(part of) the story of Alt

i told him from the moment we met - that i'd never love him as much as he wanted. he maintained that he did not care. i found out that i did. that was the beginning of the end and that was 2 years in. we were doomed. he, was an optimist. or maybe he just wanted me that bad or thought that i was that special. i remember when he told me he thought we were meant to be together, my heart sank. i swore i would never say that to someone. isn't that terrible?

the truth is, i'm paranoid. as fuck. i should probably be medicated for it or whatever the only way i'm taking "pills" is if they're needed to keep me alive, right. so far, my paranoia hasn't killed me. it's made me nervous as hell, delusional at times and difficult to be around - i divorced my husband because i thought he deserved to have a life. he was miserable. he stopped fucking me. that's how goddammed miserable i made him. then i felt bad and was angry because i'd find lube in the shower and he knew.. he knew i would always fuck him. i never turned him down. and he would rather rub his fucking dick in the shower. so, i told him he needed to move out. he cried. i felt guilty. he stayed. a month passed. October 2009 my dog started getting sick. i was in denial about it. i'd had her since 1997. i wasn't ready for her to die. you never are. my heart was breaking for it. not for my marriage. i was sick over having to euthanize my girl, my friend. but i knew she was hurting and i couldn't bear to let her suffer. so i didn't. i told him he needed to move out. he did. 1 week later - i had her put to rest and he spent every night with me, holding me while i was in hysterics and then really scary silences that would last for days. the pendulum was swinging at a very high arch. he would eat my cunt while i cried just to take my mind out of it for a while and then fuck me. my god. i have never had better sex than when i was fucking my ex. ex sex... i could feel the change in him. he was starting to hate me. he fucked me like he hated me. he fucked me so hard that i would spot after. but i was hungry for more. always more. i moved to an apartment. the divorce was slowly progressing. he came over every night and i'd leave the door unlocked for him and lie on my bed naked, curled on my side and i'd get wet when i would hear him unbuckling his belt... sliding it out of the loops... i wanted him to beat me. i wanted him to make me sorry. but he never did. he just savagely ate my cunt, would fuck me for a few minutes and then shove his cock in my face (when i told him to, of course... little sub sub...) until i shook and came on his face... then he'd fuck me until my cunt was almost dry. he knew how to fuck. i knew how to fuck him. (i didn't know how to fuck the surrogate - i just let him rape me.) this went on until one day - he came over and told me he'd fucked someone else - right after the last time we were together, then he left. i wasn't mad. i was disappointed that he wasn't going to come over and fuck me anymore.

the divorce was finalized. he cried. again. then he met his new girlfriend 2 weeks after. i was just in a weird place. i was in a depression because of my dog. my paranoia got worse. i spent a lot of time playing Sims 2. i had no television (still don't), i was too cheap to pay for internet, i was too afraid to go out and meet anyone, and i was busy getting fucked up and shaving my head.

i moved. again. roommate - forced socialization. the truth is, i wanted to get the fuck on with my life. so i had a look see for people here and there. first one - John, in his late thirties, British guy, very smart - wanted me - wanted to collar me. turns out he's married and she doesn't know. no. after that... there seemed to be a flood of married men, vying for my attention. NO! then i met Randy. wow. i kinda fell for him. he was separated. (i've been there) he taught me things... taught me to enjoy things that i did not like... cunt spanking. things end badly. then. Chris. i met Chris not long after Randy. i wasn't ready for him then. i dashed. 9 months later Chris is back. i fall. hard this time. oh man. but the paranoia, the self doubt... coupled with his own things.

shit just..

when it was good, it was great.

then it just wasn't.

what a disappointment.

so there. caught up. trying not to nurse that break too much.

however. i have to use inspiration as it's given to me. if i need to write about all this - then i need to write about all this. the truth is. i don't like that Chris got to me like he did. i don't like that he had that much power over me, even though i willingly gave it to him. it just fuels my paranoia.

