I’m stupidly happy.
It’s great. Let’s all be happy together!
I’m stupidly happy.
It’s great. Let’s all be happy together!
that Allen Carr’s method of smoking cessation is so popular. It’s patronizing, unscientific drivel. The man doesn’t even have a concept of what an addiction is or how nicotine actually works, nor does he understand that his personal experience with smoking is not universal.
If I weren’t already in the right mindset and hadn’t already quit smoking, his “advice” would make me want to smoke out of spite. I’m not even getting cigarette cravings at this point, and it STILL makes me want to smoke AT him. Jesus.
|Me:||Don't be jelly because I'm smart.|
|The Captain:||Don't be jam because I'm peanut butter.|
I’m operating on one hour of sleep. Between nightsweats, waves of overwhelming nausea, and having my face painfully stuffed with snot, it was pretty tough to actually get some rest last night. So.
In a typical effort to feel like I have control over a situation that is actually completely out of my hands, I have researched the side effects of smoking endlessly to figure out how long this is supposed to last and what the typical experience is for someone who was smoking about as much as I did on a regular basis.
Apparently, I could be this sick for another week, or another month. Another. Month.
This morning I was genuinely worried I was going to vomit in bed. That’s how bad the nausea is.
The minute, and I mean truly, the minute, that I start feeling like I can breathe enough to do more than putter around the house, I’m getting my ass to the gym.
Endorphins. I need them.
watching the Farrah Abraham sex tape. For work.
No, really, this is writing related.
Notes so far:
Farrah seems SO YOUNG and it makes me kind of uncomfortable.
James Deen has a great cock. I know, I know, we all know.
Blah blah blah, I need more beer to make this more interesting.
She seems to actually be sincere for a good chunk of it, which is actually hot. This is in passing moments and not consistent throughout the film.
Um, I want James Deen to stick his face in my cunt. (Is that creepy to say? It might be creepy. Am I creepy? I’m watching a porn and this is the point of porn, so it can’t be creepy. Can it?)
CUM IN YOUR EYES IS PAINFUL. POOR YOUNG LADY.
That is all.
FEEL FREE TO ASK QUESTIONS
four and a half months until my 25th birthday:
i’m being paid to write.
i’m in the midst of an existential crisis.
i’m still slinging tits for cash.
it seems like there’s a leveling up somewhere in here but things, just frankly, have only changed superficially.
last night, i wept in an ethiopian restaurant while wearing mom-shorts. most of my friends are much older than i am and i can tell that my “quarter life crisis” (vom) is being met with more pity than sympathy.
i don’t know, y’all. twenty five. what do you do when you’ve lived a quarter of a century?
i can’t plan for the future, so i’ll plan for this morning and i guess that means that i will quit smoking (again) and throw open the windows and make iced tea and water the patio garden.
Newly recognized defense mechanism: When feeling awkward, ask other people uncomfortable questions so you are not the MOST uncomfortable person in the room.
I’ve been doing this for years and only recognized it TODAY WHY DID NONE OF YOU PEOPLE TELL ME OMG
Lately, I have felt like I’m floating. I haven’t been working toward anything, in combination with some major sex worker self-loathing (HELLO, JERKBRAIN) and dissatisfaction overall.
I worked a little in New York after Catalyst Con East, and then ended up canceling a major session last minute when I was approaching an honest-to-god panic attack.
I needed the session. I needed the money. I was so on the verge of having a meltdown, though (which I bled all over Twitter and got a ton of support from the fucking amazing sex worker community I’m connected with), that I canceled.
I had been battling with my social anxiety all weekend at CCon, and had shoved it aside (or stifled it with a few glasses of wine). Social obligations take a huge toll on my psyche; if I miss things because I need to be alone, I feel guilty and sad that I missed out. If I go, I suffer for it later. I feel this acutely in places like CCon, where there are so many admirable, intelligent people that I love chatting with.
I didn’t take the time to recover from CCon, immediately traveling by bus from DC to NY (in the snow! which I wasn’t prepared for!), and then having a long shopping/lunch date with a client the next day. By the time that next session was coming up, I couldn’t hang. My throat felt like it was closing up, and I woke up my partner from a nap because I was crying and hyperventilating. Cool.
I present well, so I don’t think I read as anxious as I usually feel. As I’ve gotten older, my anxiety has increasingly gotten worse, too. This isn’t doing me any favors with sex work, which requires mental and social engagement.
I don’t hate my job (most of the time?), but the balance of needing money versus my own psychological well-being isn’t always being honored right now. I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to sustain this.
