Tag Archives: Blogging

Blogging: The New Prostitution

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There once was a girl from Nantucket

Who wrote her thoughts on a blog and said fuck it.

She let it all rip

and said with a quip,

“If words were a cock I would suck it.”

©   by Lexicon Lover

                             

We’re all selling something aren’t we.

Some blogs dispense information.

Some bitch and rant.

Some share sorrows.

Many share laughs.

Some share their most personal secrets.

Some write poetry.

Some write book reviews.

Some post memes.    

Others share recipes, travels, and art.

Lots of blogs try to help others with their knowledge they’ve gained on their way up Maslow’s pinnacle.

Still other blogs are so heady that you never really understand what the hell they are spinning.

~~~~~~~~

To all my fellow bloggers out there bloglandia,  I raise my glass.


Us and Them

 

D7EDA5C8-A2DA-46A9-8884-35C41A35A051I often have fancied that they have some sort of secret union, though I know it’s impossible.   There are certain rules to they must uphold as well:

1. You must use union approved brown corrugated cardboard with black lettering

2. You must use either fantastical yarns  or absolute truth on said cardboard

3. You must be able to stand for long amounts of time on your feet

4. Working in inclement weather is a must

5. You must wear tattered, ripped, holy, or frayed clothing on the job

6. A sad or dispondent look is recommended although a managing a smile and thank you when earnings are received is a must

***************

Amherst, MA Used to be a conservative  town years ago, but not anymore.    Perhaps that is why it is a boon for so many panhandlers and why they flock here.  The bleeding heart liberals see contributing towards the less fortunates as helping the social justice movement.

On any given day the same folks stand on their designated corner donning signs:

”Tent collapsed.  Anything helps.  God Bless”

”Today’s my birthday, out of work. Out of luck. “

”Homeless vet, down on my luck.  God Bless”

”I’m not going to lie, I just need a beer”

”Tent blew away, need help, Thank you.”

**************

Now mind you, it was the middle of February in New England and it occurred to me that with all these recent tent collapses and blow always happening, maybe they could pool their resources  together and go in on a new tent, that’s more sturdy.

Birthday boy, well it seems as though everyday is his birthday because he keeps holding onto that sign day after day. Now I feel bad in his case,  as he just can’t seem to remember when he was born, poor thing.

The homeless vet really gets to me because we have a bus system that can drive him to the VA Hospital in nearby Leeds, MA for $1.50 where a social worker could help him get housing, medical care, the works.

Which leads me to our last fellow the man saying he wants money to buy beer.  Addiction of any kind brings shame upon its victims.   Until we start recognizing that all of the people profiles listed above  are most likely suffering with addiction and/or mental health issues we will not begin to address the problem.   Driving by and stuffing money in their hand is bringing them closer to death.

You see, I used to be afraid when my car stopped next to a panhandler.  I felt awkward and avoided making eye contact with them through ny window pane of glass that separated us.  Instead, I averted my eyes down at the brake pedals or at my cell phone, the radio, anywhere but their face.  Because it triggered an awkward feeling in me.  Why had they fallen in this situation? Why would anyone want to stand here for 8 hours in the harsh elements begging instead of having assured income with the security of a job?  Because they have to.  They have fallen that far down the rabbit hole.

The day that awkwardness disappeared in me, was the day I recognized them as my equal.  I could just as easily be them, given the right conditions.  From that moment I began to roll my window down and talk.  In those short conversations I have gotten to know a few people.  We smile now and we wish each other well.

I don’t have all the answers.  Maybe safe needle exchanges are in order.  Maybe more drug courts.  More access to long-term treatment programs.  Meanwhile,  I will treat people with kindness and dignity.  I will buy someone a gift card to McDonalds.  I won’t give them money knowing it could go to heroin, meth, or alcohol.  Enabling will only serve to help kill people.

There is no us and them.  We are the same. They ARE somebody.  Someone’s son or daughter.  Someone’s husband or wife.  Somebody’s mom or Dad.  Struggling and in the grips of a powerful addiction.  A disease that will kill them if they don’t receive help.  Let’s not forget before they were panhandling, they had great lives too.

 

 

 

 


