What Has Become of Me

I'm the heaviest I've ever been in my life, officially overweight according to my BMI, by about five pounds. I cut my hair and replaced my contacts for black-rimmed glasses. I have expensive make up, but I hardly ever use it (last time I did, I had dinner with Joseph, who said he wanted to be friends but then tried to kiss me that evening while he was standing next to the passenger door of his Accent, leaning down and into me. Days later, I called him on it, saying he misrepresented himself. Furious, he replied, "Are you calling me a liar?" We haven't spoken since that conversation).

Men ignore me or ask me to get out of their way.

I don't remember the last time I had sex, although of the past ten years I remember very little. I don't miss it, and cringe at the thought of getting naked for someone even though I did it professionally for--how long? Exposing myself to more men than I can count. Does it diminish the value of physical intimacy if you dole yourself out for dollar bills?

I only have two clear memories of Morpheus, one of which I wrote about in the essay "The Devil Dyed Me Blue," sharp contrast to the eighteen page, unfinished story of "The Devil Drives a Funeral Black Denali." Attitudes toward the love affair have changed dramatically due to time and the recent exchange I had with Morpheus in May of this year--he asked if I was his friend when later it was clear he didn't want to be friends at all.

The rest is a blur, and I wouldnt be able to recall him, including any feelings I have/had for him if it wasnt for the extensive record keeping of blog and diary entries and saved emails.

My past writing doesn't lie (one of my personal highest values due to the everyday lying to get along politely in society and especially the lies of omission about my illness and history of prostitution). In writing, I am faced with my blatant failures and failings, unable to escape them or diminish them or forget them because I was so fixed on displaying them for everyone to see. One of the clearest examples of this are the entries from the time I was clinically psychotic. I wrote over and over again my delusions--although now I have no imprints of that time in my mind. It is all awash.

I spoke to my new therapist and new case manager about Morpheus, how he hasn't responded to sincere attempts at communication--but I cleverly left out the fact that he is married, no matter his even recent declaration that he's "finally ending his crazy marriage." I didn't want to deal with the careless judgments coming from these "professionals," who often don't live up to the standard that saying anything is safe in therapy.


I spent two months and three weeks at Stanford hospital starting on December seventh, and then spent another month in a residential facility in Morgan Hill, CA with sixty-eight other clients, the majority of whom had thought disorders like schizophrenia and many of whom could be heard talking loudly to themselves while wandering down the hallways. I was one of the higher functioning individuals, spending my time reading books and going to as many groups as I was allowed. During that time in the residential program, I made almost a complete turn around, recovering dramatically from severe depression in just a matter of a few days. Since then, I have been doing better than I have in years, partially due to the wonders of Lexapro.

I'm not a big believer in antidepressants, an opinion formed from many failed trials with the drugs and certain research that proposes SSRI's work only slightly better than placebos. However when faced with few options (and arguing against the brilliant minds at Stanford who wanted to re-start ECT--again), I will swallow a pill with harden doubt and disbelief in my soul. What's the harm in digesting a sugar pill?

Despite this, after a few weeks on Lexapro, I started feeling better.

My last recent stay at Stanford hospital was perhaps one of the worst--second maybe to only my locked admission while I was psychotic, hence why I was there for almost three months.

Early during my time at Stanford in January, I wrote a suicide note to my parents and had plans to hang myself in the G2P shower. I never attempted, but the doctors took me seriously, one even admitting that she thought she made a mistake putting me in the voluntary ward instead of locked H2, where it would be exceedingly more difficult to harm oneself.

During those months at Stanford I never thought I would recover since it has been a pattern for years with going into the hospital every three to six months.

When the depression lifted, I was astonished and so were the people around me including my parents and the LSU Professor (who told me sadly that over a year ago when we last met he thought he would never see me again). I was talking again and cared once more about all the things I had ignored while severely depressed.

Despite dramatic improvement, I still deal with some depressive symptoms that I try to take in stride, reminding myself of the hurdles overcome. I took a basic English class over the summer at the community college and did relatively well considering my previous level of writing due to ECT and due to my current medicine regiment. I bombed the midterm, getting a D, despite the fact that I read all the assignments twice and went over my notes the night before the test. Besides that blunder, I maintained A's on everything else and expect an A on both my final and my last essay (which was not a very interesting paper on American drug policy).

I also have gone back to driving and now own my own vehicle, a little, beat up Mazda SUV. I once again have the freedom to go anywhere at any time.

I still live with my parents despite the opportunity to move out in March after I completed my stay at the residential program. I was offered a place at the county's residential, a house with room for approximately twelve individuals. I would have to share a room with a roommate for $825 a month, which includes groceries. Despite staff being on site, I didn't see any advantages being there versus being home because the employees at the house were not trained therapists or social workers. They could offer no help besides making a phone call to county mental health on my behalf if an emergency arose.

When i told one of the staff members there that I would be bringing with me my service dog, she exclaimed that no pets were allowed. I told her that you couldn't discriminate against people with disabilities (the ADA is very explicit on the issue of service animals and housing and CA state laws are even more liberal). Again, she just repeated that no animals could stay in the house.

I left certain that I wouldn't live somewhere where my dog was not welcomed even if I was in the right. So, I pay five hundred a month to live with my parents and their four dogs, and have a large ranch for Beck, my Doberman, to play in.

The Devil Dyed Me Blue

I've tried for weeks to get him to talk to me. He refuses. Last I heard, it was a short email, saying something along the lines that he's confused, but "know[s] sex is involved." That was weeks ago.

The last email I sent him, I said, "Do you just want a physical relationship with me? Is that what I don't understand?"

I can't just give myself away, and hope for the best--hope he won't hurt me (either on purpose or by accident). I just can't close my eyes anymore, and do whatever he wishes--without thinking about the disastrous consequences. I can't just hope that he has my best interests at heart because, I believe, those interests are in direct conflict with his own agenda.

He wants me in little bits, pieces he can easily swallow. I want the whole package, and to dig into it with gnashing teeth, greedily. I want promise and a future, and love shared--love before sex, and love after sex. I want to be cradled in comfort.

I want the everyday ordinary, the antithesis to the center of our affair.