I was going to delete my account, did in fact do it, but reactivated, because I felt the care I received was worth holding onto, and I can't afford to isolate myself any more than I already am, even if I'm upset with a couple of posters.
Anyway, as to writing, I do write web content, though the work is hard to get, and so I don't get alot of it, and it pays not too well.
Perhaps whoever went right out and googled my name came across my blog and read my stuff. That would be nice.
Eugene's stopped asking me for money again, and my heart is turning back toward him. Not to send him money, but to falling in love.
He is my African prince, but maybe he is better adored from afar. I don't know. His pure fur voice is so soft and sweet; his gracious words so lovely, there's a possible light at the end. I could lose not only this isolation but this bone-wrenching loneliness.
"I love you," he continually says. "Never forget that."
And now that I've used the rest of the loan to continue paying off my ld phone bill, there can be no argument. I simply haven't got it.
I also told him I couldn't sponsor him, and I found that out from you guys on the forum. No names were mentioned. I just told him I'm talking to people who know more about this stuff than I do.
If any of you know that song by the Mighty Sparrow, this fur-voiced man with his lovely accent makes love "African Style."
He can sure woo.
I once dreamed of being Mrs. Eugene ---$$# and raising his two charming children as my own--replacing the family that doesn't want me.
I really prayed this was my 2nd chance, to reclaim what I'd lost.
I guess not, and I'm sad.
The only thing I can do now is fantasize: make him a dream character until he either disappears or comes through for me.
For all I know, he may actually stop relying on me and do something worthwhile.
In the meantime, I can listen to the music of "South Pacific", imagine myself on BaliHai, not meeting Liot, but Eugene, my African prince, in full regalia, his voice furrier than ever.
I can munch chocolate. I can write, if my depression isn't gripping me too much, and I can hear the fur in his voice any time he wants to call me.
I have this book called "Catch Him and Keep Him", which is to show you what attracts a man and can hold him.
The only caveat is, if the man is seriously immature, or a psycho, or very selfish, it won't work. For all I know, Eugene is one of those.
But for now, I can have "Prince Eugene of Africa", my own version of him till whatever is supposed to happen, happens.
I can see if there are any black churches in Toronto to which I might get a ride on Sundays.
I can build a furry world inside my head, to shelter me till I can get back on my feet, or till Eugene grows up more and decides he is going to try to get to Canada without putting his weight on me. I'm fragile, you see. I can barely carry my own weight; I cannot carry the weight of another.
And realistically, it would be good if my mate didn't have two young kids, because although I find his children, especially his daughter, sweet, my health isn't what it used to be. I don't mean my blindness. I mean the rest.
It would be better if my mate were financially well-off, and it was just him and me.
For those of you who googled me, I hope you found some good things, too. They do exist. I have a blog, on which I write my experiences.
Several years ago, I self-published a novella, though I don't know if you can find it any more.
I appreciate the one who said they wouldn't know how to handle what I'm going through. Ditto. Some of you are probably going through situations I wouldn't know what to do.
What I mostly don't know what to do, is get some loving touching from someone who cares and knows me. My mind is full of my hands touching and playing with fuzzy pipe-cleaners, petting kittens and dogs, holding my newborn daughter, as her lithe little fuzzy-headed body writhed and wriggled in my arms, looking for a breast.
Milk and honey flowed from my endorphin-rich body.
My daughter is seventeen, hasn't wanted me to call her "Thee-Thee" for a long time, and I loved calling her that. A therapist I had saw a "hell of a lot of love in that" name.
Eugene is my "thee". Caroline was my "thee". But people stop wanting to be my sweet thee, and I still love or adore them.
I still reach for them, and there's a great big not-thereness.
I hate not-therenesses.
I like cuddly, substantial, living, breathing, loving therenesses.
You reach out, and there he or she is.
I love Jesus, and I know he's there, but it's not the same thereness. It's more true, and he would never ask for money from me, and I simply adore him as my Lord and Savior.
But I need touch so bad. I am a very sensuous person. My sense of touch and my sense of hearing are tied together, so that the sound of "thee" or "that" feels like the fuzzy, long pipe-cleaner, or the fuzzy paw of a cat, stretched out on the bed.
In the long-term absense of any touch, in the great sea of not-thereness in which I find myself, in computer keyboard land and disembodied voices on the phone, I feel strongly Eugene's arms around me, hear his "there, there" in my ear, feel the fuzzy baby's head or pipe-cleaner such "th" words bring to me, or the feathery feeling of such sounds.
If you think this is odd, it is. I have touch/hearing synesthesia, and only 1 percent of synesthetes have this kind of synesthesia.
It makes me sensuous, and less able to cope with love touch deprivation than some people are.
Also, I read in an article that bisexuals are more sensuous/sensual than either gay or straight people. Don't know if that's true in all cases, but it sure is in mine.
I want Eugene so bad. I want to hear that African purr. I want him to be the prince I dream he is--by making his way to me without depending on me, by cultivating the patience to wait the amount of months or years that getting a Canadian visa would take, without depending upon me.
