Control: Control

It was in the midst of this pain that I had to get a normal job. My normal job will be described in the future, but basically I went batshit crazy and got paranoid schizophrenia, which had not been diagnosed or treated at all. I could hardly finish a sentence or hear when someone was talking to me. It was then that Richie — one of the friends I lived with — announced that he was getting married.

He was marrying Callie, a nice young lady who was probably one of the first young ladies he had met. He hadn’t yet lost all of the weight that he was going to lose, and he hadn’t yet traveled the world. He was a naïve young man who worked at a normal company doing something normal. He wanted to marry Callie without even owning a bed. He simply slept on the floor in one of the bedrooms of our apartment. They got engaged very quickly. Richie then said that he was bringing over Callie’s sister Alicia, who was supposed to date our other friend, Badger. He was a good guy but a bit pudgy. He would later lose the weight, and I would later gain some, but for now, I was the skinny one, so I had all the power here. Life is unfair, folks.

She showed up and immediately began asking about me, the cute, skinny white boy. (I think she was Latina –at least I’m hoping so, considering that line.) She started to talk to me about her life. She began to stop by. She was pretty and not fat but not skinny, somewhere in between. I could hardly pay attention to her given the voices that were speaking in my head, and since I had very little sexual experience, it wasn’t going to go well. I can safely say that it didn’t.

I took her to one of those crab places and we ate crab and drank something or other. We talked sometimes. Then, unexpectedly, my parents saw me for Thanksgiving or something and decided that I was batshit crazy, which was correct. I couldn’t hear when people were talking to me. I couldn’t finish sentences. I paced and screamed rape over and over for some reason. I was impossible to live with — still am. I am sitting down and writing this, years later, in my thirties, writing from a one-bedroom apartment bought for me by my parents. I still need some help to live because it is crushingly hard to work when you have paranoid schizophrenia and because disability doesn’t cover everything.

They convinced me to move out when our lease ended. The night before I moved out I told Richie that I wasn’t feeling well. He said to go out and wander the countryside and have experiences and try to figure out what was wrong with myself. I still hadn’t been diagnosed or given medications, and the medications weren’t even very effective yet, anyway. There’s a reason the genius scientist and mathematician in A Beautiful Mind didn’t like the pills — it is a burden to take them, and a burden that I carry every day of my life.

I drove out to the countryside and left my car on the side of the road and left without a compass, supplies or water. I found a town after awhile and bought liquids and tried to find my way back to my car when I realized that the mountains were way too far away and that I would never reach them and that I might die from dehydration on a fucking day trip. I realized that I wasn’t well. I’ll tell you a little about what I think about during those times in a later chapter, but I can say that I was occupied. I was definitely occupied, thinking about things, important things. I was thinking about the stories that I was telling in my head, ridiculously thinking that they mattered and bothered because I couldn’t control them any longer.

I lost control of the stories in my head. The voices took them over and made the bad guys embarrass, humiliate, and kill the good guys every time there was a story in my head. That’s what I thought about, and losing the story every day was hell. Now you know.

I was leaving to get better until Alicia walked in. It was the last night she was going to see me and she wanted to make love to me, she said. She said that she wanted to make love to me. At first I was hesitant, but then she asked several times. I began to get more and more interested. I began to crumble. I decided that I would go buy a condom and make love to her. Then she went up to my bedroom and my apartment. We were in the main room — I don’t know why — and she took her top off, and she was topless. I don’t remember if I had a condom; I don’t think so. I began to kiss her and caress her breasts, and she went into the bedroom, and then my dick was throbbing, and then she very reasonably stopped me.

I stopped. She said that she didn’t want to take her pants off. I can safely say that her pants didn’t come off. She said that she didn’t want to even though she had earlier said that she would do it. I don’t know why no one prepared me for the moment when you have to maturely stop, but I managed to do so.

Here’s the thing: it takes a little bit of willpower to not take off her pants. At one point I asked again, and at another point I held my hand up to see if she’d let me touch her under her pants. She batted it away, and I let her bat it away. She said that I was a pervert, and I hated myself just then.

I had to settle for a few seconds of blowjob and being masturbated, slowly, for an hour until I finally came. That’s what happened, to the best of my recollection. I just wasn’t ready for the fact that someone would say no when your dick was throbbing and that you would have to stop. It’s not something that people talk about. They don’t talk about it.

My dick throbbed, and I couldn’t get in her pants. I was masturbated. It was okay, I guess.

On the following day I was ashamed of myself. I wondered if she was mad enough to hate me forever for asking again. I wondered if she would feel like she was hurt or something. I wondered if she said something that I didn’t hear that was disturbing and that changed everything. I certainly could hardly hear anyone that night; it was a bad night. I just wanted to write an essay about the subject, talking about the experience. I had to settle for being masturbated. I couldn’t get anything else. I never slept with her at all. She asked to fly to Illinois for Christmas, and I let her but wouldn’t be with her physically. She was mad that I wouldn’t make love to her and treated her like a friend. I don’t know why she even considered being with someone so mentally ill who had asked several times and settled for something. I don’t know why, but she pursued me. I said no; I wasn’t comfortable with myself yet. I needed to feel better mentally before I would date anyone. I needed to be with someone with whom I felt relaxed and comfortable. I couldn’t feel that way, not without medication and treatment for schizophrenia.

I went on like that for a few years. I just masturbated for years after that. My friends knew that I loved to masturbate, and thought wrongfully that I was obsessed with sex. I’m not; I just use it to relax and not have to think about sex so much. It helps me to focus and not worry about things to masturbate once a day, most days. I suppose I shouldn’t write any of this, but it is fairly true and I thought that I should repeat it.