We were on Facetime and I was telling him about some of the volunteer work I do, I was talking about how some of the folks who come in are court-ordered, and they’re all mad about it and bitching that it’s a bunch of bullshit and they got played, and blah blah blah and I ask them if they’d rather grab a broom and sweep the 101 or, you know, you can always tell the judge fuck off I’d rather be in jail — right?
I talked about how the “probationers” might not be addicts but they probably have other stuff going on. Legal problems, living in rough neighborhoods, just living the life… and how I was sitting there with a couple of them just kicking it and talking about life. We were cutting up small pieces of paper for a staff training exercise and they were actually enjoying what they were doing so much that I pretended that I didn’t know that there was a paper slicer that could have cut all of this paper in about two minutes flat.
I guess after I told him a couple stories about what I was up to lately, he was finally comfortable enough to tell me that he was extremely suicidal the night that I’d met him and that I looked “scary” and that he was just hoping I’d come over and kill him.
“But no, you were really sweet and smart and cool and-“
I just stared at my phone in disbelief.
I guess… that says a lot… about your needs versus my needs…
The night we met, we were cuddling but I was apprehensive and my PTSD went off. I kept feeling like someone else lived there and might show up unannounced.
Then I saw the pipe on his dresser. He protested it wasn’t his.
I was like, “ you said you live alone, byeeeee.”
I’m not sure why I even stayed in contact with him, other than he was kind of funny and cute and a good kisser and I lived far enough away from him … it wasn’t a risk.
And that’s the morning I found myself walking across Times Square at 4am; commenting something like “sometimes you have a choice about how to spend or end your night.”
That was strike one and strike two — I’ve said enough and I don’t need to go on.