There’s rain coming down and I’m watching the raindrops trickle down my driver’s side window. The left side of my face is pressed against the cold, my tears are falling faster than the rain.

“You’re a stupid shit,” I think to myself.  “You keep making the same stupid mistakes.  You will never amount to anything.  You are still nothing and you should have killed yourself a long time ago.”

Once the downhill of your depression has already been made, it’s like a ski slope you’ve already been down before.  You get faster to the bottom with each practice.  I would have numerous medals based on how quickly I get to the lowest, darkest place in my mind.

I get a call from an adoring fan/friend, who is one of a very small group of people who understands me in a way most do not.  I read the transcript of his voicemail and I cry harder.  He saw my self-defeating Twitter post and called to check up on me and reassure me he is there to be a friend.  I just felt shittier.

I’m the type of person who crumbles under people’s generosity and kindness when I am in a depressed state of mind.  I have been programmed to believe I do not deserve it.

As I approach my 32nd birthday, I criticize myself even more that I still don’t have my shit together.  “You keep trying and you keep failing, why do you still bother?” is what I ask myself at this age.

I was deceived by a professional con-man.  I am ashamed that I foolishly believed this man, who said he was working for a professional athlete, that was interested in seeing me.  I was offered a large sum of money for two weeks, enough that it would completely wipe out my debt and have plenty left over.

I won’t go into all the details, but this guy was good.  I have to give him that.  But I should have listened to my engineer, who warned me this was probably a scam. But I already had to borrow money from him to pay bills, I haven’t been able to pay my student loans, and with the end of the year, comes taxes, and I already owe the government a few thousand from last year.

My student loans, plus the loan I took out to help me move to Las Vegas, and let’s add what I owe to IRS for just 2015 alone, since I do plan to pay my taxes unlike our President-Elect, is about 67K.  And I know there are other debts floating out there that also have to be resolved, and I don’t even want to know what the real figure is.

So maybe you can understand why, when I think there might be a chance I can earn enough to wipe my debt clean, I don’t think quite as clearly as I should.  The figure weighs heavily upon my mind.  And in December, I only had four calls, so I went into more debt because I didn’t have enough for all my expenses.

As I sat in my vehicle, wailing to myself, glad to have finally gotten my windows tinted this past year, but knowing people could probably still see and hear me, I thought about the texts my mother sent me this past summer.

In a previous post, when I was discussing my trip to LA and an interaction I had with another provider, I wrote that my mother implied I was a diseased whore and I left New York with telling myself I will never talk to her again.  I’ve mentioned how tumultuous the relationship with my mother has been in the past, and after I was home in July, I thought it best she remains out of my life while I try to learn to love myself.  A lot of my insecurities stem from my mother.

In July, I owed three car payments.  I was paying the average minimum of what my actual car payment was supposed to be each month, which is about $400.  But I had gotten into a hole a couple times in the beginning of the year, where I wasn’t able to pay one month, and then it happened again a couple months later.  I was finally up to being able to pay the monthly payment, but not enough to pay the $800 from the missed payments, plus the monthly $400.

My parents were getting calls from the loan collector.  I explained to my mother what had happened, but that I was back on track and just needed a little more time to pay back the missed payments.  She decided to make a payment with her credit card.  My parents are in just as much debt as I am, maybe a little less, and they’re both retired.

I didn’t ask her to do that for me.  I didn’t want her to do that for me.  I knew my mother too well.  I knew this would backfire on me.  And it did.

My mother has the tendency to do something nice for me, then shove it in my face later on, making me feel guilty and horrible she did it in the first place.  I felt like she would do something kind just to use it as a weapon to strike me down at a later time.

At age 12 or 13, my mother decided to discipline and hate me one day, while I had my best friend over. I didn’t do anything horrible.  I don’t recall what happened previous to the memory I have, but I remember my friend and I sitting on the floor in front of the entertainment center.  There was a swinging door opening to a portion of it, that housed VHS tapes.  I had it open and as my mother walked by with a pile of laundry, she kicked it, so the corner bashed and cut my knee.

She told me I didn’t deserve to have glasses.  “If you’re not going to appreciate what you have, you don’t deserve them,” she said towering above my friend and I.

I’ve needed glasses since I was ten.  My eyesight had significantly deteriorated at that age, that the optometrist asked my parents how I could even see the softball.

I needed my glasses to see clearly.  My mother knew that.  I yelled for them back and she refused.  I started crying.  And my girlfriend started crying too.

My mom drove my friend back home and there were no words spoken, except when my friend whispered, “Please stop crying.”

So maybe now, you can understand a little bit better of my psychosis.  Why I’m this somber/angry/emo girl who has a hard time accepting when people are nice to her because she doesn’t believe she deserves it.  Who will always wonder when that generous person shouts, “Look at what I did for you!”  The way my mother and my New York-ex did.

 

Back to last July:

My mother paid my missed car payments.  I told her thank you and that she did not have to do that.

I’m still that teenage girl in many ways who can only tolerate my mother for a certain amount of time.  ‘What are you eating?  Where did you get that top?  Where are you going?’  I’m extremely anxious around my mother because I can never relax, every action is an interrogation.

I tweeted the night before I left, “It was good to be home, but I cannot wait to get away from my mother and her fifty fucking questions.”

And then came the shit storm.

