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Last of Many

21 Dec

This post is the combination of two really long posts I have planned. I chose to put them together because I actually can’t wait to move on to something new more exciting. So get ready to read your eyes out my only reader for now, that crazy guy named Cal. I am actually really excited to be doing this and can’t wait to continue my journey as a blogger that I suppose is what makes this post even more worthwhile. To anyone who wanted to know more about my life story I’m sorry but I guess I am done with that for now, you will see why later on in this post. I hope to move on to brighter greener pastures now to a place that makes me happy. I would love to tell you all about my past but I can’t linger on in my past failures anymore, I need to feel alive and actually do some living so sorry for this abrupt change in tone.

So back to my life story. You must have realised by now that I really hate myself. You must be thinking it’s because I’m a sex-addict or something. Well that isn’t the reason. I hate myself because no  one else loves me, I feel unlovable because of the way I dress; the way I look; in short who I am. I feel as though I am barely a person, I feel like a Ken doll, forgotten misused and tortured, blindly chasing after that person with everything. Really, Barbie has everything and I am way out of her league. I am just that fool who hopes one day she will open her heart to me even though I have nothing that can benefit her lifestyle. My mom has this great story about the day I was born. After she delivered me, I was a Caesar baby, the doctors brought me to her, and she thought I was a really ugly baby. So ugly in fact that she thought the doctor had made a mistake. They must have swapped me with her real child. When my mother tells this story she makes it out to be the funniest thing in the world while I am left speechless, angry and I feel unwanted. I am left to feel my self-pity because I can’t change myself or my looks.

There is a lot I would change about myself. The first thing I would do is curse the god who made me a lot more. You know, that dumbass being that brought me into an unhappy childhood. Most people look back on the past and glorify it. Telling everyone about their laughs, loves and lives. When I look back on my past all I see are the people who left me, turning their backs on me. I remember being and feeling so ugly that I couldn’t find friends. People mocked everything about me, my only redeeming feature was my height (for some reason being tall makes you lovable).

Let me start with my moles, my face was “spattered in shit” someone once joked. I have a face covered in moles that were mocked when I was younger (now I look on them with love, they disguise my facial asymmetry). I had to endure the pain of having a difference, I know everyone does but for a child to suffer being hated – really? Me being the good child I was I listened when my parents said words don’t hurt, I refused to get angry at the people who hated me for being me I was cordial with them offering only niceness and never giving in to the burning rage inside. People mocked and mocked and I felt that there was nothing I could do. I started withdrawing from the world giving it one really long silent treatment. I became that shy guy who never says a single thing to anyone. As a result of my shyness I couldn’t make any friends; who would want to be friends with the guy who says nothing? I withdrew myself and then started hoping that one day someone would come from the shadows and save me. No-one came, no-one understands me I’m still the stupid shy hated kid that no-one will ever love. And still to this day I am mocked behind my back for all the things I should change, but now I am tired and I know  I won’t change for shit.

That is the song of my childhood, it is a slow sad song, filled with the build up of silence solitude and anger. It is a song filled with self-pity and hatred, there is nothing I can do to change the way people see me. Nothing humanly possible would make me the guy everyone loves. God made me who I was and I resent him for it. I prayed and prayed and nothing. I believed in Jesus back then, but clearly he didn’t believe in me. I was forced to endure my life alone and as a child I quickly became jaded and cynical. God did nothing for me I would do nothing for him ever again.

You will notice that even though my parents are parts of my problem I hardly mention them. I felt and at times now still do feel that they don’t care about me. I believe our relationship is only improving now because of my stint at the psychiatric institution. But still I feel as though they are acting out of guilt not love – how could anyone love me.At times I feel as though I raised myself as a kid, I was the only person there to console myself when I felt hurt or angry. When I cried I was the one who provided comfort and dried my own tears. I was the only one who provided emotional support. Everyone else was always busy. Even my siblings weren’t there. My brother and sister both older always had my parents care: Jay because he was maladaptive and Lesley because she was perfect and loved by everyone.

Lesley deserves special mention, she is beautiful and only a year older than me I said before she was perfect, she still is. She was a girl guide and did ballet she had many friends and was popular and I was jealous. I asked my parents if I could join scouts since my sister was a brownie, I asked if I could get dancing lessons as well, when I asked they told me about how expensive it was and that since the places are so far away it would take too much of their time. In their defense they did say I could still join but I had to think of the ways it would affect them. Naturally wanting to make those two strangers I call parents proud I made the adult decision and said that I wouldn’t join. Not having anything to do after school I turned to the tv. I had no friends and  nothing else that could occupy my time, the only way I could connect to the world was my tv.

