I started with drugs and alcohol when I was 14 years old.
I became interested in females when merely a tyke at the age of eight.
Clearly, I was an early bloomer –an early bloomer who had discovered a box full of discarded Playboy and Penthouse magazines – both featuring nude women – on the way home from grade school. I had carried the box to my little hide out – a place in a public park not unlike my current hidey hole – where me and my young friends would often go and hang out to escape the world momentarily.
It was an awkward moment when Steve Moreno insisted we all pull our penises out and demonstrate our erections (or not) to eachother as we read the magazines.
I often wondered after that moment whether he liked guys.
But kids being kids, here I was with four other boys in the park ages 8 to 10 with their pants pulled and underwear pulled down to our ankles, all with the best mini erections an eight to ten year old can conjure up, all reading Penthouse and Playboy like we had any clue what was causing the stimulation.
It did not seem to matter.
For me, it was not long after I read the autobiography of Hugh Hefner for a book report.
I was curious – who was this man who was so successful with women, that they all wanted to take their clothes off for him and let him distribute their nude photos to the entire world? I enjoyed the class of the magazine and the man, in contrast to the harshness and lack of elegance the woman depicted in Penthouse were depicted.
Much to my teacher’s chagrin, I turned in this rated g book report on Hugh Heffner, the founder of Playboy to my teacher after three weeks of indulging in the magazines in the ‘hidey hole’.
My teacher was a woman’s lib type who I have no doubt deep down loathed the man, so she wound up calling my mom who had no idea who the man was.
She was just happy I had gotten another A+ on a book report.
And that evening, when my father came home from work, I feared the worst as my mom left the room.
He looked at me sternly, as she left, then as the door to their bedroom closed, he sat down and I saw him smile for the first time.
“Son. I’d planned on teaching you about these things later,” he said.
I was confused, “You’re not mad?” I asked.
“Mad? You’re becoming a young man. Now we have to make this sound good for your mom, so I’m going to raise my voice, you be quiet, ok?”
I smiled “Ok”
He yelled “What the hell are you doing reading crap like that. You should know better than this!”
“But Dad,” I yelled back, smiling, and stopped there as he put his finger to his lips shushing me.
“But Dad nothing. If I catch you reading crap like this again, you will be grounded!”
I said nothing.
“Now get out of my sight,” he said, now trying to keep a serious face.
“And next time,” he said for only me to hear, “don’t get caught!”, he said as he winked at me.
You could say it was about then I came to understand the differences between men and women of the time.
It was about this time I started ‘falling in love’ with a classmate here and there.
Cindy Robichaud. Who I absolutely adored and never had the courage to tell her.
I wrote a love letter to her when I learned it was her last day in class and she would be moving over the weekend.
When I asked my mom for an envelope and stamp, and refused to tell her what it was for, she became suspicious.
I carefully addressed the letter to ‘Cindy R’ as that’s all I knew about her, in Yorba Linda, California, and didn’t notice my mom watching me later sneaking out to place the letter in the mailbox.
My mom came into my room later, and said “Brian, you can’t mail this with only this information on it, the postal service won’t send it.”
I had just felt like my privacy was violated, and was furious.
“What do you mean,“ I demanded.
“I mean, do you know her last name? or where she lives? Or do you know her parent’s name, we can look it up in the phone book,” as she pulled out a phone book and I saw literally hundreds of people in Yorba Linda with the last name beginning with ‘R’.
I was devastated.
And clearly unfamiliar with the postal system.
It took all but a month of sadness and moping around to forget about her, as a transplant from New York, Nanette Lewis took her place.
I was in love again.
But I lacked the courage to tell her how I felt.
So over the next two years, I saw her get an ‘older man’ as a boyfriend…
And became her friend.
Never able to tell her how I felt.
So when my parents moved me away to Glendale, Arizona, it felt like the end of the world was happening again as I cried out to her looking out the rear window of my family’s massive and loaded Ford LTD.
I was introverted. And sometimes felt more feminine than masculine with my emotions.
For instance, I have never – not one time in my entire life – been in a fight. I hate getting hit. It really f*ing hurts.
But I will stand toe to toe with someone until they back down, as a direct result of getting tired of being bullied in California.
But the insecurity with women. Persisted.
At 11 years old, I started programming, and I can say it was about then I started learning the art of observing others who exhibited success in areas I wanted to succeed in myself. What was landing me in the friend zone so quickly, and why wasn’t I boyfriend material?
This question haunted me until I was 14. Where I nearly lost my virginity to a black girl I knew from my show choir class (yes, I was a Glee kid)– Oneida Nutt, but between the alcohol I had drank and lack of attraction to the girl in general, the little guy was most definitively not up for the festivities. Literally and figuratively.
Over the next few years – I studied my competition. Why was I not ‘getting’ the cute girls I wanted?
Why was I consistently getting denied, if I did try, and why was it that if ANY woman happened to approach me, she was typically just NOT good looking at all?
The question plagued me.
I started drinking every weekend to fit in. I’d had long hair up until I was 14, and when I noticed all the jocks with cute girlfriends all had short hair, I cut my hair short.
