Tag: mental health

Fuck: VIII

We ride down the empty street and rain begins to patter on the hood. Silence fills the space of the car, and you run your hand up and down my thigh. Something in me tingles to the sensation of your touch.

“You hungry?” I ask.

“Starving.”

“What do you want? I don’t know whats open, but…”

“A burger. Oh my god, a burger,” you moan and rest your head back against the seat. You grip my thigh firmly as I make a U-turn toward the only spot I know that has the best burgers and fries at this time of night.

We pull into the diner and you link your arm into mine as we walk in. All at once I notice your drunken sway and I smell alcohol on your body that I didn’t notice before. I am baffled and shaken inside, but determined to help you.

We sit down and both order double cheeseburgers and steak fries. You eat your burger with mayonnaise and I eat mine with mustard, ketchup, and pickles. I order a beer, but dare not to actually drink it. You order ice water and we hold each other’s hand across the sticky table under the dim lighting. We talk about music and romance; how we want to make love on the beach and have breakfast underneath a sunset. I stare into your eyes as you smile and tell me about one of your political science classes. You shake your head as you explain that your professor unrightfully gave you a C- on an essay you spent two weeks writing. I kiss your fingers and offer to edit your next essay. You agree and yawn. I pay our tab and we ride the rest of the way to your place inside the saxophone of a new jazz artist I’m into.

When we pull up to your place, I cut the music off and park the car.

“You gonna be okay?”

“I think so. Thank you, Dauhd. For being you. For accepting me.”

“Aint no thing, woman,” I smile and look over at you, “Just assure me that you aren’t fucking that guy up there.”

You pull your keys out of your purse and lean over to grace me with a sloppy kiss on my cheek.

“I don’t let him touch me. And as soon as the semester is over, I’m moving out. I’m calling off this stupid wedding as soon as possible.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Try not to have too much fun without me, okay?”

“Hey. Be careful. Call me.”

“I will. Bye.”

“Bye.”

You stumble out of the car and I watch you until you ascend up the flight of steps leading to the three bedroom apartment that you share with a man whom I have never met. A man who has placed a diamond rock on your finger which I could never afford.

Once you disappear, I pull out my phone, flip it up and dial the only number that makes sense to me right now.

“Hey, Monica.”

“Hey, D. You good?”

“No. Not really. You tryna fuck me?”

“Weird timing, but hell yeah. Where you at?”

“I’m twenty minutes from you, downtown.”

“Well let me go shower then. I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

“Alright, sexy. I’ll see you soon.”

“Alright, daddy.”

Fuck: VII

“Then tell me the truth,” I sit up in the bed and cross my legs, “How many men are you fucking, huh?”

“Why? It’s not important.”

“It is important. Why won’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” You sit up also and climb into my lap, wrapping your arms around my neck, and holding me close to your heart.

I respond with my arms around your waist, “This hurts me, Villana. It already hurts. Tell me, please just tell me. How many is it?”

“I don’t know. A lot.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“So why don’t you want to have sex with me anymore?”

“Because I actually like you!” You jump up and storm across the room to the window and peer through the curtain, “I fucking like you. I want more. I’m discovering myself. I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. You are different. Kind. Sweet. Real. You’re real. Understand?”

“Do you understand? I have fucking feelings.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Villana. Just tell me the truth…how many…is it?”

“Ten.”

“Jesus.”

“See! You’re judging me!”

“I’m not judging you. I don’t care. But…I love you. I cant even think about another making love to you.”

You turn to face me. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and glare at your silhouette.

“I don’t make love to them. I just let them fuck me.”

“Stop.”

“And maybe I suck their dicks sometimes.”

“Stop it!”

“And I like it in the ass.”

“Will you stop it.”

“You said you wanted to know. So there it is. All my dirty laundry, Dauhd.”

I sigh. I walk over to you and stand inches away from your face.

“How can you tell me you love me,” I whisper, “When you share yourself with so many. People who don’t matter. You’re getting married next month. When you gonna call it off?”

“I’ll do it now. I’ll call him and do it now.”

“Then what?”

You stare into my eyes as though I just slapped you in the face.

“I don’t know. We can be together.”

“I don’t want to be with you, Villana, now that I know this.”

“See that’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“You didn’t want to tell me the truth?”

“You tell me the truth. How many women have you been with?”

“In my lifetime?”

“In the past two months, Dauhd!”

“Stop yelling at me.”

“Tell me!”