Rorschach Test

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What do you see in the ink blot?

The Rorschach test is a projective psychological test in which subjects’ perceptions of inkblots are recorded and then analyzed using psychological interpretation.

I remember when the test was given to me at 19.   I was in the psych hospital for a suicide attempt.  I felt hopeless and empty  had been for a long time.

At first, I thought about screwing with the tester, albeit briefly, then changed my mind because I was suffering immensely.

He informed me,”I am going to hold up a card and you will just tell me the first thing that comes to mind. Okay?”

Sure.

card goes up with black ink image only

“Ink blot.

Okay, I forgot to mention that you can say anything except for inkblot.”

Flashes card

bat

card

butterfly

card

“butterfly with goat head

card

“weird looking bug with skull face

card

Moth with fangs

card w/ black + red ink image

death

2nd card black/red

death

3rd card  black/red

death

multi-colored card

“well of you want me to look at it as a whole, I see a giant head, but within the upper right corner there is a a goat head with horns, over here in the bottom left there is this sort of devil creature, at the very top I see a baby’s face.”

Tester takes copious notes while I speak then packs up his cards. Day or so later,  I get slapped on Prozac and diagnosed with depression.   Wasn’t that apparent from the suicide attempt?  I’m kind of glad I didn’t screw with the tester.  I could have ended up on massive amounts of Thorazine drooling and shuffling around like the other  blokes aimlessly wandering about that smelled of piss and cigarettes.

My roommate’s depression was so severe that it didn’t respond to medication so they had to strap her down and take her to the basement for ECT aka Shock therapy.  I think she had bilateral (both sides of her brain) zapped to induce the seizure.   She came back looking like Sigourney Weaver had sucked her brain out with a straw and there was nothing left.  She had that 1000 yard stare, empty eyes that penetrate straight through you.

She never did remember me for a few days after she got cooked, despite having known me for nearly a month.  I was always jealous though because ECT patients got to have coffee and Dunkin Donuts after the switch was thrown.

So if you eat your donut and drink your coffee and enjoy it  but don’t remember you do, did it really count?     It’s almost like they never got their coffee and donuts.

What do I see in the blot doctor?  Big Pharma profiting from human suffering.

 

 

 

 

 

 


#metoo

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#Icallbullshit

It has sickened me to watch the news over some recent months to see all these women coming out of the woodwork like cockroaches with claims of sexual assault from prominent or celebrity men with big wallets.

This one claims he touched her breast in an airplane in 1970.   Another has a vague recollection of getting groped at an audition.   Still another says that she woke up with her panties missing after a night of drinking.

Hell, missing panties after a night of drinking? that would describe myself and at least 3-5% of my friends.   Saying that someone touched their breast has somehow made them feel violated.  Violated, is a very strong word.  That this event changed them.  Are you serious?  I’m sorry but in the words of Peggy Hubbard, “you’re all acting like a bitch baby pussies.”

The one thing many of these women all have in common? They are seeking monetary compensation, public humiliation, and slander.  That really bothers me.  Just because a man has money, they feel entitled to go after it?Nothing is really slander if it’s told through the lens of a teary interview on a TV show because it’s just is an allegation.   But after all is said and done, even if the man is vindicated and found not guilty, who remembers that?   Everyone remembers the teary painful recount of the tall tale told on said TV show.   No one can unring the bell, hence the humiliation for the man.

Everyone knows that if it was Mike the Mechanic from around the block, this gold digging venture wouldn’t be happening.   Mike who coaches soccer and stays for last call at the local watering hole isn’t going to have 7 women going after his house, his 401K, his Mercedes, and his Prudential mutual funds.  It would be women out trying to seek actual justice with jail time, not their 5 minutes of fame on Dateline and an undisclosed amount of currency.  

One allegation from which many of the #metoo claims stemmed, is that a roofie was placed in her drink and he slid his  “Jello-pudding pop” where it didn’t belong.  I think this is total bullshit too.  It  lead to throngs of others banding together in estrogen to shake him down for some loot in a civil trial.

