Imagination is My Friend

Imagination is My Friend. 

There it is again. That old crusty bastard I know as desperation. I’m being visited by this energy more frequently as summer slips into fall. Instinctively, my body knows that it wants to be held as the chaos of summer’s frenetic cadence gets traded out for the predictable rituals of children going back to school, Autumn leaves turning warm hues of golden orange and vibrant reds, and pumpkin-spice lattes get reintroduced to a massive fan base of “basic bitches”. 
I want a boyfriend. 
If I stitched together the 10 “guy friends” I have in my periphery then I’d probably have the perfect man. But, they are all fragmented both in geography and in what forces dominate their personalities. And I’m fond of all of them for different reasons. I’m sure they are fond of me. But, that old crusty bastard I know as desperation reminds me that fondness has not resulted in having a boyfriend that wakes up next to me and greets me with morning sex and commitment. 
Actually, I want a husband. 
And this is when that old crusty bastard (OCB) I know as desperation really gets under my skin, scratches at my nerves, and plunges me into despair. I’m certain despair and desperation spend the night plotting how they can hijack any good-will I have towards life or men. I’ve found the only way I can muster up any courage to face these hounds is to turn drinking coffee into a ritual. It provides a small reprieve and activates my “reward” systems just enough that I can muster a rebuttal to the relentless assault that OCB and despair hurl at me. 
In some ways, these cohorts of distress and me are like an old married couple. We know what the other is going to say. 
Oh, I forgot to mention desire. Desire is fickle and tends to be the duplicitous member of the bunch because she teases us all with the idea something good could happen and the notion that it’s not. Bitch. 
Just imagine your eyes flickering open in the morning only to see your bed surrounded by familiar assassins who have made you their target and you have the time it takes to make coffee to negotiate with them so that you can live another day. Then desire starts to swing open the double doors of my subconscious like letting frantic doves out of a cage and those awarnesses fly into the meaning making space of my mind, get examined for evidence, only to arrive at the fact that I am fucking single, horny, alone, sad, desperate, dispondant, and no one is here to fuck me open to god--a saying coined by one of my mentors David Deida. 
The only solution I can think of is to “find the one.”
Have I mentioned logic yet? She is stoic and examines any solutions I give like a schoolmarm. Further, she slaps a ruler in her hand and looks at OCB, despair, and bunch of bullies in the room, turns her back to them and writes on the chalkboard, “Men ain’t shit.” Logic is also from the inner-city and feels slighted that although she is brilliant, her primary function is babysitting all of my emotions. 
All of this transpires within the first hour of the day. If I have something to do that day that requires my focus, this still plays out behind the closed doors of my subconscious. 
It would be nice to have someone to talk to who wants to listen. It would be nice to have a partner to pay the bills, go on trips, and navigate the intricacies of life with.
I’m certain, every single person feels this way at some point. They wake up and are too tired from being assaulted by their emotions to masturbate them away. Single touch isn’t the same as being touched by a partner. It doesn’t compare. But, then you have to be mindful of who the fuck is touching you and why. 

There needs to be a quality control aspect of dating. I swear to god I need an emotional TSA guard to screen all baggage before I get on board that dick! 

I hear the squeaking of chalk as logic underlines, “Men ain’t shit!” And the reason that statement rings true is that somehow trauma and grief got hired on as my TSA agents. They were blind and deaf and were like, “Let him through.” All of those relationships self-destructed in three months or less. 
By the time the second hour of the day has passed I’m digging through my “medicine kit.” I’m listening to Ram Das spout some shit about our egos, our karma, and how we are all love. But, I don’t feel that way. I feel lonely as fuck. I feel frozen in my chair sipping lukewarm coffee, and participating in imaginative scenarios where I’m skinny, rich, and somehow impervious to the desire for companionship. 
Entering hour three of my day, I’ve probably considered working out but have been too capsized by this emotional onslot to actually move my body in a constructive way. So, then I move into the frantic rhythm of “getting my business off the ground (for the 1000th time)”. I think about all the ways that I can reach people, all the formats I could use to make a difference, and somehow this quasi-benevolent state shuts up OCB. 
But, then the fraud department comes bursting in by the time I’m socializing with others. “Scan the content of her statements for validity.” Humor normally keeps them at bay. 
And now I really want a husband. I want a fuck’n dad. I want my mom and dad back. I need someone to protect me. I need someone to defend me. I need so much support. 
All the layers have been stripped down by one in the afternoon and my inner child is exposed. She is very very upset. Her stomach is grumbling because I forgot to eat anything substantial since all my energy was being poured into survival strategies. She has no structure to grab onto since we are still figuring out how to make it in this world without parents to guide us and money to pay for substitute parents like doctors, therapists, and healers. 
We eat together in silence, defeated and aware we should probably know what’s for dinner. 
Desire never let up.
The afternoon is turning into evening and she wants to be hanging out with our husband. She wants company. She wants sex. She wants to be praised for what a good job she did. She wants to make dinner and have him do the dishes. She wants, wants, wants. 
I’m exhausted at this point. 
Sometimes my imagination will try to soothe me. “He’s out there”. She’s been a really good friend all these years. And she’s had her ass kicked by loneliness. I’d say she’s the most resilient partner I have in all of this mess. In return for her kindness, I grab a book or watch a movie so we can escape into a place where desire can’t find us and desperation will retire for the night. 
I imagine that as I drift off to sleep imagination sorts through my hopes and dreams to prepare for the inevitable attack that will begin again around 7am. As she sifts through fractured parts of my identity, lessons from grief and loss, the brilliant performances I give as a counselor, and as she digs deep into the treasure trove of my lifetimes as a witch, I dream. I’m removed from the world and she is busy making sure that the world I wake up to will be filled with all the things I’ve not yet been able to experience. 


*If this resonated with you and you want help managing your emotions, reach out to me at
​303-917-7226. Text "Freedom" to that number and I will get back to you ASAP. 

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