(I have a section written down about my body issues but I think I will skip it for now. I have a lot to get through tonight. And this typing makes me feel like) Anotherwannabe.

So much more to write so much more to say, but this is the last of my life-story. Wow my handwriting is actually really small and it hurts my eyes to read, yet this is the most important part of my story. It is the dearest attachment to me and I hope that I can fulfill its promise of living life and being happy. I started writing it by saying that I am afraid, and that I hope no-one ever reads my blog. I hope no-one sees my deep thoughts. Yet I still sit and type my life away. If I am afraid why would I type you ask? Well my need for help far outweighs my want for no-one to read this. I have hidden my feelings for so long and now that I have a platform I am hoping that someone is out there who will read this.

I am scared of connecting to other people. I am scared of being rejected and unloved. I am scared; chilled to my bones. I’ve become so scared that I withdraw myself and I don’t tell people who I am and what I am about. I’m scared they will hate me. It’s become easier for me to have no connection with people at all than to have them in my space. I’m afraid that after I tell people about my life they will just leave to find someone better. My fear of connection has sprouted even more troubles in my life; it is a seed that just won’t stop blooming. My fear has made me afraid to love; it made me feel afraid that I cant love; it made me afraid to feel love; it made me afraid that I will live life alone and unwanted: mostly it just made me afraid. I’m scared very scared; afraid and angry. The more fear I develop the angrier I become. I hate myself for having all this fear. I have put myself in a vicious cycle that only ends up with me hating myself. I don’t know what to do anymore.

Something I really hate is telling people I love them even if I do. Admitting that I love them only makes it easier for them to hurt me when they leave. So I refrain from saying it and letting people know how I feel. Here’s the thing I can’t tell people how I feel and I know it hurts our relationships. If I reached out I know they will stay but since I haven’t had many constant ongoing relationships so I don’t know how to reach out. Everyone leaves me without letting me learn to be in a real relationship. They move on to greener pastures and better friends. What really scares me is that I feel I deserve to be left alone and hated, I deserve it because I am not loving enough.

I’ve never had good friends who will always be there in tough times, willing to help with their love and support. Stable, wonderful friends who remain nothing but an arms length away. I feel as though I outgrow people in my life: Mark, Matthew, Damian, Delano, Warren, Julian, Adrian, Xander, John, Justine, Katie, Melissa, Kishong, everyone of my friends. All of these people could have been considered my best friends at one stage in my life, now I don’t talk to any of them. My new best friend Tawanda is Zimbabwean and might be moving home soon, even he is gonna leave me I hope not too soon though.

I’m sad very sad. I feel stupid. I feel useless, everyday is something made for me to spend another moment with tears. Everyday I live is a sad occurrence, another opportunity for me to envy the dead. Now I am sick of it. I am tired of feeling this way. I am so sick and tired of tears, of feeling like nothing; I am so sick of it and I don’t know what I can do. Still here I sit writing my life like it’s a tradgedy, as if I am insane. So what if that’s true. I am sick of playing the act of a little runt too sick to eat even though suckling is the only thing that will help me grow. Look at the name I gave my blog (Anotherwannabe), why? Why would I be happy suggesting that I am nothing but a wannabe? I have the guts, the talent and the charm, I can make it. I’ve reached a point in my life where I am tired of dwelling on my past, crying every time I reflect. My life does suck, true, but I don’t need to hold onto the pain. I need to take control. I guess that is why I ran off and had the starting point to my life-story (my crazy wank). I need to do things for me.  I am in a stage of healing. Even all my old wounds will will dry and heal, there is no point in letting them fester when I have the means to patch them up.

So what I’m trying to say in short is that I’m embarking on a change, an epic turning point. Remembering my scars and learning from them, yet still being to move on.

I’m (anotherwannabe) no more.

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This is My Own Story

11 Dec

You may notice some similarities with my writing style and that of Edmund White’s in my life story. Unfortunately that is unavoidable, there is no way I can reflect on the life I lived without sounding exactly like White’s unnamed protagonist. Here I am sitting typing thinking about my experience writing about my own experience, that mess of emotion unfortunately comes out the same way White’s tale does. Despite the similarity in style there are differences in detail, for one I am not unnamed, I’m Cal, secondly what I’m writing in this life-story is the truth, it is not fiction, I wish it was though. Despite my hatred of sounding exactly like him stylistically; that is something I have to live with in order to tell my story. Here I am hoping my life is totally unique but as soon as I pen a single word I go back to sounding exactly like Mr White, to top it all off my first sexual experience was with a hustler as well. In my head a song plays but it is an old familiar song, I am sure you know the words; I thought that my song was an original master piece turns out it’s all been sung before.