As a trauma survivor of repeated child sexual assault,  I think it’s a load of bullshit.  The sheer numbers of these women coming forward and how they stacked up as fast as dominos falling,  doesn’t lend any credence to their allegations.  Rather, it is suggestive to me of women trying to get a piece of the proverbial payout pie to be potentially had; of any possible future settlement.

Do I believe it’s possible there could be real victims? Absolutely!!! However, the #metoo media frenzy left a bad taste in my mouth that felt more like a modern day Salem Witch Hunt than any sort of  legitimate investigation.   Where men in positions of power and/or wealth were targeted.

Perhaps instead of seeking a cash cow, these women can seek some evidenced based trauma work for their PTSD they allegedly suffer with.  Money won’t ever repair shattered self-esteems,  substance abuse riddled lives, and repairing the barriers to intimacy that the trauma has caused.  Real victims after all deserve real compassion and treatment.

No ones body should EVER be violated.

and

Everyone should remain innocent until proven guilty.        


I’m a Napalm Bomb

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I’ve always had a temper.  The earliest memory I have was from childhood.  My step-sister was a year older than I and we were sent upstairs to our bedroom for some infraction or other.

First, my sister got smacked.  Pants down, bare-bottom, that was fairly typical for the time.   I don’t really recall how many she got.  Hard to focus when you’re on deck. Going last always ups the anxiety factor.

Then came my turn.   Same way.   Except I was angry.  This shouldn’t be happening, I thought. What could 7 and 8 year olds do exactly to warrant the hand, the belt, the flip flop or whatever the hell else was handy.  But I was going to get it.   So I had no choice.  It dawned on me though I couldn’t stop it from happening, but I could control HOW it happened….

As I was getting whaled on, I looked up and said, “that didn’t even hurt, why don’t you hit me harder.”  Oh hell no, did I just say that? My sister told me to shut up.

Of course that changed the tempo a bit and things moved faster and I got hit harder.  Then I said it again! I could see the veins popping in the sides of their neck, they were so furious.  I braced for it and then they finally quit.

After it was all said and done I felt vindicated.  I sat on my sore butt and remember thinking that although  my ass was red with handprints all over, I had been victorious because they didn’t make me cry.

************

I’ve grown older but apparently none the wiser.  These days it seems like most of my anger still comes out with fury and vitriol.   Especially so if the source of my irritation and anger is constant and unrelenting and out of my control.  Probably the latter which bothers me the most.

The noisy kid on a long flight that whines the whole way that I just want to bitch slap but would never.   The guy humming in line behind me to “Air Supply” so it gets stuck in my head.    The teen vaping weed in his car with his windows rolled down in front of me so his plume ends up inside my car so I smell like “Blue Dream”  for the rest of my day.

Oh and then there’s the road rage.    There was the time in downtown Boston where some dude cut me off.    He rolled down his window and called me a bitch.   So  I pulled along side his car I said “if you’re so tough why don’t you get out of your fucking car, and say that to my face you pussy.”  Yep, this has happened several times over the years.   I did get out of my car once.   Guy freaked when I knocked on his window.  Tough guy, just drove off when the light changed.

Then there’s this certain someone.   This person who has been making my life bloody hell for 6 long years.  I get so mad my blood boils just thinking about them.  I find myself thinking, “I’d like to keep them in a locker inside of a storage unit until they can behave.”   Oh if only it was legal and moral.

When I’m that angry,  I seem to see only red, think only red.  My focus becomes myopic.   At times I fail to care about  repercussions in that particular moment.  Depends on how angry I am.  Which has lead me over the years into some high risk behaviors.

I know in my heart I should probably talk to my new shrink about my anger issues.  I have never mentioned it before, might be important.    There’s only so much you can squeeze into a 50 minute session and your life is a 3 ring shit-show.

Two roads diverged in the wood; Bottle of Grape Vodka  vs.  hours of therapy….. 

 

 

 


Sofa King Successful

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Night after night I sit in front of my wide screen TV and binge watch Destination America shows.  Shows like “A Haunting “ and “Kindred Spirits.”  

