And The Beat Goes On


Beat.  Beat.  Beat.

Life continues.  Every day life.  Kind of a dull day, today.

The guided meditations continue.  I watch movies and cry at the love scenes, wondering if real love feels anything like stupid movies.  I try not to lean on my son for support because that is not his job in life. 

He provided me his last year of bank statements, and I fear investigating them yet.  I cannot afford to get that cold, terrified, horrified feeling until after I present at work.  There are so many ways to hide it.  I looked at the prepaid credit cards, and the pay by the minute phone, and it would cost less than 30 bucks a month to do what he likes to do.  A quick internet search, maybe 20 minutes, jot down a phone number, call and set the date for a nice Saturday morning, or after work, or when he is supposedly at SA.  Then less than an hour to have his fun.  30 bucks buys one or two lap dances, or a hand job.  What more could a sex addict want?

Only someone to lie to, to keep the supply of shame and pressure and excitement on. 

I feel disingenuine being on dating sites.  I can make no promises for two years.  I only hope I can learn how to date properly, how to relax, how to wait. 

Wait.

Life continues.  I bleed.  I go to doctors.  I work.  I pull weeds.  I watch movies.  I make excuses for not having time to write.  I think of all the things I haven’t done yet, the responsibilities I am falling behind with.

Beat.  Beat.  Beat. 

My heart keeps beating.  I keep bleeding.

I have looked into my psychological ties to the bleeding, and I think the bleeding may be to cleanse me.  Inside as well as out.  I flush my system of all the toxins, all the horror, all the disgust, all the abuse, all the bad sex, all the shame, all the fear, all the pain, through the instrument of my self hatred.  I cleanse with female blood, as if stabbed, as if deflowered, as if recently given birth.  When at last I feel fully cleansed, then maybe I will cease.

I choose  not to hate myself to death, but to be cleansed anew.  Maybe Serena didn’t ‘die’ after all.  Maybe she was reborn.  I have given birth to my new self, and I clean out my body of his influence, all their selfish, cruel, negative, miserable, sucking, evil influence.

I just wish I had someone, a friend, to have sex with, too.

Manifest, manifest.  I think I will rewrite all my poetry into my desire book, in a positive light that I might manifest the good now that I have wasted so much energy and time manifesting the ill.

Beat.  Beat.  Beat.

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