Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Another day, another meeting. I was feeling pretty good during the meeting, but I'm now back in the familiar clutches of terror. I'm afraid of everything right now. I have now idea how the fuck I'm going to rebuild my life. I've been using drugs to run from fear for a really long time, and now I have no choice but to sit here and feel it. I don't know what to do next.

The wreakage I've created is massive and overwhelming. I can't escape it, and I can't find a way to fix it up really quickly and make everything okay. I know I am supposed to 'let go and let God', but I can't seem to let go. How do I let go when there is a gigantic spotlight focusing intently on the mountain of shit I still have to climb?

I can't turn to drugs to escape it. I won't turn to drugs to escape it. I've learned the hard way that drugs are no escape.

I just called a guy I met at the meetings. He's this older gentleman named Gary. I told him how I was feeling overwhelmed about all the shit I've done and how I didn't know how to let go. He said i shouldn't be worried about that right now. He said my only concern should be not creating any more wreakage. He told me life will force me to deal with it, but not to think about that right now.

I used to hate those 12 step meetings. Now I can't wait until the next one. I'm going to a second meeting today at 6:00pm. I wouldn't have anywhere to turn without these meetings. Actually, I started liking them the first time I was in recovery. I just wasn't able to put my recovery first. I got too distracted by the outside world and what I wanted, and left my recovery to pursue it.

Monday, May 24, 2004

Just got back from another 12 step meeting a little while ago. I really did not want to be there at all, but i left feeling better. I'm still really scared and I still feel quite humiliated, but it was nice to be somewhere that my life story wasn't so unique.

My partner K. met a former coworker of his at the meeting tonight. It was a mindfuck at first, but I'm so glad she was there. Her name is Caroline, and she has 19 years of sobriety. She's also a lesbian, which I happen to like. I love lesbians. They are, without a doubt, the coolest form of humanity to have evolved thus far. I'm not saying that ALL lesbians are cool, but when they are, they tend to be the most incredible people. As a group, they are lightyears ahead of gay men when it comes to political sensibilities. They also like better music, and they can carry on conversations about topics that don't involve fashion or cocks.

I want to believe that my disdain for the gay male community arises in part rom the fact that I have tended to put myself in places where only self-identified divas and "Abercrombie Bois" fear to tread. The gay guys at the meetings I've been to so far seem like goodhearted people, but I have yet to attend any 12 Step meetings the younger gay crowd frequents. I've been avoiding those meetings on purpose. I've actually been avoiding them like the plague. Perhaps I was merely projecting my own insecurities during my first stint in recovery...

Sunday, May 23, 2004

Just woke up at noon on Sunday. I guess I lied when I said I wasn't going to write anymore about myself because I woke up this afternoon feeling extremely terrified. I'm sitting here holding my chihuahua, and he's looking up a me with these big brown eyes overflowing with pure love and trust. It makes me want to cry.

I don't feel particularly loveable or trustworthy at the moment. I don't feel the need to specifically spell out just how I've managed to fuck my life up. Just imagine somone in his late 20's who has no idea who the fuck he is or what he's supposed o be doing with his life, throw some hefty doses of speed, Xanax and Vicodin into the equation, add in a healthy dash of clinical depression and anxiety, sprinkle a history of severe chilhood physical abuse and poverty into the mix, shake vigorously, et voila!!

They really should screen people more carefully in master's programs in social work. Do you how many untreated mentally-ill drug addicts with chaotic lives have decided to go to graduate school to learn to help OTHERS with their problems? Well, I do, and it's rather frightening.

Anyway, I'm off to a fucking 12 step meeting. God, I feel low.

Ok, so it goes like this: I'm an almost 30 year old gay man living in San Francisco, and I have a really, really bad drug habit. I'm talking Courtney-Love-losing-custody-of-her-daughter-and-ranting-like-an-idiot-in-court bad, or Bobby Brown bitch-slapping Whitney. I've decided to keep a journal of what will undoubtedly be yet another tragic stint in recovery, given that I'm now unemployed and have nothing better to do with my time.

Like most people who live in San Francisco, I'm not a California-native. No, I am merely one of a million freaks who left places like Georgia or Nebraska to congregate on a tiny, over-priced, earthquake-ridden peninsula so we can love whomever we want without having to worry about rednecks throwing feces on us. San Francisco attracts freaks of EVERY variety, though, and although I'm a complete freak by most standards, in San Francisco I probably come across as rather conservative. In fact, my life is really a cliche here in San Francisco. I finished grad school at the University of Georgia at age 25, and the day after I graduated I packed up my car and got the fuck out. I drove to San Francisco having never been here before, crashed at a friend's place, discovered speed, and girl, the party was on. With speed, the party could stay on for days and weeks at a time, and there's ALWAYS a club open that caters to tweakers. Anyway, I bought a bunch of clothes I couldn't afford, started going out to clubs, and I discovered, lo-and-behold, that cute boys really liked me.

Well, they didn't like ME, exactly. I came from Athens, GA, and all my friends were lesbians and women's studies majors. I unapologetically revered any lesbian with an acoustic guitar, went to shows of bad feminist performance art,wore flannel, and could give a flying fuck about fashion or Cher. It was like I didn't exist when I walked into the gay clubs at first. Then, a "friend" kindly explained to me that the problem was that I wore clothes bought from a thrift store. He took me to Diesel, made me a buy a $130 shirt, forced meto get a haircut, took me to the EndUp, and the difference was unbelievable. I got hit on so much that night that it really confused me. I was practically celibate throughout college, and not by choice either. Suddenly, I could have my pick of any hot boy I wanted.

Lest you think that I am totally vain, let me explain something about tweakers: they want to fuck anything with a pulse, and actually the pulse is optional depending on the moment. I, of course, was still quite naive at the time, and boy did I ever eat up the attention. It was such an odd experience to be considered sexually desirabIe. It was simultaneously electrifying, terrifying, affirming and disturbing. I never forgot that no one wanted to sleep with me until I bought a Diesel shirt, though.

Anyway, that's probably all I'm going to write about myself for now. I want to talk about people I love and some of the crazy shit I've seen in this city.

Here's a slight teaser. Since I've lived here, I've seen or encountered the following people:

1) A middle-aged man walking alone down Haight Street crying & wearing nothing but chain-mail.
2) A recovering alcoholic named "Lord" who has a spiderweb tattooed across his entire face
3) A professional juggler who liked extremely young Asian women and had a subscription to "Jugglers' World" magazine. JUGGLER'S WORLD. J-U-G-G-L-E-R-S W-O-R-L-D!!!!!!!!!!!!! They have a whole world.
4) A 40 year old Asian guy at a gay Asian night club wearing nothing but American flag speedos and trying to dance seductively to a remix of "Who Let the Dogs Out?"
5) One homeless man berating another homeless man by screaming, 'Look, man, you shit in public, and that's just NOT cool!"

I love people-watching when I'm not completely stoned, and this is the best city in the world to people-watch. Did you know that they actually have 12 step programs specifically designed for recovering queer drug addicts who are also into BDSM? I inadvertently stumbled into one of those meetings once, and I couldn't figure out why everyone was wearing leather. That's the beauty of San Francisco: you can be bisexual, transgendered, addicted to drugs, love getting urinated on, and you'll still manage to find other people out there just like you.