It’s always some family that has some books start to fly around their house.  Their kids are waking up getting mauled by unseen forces.  Ethereal voices floating through the hall ways of the home.  Doors slamming shut and  what not.

The family always seem to have a “friend” who they call and ask them to bring over the tape recorder, “you know the one you use for the EVP recordings?”

WTF? Seriously. None of my friends have tape recorders and definitely don’t record the spirit world in their spare time.

Inevitably, this friend has another friend who is a ”psychic medium” and comes over to do a reading of the home.  And after the reading they always tell the family there is a “dark entity”.

This is where shit really goes crazy.  As if any family wound have ever stayed with books flying about and kids getting mauled by unseen forces and ethereal voices? Now, you have actual disembodied demon type messages on the EVP threatening to possess the kids and shit.   Thing is I can’t tell whether the word said “I’ll possess him” or “”Let’s get tacos”.  The bastards really are reaching.

So in comes the sage smudge sticks and the weird shaman dude wearing 1970’s vintage bohemian clothes to do a cleansing.

Kid gets possessed, priest is called, kid gets freed, but the entity still lingers and the family have to move out anyways.

The fucked up part is I watch this crap  til 3-4 in the morning full well knowing I need to get up at 7 am.   I still can’t seem to can’t get my shit together and always end up oversleeping.  Could it be that the donkey-like shadow at the end of the episode they actually caught on the thermal camera was so riveting I couldn’t pull away?   Or is it that I’m self-sabotaging to set myself up for failure the next day to reinforce a long-held belief system that I suck?

See all the therapy is paying off after all.  Because now I have insight as to why I’m still functioning at such a low level.  I am not so fucking successful.   You can take the girl away from the losers, but can you take the belief system that she is a loser out of the girl….


Of Mice and Monsters VIIII

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The last thing I asked him as I carried my belongings to my car from his house was,

” So you would rather choose a life of paying for prostitutes, going to gangbangs, having NSA sex with people from craigslist, and swinging,  than being with me?

To which he answered,

” well I’m not sure I’d phrase it that way but yes .”

I’m not sure how many weeks it was after I pulled out of his driveway that I just couldn’t get him off my mind.  Good, bad, or worse you don’t spend five years with someone and then have it end just in a blink without being in a crap ton of pain.  It’s a loss.  Even if it was fake on his end, all the feelings had been real on mine.

He hadn’t called me, hadn’t emailed me, hadn’t texted me.  It was like I had never even existed. It was like all the ‘I love you’s he had told me was a lie. My mind could understand but my heart wouldn’t accept the truth.

I wanted answers as to why….closure, I desperately needed closure so I sent him an email. I asked him if he missed me and if he ever thought about me.

He did respond and said he would always love me but that I just didn’t fit into his life at this time.

I wrote back again asking if we could just be friends. If I would be able to just clean his house? Mow his lawn? I couldn’t imagine not having some small piece of him . The gaping hole in my heart that he occupied was just too deep. I didn’t feel strong enough to survive the loss.

He answered without hesitation, no.

When I wrote back insisting that I must mean something to him? He wrote back that I was becoming a nuisance and that if I ever contacted him again that he would call the police.

I was horrified.  Felt betrayed.  Five years of caring for him.  What happened to him hanging on my every word so early on? What happened to him teaching me every sexual move I knew?

At first I went numb.  Then after weeks of just lying round in my pajamas like a uniform, I did a google search for support groups for women who had been victims of abuse. I put in keywords silence, crazy, mood swings, abuse, sex addiction and found Narcissism.

Then I dig further and found online support groups through Facebook and joined. They don’t show up in your public groups list so your friends and family don’t know your in them.  There forums you can read others stories or situations anonymously or also comment and give feedback.  You can also write your own story and/ or situation and receive feedback.  I felt so much less isolated.

I also joined phone line support groups. This proved invaluable. I phoned into meetings a few times a week.  Talking with other women who experienced the same thing.  Different keypads on the phone muted and un-muted the phone and the meetings were highly structured so that one person spoke at a time.  At the end everyone got a chance to speak.

