Phone Sex & Mental Health

Not For The Faint Of Heart

I’d often think about the guy in Santa Clara, who got raped when he was thirteen. The worst memories refuse to die.

Twenty years later, that man paid me $1.99 a minute to listen to his stories, and I was never given an algorithm for that. He raped himself every day, having unprotected sex with strangers, and then paid me to hear him. I could not fix him, and that haunted me. I felt a heavy, lingering sadness afterwards, knowing that some pains are too deep to heal. I’m tough, or at least that’s what I’ve always been told, but moments like these make me question the true depth of my resilience.

I was never abused riding a bus or walking around at night, not even in the dark streets of the Czech Republic in the snow. However, I did get surrounded by a bunch of boyish men on a train, on my way through Slovakia. They grouped me in my seat. Instinctively, my gaze shot to the three women near me. They each appeared so engrossed in what they were each reading—they didn’t seem to notice me. 

A young man sat next to me and touched me—a poke to my shoulder. I said, ‘Go fuck yourself.’ It was the only time I’ve ever uttered that phrase and still been scared. That was a moment of resistance. Moments of violation and of standing up intermingle, shaping who I am now. I’m in an apartment complex. Dallas, technically. Could be anywhere, I don’t care. I have no key and nowhere to be. I want to see trees and my son’s smile. 

If it’s not broken, break it. 

Despite all this, I find some solace in remembering that I am still breathing and capable of finding moments of genuine connection, even with the weight of these memories. Sometimes, I take a walk in the park or sit quietly and listen to music that soothes me, letting the words flow over me like a soft embrace. When the darkness threatens to overwhelm, I think of my son’s laughter as a beacon of light guiding me through. Writing down my thoughts, pouring them onto paper, often helps me make sense of the chaos inside. These small acts remind me there is still beauty to be found, no matter how fractured my world seems.

I sit here, quiet, feeling the ache in my chest pulse with the shadows moving across the wall. My breath is small, barely enough. I haven’t tried to die in a long time. Yet despite it all, there’s a small light that refuses to go out. I think about my son, the way his eyes light up with curiosity, and I hold onto that. It gives me a reason to breathe on days I find it hard. I wonder if there is still a place for me in this world. 

I don’t care much about what I missed. I wish I could go back. I wish I weren’t sick. I wish I could see my son’s first Christmas again, with the dogs who are now dead. I want to cook in that kitchen. I want my garden. I wish I remembered my son’s twelfth birthday. I wish I remembered every second of January 7, same time each year.

I remember the delivery room, how big his head was, how he ripped me apart as he pushed his way out of my body. I wish I had my hammock. I wish I could smell honeysuckle. I wish I were riding a snowboard for the first time. I wish I had broken my leg because I was brave enough for roller derby. Again. I wish I still had friends. I wish I still snuggled my dogs: Fritz, Greta, and Harriet. I want my garden. 

I wish I were remembered. 

I wish I remembered more than this 10-story apartment building, this room with a bed. My entire life, I wish I had lived more of it right. I wish perfection would stay still. I stand in the middle of all these wishes. I wonder: Am I always slipping back into old lives? Can I find a way to be here now?

You think about putting the gun in your mouth. You think about dying. Maybe in the bathtub, water running, or out in a field of gravel, stones pressing into your back. Blood would trickle, maybe splatter, maybe just drip. Hair sticky, but not too much. The bathtub is easier to clean. But a field leaves nothing behind. Death is just another part of nature, a way to solve a problem. They never tell you that. They teach you times tables, that X equals zero, but they never say math’s just another unknown language, or that zero is nothing at all. Just a number, just a space in your head. 

Amnesia: Polaroid Pictures

Now. I’m an instant photograph. I’m an undeveloped Polaroid, seeking light to provoke my emulsion. Layers of amnesia. Retrograde. Antegrade. Layers of pieces of myself, diffusing into the painstakingly, slowly developing images. Pieces of whoever I am. Whoever I was. I’m not (not really) an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane, etc., etc., etc., am a Time Traveler. An object.

An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times as measured in the surrounding world does not equal the duration of the journey undergone by the object. This place. The soft grey shawl is on my bed, and my knitting project is on my bed. The book on my nightstand is The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, whose pinkish pages wait patiently for the next bit of words that I’m sure to emote before incessantly conversing about me. About myself. Every thing that used to be my life.

My existence used to encompass the world of seeing new places on other continents. And writing romance novels while I still believed in romance and excitement and love.

