There’s only two types of guys in the world: guys you fuck and guys you love, sings Britney Spears in my AI version of Circus. Kidding! I don’t fuck with the devil. If you do, please update my resume with the assistance of the bot. Anyhow, this one has caps; it’s gonna be 4real4real.
I have friends and we’re grateful. I, however, don’t have the kind of friends you see without scheduling weeks in advanced. The kind of friends you lay on the couch with watching RuPaul while entertaining your latest realization of whichever Nicole Kidman interview dive you’ve come out of and totally forget to take your anxiety meds because what’s anxiety when you legitimately feel safe to be all that you are?
Those kinds of friends aren’t within driving distance for me. So I spend almost all of my time alone. I feel lonely a lot but unable to do much about it because it was first by design and then out of necessity. Some habits are easier to break than others.
I should explain that part of this is because of the whole I moved here to NYC for grad school and didn’t like many people because I’m a Puerto Rican machete afilau so then I moved in with my boyfriend and spent 4 years in that hell and when I moved out the pandemic started and then I almost but pretty much lost my mind and spent the next 4 years healing which has been the most absurd and stupid journey of simply realizing all I have ever done in life has been searching for love in all that I see while lacking the ability to love myself as much as I projected and pretended to because as a child I wasn’t loved, protected, cared for, let alone nurtured so abuse and shame became the way I punished myself by using sex as a coping mechanism and after spending 2 weeks alone in Europe, I returned home longing for a sexy harlemite with deep voice and serious brows who told me he was committed to his career and didn’t have capacity for me so instead of whoring around to avoid so. many. feelings. I decided to try and understand why I missed him and so for the first time in my life, I quit sex.
Ish.
I made it 7 weeks because Jenny From The Block said she was retiring after This Is Me.. Now. The high of attending the screening and seeing the COMMERCIAL AND CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED ORIGINAL with fellow J.Love?rs was only matched from the crash of my belief system. Once again, Simba went out on the prowl. Oh, the curse of being so desirable.
It didn’t feel great. Something was off even though it should’ve been a session to remember. I didn’t know what to make of it and didn’t need to because OF COURSE THAT’S WHEN I GOT M.POX.
I asked my fuck buddy (who isn’t my buddy because I don’t even care to remember his apartment number) if he had it but no which, like, there’s an incredibly high chance I got it at the J.Lo screening. I wish there was a way to know. Currently, it’s the first question I’ll ask God when I get to heaven. Well, second. I really wanna know why he gave me my dad’s face but didn’t include his height. I’m 5’6 cosplaying as a 6’1 man while an actual 6’1 man sits in a damn chair?! God is totally a man. No woman would ever be so illogical.
After this depressive episode, something shifted in me. Admitting things to myself, let alone saying out loud, is an act that requires effort but no longer feels like a struggle. A few months after such change, it feels like my writing has also become clearer? Let’s see how this post goes.
I became celibate (ish) so I could sit with the feelings that rise to the surface and understand them instead of (stupidly) failing to dehumanize my body and detach from this restless heart. But it didn’t work!
Instead, being at this level of awareness has finally lead me to answer this question.
I wanna tell you about it.
Thank you for the poetic reminder that even in the moments I feel most alone, there is someone else feeling the same struggle. Often someone much closer to me than I think. I love you. Let's heal together (insert some kind of holding hand emoji)