherfucker out when they come at me wrong
Or to do anything but whimper, turn, and run or better yet, stay and take it with a smile

So I have learned nothing of value at all

To ride a wave on your inhaling.

Need. Need and crave and want so very, very much…

It’s been nearly a year since I’ve been fucked. Late January last year was when I went in to fake a “let’s kiss and make up” with my ex, and this after having been without since early November before that. Yeah, the make-up sex was hot, but it was a desperate (and dangerous) move.  I had the option then, though — now I’m alone.

This lust hits me hard in the late night hours, when I’m in bed and drowsy but not yet exhausted.  The time when I’d be at the peak of my “afternoon” if I were keeping to my natural sleep cycle, when my body and mind want to be full-on and engaged, but more often are left strained and weary… but either way, I’m sitting here horny as all fuck with nothing I can do about it.

Sometimes, if I remember, I pick up single-use lube packets and condoms from the folks who run the weekly needle exchange, HIV test, and safe sex supplies deal down the block, but more often I forget.  I recently found out that I can stop by their main office to pick up the same supplies, but that means fighting the same “business hours” bullshit as everything else, and remembering to try heading out there when I’m figuring out what I’m doing on any given day.  Considering that much of my day is spent on “fuckfuckfuck gotta keep it together through this major panic attack long enough to get myself dressed, cleaned up and out the goddamned door right fucking now!” it’s honestly surprising that I accomplish as much as I do.

Sure, I meet girls somewhat often.  Many are interested in being friends — and I won’t deny that having good people in my life as friends is a huge thing that I haven’t had in a long time.  None of them are interested in being “girlfriends,” though.  None of them are interested in a relationship that involves hanging out now and then, going out for drinks and conversation, and also fucking sometimes.  I don’t necessarily need a primary romantic partner right now — a “girlfriend” — though I do eventually hope to find someone to fit that role with me (and I for her.)  What I really need now is sex — sex and cuddles and good physical pain, but mostly the sex.

When I have all the supplies on hand, I have a few toys I can put in my ass, but I don’t have the ability to fuck myself with any of them.  It’s just not something I can do.  Things go in, they feel good in certain ways, and then they come out at some point afterwards. What I need is someone else to control the process, to be the one who fucks me, so that I can let go of all the thinking and planning and deciding how and what to do and just lie there enjoying being fucked.

I can’t pleasure myself in many of the ways that my body demands it.  Even if I had the technical means, I don’t think I could get any enjoyment from giving myself pain, or filling and fucking my own ass with a toy, or running my own fingers and hands across my skin.  Much of the joy in those things comes from knowing that the pain is given by someone who finds joy in doing so, that I’m being fucked by someone who wants to fuck me because it feels good for them too, that a gentle caress is shared to show affection for another beautiful human.

When I’m trying to balance all of that on top of the stresses and anxiety triggers at home, and struggling to find somewhere else to live, and working towards (but still often failing to accomplish) eating enough, sleeping enough, keeping my personal hygiene in order and masturbating regularly (definitely not taking care of that one, see “no lube” above) I feel overwhelmed and discouraged about even the smallest things — and less likely to get the small stuff done next time around, which piles up into a huge wad of “small stuff” bogging me down to the point of near-insurmountability.

The advice that should fit this situation just sounds hollow — be patient, good things take time, love will find you, look at what you do have not what you don’t, life’s a bitch sometimes, other people have it bad/have it worse… none of that changes the fact that I need to be fucked tonight, that I’m not being fucked tonight, and that I don’t know when I will be fucked again.  Yes, I laugh about my ability to be patient; my ability to wait is not a wonderful skill that fills me with great pride, it’s a coping mechanism which I loathe because it is so well-developed from regular and frequent use.  I’m good at waiting forever for something to go right because if I couldn’t handle that, I’d have completely lost myself by now.

I’m not lost, but I am damned tired of waiting.

title to be determined later

Imagine this hypothetical situation:

Someone starts their day, within minutes of waking up, with a drink or two of alcohol.  They have another drink with (or even as) their breakfast.  Before noon they’re smashed drunk, and rarely sober up while they’re awake.  Maybe you make a comment to them that you’d like to talk to them, but that it’s a serious subject and you’d prefer that they weren’t inebriated — and they reply that they can actually function when they’re drunk, even suggesting that they’d be less likely to carry a conversation otherwise.  They drink with dinner, have a few more drinks in the evening with their friends and a last few before going to bed.

Now… what changes if instead of alcohol, that’s marijuana?

I’d say that person is still addicted.  I’d say it’s incredibly frustrating, actually.


Imagine, again as a hypothetical, that you’ve had some pretty significant bad experiences with dogs.  Bad enough that you’ve developed symptoms of PTSD, and when you hear a dog bark nearby or see a dog in the same room as you, it paralyzes you with fear, gives you flashbacks to a particularly traumatic experience, makes you want to scream and run and fight and ohgodohgodohgod get it away NOW!

Now imagine you’re living with someone who brings a big dog to visit your house on a regular basis, who talks non-stop about how cute and wonderful and cuddly and sweet this dog is, even keeps the dog around the house overnight or for a weekend sometimes.  Imagine that you’ve completely freaked out a few times when confronted by this dog, flipped out and started screaming or maybe tried to attack the dog when it’s just being playful.  Imagine telling your roommate that you’re dealing with PTSD and that having dogs around isn’t okay, that you understand this particular dog is harmless but that you can’t handle being around any dogs at all, and you get scolded for being mean to the poor little doggy, blamed for scaring him with your screaming when all he wants to do is be cute and lovable and adorable — and the dog keeps coming back again and again.