Memories of sharing meals with people I loved. Mimosas at brunch. Cosmopolitans before dinner. Vintage chardonnay with dinner. I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently, I’m 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving, I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. Every day I write the book.

Now — I’m pointed west, driving to Half Moon Bay. I’m in various makes of cars, all of which I owned. Today I’m driving a clutch — my blue Ford Ranger. This is the car I purchased with money I inherited after my mother died. I am now 18, and she died just a few months ago.

I drive past memories. The Half Moon Bay Nursery, on the north side of 92. Then I’m just starting to drive through the outskirts of Half Moon Bay. My town. My ocean, sea salt, and blue sky and sea, white wavy clouds tying the sun and sea together. I’ve finally realized and understood how crazy I am.

I haven’t watched a movie with another person in over 5 years. I haven’t laughed with someone in as many years. A few times, something I’m watching or hearing has caused the sound — the sharp chirp of a laugh. My laugh. The noise scares me. Hearing my own laugh is such an unfamiliar sound that it shocks me.

Time is on my side, and so am I. Gravity is giving me a gentle push to roll across the green grass. Damp grass leaves keep me alert. Behind me is the 5’4” wide trail I’ve left while rolling down this hill.

I’m jealous of many of the things I see on TV. And Instagram. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups.“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing.

Nothing goes away.” —Margaret Atwood

Nothing Goes Away

Now, I’m an instant photograph—an undeveloped Polaroid, seeking light to reveal myself. I’m composed of layers of amnesia—retrograde, antegrade. Pieces of who I am or once was diffuse into the painstaking, slow development of images. I’m not really an amnesiac. I, Michelle Kathleen O’Kane, am a Time Traveler. An object.

An object in time travels if and only if the difference between its departure and arrival times, as measured in the surrounding world, does not equal the duration of the journey it undergoes. In this place, the soft grey shawl and my knitting project are on my Anthropologie quilted bed. The book on my nightstand is The Echo of Old Books. My notebook, with its pinkish pages, waits patiently for more words—words I will emote before talking incessantly about myself and everything that used to be my life.

There was a time when everything felt possible. I wrote stories I believed in, and imagined new places and the hope of falling in love.

Memories of sharing meals with people I loved. Mimosas at brunch. Cosmopolitans before dinner. Vintage chardonnay with dinner. I wake up while driving in various cars, and I’m always the driver. Frequently, I’m on the unpopulated northern lanes of Highway 280, approaching the 92 exchange. Aware. While I’m driving, I surround myself with the color-changing hills. I’m humming along with Elvis Costello. Every day I write the book.

Now I drive west, heading toward Half Moon Bay. Always in my own car. Today it’s my blue Ford Ranger, the one I bought after my mother died. I was seventeen. She had only been gone a few months.

I pass the Half Moon Bay Nursery on the north side of 92. I drive through the edges of my town. My ocean, the salt in the air, blue sky, and the sea. White clouds stretch across the sun and water. I realize now how strange I have become.

I haven’t watched a movie with anyone in more than five years. I haven’t laughed with someone in just as long. Sometimes, something on TV or the radio pulls a laugh out of me—a quick, sharp sound. It surprises me. I hardly recognize it as my own.

Time is on my side. Gravity nudges me across cool, damp grass. Behind me, a 5’4” wide trail marks where I’ve rolled down the hill.

I’m jealous of many of the things I see on TV. And Instagram. Landscapes and cities and people at tables with white espresso cups.

“You don’t look back along time but down through it, like water. Sometimes this comes to the surface, sometimes that, sometimes nothing. Nothing goes away.”—Margaret Atwood

Turn Intention Into Action

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.

Make Room for Growth

Confidence doesn’t always arrive with a bold entrance. Sometimes, it builds quietly, step by step, as we show up for ourselves day after day. It grows when we choose to try, even when we’re unsure of the outcome. Every time you take action despite self-doubt, you reinforce the belief that you’re capable. Confidence isn’t about having all the answers — it’s about trusting that you can figure it out along the way.

The key to making things happen isn’t waiting for the perfect moment; it’s starting with what you have, where you are. Big goals can feel overwhelming when viewed all at once, but momentum builds through small, consistent action. Whether you’re working toward a personal milestone or a professional dream, progress comes from showing up — not perfectly, but persistently. Action creates clarity, and over time, those steps forward add up to something real.

You don’t need to be fearless to reach your goals, you just need to be willing. Willing to try, willing to learn, and willing to believe that you’re capable of more than you know. The road may not always be smooth, but growth rarely is. What matters most is that you keep going, keep learning, and keep believing in the version of yourself you’re becoming.