we are like the two pushing sides of a magnet, you can force them together but they will always fly apart again.

of sound and memory

the sound of a needle on a record, the distinct pop and crackle out of the speakers, the warmth of it - because that's what it is, if ever a sound was warm, it would be the sound of vinyl being touched by a diamond.

for all the things my parents did to shelter me. their precious. their baby.

i found my way to being broken anyway.

sometimes. it's just meant to be.

i was made for this.

clarity

amazing:

how quickly things can be sorted out - when they aren't avoided but actually addressed - thought over... learned from... discarded or kept.

the resolve it takes to face the day, because this all started when i woke up this morning with a nasty feeling in my heart. i wonder how many people have cried naked, while curled up on the bathroom floor, because they just can't make it to the shower. it's not a pretty site down there with the dog hair fluffing around mucus infused sobs... i've hit rock bottom my friend. i have fucking sunk to the depths of hell. what the fuck is my next move? because this shit - isn't what anyone would call functioning. this is certifiable baby. it's like having the choice - right or left - up or down - sideways - but BITCH, YOU'VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING!!! because this shit - isn't working.

somehow.

i make it off of the bathroom floor. i don't care that my face is covered in snot and dog hair. but out of morbid curiosity, i make myself look in the mirror. and what i see... breaks my heart. i'm witnessing a stranger in the mirror and oh my god, she's in pain. what do i do for a person in pain? i try to comfort them. that really should be a moral obligation. it's not what makes the difference between a nice person and a mean person - this is the difference between good and bad. if i can walk away from that, i'm not a good person. the right thing to do, is to comfort myself. somehow, a warm shower doesn't feel like a chore, but something that i need to feel better. i'm viewing myself from a detached perspective, i'm now just taking care of myself. gently brushing the dog hair away from my mouth, softly dabbing the tears away from my eyes. trying to smile. nope. too much. fuck it. hot shower. rinsing cares away - i am not. but being clean makes me feel more human, so this will likely work. there are periods, of course - when i merge back into myself and am overcome. but i manage to stay upright. this is an improvement. be proud. once clean, it's time to address myself in the mirror once more.

how the fuck am i going to explain my eyes being blood shot and the skin around them being nearly chapped?

that's right. it's too late to call in sick and i'm not sick anyway. by the way. happy birthday. i have my whole life ahead of me - what will i do with it... for the next 365 days? how about longer? what the fuck do i want?

leave me alone.

fuck you.

i've just had my heart broken.

this is how you get better. you pick yourself up and make your next move.

i'm going to be happy. i am going to function.. i can be me. just me. that's all. no one else. not what others think i should be or the expectations i'm so fucking eager to fulfill for someone, just so they'll love me. nope. just me. not your harem of girls. not your daughter. not your sister. not your lover. not your anything. just me. fragile. fucked up. but not broken, not anymore. once i realized i was broken, i began to mend.

it took a lot for me to share all of those things. all of those faces. aspects. fucking crazy shitty thoughts. big ones. bad ones. dark motherfuckers. nightmares that i lived through. it took a lot out of me. but once i was emptied of those horrible things - not emptied - they're still there, but it's as if they've been compressed, squished down to smaller less noticeable chunks that i can kick around from time to time - instead of being crushed by the boulders that they once were. once room is made - better things can be brought in.

let it go. move on. quit trying to untie the fucking knot.

i am pieced back together. because this is all old hat anyway, it's like putting together a puzzle that i've put together so many times that i can do it by feel, in the darkest of dark because sometimes, there is no light, where i am.

you don't want to read this

it was 9 years ago - this week - in fact that i first tried it... i met up with a questionable character, who's identity shall remain, thankfully, partially unknown - even to me. i'd rather not know who he really was, some things are better off not being known. i know his first name - the real one - was Anthony because i saw his state issued i.d., but i can't remember his last name anymore - those few weeks are all a blur and like i said, this happened 9 years ago.