The guys with good looking girlfriends partied. So I started partying. None of them did weed, and when they did, the girls were classless, so I said no to marijuana.
But what was going on?
At 15, the attractive 28 year old single woman across the street would make it a fact to wear her skimpiest bathing suit and wash her car when I washed my family’s car. Two times she waved me over, to which I chatted but refused to go inside her place and ‘just talk with her’.
I was downright afraid of women.
At 16 I was delivering pizza and had a young and extremely attractive weather woman from the local news in phoenix who would regularly ask for me to deliver her pizza, one night after a breakup with her boyfriend she showed up at her door stark naked and asked if I could stay for a while.
I ran. I mean. Literally. I made up an excuse and averted my eyes and while her image that DAY I delivered her pizza – it wasn’t night mind you when she showed up at the door like this – that DAY – is stuck in my mind like a splinter in my minds’ eye refusing to leave.
Like a ‘must revisit this moment in time’ bookmark in my mind.
But the fact of the matter was – I RAN.
I started realizing I had a problem.
But what that problem was – would be covered up for years.
Donna, my first ex, and I were married when I turned 18, a little more than a year after losing my virginity to Kristi.
Donna and I had a tumultuous relationship at first, to which she insisted I not drink, and I didn’t just obey her wishes, it was almost as if I had no choice in the matter.
Within a year of our getting married I had learned that she’d been messing around with a friend of mine, and our relationship began crumbling as I re-subscribed to Playboy. This, oddly enough, when she ‘found’ a magazine I had intentionally hidden from her knowing how she’d react (she was really prudish), is probably the definitive turning point of our relationship where I started falling out of love with the woman. I could see her possessive and hypocritical side and I just hated what I was learning about her.
But I had noticed something.
During the course of my marriage. I’d had more women approach me and flirt with me knowing I was married or when I had my wedding band on that when it wasn’t on.
It was bizarre.
Shortly after my first divorce, I didn’t resume drinking right away, I actually started school up – but this led to partying again and the reinforcing of the habit of drinking and cavorting with women.
You could say I became a habitual drinker, but that habit wasn’t based on the actual alcohol, it was what the alcohol provided….
Liquid courage, right?
To me. A guy who had always been relatively insecure and trying to prove himself to others, alcohol let me deflect the rejections.
Invariably, women would never approach a guy like me. I’m no super model, and let’s face it, unless a guy is a model quality, financially successful, or being with the guy looks good for her image, and he fits within the ‘sweet spot age range’ of +/- 5 years, women just won’t approach you as a dude.
Women are and have been that utterly predictable.
I’m trying to relearn what it means to be young.
By the actions I have taken with the substances, I am mentally no more mature than your average 17 years old, save with a great deal of education and experience.
This is not to say I regret any of the decisions I have made, nor do I blame women as my problem.
The truth is – I just have a deep seated fear of rejection.
A feeling of worthlessness, that has sat with me my entire life.
I can’t explain why.
Alcohol and drugs masked this.
Made me forget about it.
Made it easy to be someone else.
To enjoy life.
But now that I’m homeless, and have all but given up, and just don’t want to work, and can’t even depart this planet despite having tried on numerous occasions.
I can’t help but think.
Is my lifelong struggle that feels like a billion lifetimes penance for something I don’t fully comprehend?
And is there something.. Really.. Wrong with me?
Why do I feel so dark inside? Like I’m fighting something evil?
Did I kill my friends? Is that why none of them talk to me anymore? Did my mind fill in the gaps leading me to believe I’d left them?
Did I kill my lovers?
Is that why Jackie and Rachel don’t talk anymore?
Does my mind fill in the gaps pretending to be these people and writes me messages from these women who I know would help stabilize me that I miss dearly, and the fact of the matter is they just aren’t even on this planet any longer?
Is that why all the messages have the same tone? My mind is incapable of simulating personality and tone?
The reason I’m not accepting help or a place to stay with any of you is because I’m sincerely afraid of what I am becoming capable of.
I have already made my choice on who I wanted to be.
I wrote it down nearly 10 years ago.
And that’s a cross between two insane men named “Doctor Who’ and Q – both who can transcend time and space and both have limitless power.
I never, not once, considered the way I think would change and my mind would quite literally rewire itself to make this possible.
I also never considered what might happen beyond my awareness to lead me here.
Did I kill my friends and family?
If so. I’m not heartbroken about it.
After all, everything is restorable.
And I do mean everything.
Even lost love.
Rachel and Jackie. I need you for mental stability. And if I’m right about where I am heading with my mind. The planet itself may be threatened if I don’t get what I need.
Look at what happened with Hitler in World War 2 for an example of how consuming darkness can be.
And Darth Vader for a ‘fictional’ example of how far that can go.
At this rate. As a homeless man. I’m – my mind – is already being taught how everything can be given to me free.
Think about that for a moment before you say no willfully.
Because I will be not be asking later when I get my power to command back.
I’d prefer it not get to that point.
it’s your choice.