I'm just going to come clean *Trigger for suicide*
I want to come clean here, I was saying. Here, because when the idea popped in my mind, I stopped crying and started to write. I want to write exactly what's going through my head right now. I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere. I'm stuck - that's the first thought. Middle of no where: literally. I moved here last summer. A village of 300 souls at the end of route 138. Thought: I'm at the end of the road.
I moved here because I wanted to start over on a clean slate. I know things don't work that way. I know you don't fix your problems just by running away. But I thought I'd try it. I sold everything, bought a used station-wagon, packed the cats, my clothes, left everything else I didn't sell behind.
Before moving, I was working at a government agency. I was working there because that's the great job that was waiting for me at the end of my studies. I worked there one month before one day I got up and headed back home, started to pack my bags and called a friend who convinced me to walk myself back to work the next day. He said something like: nobody likes their job. It sort of convinced me.
The job was a contract. 4 months. So I endured the 3 other months but in the meantime I started looking for a job in the village where I now live. It's not easy getting a government job, at least, not the kind I got. At the end of my contract I was told something else was opening up, which could lead to a permanent position. I didn't apply. I ran away to this village where I'd get paid a third my salary. I did it because I told myself I didn't care about money, I didn't care about writing reports that only served to collect dust in governmental libraries. I told myself that, but that wasn't true. What's true is I don't think I deserve anything good after all the bad I've done onto others - all the bad I think I've done.
That's another thought: won't ever get the job I could have had had my life not happened to me. Had I not run away at 17. Had I not become an escort. Had I not met my new pimp Nick. Had I not become his girlfriend. Had I not took over the reins of his agency. Had my friend who hung herself not thrown money in my face one day when I went to collect after sending her too many clients. Had I not sent more clients to an underaged escort that I should have known was underaged. Had I not met an escort I'd first met around 17 while volunteering on the streets giving out hot-dogs and juice to the needy, who was high as a kite. After I got out of all that: Nick, his lust for money, my lost sense of wrong and right. Had I never been involved in this shit that is prostitution. This shit which has taken over my life. This shit which has made me start crying again, right now.
Had all of that not happened. I can't get that out of my head. I was watching a show earlier - Damages - the kid of this hot-shot lawyer is applying to universities. He's 17. I was once 17. I was once bright as him. I'm still bright, but I'm on a mission to self-destruct. I wish that hadn't happened. I wish there hadn't been that pause. 17 to 24. I wish I wasn't so fucking damaged.
This job I landed in the village. That didn't last too long. Long story that involves a good story told in an interview to sell me on the job. I quit. I was somehow able to file for unemployment because my reasons for quiting were labour-standard-related. I was on unemployment for the first time in my life. I was in the middle of nowhere, where it took six months since I'd first visited it to find the job most related to my studies, which was not related at all, with no job. I'm a political scientist. They don't need people like me in the middle of nowhere. Somehow though, I managed to land another job working for an MP a few months later. I'm about to quit that one too.
Freaking out. To quit or not to quit. If I quit, where do I go? If I go back to Montreal, I'll never find a job. Too much competition. If I go back, the first thing I'll do is put an ad to start escorting again.
That's what triggered me earlier into the suicide thing. I told my closest friend just this week that I was thinking of doing it again. Just to pay the astronomical student loan. Just until I find some sort of job that's remotely related to what I know. Just until. What fucking bullshit.
I started crying because I DON'T WANT THIS ANYMORE. I don't want, every time I feel scared and fragile, to turn to THAT. It's my history. I have anxiety, I turn to THAT. It's a sort of weird drug-addict relationship where it isn't even so much the money as the result you get from doing it: being nothing. Knowing you can't do anything better. But I say I WANT to do it. I say I get power out of it. I don't care about what it really is. It's almost as if it were a form of liberation. IT'S NOT. I DON'T WANT TO SELL MY BODY. I DON'T WANT MEN TO TOUCH ME. I DON'T WANT THEM ON ME, IN ME. I wish I could ruin Nick's life.
And then, I saw the motel room on the 16-hour drive back. It's 6 hours away from here. The motel. I've stayed at it once before. I saw the room I was in where I hung myself.
I am so, so so tired. So tired of life. So tired of having thought for so many years that I was somehow some God's child who'd been protected all these years in the sex trade, came out alive, STD-free, drug-free... God must have had something to do with that. My life must have meaning. But NO. It isn't true. We are completely alone. There is not greater plan. It was just a fluke. I got out of it, went back to university, earned two diplomas with distinction, got a top-paying job, had an opportunity to make it permanent. That was all just a fluke. And I took that fluke and burned it. Killed it. Killing bits of me one by one, until now.
I feel like I'm living the book of Job. I feel like I'm being tested. I feel like this latest shit that happened - getting told by my landlord that I was no longer welcome in a village where there are no other places for rent, after causing an argument with him, probably because I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE - all this shit, just a test.
Well I fail.
And seriously, because we're being serious here, we're coming clean, we're not hiding behind oh, it will all be alright like we believe it, I don't see myself making it back to Montreal. I just see that motel room - I see it right now. I'm not crying anymore. I don't even think it's a test. I think it's just life. And life is shit for some people. Because prostitution has ruined me. Because I can't see my worth. So I make my own life shit all by myself.
I don't know what's going on. I feel completely empty. I feel completely alone. I feel like I'm writing to myself. I'm happy writing tempered down the tears. I'm happy I'll go and sleep now and probably sleep.
But I'm at the end of the road.
I wish I weren't so dramatic. I wish I could see my options. But you know what? I've always been full of options at every turn of shit. Now, I'm tired.
I think there is more to say. I'll probably be back. Right now, the last thought is I wish my dad could go to hell.