it all started online. story of my life. i started talking to this man from portland. in true fashion, i spoke up about some things - i let things go, so easily some times and some times that's a mistake and some times, it isn't. this happened to be one of the former. a big one - that just kept getting bigger. it's amazing how trouble inflates itself like a balloon - filling and filling until it finally bursts. Anthony was more like a chain of balloons, filling with caustic fluids and every now and again - they'd burst open and this scary stuff would come out. i was too wild in my grief to worry about my own safety until about a month after - when it subsided and i was left to wonder what i was thinking. another out of body, out of mind experience. somehow, i've wandered off track here - but i'm not lost, because it's all relative.

it all started with a dream, really. so ignore the first sentence of that last paragraph.. it all started with a dream about a man, a tall, thin man named Andy or Andrew. i think the dream was brought about by loneliness, my mind creates happiness for me in my dreams, when my reality is devoid of it. i needed hope. so my mind created a dream and created a man, whom i would be obsessed with finding... to this day, really. i wonder if i will find him or if it really was "just a dream" even though it didn't feel like it.

i am standing in a room - full of people - a family gathering. my arm is around the waist of a very tall, thin man - i look up at him and smile and for the life of me - i feel the warmth of the sun glow on my face when he looks back at me.

Andy isn't in this story - unfortunately.

i made the mistake of sharing my dream with Anthony, who said his name was Andy.

part of me needed the escape meeting Anthony provided. it was a mess and i was useless anyway or so i thought. i get wild in my sorrow and i was deep in it, had been for a year... this new event added to the misery, i was done. for 3 weeks - i slept in hotel rooms or in my car or i drove home and collapsed on my bed for 12 hours - only to be up and out and escaping again. not sober, not myself... drawing pictures in the sand at the beach... composing poetry, that was brilliant and wasted and forgotten. getting so up there high, that i couldn't see my toes - unable to come down. at points, convinced that i was nothing. nothing except eye balls and fingernails and i simply needed to be held - an unusual need for me. episodes of South Park playing on the television - i made myself sick watching the one that the gerbil gets lost in a man's intestines and a weird sort of hobbit tale unfolds - to this day - i can't watch that episode without feeling gorge rise in my throat. a Leave It To Beaver marathon - i hate television on a good day, Anthony was torturing me with it.

the first time we had sex, was unimpressive. he exploded upon entry - nothing like a 20 second ride from a man that's sporting an Oscar Mayer weiner in his pants. needless to say, i wasn't fond of the idea of a repeat visit - considering the lack of foreplay involved. part of me slipped into a very aggressive state, i didn't give a fuck already and this piece of shit started coming out with truths... he'd served time in jail... which turned into actual prison. i was so out of it though, i couldn't be arsed to cut ties. i was hooked on being out of it. i didn't want to have sex with him again and wasn't afraid to tell him no, even though he badgered me for it - i refused. he would masturbate in my car with melon scented lotion. every.single.time. he got into my car - he would masturbate with that fucking lotion and then leave a tissue with cum and lotion wadded up in the cup holder. he gave new meaning to the word useless cunt. he didn't accept responsibility for anything that he did. and yet... there i was. hanging out with him. it doesn't speak well of my intellect or judgment. nothing in those 3 weeks speaks well of me. we were staying at a room on the coast, i watched the sunset out the window, i was naked - the sun was on fire over the ocean - it was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen. there were people on the beach, looking up at me - my chest and face aglow with the setting sun, i waived at them. he was watching me from the bed and called me over. i swam through the air - thick - but weightless... and sank onto the bed. one of those bodiless moments - not against the idea of anything. he wanted to get off, of course. i lied and said i was out of condoms, so he resorted to jacking off - big surprise - but no melon lotion this time, he had to use spit - because i won't put a cock in my mouth unless it can make my cheeks bulge. he wanted to play with my tits - so i lay on the bed - he was on his knees next to me - over me - pumping his tiny man meat furiously - i was trying not to laugh. then he asked me what no other man, had ever asked me before... he asked me to finger fuck his ass. so i did. first one finger... then two... then... three... and he's grinding on them, like it's the best fucking thing on the planet, his hips moving back and forth and moaning like a bitch... and i'm thinking, he took it up the ass in prison and he loved it. this is wild, i add my pinky... i'm a thumb away from fisting him. he came... all over my tits. i was disgusted and turned on - it was terrible.

