Woke up too early, even for me. If it’s before 5 am, I feel like a mental patient. Trying to be more positive, and not let despair overtake me. The anxiety is quiet and creeping, a subcutaneous murmur of regrets, a pit of churning, rumbling fears and suspicions. Maybe I am making a huge mistake. Maybe every word I’ve ever spoken and written has been a waste, an offense, an affront to reason and good taste. Have I been a good friend, a good boyfriend, a good son, citizen, or employee? In this moment I can only say no, I have failed on all counts. Have I squandered my youth, my good looks, my intelligence? Did I let my faulty dick run my life into the ground? I’m now trapped in a pit with no money, no career, no identity, and a silicone device jammed into a spongy protuberance that I’ve always hated with searing, flesh melting intensity. The persistent soreness is stretching my threadbare patience. It still hurts. Before I couldn’t get aroused without the attendant psychological pain of an obstinately limp dick. Now I can’t get aroused without the attendant physical pain of stubbornly sore tissues. It’s rigid now, but feels like a fire ant Mardi Gras, a cheese grater deep tissue massage. Before I desperately struggled to stay erect, and now I desperately struggle to suppress the grinding ache of my mechanical member, gritting my teeth like Clint Eastwood battling an impacted bowel.
Best case scenario: I am still just healing, and my tissues are stretching out. The pain and soreness are signs that my penis is slowly adapting to the device, which was expertly oversized just slightly at the time of the surgery. And it will be comfortable, large, and unyielding. But what if it flat out wasn’t sized properly, or it hasn’t healed correctly? What if my body just isn’t taking it the way it should? I had this done by the best surgeon in the game, in my eyes at least. Nevertheless, everyone makes mistakes, even the best. Maybe I am one of those mistakes? Maybe a sterling reputation and impressive track record sometimes translates into being a little arrogant, a little careless, a little sloppy. The attitude of “this will work out because I simply don’t mess up”. If I need more surgery to correct anything, I can’t afford it. I couldn’t even afford the surgery I just had, and I’m in the process of setting up payment plans with the doctor and hospital to cover what my insurance wouldn’t. It’s going to end up being around 5000 dollars total, which to people who make money is doable, and to people who don’t, well, it’s going to take some time. If I have to go back under the knife, it’s another financial punch to the gut. And then there’s the added recovery time, the pain, the nightmare of immobility and helplessness. On top of which there is no surefire guarantee that everything would be fixed, that I will ever be totally comfortable and functional.
While visions of protracted penis pain swirl in my brain, my girlfriend is losing her mind, and taking mine with her. She has been on two kinds of anti depressants for most of her life, and has recently been unable to get one of her prescriptions refilled. The result is paranoia, extreme moodiness and sensitivity, bursts of mania, and a sleeping schedule that would put Rip van Winkle to shame. We’re both depressed. My depression manifests in insomnia and bad writing, hers in hibernating and crying. She has nightmares. What little sleep I’m getting is disrupted by her inchoate cries. I’m sent to the rickety card table in the dining room, where I’ll write uselessly to no one. My life in D.C. is a thicket of loneliness, a social deprivation chamber. My girlfriend is even worse off, as her job puts her in a closet cataloging objects all day, and she has made no attempt whatsoever to meet people. I am her sole source of real human contact. She has had a few friends from out of town visit, but if not for that she would be utterly isolated. I can’t hold two people up, I can hardly care for myself, and I can’t deal with my own problems while another person falls to pieces in our shitty apartment in the shittiest part of a shitty city.
I wanted to read Plato and talk about Justice, but I’m just too goddamn distracted and anxious. Maybe if I get some sleep soon.