Why do some people with fucked up childhoods go on as if nothing has happened?

Are you trying to ask why you're the one who feels it all and not them?

Answer my question.

When you're walking down the street, will anyone automatically assume you had a difficult upbringing?

I suppose not.

Perhaps it's the same for other people. They're using their own mechanisms that you can't see but it doesn't mean they don't still feel whatever you're feeling.

Why me though? Why did they never think of me?

Your parents?

Yeah. Why wasn't I special enough for them to get shit together. Other parents do it. They get their shit together for their kids. Why couldn't my parents do the same?

I wish I knew the answer.

*** 

As humans, we have never truly looked at ourselves.

We've seen nothing more than reflections of ourselves, but we have never seen out own faces.

Odd, isn't it? We don't even know what we truly look like.

How fucked up we are.

***

My new shrink is an old fucking hag. She is so damned ugly that I can't consider thinking about sex if I look at her. If I was a guy, she'd drop my boner faster than I could say 'fuck me'.

And I can say Fuck me pretty fast, many times if I wanted to.

But I like her. She's a mean cunt who seems as if she dislikes everyone, but I like who she is. I tell her about Yazeed. I tell her that I haven't spoken to him in what seems an eternity.

I tell her about why I crave sex. I tell her that I've started watching porn again. I tell her that I've busted almost four grand on data watching porn at work. I tell her that I've worn out my vibrator- the fucking thing died in me and I carried on using it, pleasuring myself manually with it till I came. I tell her about the cramp in my hand that I sometimes get because I'm pushing too deep inside myself with my finger and it's putting my hand at an odd angle.

I tell her about the man from work who wanted to take pictures of us and I let him. He doesn't have my face, but he has everything else. I don't know why I feel comfortable talking to her, but I do.

I also tell her that my behaviour had turned more erratic ever since Yazeed came back into my life.

I don't tell her why I can't look at him though. I don't tell her what thinking about him conjures up in my mind.

I don't tell her that he knows why I can't be around him.

*** 

I have two laptops.

The second is one no one ever needs to look at aside from me. I bought it second hand. It's not great but it connects to the internet and that's all I need from it. In my office, no one knows that it's there. It's slim and small and it can be stored in my draw for when I need it.

No one would ever guess it's password either- unlike my main laptop. Nombi knows that password. She's on it more often than I am these days...

Not this one though. My hand is already between my zip as the video loads. My door is open and anyone could walk through it but that idea excites me. Imagining someone walking in while my head is thrown back and shoulders are curved in, jolts passing through my body... 

Though from just a glance, no one will know that I'm clenching my thighs around my hand.

My mind is at peace as I touch myself. Everything else except this- driving myself to pleasure- falls away. Those little jolts and spasms in my muscles pushes everything else further and further away till finally, my breath hitches and I think of nothing else except the bright light between my eyelids and the way everything in my body falls into place as it loses control.

Then it comes back.

Everything.

What if someone had walked through that door.

What if they had seen me? What if Nombi had seen me? What would she think of me? Why do I do this to myself? Why can't I just...

I shut my laptop and put it back into my draw before I pull out a wet wipe from the package beside me. I look down at the stacks of portfolios on my table. I've been falling behind. I don't know how it happened, but I can't seem to focus on work. Staring at mindless codes always makes me drift to that place in my body... I can't stop it. 

It's him.

Ever since he came back into my life, it's been thrown off course. I barely even feel like myself any longer. He brings back everything I had ever run away from and I'm powerless against it. I hate feeling powerless. Yazeed needs to leave me. He needs to leave my mind. I need to purge myself of him and his memories. But the only way I know how is to shame myself even further.

I pick up my phone before my mind decides to protest.

"Hello."

"Hey." I drop my voice. I know he likes it when I do that. "Are you busy?"

"For you? Never busy enough."

"Come over. Bring your camcorder."

He wants me to moan for his video.

I don't, though. I want him to record us for me, not for him.

 None of this is for him. I want him here. I wanted him to fuck me against the door, banging at it just a little too much on the chance that someone might have walked past. I want him to lose control and stumble back as I blew him off. 

And I want him to hurt me.

He knows I want him to hurt me. He knows I want him to bruise me and he does but it's not rough enough. I want him to split me into two. I want him to break me. I want him to hurt me so badly that I won't think of anything else.

But he can't. He's too kind.

He can't hurt me the way I want him to.

So I let him record me. I let him record my face because... in some fucked up way, I know it will hurt somewhere down the line. I know it will and I finally forget for just a little while.

Just for a little while.