Every woman that I grew to know on those phone lines told me that he would come back for me one day. They said, “they all do.” They all used their term “Hoover.”

 Hoovering is a technique that is named after the Hoover vacuum cleaner, and is used by Narcissists (and other manipulative people) in order to “suck” their victims back into a relationship with them. Hoovering is often done after the silent treatment is given or the victim has left them.

I protested,” not this one he threatened the police on me and apparently made good on it, my local police notified me that although I wasn’t in any trouble, I was asked not to contact him again. That it wasn’t a restraining order but that it would be considered harassment if I did.

The women all insisted, “he’ll be back.”

And they were right.

_______________________________

A year and a half later,  it was Valentines Day evening.  I wasn’t doing much.  Watching TV,  when I heard a knock at the door.  I pulled the door open and there he stood.

My heart dropped.

I never ever expected to see him again.  He had a box of chocolates and a card in hand.  I had done a ton of recovery work but nothing had prepared me for this.

Well aren’t you going to invite me in?”

As if reflexively, by some unseen force  I opened the door.  It felt that way, because I felt afraid and yet I also felt hypnotized by him, unable to stop myself from opening the door.   There’s something powerful that is created in these trauma bonds they work so hard that form with you in the beginning.

Trauma bond was a term first created by Patrick Carnes used to describe “the misuse of fear, excitement, sexual feelings, and sexual physiology to entangle another person.”

A simpler and more encompassing definition is that traumatic bonding is: 

“a strong emotional attachment between an abused person and his or her abuser, formed as a result of the cycle of violence.”

I’m pretty sure that  Dracula was a supernatural Narcissist who used trauma bonds on his bitches too.

After I let him in, he initially hugged me but quickly his hands fell and tried to put the moves on me and I realized what he had come for.  All the recovery work was not lost.  I quickly led him to the door, thanked him for the chocolate, and shut and locked it after he left.  He looked quite surprised.  I even surprised myself.  I threw the chocolate out later.   My body did respond to him that night but I never said a thing and I never have.

Body Betrayal

When people survive repeated sexual assault or abuse, their body often betrays them by responding to their abuser by getting aroused and/or with an orgasm.  Researchers David Finkelhor and Kersti Yllo found that some women in their study reported that they had experienced pleasure during the rapes, particularly in cases of repeated rape. They write that this appears to be an “adaptive response” that makes repeated rape more survivable (1985 photo pg  125).

Asking him to leave, rather than falling for the trap of thinking that because my body was responding that it meant somehow we were “meant to be.” This was a huge moment of success for me.  I had ushered out the monster and ushered in, the infancy of self-care.


Of Mice and Monsters VIII

The relationship had degraded so much and yet I did not know to extricate from it. Fear was a large factor keeping me in it, but also as hard as it is to understand for those who have never been involved with a pathological, I still had a faint hope that he would somehow return to the man I had initially met. The nice, sweet, charming, caring person who was attentive to me and hung on my every word. However, that man whom I fell in love with had fallen away. He was replaced with an empty, selfish, highly sadistic man who ignored my boundaries, was prone to give me silent treatments on a whim for reasons I was told to “figure out.” Every once in awhile that old nice version of him would return leading me to believe it was me that was the problem.  This “intermittent reinforcement” I would later find out, was done deliberately to keep me hooked in the relationship.  At times he even said to me that if I could just stop the (insert bad perceived behavior by him) or begin (insert a desired behavior which he had yet to see from me) than perhaps things could be the way they once were between us. Deep down though, I had a gut feeling he never had any intention of making good with the follow through.

Giving false hope is the devil’s work.

