Rob-world

I’m still basking in the delayed glow of last week’s IDEAL Montreal trip.  It was the BEST trip I’ve EVER taken with Butch, and, as a result, the best vacation I’ve had in over a decade, since I stopped traveling with Ciaran.  I worked hard to give him space, and, in return,  he made sure I got to take in the bits of weirdness that I LOVE.  Like these  old communal baths he found.  I think he was expecting something more salacious than the bastion of economic functionality these baths were, when indoor plumbing was a luxury few could afford.  Ah well; either way we got there, I enjoyed it.

I’’M TRAVELING TO Montreal soon, and there is something epic in the idea of killing yourself in the city where you were allegedly conceived.  I’m so down on myself, these days, that that little bit of synchronicity seems mighty appealing.  They’ll give financial control for the trip to Butch because I’m FUCKING INCAPABLE of handling my own money.  I’m in a constant state of depression because I lost all autonomy in the aftermath of the assault.  I’m only living because Jaime needs me; I’m too depressed to write anymore.  I still think about it of course. But in losing control of my own life:  I lost control of my ability to write.