Sidenote: It feels weird to admit that; are people in my own community going to hate me because I am not confident that I want to be here? Does that make me a big fat liar in some way? Am I doing something wrong here?
It’s possible that I’m having some unnecessary and irrational fear about this. Obviously, I don’t go to large social gatherings ALL THE TIME and I don’t always require so much handling for my social anxiety.
Point is: I need to be better at prioritizing my goals, as well as be better about my own self-care.
I’m going to publicly state some of my goals in an attempt to hold myself accountable to them, and to make them real by way of sharing them.
Some of those are nebulous, but I believe I have the tools to make them all happen. Here’s my statement of intention. Help hold me to it, friends and universe.
There was a post on one of my favorite blogs in the entire world: sex worker problems. It says “No 1 wants to date a whore even after you’ve left the industry.”
And of course, I’m following everything, watching it all unfold. Watching people who have no experience in the…
I really needed to read this after:
This is merely a series of highlights, and I’m one privileged ass sex worker (I mean, I’m no Masters Degree upper middle class ho, but still privileged as hell).
When people pretend this stigma doesn’t exist, it invalidates all of the emotional work that goes into being a sex worker. It’s not just dealing with clients, although sure, that is also emotional work, but dealing with everyone else you come into contact with. It is a constant vulnerability, socially and legally, and to dismiss it is pretty fucking insulting.
The original article is focused, of course, on the context of dating, but this stigma (and the associated feelings) permeate every social interaction. It is exhausting. Anyone who wants to tell a sex worker that it isn’t is a fucking asshole. Get a clue, dude. Better yet, LISTEN TO WHAT WE ARE SAYING TO YOU RIGHT NOW. Don’t tell us how it really is, because you don’t fucking know.
And THANK YOU to the original poster, because all of that shit needs to be read. Twice.
Consider yourself an ally? Hell, consider yourself an enemy? READ IT. TWICE.
may move to the other blog. my creepy stalker from sacramento* (yes, daniel y, i see you), and other company frequent this space, so i don’t feel totally comfortable updating here.
the issue of putting things out on the internet: they are forever, and your audience is EVERYONE.
*someday, i swear, i will share all the emails and comments from this exchange. it’s reminiscent of this shit. really.
I’ve been writing about body issues, particularly related to my recent weight gain, and being a sex worker in a more anonymous space. If you would like the link, let me know.
this is how i feel today (thanks hyperbole and a half for perfectly summarizing what depression is like).
i am having a SAD.
so what i’m doing is:
-peeling garbanzo beans to make ethereally smooth hummus
-making aforementioned hummus
-taking a bath with bath salts and some essential oils
-painting my nails a bright red
-fixing up the shaved half of my head, which looks more like this than anything
-telling myself amanda’s adage: be nice to my friend
which means asking myself, “is that nasty thing you just thought about yourself and/or your overwhelming list of seemingly highly visible inadequacies something you’d say to a friend when they were feeling sad or defeated? no? then be nice to my friend [meaning myself]”
The fifth anniversary of my father’s death is this year. I have done a lot of processing regarding my his death fairly publicly. Five years is not a terribly long time, but even so, I have mostly run out of unique things to say about what it means to lose a parent (particularly what it means when the loss happens at a relatively young age).
We were very close up until I was about seventeen, but his alcoholism and other health issues caused a major rift between us in the last two years of his life. He went from being my closest confidante to an estranged relative that I rarely spoke to. While we worked some of those things out shortly before his death, the incident was so unexpected that we didn’t have time to make the conflict between us copacetic. Having a complex and somewhat unresolved relationship with your parent adds a particularly painful element to the grieving process.
Some of the major things his death taught me:
This is the short list (there is a longer one here if you’re really curious). I stopped writing about it when it started being redundant. I was sick of talking about it and I’m sure that my loved ones were sick of hearing about it. How many times can you bemoan this kind of shit? It gets old.
So why now?
Every year I commit to a month of teetotaling in honor of both his death and the death of my grandmother. It is meant to be a statement of intention that the cycle can and will be broken. It’s not merely an act of abstinence from alcohol, but the time is also spent considering of the self-destructiveness that ruined such creative, intelligent people. The act is a small thing. Although I do not think that I suffer from the same kind of addiction that destroyed them, I consider this yearly memorial a worthwhile effort.
Usually I take on this month of sobriety closer to his death date, but this year I’m doing it a few months early. I’m looking forward to resetting myself and taking the time to focus on some of my goals, both for this year and for the long term. My commitment to doing better by him, by not letting the same cycle eat me up, is renewed every time I do this.
Turning pain into strength is a muscle, and I plan to keep it strong.