but i do believe. in that moment. he fell in love with me.

fool.

(part of) the story of Alt

i can't stop cutting my hair. i'm bothered by it and i refuse to let someone cut it. i don't know why. every morning i look in the mirror and i hold up bits of it... examining, feeling... the texture of my hair. those bits feel dry and hollow. so i cut them off. i worry things. i worry my hair. i worry my soul. i sigh a lot. i dream a lot. i write a lot. i think a lot. i'm good with details. (like looking through a microscope at things - that light) my seeing. that's me in my writing, the devil in the details. (i no longer wonder if i'm odd, i know that i am) that's how i am in life, looking at things through a microscope. i get so tired of concentrating... everything. which is one of the reasons i'm a sadomasochist. i get to let go of the concentration and just live in the moment of pain. when i felt the needle go through my right nipple, outside to inside... i came in my panties and i cried out in ecstasy. (my piercer enjoys me) things get so.. tight. and focused with me. pain and fucking; bring me clarity. pleasure is so very close to pain anyway. when i climax, it feels almost like a charlie horse cramp in my uterus - but goddammit if it isn't the best fucking cramp i've ever had. pain is like that except normally, we associate it with "bad" things being hurt and i'm talking superficially, because most of the "hurt" in BDSM is superficial, even if the bruises look "nasty" sometimes. who's to say he can't grab me around the throat and squeeze while he says he loves me? who's to decide that we shouldn't use metal or teeth on our nipples and clits and cocks... (oh my) what's the fear about? i've let it go or i do. but shit gets rocked so easily with me, because i get so... concentrated. focused on the details, taking it in - so i can use it to amuse myself. i get bored easily. but i like doing nothing. the contradictions never end. it's frustrating that i can't be one way or one thing all the time. i'm not stable. who is? i don't want to be like them, i like being me. finally. i'm not focused now. i'm teetering on the brink of a brain explosion. i'm very shattered. i feel like i've been through a shitstorm and don't know if i've seen the other side of it or if this is the eye of the storm of shit. because i'd like to get back to doing nothing again. being mean. impressing people for odd reasons. and getting bored as fuck again. sometimes i feel like i can't wait for my life to begin. i realized that i've been feeling/hoping to feel that all of my life. and i wonder what i'm doing wrong. why i haven't got there yet. (living) and i feel like it could end any time now. i could blink out and be gone. i don't mean metaphorically. if this were my last night on earth - say this were my last hour in fact.
i would.

[start from the beginning]

truth

i do NOT want to go to work right now. i have so much fucking shit on my mind. i'm completely distracted and i'm already late for work and i haven't eaten yet today.

this is a combination for disaster.

i'm not headed for a break down, i feel like i'm headed for a cosmic explosion. and a few things will happen.

it will be terrible.

it will be life changing.

and it will be fucking wonderful.

how can things that have that combination of elements be an awesome experience? because it means i'm fucking living, alive, breathing, making, creating and being. i am existing. i am plugged in. i am engaged in thought. there's mutual goings on, tuning in... listening... aching...

i am not alone.

it's happening - regardless of whether i get in my car and drive to work.

it's happening - no matter what my next move is.

it's happening - no matter what their next moves are.

it's happening - because i'm having these thoughts and that is making them have these thoughts. or perhaps, they were having them already.

it's happening.

and that feeling of utter control/helplessness - is outstanding.