I had a session yesterday, and I cried so hard I could barely speak at times. I was forced to recount my feelings regarding myself as a teenager. I was forced to realize my promiscuity was a form of self-hatred. As I am realizing these things, I remembered a comment Slippy made to me once regarding his cheating. He told me he cheated on me because he had only been with two other girls before me and the number of men I had been with made him feel threatened and he had to catch up. What a load of horse shit! Anyway, as I am crying and recounting savage memories, I realize that I have hated myself since I could remember. And I don't hate who I am, I just hate the outside. However the outside reflects on the inside... and it all explains my lack of self confidence. It explains why at the age of 12 I though sex was love. I was just a child, yet I felt compelled to fuck an 18 year old man to prove I was not a child. Go fucking figure.

So, my therapist tells me to quit forgetting my Zoloft, and to go out once a week. I laugh. Who's gonna watch my child while I take time for myself, I ask. My parents, naturally. This is my therapist's solution, since I am a loser and have managed to make zero friends worth having here. There is the one woman who thinks she and I are the best of friends. She is the one that makes me cringe everytime I see her in public. She is skin and bones, always has a cup of coffee in one had, and cigarette in the other. She has tatoos on her arms and her veins pop up like little tents. I can imagine needles in those veins... pushing her elixer... the one that makes her "function." Of course, I am being judgemental. I have no proof she uses drugs, but she looks like it, you know? Anyway, I would never leave my child with her. The cops are at her house all the time, and her children (ages 6 and 3) beat the shit out of her all the time and tell her that she sucks. It speaks volumes. So I bring up this whole going out thing to my mom, who asks calmly if I explained to my therapist that she and my dad already watch my child for 18 hours out of the day. I hope this is an arbitrary figure, and not the truth, because I am dying to know what the fuck is actually happening to my time. When I tell her that I told my therapist that they watch Baby Girl, she said that my therapist obviously didn't understand the situation here and that she [my therapist] should be more considerate. At this, she left the room and went to bed, leaving me standing there with an armload of laundry, asking myself how it came to this.

This draws me to only one conclusion. If I stay here, and depend on my parents to watch my child while I persue a *normal* life, whatever the fuck that is, then I am doomed to living a lonely, bitter, miserable life. I will never have a date, much less a boyfriend, and I will die alone and extremely horny. At least when I was married I could get laid. Sad when that's what you miss. I remember Slippy asking me one day why I was with him after all the shit he had done in the past (this was before the arrest) He said that he must be good in bed... I didn't have the heart to fight that one. You cannot tell your spouse that you have had better sex. Your spouse is supposed to think that they are the best lay of your life. It's funny because I used to make Slippy tell me I was the best at oral sex. Silly stupid shit. Why was that important?

I'll tell you why: [pretending that you actually care] When you love someone, no matter what embellishes their sexual past, you cannot stand the thought of them with someone else, and you damn sure can't stand the thought that someone could be better than you. You don't want to suck them off, thinking all the while they could be wishing it was "Girlfriend X" because she was better.