“don’t look at me like i’m the crazy one.”
i remember saying that to a drug dealer i lived with once. i was 22, he was 36. he was the father to my second aborted fetus.
i met him at a bar near the university. i used to go to that bar with friends from the theatre program (i was a theatre tech major for about a year); we would go to the bar after shows — they never checked id’s, which was to my advantage since i was only 20 when i first went there. i drank budweiser and did shots of jagermeister. i didn’t make much money then, so that’s what i could afford. once i threw up all over the bar, cleaned it up, and drank for a few more hours. once a bartender punched me and i smashed his windshield. then i went to another bar and found my fuck-buddy bartender and sucked his dick and spat it on the floor. i’ve always wondered if he cleaned it up. i was afraid to go home because the bartender (whose windshield i smashed) lived in the same apartment complex.
i remember meeting the drug dealer. he drank budweiser and jack daniels. he sold pot. lots of pot — like suitcases full. i didn’t really smoke much pot, until then. his supplier was the bartender whose windshield i smashed. i like getting really drunk, then stoned. it made me numb and stupid. he lived across the street from the bar, and asked me if i wanted to get stoned. sure, why not. i ended up fucking him, and i moved in a few months later when i was having trouble with my roommates. i tried to kill myself a couple of times when i lived there. i can’t take that much pot. once he brought his cat to the bar because he wanted me to come home. i think i was gambling on the video poker machines. we sat there with the cat for about an hour, and then we left.
i met the father to my first aborted fetus at that very same bar. he was more age-appropriate. he also lived down the street from the bar, and i fucked him the night i met him. he had snapple bottles full of piss next to his futon mattress on the floor. he introduced me to another bar in town, where i met many more one-night stands. in time, i fuckeed both of his rommates. i was engaged to his friend from Portland, OR for about two weeks, whom I met him on New Years Eve. I was totally fucking depressed. I recently (about a hour before) fucked a guy in the alley, and I wasn’t drunk enough to numb the pain. His friend started following me around and bought me some drinks, then I fucked him. He stayed with me while he was in town, then went back home. The next time he came into town, we were engaged. I was caught up in the fantasy, and when I finally sobered up I had to let him go. He hated me, but it was for the best. I was 86′d from that bar, but I can’t remember that night at all. It’s disturbing for many reasons.
I met my ex at 80’s night at a nightclub. I used to go alone to dance. He followed me around and bought me lots of drinks. I fucked him at about 6am that morning, when we got back to his apartment. He was just the one who kept calling back. I wanted him to be the one. I held on to that fantasy for 7 years.
This is the kind of shit that haunts me, and that’s not the worst of it either. Most of it was many years ago, but i don’t feel far removed from the behavior. it’s what i need to let go of in order to feel like I am worth it. I spent too many years abusing my body and my mind, and it just takes awhile to sort through. This is my reality. I’m not shocked by it because I’ve been carrying it around for years, but I realize how it might sound to the casual observer. If only alcohol were the worst of my demons.
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