I haven’t told anyone about my first sexual encounter, but here it goes. One night I was bored (boredom makes me do stupid stuff) and I looked through the adult section of a local newspaper. I saw an ad for M2M sex, and I sent the number an sms asking how much. R250 his message replied. Feeling extra adventurous on that night I told him that I had nothing to give. He then asked me what I looked like. Heart racing I replied that I was tall, coloured and had big hands and feet, he was interested in meeting up. I sent him my address and he came to pick me up. He took me to Florida Lake, where I gave him a blow-job. That was it. Only a blow-job; we didn’t go any further because I was ashamed of myself. Not ashamed because I performed a sex act with a total stranger and a male prostitute to top it all off, ashamed because I was the loser I was. Afterward despite him saying we should meet up again I never called or text him. That was my first sexual encounter, it was a thing of shame. Surprisingly I didn’t feel anything wrong about my actions. I held on to that secret without feeling shame, or any negative affect towards myself. In my eyes that act was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a good natural act, in fact I believed that doing what I did made me: more human. That act didn’t cause sleepless nights or make me hate myself (even though I still hate(d) myself) that act gave me power, it made me alive, it was nothing to be ashamed of. Because I sucked a hustler’s cock I was elevated from my sub-human status to being one of the ordinary folk.

You may be asking why I hat myself so much? To be honest with you I don’t know but it started a long time ago. I have always had this feeling that my life is empty, that I was nothing. I am Hollow Man except for the fact that I’m completely visible. People can see me, they can mock me, yet still I’m hollow and nothing can fill the emptiness that was\is my life.I’m writing this blog-post knowing no-one will read it and know my secrets, and in a way I’m kinda glad no-one is out there yet. But as soon as I have readers I hope you can see that this is a cry for help. I feel so alone despite the fact that people around me say that they care. There is nothing out there for me, nothing to make my life better, so I write, that’s all I do, I write.

This is my Own Story despite it’s queer similarity to White’s book. This is real, there is really someone out in the world who hates themself as much as I do, and no I will not stop writing about it. Edmund White’s character wrote from an empowered position, living his fantasy life in France, here I am living my shitty life writing about it. Most art seems to have an element of triumph to it but I am stuck. In art there is always some catharsis always a way to be freed from your situation especially art about depression, they make it seem as though no-one can be stuck in a state of melancholy, some how you can overcome all your troubles and step out. But stepping out is not an easy walk. I feel bad for lying to my psychiatrist, I should have told him that the only reason I felt better in the psych ward was because for once in my life I didn’t feel alone, the nurses were forced to watch and care for me, but out in the real world I am all alone and totally depressed again.

It’s hard for me to explain why I feel the way I do. I can’t articulate it but I can try. I guess I’ll use my first sexual encounter as my example. It did not hurt me to write this story down, I don’t feel anything about it, it is just a story. It doesn’t make me feel anything, nothing, nothing at all. It was just a thing between me and a guy whose name I don’t know. The only part of the story that actually does embarrass me about it is that I couldn’t give a fuck. It hurts me to admit that I am the guy to have sex then not care in the morning, and it is scary telling you about it, still here I am penning and typing my life and my cold emotionlessness down.

I feel done with all my crazy right now, tomorrow is another day and I have even more to tell. That is if you don’t hate me now. Still I think it’s impossible for anyone to hate me more than I hate myself.

AnotherWannabe (full of self-pity)

My Life-Story

10 Dec

I have thought long and hard about whether I should use my picture on my blog and I have finally came to the conclusion that I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t because of what I intend to write about here: that being myself. I know that no-one will find my blog interesting without the wonders of visual stimulation but that is something I will have to live with. All I can do for you is write that both scares me and excites me. So here comes chapter 1 of my life-story. Thinking about publishing it scares me, I am letting anyone with a computer have access to things that I can’t tell to the people closest to me but here I am about to write this for the world to see.

I’m Cal a tall, handsome (I would like to think), gay man which are things you can tell by just looking at me. There is a lot that you can see in my eyes; but even though they are the window to my soul there is a lot you won’t see through them. They say still waters run deep, that statement could never be more true of me. Behind my dark placid eyes is a fire, which burns brightly, and like the sun’s light: mine comes from violent collisions. That sparkle in my black pools (pupils) comes from my fire, a fire deep inside which burns violently, consuming everything in its way.

