It’s not Herpes, I got it doing meth!
“Comment is free, but fact is sacred.”–CP Scott
I’m going to start using this as a diary because I can fancy myself as Anaïs Nin. I’ll start calling myself a diarist and spare myself the shame of ever being labeled a blogger (neither a journalist or a writer, just an asshole with an opinion inbetween).
I posted a picture of my mouth and someone commented that it looked like I had a cold sore. I actually in point of fact, have never had a cold sore, but people think that sometimes in pictures. I don’t have either strain of the herpes virus, but a lot of people do and its nothing to be ashamed of. Its just part of nature and nature is obscene. If I did have a cold sore though, I probably wouldn’t post a photo of it because most people don’t want to look at sores without warning. I brand myself as a sexual person, so posting pictures of my face with visible sores on it wouldn’t be a very clever marketing strategy. It was more of a logic fail on the part of the commenter.
It did inspire me though, to tell you all a story.
The bump or irregularity on my lower lip that I believe the person was referring to, is actually scar tissue. A lifetime ago (doesn’t the past feel like a distant country sometimes? Or is that just my peculiar affliction….), I was completely out of my mind on methamphetamine and thought my lips were actually made of two fat worms that had burrowed under my skin. I tried to dig them out with a sewing needle. I spent close to six hours trying to suss out the bloated grubs I thought were living inside me.
It’s weird how anxiety and adrenalin can numb you to any kind of pain. All I really remember feeling, was how cold my fingers felt. You’re always cold on meth, or too fucking hot. I remember how sticky the blood was making my skin as it tried to dry and congeal.
I watched my best friend slowly pull off her thumbnail with a nail file to get rid of her cuticles. So, my experience was hardly extraordinary.
I should tell this story to girls that I hear about in the industry who are getting “really messed up” on drugs, but I don’t.
There’s no bigger waste of time than trying to talk a junkie out of her habit, except maybe trying to talk a girl out of her abusive husband. I should know, I’ve been both.
The irony to me is that none of this happened while I was doing porn. Instead it happened in the squeaky clean confines of University. This dark phase had come and gone all in the time it takes to rack up a degree. It’s funny, the whole time I was there, no one really cared if I was taking mysterious tumbles down the stairs or using a teener of meth a week to help animate the sagging skeleton of my inner life. As long as I was making grades and writing good poems no one really noticed a thing.
I actually entered the adult industry painfully sober (let’s face it, pain is pretty much the only true teacher), and in the context of a loving, nurturing relationship with a decent man and a long term relationship with an equally gracious woman. My parents are gingerly supportive of my decision to ditch my academic pursuits in favor of a life time dedicated to erotica because they’re not used to seeing me so happy and well adjusted…pretty much ever.
It always frustrates me to hear people malign the adult industry as a place where no one cares, full of outlaws and ne’er-do-wells. That’s not because its not true, but because its said in a way that is meant to distance “their” world, from the “porn world”, as if there’s a lick of difference between the two, when they’re both inhabited by people.