At some point I believe I had chalked up 12 bacterial vaginosis infections in the course of 5 years with him. Prior to knowing him I had never even had one my entire life. My gynecologist said they were sexually indicated but they could be acquired by other means such as swimming in ponds, douching, using tampons and not changing them often enough. Yet none of those applied to me. She made it clear it was not something one could get from a toilet seat. How did I get these infections? I couldn’t help thinking he must be having an affair.  My heart was sad thinking why wasn’t I ever good enough?

There were the middle of the night wake-ups where I’d find him gone out of bed. Only to find him using his phone in the bathroom sitting on the toilet seat checking his voicemail because he couldn’t sleep or so he said.  When questioned about it he would always deflect the question and blame me with an accusatory tone,” how dare you try and control what I do when I am having trouble sleeping!!!” Or that he was booking a doctors appointment. WTF? Are you kidding me.  You are booking a well visit with your primary care physician at 3:30 am?

There were lies.

That he was snow blowing for hours during the winter and couldn’t answer the phone , yet when I arrived I touched the snowblower and the entire machine was totally cold.  He never knew I did this.

Lies about going to his regular AA meeting but when I’d ask what the topic was, who chaired the meeting, or who the speaker was, he said he couldn’t remember. Anyone who is in recovery knows this is total BS unless you are drunk going to the meeting.   He was 26 years sober.

There were so many lies, so many inconsistencies, so many scary things that I had been fervently praying. Begging God to please remove him from my life. To please keep me safe and release me from this man. Day and night I prayed. Because for reasons unknown to me at the time, I could not seem to muster leaving him of my own free will.  Each time that I tried my heart would be overcome with a  sorrow so deep and painful, that I would do anything to avoid that level and degree of pain; including not leaving him.

Then my prayers were answered.

I was on his computer and had noticed a photo that hadn’t been there the week prior.  It was a photo of a naked woman lying on a table, with him wearing a green shirt on with his hand outstretched touching her genitals.

I asked him about it.  He claimed it was from years ago.   I knew it was a lie.   So I said, “All photos have time-stamps, right click on the image and show me it was years ago.”

He replied, “You don’t control me I’m not going to do that.”

I said,” this has nothing to do with control, if you can prove that this was done years ago just go ahead and right click on it and prove me that I’m wrong.”

He said, “get out.”

“Excuse me?”

Get your all your things together and get out , we are done, it’s over Lexi.

I told him, “I’ll be happy to get out if you want to be done , but just the same I want you to show me that the photo was from years ago, prove that I am wrong.”

“Just get out.”

My lip began to quiver and tears began to fall down my face as I begged him,”Please tell me the truth about that photo, I’ve been good this you for 5 years,  I loved you and I don’t deserve lies, please just tell me the truth.”!”

You want the truth?” He said.

Yes,” I whimpered.

“That photo was from when I went to a gang-bang the first year I was with you…….I am a sex addict.  I have gone on Craigslist hookups, done a fair share of swinging,  paid for prostitutes, and have a steady pool of friends with benefits that I have sex with, some that go back for many years,”  he said cooly.

I was shocked, replulsed, and terrified all at the same time.   They say when you die your life flashes before you at rapid speed.   Well it was like that.  I kept thinking of all the sexual partners he had been with.  How many had there been?  Had I been infected with HIV and didn’t even know it?  My heart skipped a beat and my blood ran cold.

Before I could say anything he said,” you need to leave now Lexi, are you happy you got your truth?”

I carried my things to my car.   The cross on his kitchen wall for reasons unknown, slid upside down on the wall and inverted.  It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

As I walked out the door I felt mostly  numb as the tears had already dried on my face.  My thoughts still raced a mile a minute, though mostly consumed with one persistent thought, ‘how could I have been deceived by a man without a conscience.’


Blogging is like confession, without the Hail Marys and Our Fathers

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It’s so true isn’t it?

I come here and unload all the shit that churns around in the recesses of my mind and my soul.   All the benefits that comes with the process of confession, none of the fear of being chastised and told to repent.

So there’s something inherently therapeutic about the whole thing.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch Pope Benedict resigns….


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