I can continue using crazy metaphors to describe myself or I can tell you about the craziest thing I have done (I know which I would choose so here it comes). I left home one Wednesday, inside me was this need for escape and some distant voice told me to run away. I ran. I packed a bag and left home for about two days and spent time out on the streets of Johannesburg. Let me just skip a few details until I get to the really crazy part. I decided that the best way to fight all the anxiety, I have inside crippling me, was to masturbate out there in the veld I had made my residence for that evening. It sounds stupid, I know, but that is really what I did. I have problems, but then again so does everyone; I have stupid ideas, but then again so does everyone: with this logic I am perfectly normal, I suppose (then again my psychiatrist may disagree). But at least I feel normal. I feel good about myself for the first time, I can write about myself and think that it is an interesting story people would want to read. Who wouldn’t want to know about a guy who went crazy stripped naked and wanked on a hill, one night? Well, I can tell you this, the choice was simple do it and everything will be better or don’t and… well I don’t know what would have happened if I didn’t. Unfortunately now I don’t feel much different, but at least it gave me a starting place for my story, my life.

If I ever have a book written about me I want my night-time wank to be the starting point. I would choose this because before then nothing in my life made any sense. Trust someone like me to say that masturbating in the veld makes more sense than anything else in my life, I am SO FREAKING DRAMATIC but that is what I am saying and I am sticking to it. From that point on I have become more rational, my mind is clearer and I can see a future ahead of me (this may be from my Zyprexa -but I would like to downplay its importance in my life right now). For the first time in my life I can see my life ahead of me. I know it will be short and glorious because now with a pen in my hand and my other hand stroking my forehead (obviously this came before I started typing), I can feel my life pull away. I feel it slipping onto these pages. My entire being is being consumed and reflected simultaneously by this simple act – writing.They say all good novels have an ending, that couldn’t be more true, I can feel myself being made right now, this is the start, each pen-stroke draws me closer to the ending. I used to write for therapy but now I write to live; I live to write There is so much that I want to do to write, and all we can do is wait until my pen feels the smooth warmth of paper. This is only a beginning and there is more to come; an end must come as well,and I will not try to stop it. This is my life: my story.

I sat and wrote this two days before I left the psychiatric institution. I wrote this because at that time I felt brave and alive. I felt I could open up to the world, I could share myself with others and myself (I am still not brave enough to show you my photos though). I know that it is only me who can tell you my story, and that is what I will do.

I woke with a song in my head, on the day I wrote this, it was a slow song unknown to my mind, yet on and on it played. I can’t explain it when things like that happen. The  soft song played, it was a song soft and slow that played making my head swing. The gentle tones made me sleepy, the  music in my mind controls my movement. Everyday a new song plays, everyday it’s different; yet one constant remains the thrill of music.

It beats in my head sometimes slow, sometimes fast; it plays constantly, I am a slave to the rhythm. When I wrote this it played with the silence of an echo waiting for me to dance. My heart refused its charm, but still I was left with its eerie resonance: “the storm is coming” it says ” thunder will sing in the skies and you will be free”. I wait for its promise. On the night that  I ran away it rained. There was plenty of thunder and very little rain, but the music played. I took a stance on the rocky terrain , I stood tall and stripped: “If you can cum here then surely anxiety won’t affect you. Relax and enjoy the thrill”. I listened to the music and it lead me away from home it lead me to that hill where I stood boner in hand, I looked unto the storm carved area of a hill. Right on top of the hill was a house, its lights dim in the distance. “This night isn’t a true night,” I thought because of all the lights around. Still I was secluded at least 500m from the nearest person, hidden in the bushes and rocky mountain terrain. But still in this city I could not be swallowed up in darkness; people could see me if they tried hard enough.But still I stood tall, I stood and I moaned. Yet every now and then my pleasure was washed away by panic. Why am I doing this? They will see. What am I doing? I must have lost my mind? And I did lose my mind. I had completely lost it. I was pulled in by the tug of my hand on my erect penis, the pleasure of the strokes on myself. I was pulled out by the thoughts of my family, thoughts of life thoughts of wtf I was doing that night. I was both excited by this mischief and disgusted by my own act. I had lost my mind, but now I am writing about it, praising this temporary lapse in my judgment. Without it i would have no place to start my story. I listened to the music that night and I managed to ejaculate. I always listen to the music even though I don’t always dance to it.

The music in my head right now is different, its feeling a sense of joy for telling you this, although it will likely change to a song of shame once this post is published. But still I am glad for the music. A new song everyday, everyday I listen to the sound in my head and typing this is what it lead me to today.

I really hope that you have enjoyed this. It shames me to say that I have nothing better to do then give you my life story. It sounds all crazy now but you will see that I have nothing to be proud of nothing good, my life is sad and meaningless, I am just…

AnotherWannabe