If he can do that, get himself to this country, meet me, and build a true relationship with me, with Christ at its center, then I will still be honored to become Mrs. Eugene ---.
If not, then I will have to cry it out, write stories about an African prince with a furry voice, and suffer till he's out of my system. Yech. Not looking forward to that, especially when I hear him say, "I love you. Never forget that."
I never can. Not unless he proves himself a complete scoundrel, and someone better comes along.
It's not just Eugene. My only offline girlfriend, Caroline, was my sweet thee, and when she broke it off, I was devastated. She wooed me good, and wrapped my heart in a pretty lesbian pink, making clear to me what I was, after years of wondering, that I was, indeed, gay.
But there was a conflict between me and my God.
Still, I adored Caroline, and revelled in being her girlfriend, till she broke it off, and would not reconcile.
Then, Margaret from Australia came along, and though she never asked me for money, I wondered why she was saying such crude and vulgar things, as she claimed to be a Christian.
She also broke it off.
Then, I met Sue, from South Africa. She was a classy lady, till she disappeared and I was told that she was charged with negligence because of a fatality at her work site, and could I send her money for a lawyer? Nope. I agonized, and finally wrote the site, and she was kicked off.
But now, Eugene. Damn. I adore too much, and I know it, but that's who I am.
I am a touchy-feely person, asked to live in this isolation, deprived of all things touchy-feely, and it is the most unnatural life one could possibly ask me to live. I mean, it is unnatural for me.
As a wife, I was an adoring sex kitten; as a mother, my breasts flowed with milk, and I gurgled when my babies gurgled. That's just who I am. As a pet owner, I love to touch and play with my writhey-lithey little There-There, hear his purr, touch his fur, and feel the way his tail brushes over my skin, thippy-thapping across my hands or my leg, making me squeal with maternal delight.
Then there's this wooey thing he does with his ears. He flaps them furrily on my hands. The broad, flexible flaps make a sweet "thapp thapp" sound, like snow falling. Sometimes they make a velvety "pap-a-papp" sound, and sometimes a "snap" sound.
I could listen to his flappy ears all day, and play with the thippy-thappy end of his sleek-furred tail.
But he gets tired of it after a while.
I love to feel his lithe, supple form stretching and folding into himself, much as my newborn babes did when they emerged from the womb. I love the way he rolls against me when I'm not expecting him to, and my face, once lonely, is suddenly melted in fur. Fur that glistens smoothly under my tingling face.
So you see, how unnatural this lifestyle is for me, and how bad for my mental health.
I'm not saying Eugene could cure my mental health conditions, but a healthy sex and love life would go a long way to help what ails me.
I need touch, really bad. I need an outlet for all this milk and honey inside me, and having no healthy outlet, and feeling frustrated by not having a way to get out, I become more angry and hopeless as time goes by and the wheels of bureaucracy and hard-hearted policies grind me into dust.
OK, maybe I can finally sleep.
If you've listened this long, and can really know what I'm talking about, God bless you.
I know in some places in Europe, disabled people are given money by the government to use for sex. I once heard on a documentary how a disabled man went from England to I think, Switzerland, a disabled man and his parents--to meet with a sex worker and make love with her.
As a Christian, I could not do that, but I've been awfully tempted. If I were rich, and could hire a beautiful, black escort for the weekend, who would be tender and sweet with me, I don't know. It would be very difficult to resist.
My online girlfriend, Margaret, lived in a group home, and she was very concerned about disabled people's sexual and emotional needs going unmet on an appallingly regular basis.
I know alot of such people. They are considered less than human, and Margaret tried to teach me techniques to help me comfort myself.
But it is not the same as a lovely man or girl bringing you flowers, giving you love, spreading your bed with rose petals, and filling your ears with endearments.
I would need alot of what sex wworkers call emotion work, and one night or one weekend wouldn't really satisfy me.
But meanwhile, the thing builds up with no healthy outlet.
I'm sorry, I was not called to the celibacy St. Paul was, and I am glad most people were not. Maybe he wished all Christians could be "as I am", but if that were true, Christianity would have died out with the apostles.
People had kids, and taught them Christ. In their turn, they grew up and had children of their own, and taught them.
I'm sorry if anyone thinks I'm a hypocrite. All my story is true, the good and the not so good, just as all your stories, good and not good, are true.
I would like to see what it is like to wait for sex until I am married. I wonder if it would be more intense, more lovely, more holy, and would God bless it and the union more?
That's all. And I was just saying that I don't think it's right for CIC to demand that a couple "test drive" each other. What if their beliefs forbade or harshly discouraged that sort of thing?
Not everyone wants to live together first.
That's all I was trying to say, nothing more, nothing less.
My shoulder is throbbing with pain, so I have to stop writing. I guess I'll try to get some sleep, dream of my African Prince, created like Eugene, but glorified, as dreams are.
If I can't have the real thing ... or if it will take a longer time with alot more waiting ...
