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.