She read my tweet and I admit, it wasn’t the nicest thing to say, but I gave her the ammunition to ridicule me and my job.

“Sorry I ask so many questions, but at least I don’t ask you for money,” she snarled at me the morning I was getting ready to leave.  “At least I’m not a fucking whore.”

She called me a “fucking ingrate,” implied I was a diseased whore, and made some remark about sucking cocks.

The tears welled up in my eyes like it had so many times when I was growing up.  I got in her face and pointed at her, “You have no idea who the fuck I am and I do this because of you.”

I was so angry and emotional that my words didn’t make much sense without context.  But I’ve given a lot of thought of why I do what I do, and/or the reason why I place myself in certain situations.  And the honest truth, is that I don’t really care about myself.  My mother nurtured all of those insecurities that I had about myself.  When you’ve been brought up to think you are nothing, you believe your worth is nothing.  Who cares if you sell yourself?  At least I have a value now.

“Don’t you want to say goodbye to your daughter?” my father asked as we stood with my luggage gathered by the front door.

“No,” she said authoritatively.

“Goodbye, Mom,” I said. I fought back more tears.  ‘She doesn’t get to win this time,’ I told myself. And I also knew these would be the last words I would be saying to her, either until her death, or for a very long time.

I had a layover in Charlotte, NC.  I switched my phone off airplane mode and I received a text from her, ‘FYI:  I am sick of the F’ing calls from your bill collectors and the 50 F’ing questions they bombard me with.  With that said, the next call I will give out your porn name, talent agencies, special phone number, and all info that is readily on the public web.’

Me: ‘All I can ask is please do not.  If my real name is attached to my alias, more people will be able to find me and threaten to hurt me, rape me, and kill me.  If you want that, then fine.  But please do not.

My mother: ‘Should have thought about that before choosing your career.  I will feel no guilt.  Too bad, so sad.

Pay your F’ing bills, give your animals to respectable families, and live within your means.  All you want is quick cash and entitlement.  Shove that down your deep throat and gag. Shove your blaming attitude up your banana as whole.’

(I refer to myself as a banana for being Korean, but really, I’m white because I’m completely Americanized.)

So there I was sobbing inside the Charlotte terminal, strangers looking at me, like what the fuck is wrong with this woman?

My friend from Brooklyn College called me after I posted a screenshot of the conversation with my mother. I didn’t want to answer.  Her kindness made me weep more as she attempted to convince me that I’m not a horrible person.

I cried talking to her. I cried on the plane to Los Angeles. I cried on the FlyAway bus from LAX to Van Nuys.  I didn’t cry the whole time, but I only had the company of myself and I drifted to those dark places because I knew I was alone again.

My mother’s text about giving away my animals is near the top of the most hurtful things one can say to me.  I know I have a lot of pets.  I like to think I’m making up for my entire childhood and adolescence without having one, and that’s why I have so many now.  But I told my friend from college this (she’s an animal lover/artist too), “The more lives I have to take care of, the less likely I’ll be able to kill myself.”

Always half logical and half emotional with my thoughts, it is true.  My whole pack would have to be separated and I would never want any of them to wind up in a bad situation or in a shelter.  They are my everything.  My littlest dog, DeSoto, sits in my lap as I type this.  My special dog, Atticus, is underneath my chair.

I just get along better with animals.  People have been and continue to be cruel to me.  Animals have not.  I’ve discovered I’m a horrible communicator when it comes to relationships.  I believe it is a combination of needing time to express my thoughts and feelings (hence, writing), along with a fear of my words being misinterpreted, and growing up as an only child and not having anyone to talk to when I was sad.

I used to drape my Pound Puppy’s ears across my eyes and cry myself to sleep at night.  I didn’t have to say anything to my stuffed animal Brodie, who I got when I was a year old, and named after my neighbor’s dog.  I would just wrap my little arms around him, put his long ear over my eyes, and hope my sadness would be less when I woke up.

Now I finally have my own menagerie.  I get to hug and cry into my squishy Pit Bull who is usually taking up most of the space in my king size bed.  I talk to my one cat as he head-butts to greet me.  My other cat kneads my stomach, reminding me maybe I should have done more cardio.  I laugh at my special dog because he is just that.  I squeeze my little Min Pin, wondering if he was just given away just because he is all black.  I smirk when I hear my turtle swimming to nowhere as she kicks up the rocks in her tank. And I marvel at the beauty of my German Shepherd and ask myself, how am I so lucky to be the owner of such a handsome animal?

But when I’m struggling to pay my bills, especially last month and I thought this month would be better, but it’s looking like I will be in the same position with only a call a week, my mother’s words echo in my mind.  Maybe I don’t deserve them.

I will be 32 next week and my career as a whore is barely keeping me afloat.  My porn career is non-existent since my agency has zero interest in promoting me, apparently.  I have no children.  Thank goodness in many ways, but I’m in a very small pool now of those who are not mothers.  So I’m nearly 32, and I still am struggling.  And the day after my birthday, we inaugurate a mean, petulant child to the highest position of our country.

I keep trying to fight back the tears of my failure.  I try to convince myself that I am more than nothing.  I try to have hope.  But as one potential client cancels on me, another tries to bargain me down to 300, another 400, and others who lose interest just because I won’t fuck them raw, I don’t have much hope.  And with the world will becoming a much scarier place on January 20th.  I don’t have much hope at all.