“Tell you what!”

“How. Many. Women. Have. You. Been. With,” you muffle through clenched teeth.

“Several, Villana, because am I supposed to wait around for ten men to gets their nuts off?”

“Fuck you, Dauhd.”

“Fuck me, Lana, cause that’s the only thing you ever want to do.”

“I’m leaving.”

I watch silently as you spin around the room gathering your belongings and stuffing them in your duffle bag. You start toward the bathroom, but the darkness reveals an item on the floor that causes you to slip and fall. I run over to you as your body hits the floor. You break out into a sob, curling yourself up into a fetal position.

I put my arms around you and hug you tight.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, “I shouldn’t have asked, “Where are you going to go? It’s 2:00 a.m.”

“Away from you,” you say between whimpers.

“Please. Don’t go. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Shutup, Dauhd.”

“I’m serious. I’m sorry. Please. Come lay with me. At least let me make love to you before you go.”

I scoop you up and carry you to the bed. I lay you down gently and begin to kiss all the tender spots of your body: your cheeks…your chin…your neck…your chest…your abdomen…

I see your body start to relax and moans escape from your lips. You massage my shaven head as I kiss you.

“You’re right,” you state quietly.

I stop and look up at you, “What?”

“You’re right. It’s disgusting that I’m fucking that many men. You don’t deserve that.”

I crawl up next to you and slide my arms around your body and pull you close to me. Our breathing is in-synch. I can feel your heart beat on my chest. Silence embodies our auras in the dark room. The crickets harmonize outside the window. A couple down the hall argues and a baby wails.

“Villana, should I get tested?”

“Yeah…”

“Are you protecting yourself?”

“I don’t know. I been drinking a lot,” you sniff and wipe your eyes with the palm of your hand, “I been drunk Dauhd, I don’t remember.”

“Lana…”

“I’m sorry. I wish I could stop, but…I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t know—I—“

“How long you been drinking again?”

“Maybe six months…” your voice trails.

“Are you drunk now.”

You begin sobbing again. I tighten my hold on you. Your tears run down my skin and your shoulders heave.

“Just tell me. This is our life, right? Are you drunk?” I demand your gaze with my own, “Tell me, baby. I’m not mad. I’m worried about you.”

“I’m drunk, Dauhd. I’m always drunk. I’m so stressed! School is fucking killing me! Work is stringing me by the throat! I’m always drun—“

“Alright…alright. It’s okay. Okay? It’s okay. I love you. It’s okay.

I hold you and time passes as you weep in my arms. I close my eyes and listen to your breath. I rub your back and kiss the top of your head over and over.

Once your emotions start to slow I say, “Let me take you home so you can rest.”

“He’s there.”

“I know, but you need to sleep it off and take care of yourself. Okay…?”

“Okay.”

“May the winter come. Let it be cold and real.”

Fuck: IV

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

“Are you uncomfortable?” You ask, sitting up.

I scoot towards the headboard and close my legs. “Yeah.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t know…dysphoria I guess.”

You come sit beside me at the head of the bed. Silence passes us and I put my face in my hands, covering my eyes.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No,” I reply with a quick shake of my head.

You sigh and put your head on my shoulder.

“You never want to talk about it. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable during sex or any other time.”

“I know…it’s just. It’s not you. I love having sex with you and being with you. I just wish I could give you more.” I feel tears welling in my eyes and I blink them away.

“More what?” You turn to look at me.

We turn, our bodies to face eachother and you take my hands in yours.

“More what…?” you ask again.

“I don’t know, I wish I could be inside of you…with a penis…you know?”

“I get it. So is having sex with me too much for you?”

“Kind of. I just feel that I can’t really feel anything sometimes.”

“Anything like what?”

“The emotional stuff. I feel attracted to you I do. And it feels good when we have sex but it’s like I’m not there.”

“Is that why you always shut your eyes?”

“I guess. It’s confusing me, having to settle. Being trans. Being me. It’s confusing.”

“Well I’m not confused about you. You are just like any other man. No less. But I hear you and you have to tell me what you want because if this isn’t working for you…”

“No. It’s not that—“

“What is it?”

“It’s me. Okay? It’s me.”

“Well, I’m with you. It’s us. Just tell me how you feel.”

I look away from you and take a deep breath, contemplating my thoughts. I shake my head and fill my cheeks with air.

“I mean…I wish you were more engaged with me. But I feel a lot when you fuck me. And…I want to be able to pleasure you the way you pleasure me.”