Now imagine any other PTSD triggers, say — not just as a random example — low masculine voices, especially loud ones.  Same situation, same response.  That’s what I’m living with, and today after having my schedule thrown apart with a last-minute cancellation, being absolutely broke but hoping to get something done around the house… the dog — erm, I mean the boyfriend — came by, and I’m trying to type this while managing some extreme anxiety.  Not only am I having to hear loud low male voices that make me want to scream, I’ve got loud coughing too, because the addicts are all drinking smoking in the next room and the wet lung-hacking that goes with getting stoned makes me want to scream.

If I had anywhere else to go to escape this shit, I’d be there.  If I had anything I could do to avoid dealing with this, I would.  I don’t.  I need to be able to feel safe when I’m at home, and I rarely do — not that I’m physically in danger, but I feel emotionally threatened on a near-constant basis, and I’m not getting some essential things done that I need to, like searching for a new home, because I spend so much time struggling to barely maintain my fucking SANITY that I have nothing left to actually do anything.

I need to write some more but I can’t do this with all of the shit in the next room. I’m going to fucki9ing smash things if I don’t get out of here now.

fuck you all and go to fucking hell and DIE.

I don’t want to feel anything, but I do…

“I want to die.”  The words run through my head again and again.

I know it’s a lie, I know I don’t really want to be dead.  I know what I want is to be alive and to have my life not be such COMPLETE AND UTTER SHIT.

That’s not going to happen right now, though, and since the years of depression and all the other fucked-up-ness leave me with an easy shorthand for “I want life to stop sucking ass, and I want to either be able to fix all of the pain and suffering in the world or stop caring about trying and I know I can’t do either but I don’t know what else to try,” the thoughts come again:

“I want to die.”

But I don’t — I just want to be able to go through one day without huge miscommunications that leave me hurting and vulnerable.  I want to be able to clearly voice how pissed off I am that when I heard “We’ll meet on Thursday and have some fun” what was really meant was “I might maybe possibly be free Thursday, and on the small chance I am, we’ll meet and have fun.”  I want to be able to tell my mom that I need the money she planned to deposit so that I can eat today, I want to be able to tell her when it’s urgent, but to also know that it’s always urgent when someone’s offering me assistance, that every day is a juggling act with pennies and hoping someone decides to take care of me when I can’t.  I want to be honest with her how I budget my money, what I do with my time, the people I see and the things that bring me joy in life — but she’s still talking to her son, and I’m not going to flood her with details of things that to her are morally, fundamentally wrong.

I need a safe place to cry, and I haven’t had that for a long time.  I need someone safe to hold me so that the tears will come out, and I’ve had to go without that for even longer.  I need to be fucked, I need be cuddled, I need pain, all the good kinds of pain that help me make it through the shitty pain that I’m so accustomed to anymore.

I need a safe place to live — emotionally safe, where I don’t feel threatened and I don’t have PTSD triggers flooding in from every side, every hour of the day and night.  I need a quiet place to live, where I don’t have to fight off a sensory overload all the fucking time.  I need to live without men, without masculine-presenting people, without the HURRR HURRR I’M FULL OF TESTOSTERONE AND I LIKE TO SMASH AND YELL AND THAT MAKES ME SO FUCKING AWESOME ALL RIGHT YEAH BITCHES!!!!! I feel threatened by the sounds of men, men’s voices, and I don’t have anywhere I can go to be free of that for even a moment.  I hate this.

I need to have someone who actually gives a FLYING FUCK about anything at all — when my landlord completely forgot that my lease ended at the start of the month, and I finally managed to get in touch with him YESTERDAY, when he was still on vacation.  Said he’d call today, no surprise that he didn’t.  Need to move again, and that scares me.  Scares me on a really deep level because that’s all I’ve fucking DONE for 2 and a half YEARS is move and fail and move in desperation and get fucked over and pack everything again and move and move and move.

And I don’t even want to get started about the people I live with… I’d get even more angry than I am now, and I don’t want to keep hurting like this.

“I just want to fucking curl up and die.”

Curl up, sure. Nice long darkness, definitely. Heavy crushing weight on me, making it hard to breathe, absolutely. Die?  Probably not, but it sure sounds tempting.  Not that I could put the significant effort into the kind of detailed planning it would take to kill myself — if I’m motivated enough to go all Aspie-focused on something, it sure as hell isn’t going to be on researching suicide.  But I don’t want to keep dealing with all this shit.  I don’t want to feel helpless, I don’t want to know that other people are dealing with much worse shit and feel like I’m powerless to help, even though I want to fix everything and I’m having to work hard not to offer more than I can give.

I’m not eating right, when I do eat.  I’m not sleeping enough, or regularly, or very well when I do.  I’m growing tired of trying to explain to people what’s going on, following the same scripts for “How To Open The Eyes Of The Privileged Pricks Who Never Lack In Their Needs” when people suggest over and over the same things that aren’t available or aren’t feasible or sometimes just completely fucking laughably stupid suggestions.  They mean well, which is why it’s really hard not to smash faces in sometimes… they’re just clueless, not intentionally assholes.  If they were trying to be obnoxious, it’d be easier to blow it off.

Sick of it all.

Don’t want to try.

Bored, depressed, apathetic.

Need things, know I can’t have them.

Alone, isolated, lonely.

Yeah, I’m definitely dealing with depression, but as always I have to try to manage until things get a little bit better.  There isn’t much outside support, and anything outside is going to be a long fucking wait.

Maybe tonight’s a good night for Benadryl… at least I’ll sleep.  I’d rather have alcohol than antihistamines, but beggars can’t bitch, right?

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