Under my skin

I'm so scared. Scared of the future, of the past and the present. Of the ghosts in my mind. The literal and the figurative ones. The metaphors clinging at my throat, hardly explaining anything at all. What's the point? The point of what, I don't know. Something's lingering, I can't catch it. Something's upsetting me, I can't feel it. A glimpse of drowning with a hint of decay. Tears behind my eyes, too faint to show themselves.

To me, it's easier to imagine another hell instead of a heaven. It hurts less, I've come to realise. That I'd rather imagine having schizophrenia, or being a prostitute than imagine being happy. It hurts because I can never be happy. It's impossible. It's not impossible that I become worse, and slip into a psychosis again. It's not impossible that I sell my ass to someone who wants me for money. Whoever that could be.

I've been with unattractive men that I felt nothing for, it's not unimaginable for me to be with such a person for money, the difference would not be that big. I've actually been super close to accept money for a sex act once, but I declined. It felt unworthy to the person I was with. I saw it as a mercy thing, I did him a favour, I gave him something he had never had before. Although, I could always use a little extra cash, if I'd ever run into a situation like that again. But no one would pay to be with me, not really.

I fantasise about it though. Wish for it to happen. I don't know why. I find it alluring somehow, to get money for such a simple thing and be able to call it "work". (It's not illegal by the way, to sell, only to buy.) It seems simple to me, but perhaps not on a regular basis. I'm not much for having sex at all, I'm practically asexual. It's so hollow, you know? So pointless. There is so much else out there in the world that is so much better, and believe me, I've had really great sex. Even if you don't, I do actually find better pleasure from a lot of other things. Even in this hell.

But maybe that is why. I'm too fucked up to find any real pleasure in anything, and I might be too fucked up sexually because of the rape, which was by the way the first time I had sex. That's not a good introduction into the adult world. I do feel like it wasn't that that corrupted me though, I was fucked up already before then. It was the first assault when I was nine. That was the fucked up factor number one. It wasn't much, but it changed my world. It changed it to a dark and gross place where sex was evil, control, power, greed and I still can't let go of that. I still can't shake the feeling that it's all hell no matter how or where you twist and turn it. No matter how good it is, I've always found it disgusting. I've tried, I've really tried to change my world view but it's like depression: you can't change your view of the world by telling yourself that it's not as bad as you think.

Cause it just doesn't work that way. I've been thinking about it, as I write about the awful things related to sex and the like. I've been thinking about why I see it as ugly, why I can't drift away and let pleasure take over me, why I feel it's just a necessary evil. Something to take care of, get rid off, wash away down the drain. I want to be able to put some use into it, and I think that is why I have wanted to become a prostitute. To make it mean something.