“Don’t you feel like something is missing when I fuck you”, I ask, “don’t you wish you could feel more?”

“I don’t feel like a real man.”

“You are.”

“I know. But I don’t feel that.”

“What do you feel?”

“I don’t know. I just…are you fucking someone else?”

“What?”

“Just tell me the truth.”

“Yes. Sometimes. When you’re gone and…I need someone.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know I needed to.”

We stare into each other eyes. Crickets sing outside of the motel window.

“You don’t think I would want to know if someone is fucking you other than me?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Does he have a penis?”

“Stop.”

“Tell me.”

“Yes. So what? He’s not you.”

“What are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that I love you.”

“…Love…?

I am in love with you.

But something tells me there is more under the surface of your discarding of me. I need you, now more than I ever have. Why? Because I am ready to love you actively and fully. Transparently and forreal, woman. Can you hear me? Can you feel me? I feel you. Or maybe I just feel myself, hoping a piece of me can float amongst the universe and reach you somehow. And…I know this happens to people. They do not get the lover or the romance, but I am in love with you.

I never felt this way before.

A feeling of being so close and so far away from you. I am having a hard time expressing this…mainly because I wish I could express this to you. Talk to you. Tell you everything, and nothing. Nothing at all cause you do not care. Seemingly.

That is all I know for sure.

I feel it. I hope you do too.

Crash.

I think I…should have seen You coming.

Your lights were in high beam, Your heart was in 3rd gear.
Why did I not hear You as Your words screeched like tires on My tired road. Why could I not see You?
Does this make Me stupid? Obscured? Devoted to feeling heartache, and pain.

I think the difference between You and I is the fact that at least I can be honest about My lust, about My distrust for You, My yearn for You, My love, My lust for You.
At least I can be honest.

Why could You not at least say, “Fuck you”, if that is what You felt?
Instead, You said nothing. Absolutely nothing, and that left Me, leaving you, breathing You.

And I have nothing left to receive from You, or even the thought of You, I cannot think of you, I cannot stop thinking of You.

I think…I…Crashed.

Family Ties

Family.

That word seems so foriegn and abundant. I must be grateful for the life flowing through my mother, father and grandmother because many cannot say their’s is still around.

Family: a strange word. For I am unfamiliar with the familiarity of the family’s flemsy feels toward the aroma of indifference that crowds me. They refuse to understand until I am laying dead in my coffin smiling at them reminding them of the time I just wanted to talk, show them my new book, or just be myself.

Adulting..

Adulting has pushed me into the pool again and is dangling a dry towel above me.

I think I am doing it wrong. Actually I know for a fact I am seeing that I lack maturity, money, cares in the world, and children.

Adutling keeps me up at night and I have come to the conclusion that it requires inhibition and discipline; two things I have no desire to grasp.

The paradox is, my mental state is hindering me from normality and I just appear lazy and unbothered, which maybe be partially true.

I think I also may be in severe denile that I am sick mentally and being an adult is putting a coat on my cold body that is shivering from drops of psychosis.

Worry not they say because I have two options here: enslave myself with medication that not only sedates my thoughts, creativity, and flow of sexual energy, but that also enables my pending appetite.

OR

I can suck it up and continue to suffer in silence.

Oh how I admire our societal norms with its duration of ignorance toward pyschological trauma and deception.

Depression?

Fuck.

Yes I will start this blog post out with a word that intellectually defines abundance, while concurrently using it to represent my perpetual confusion about things I cannot explain; my life represents 100% of those things.

Honestly, I do not think I am ashamed of it, but shame still creeps in, reminding me of the downfall that could be me.

Part me of uses shame to devote motivation and the likelyhood of my sucesses and maybe that is a beautiful way to look at my own extension of negative thinking.

There are so many outlets in the world to release the fixture of pain from my mind, body, and soul, however, I am so idignant and prideful that the very knowlege and intention of me helping myself can result in me detesting said outlet.

To say the least, I feel extremely unhealthy, while romanticizing this heavy, toxic feeling because it seperates me somehow from my pain. It allows me agency to feel as though things are not my fault or that I really cannot help it.

Am I being unconsciously dramatic and consciously sadistic ? This poses as a mental health question and i am mostly in need of marijuana based smoke session.

I am exhausted and I still cannot sleep. So tense that I cannot relax and it feels so insighfully painful that i laugh when crying and maybe this is depression.