No longer in the UAE....

Still Tainted
;)

Fuking Faggots

What the fuck is wrong with people in the Arab world? It doesn’t take that long away to realize that the number of gay rapes in the UAE outweigh the strait rapes by a large, LARGE number. And being gay is haraam according to Arabs – one of the most frowned upon things, really. The idea that if you fuck a guy you are not gay, but if you are fucked by a guy you are gay is distorted, twisted, and completely fucked. I am sick and fucking tired of trying to defend a nation of people so completely fucked they can not see that. News flash, if you can cum by fucking a guy, if sticking your cock into another man (or boy as in many cases) ass, turns you on enough to even get you hard, YOU ARE A FAGGOT – no matter how you want to twist it.

I am so sick of reading about this in the daily news. I am sick of denying the fact that there is something seriously wrong with most Arab nations! Rape is a horrible, horrible thing. But a man raping a man just seems so much worse than a man raping a woman. And gay rape - it’s the most common form in the sandlands! A rapist is not a man to begin with, but a gay rapist – he is ALSO A FUCKING FAGGOT.

Fucking SICK.

I don’t remember the last time…

I remembered a dream – until this morning when I woke up. As vivid as reality, as surreal as only a dream can be - he came back into my life for just a moment. I felt nothing for him, even as he pulled me close and kissed me. I felt only sorrow and regret for being caught, mid-kiss that I did not initiate. Is it possible to ever fully get over your very first love? And if so, was that it?

Or has he just somehow crept back into my life through dreams, as I slowly start becoming me again? For years he seemed to pop back into my life either in person, or through dreams when I needed to forget him the most. It was almost as if, as soon it stopped hurting he was there again peeling a scab off a healing wound. But I have not hurt for him, longed for him, even really thought of him in years. Why should he come back now?

I read too deeply into things I guess. But I am one of those people who think everything, everything happens for a reason perhaps the reason for this is still just beyond my comprehension.

Anyway, the pills seem to be doing their job. Slowly I am finding myself more ambitious, more motivated to get the hell out of the house. I find myself with more energy and less ability to sleep during the day. I often wake up throughout the night, and find myself watching TV for a few hours before I can fall back asleep again. That could just be my body adjusting.

I miss my son terribly and almost feel as though I should go back to the UAE now. But I know that I am not nearly well enough to face the plastic world again, without falling back into that dreaded routine of insanity. I speak to my son often, and know he is doing well. Its hard to answer his simplest questions, like when am I coming home? Somehow, I think he will understand when he is old enough. At least I hope so.

Not really surprised

Misdiagnosed in Dubai, is not really a surprise. UAE does not have much when it comes to a psychiatric health industry and I got to learn that the hard way; from the hospitals literally running out of drugs mid-patients courses, to them over and under prescribing in seemingly-lethal combinations that often made me feel worse than better, or switching psychiatrists each and every time you go for an appointment so there is no real history of your condition or progress, other than a medical chart showing which meds you have been prescribed and which ones you have not. I pity the psychologically ill in the UAE.

What did surprise me was the fact that I did not reduce myself to tears at meeting this man. I was able to smile a little and laugh at his sarcasm when he mentioned the real chance I was given, as he took the brief of my history down into his notes. With no real role models, alcoholism, 4 fathers (3 of which abusive) and 2 mothers, sexual molestation, haunting me as I moved to the plastic city, I walked right into the nasty relationships with men, the abuse, further sexual assault, addictions, and so much more without even realizing it – I was never really given a chance. And though, I started to cry a little as he asked me what I really felt of myself, he was able to help me crack a smile again quick, when he questioned whether or not my mascara was waterproof. He was a decent older man; the type you can trust has the experience he has behind him simply by looking at his frail old body and silver hair.

Rather than having Bipolar tendencies as diagnosed in the UAE, I in fact have severe tendencies that signify two almost sister diagnoses, Clinical Depression and Borderline Personality Disorder. After reading up on both of these, they make a lot more sense and paint a far more accurate picture of what I am really going through and feeling.

I can not say that one hour with a sincere, educated, experienced Dr, who has already gone out of his way to help check my medical status and help me find a proper GP, let alone make me feel comfortable when talking to him, has induced any improvement; I do have a lot of hope in the medications he prescribed as well as the help he will offer me through future appointments. And I guess increased hope and positive thoughts can only do a person like me any good.

Vacation Over…

I woke up this morning from dreams about getting to my shrinks appointment today. I do not know what scares me more, the trip itself, getting lost in this city where everything feels like dejavu, or having to attempt to explain the last 26 years of my life, the years that made me what I am today, to a complete stranger in less than an hour.

Whatever it is, it’s the first step to finally getting over the haunting my own mind forces upon me, each and every day of my life. It’s been this way for as long as I can remember; incredible, unexplainable misery somewhere in the back of my mind, creeping through every moment of happiness, every smile; the need to isolate myself from the world; the destruction I cause myself over and over again that I can recognize but cannot seem to control; the obsessions I learn to love for some undefined amount of time then abandon in a moment as if they never existed; the self-doubt; the fear of me; the destructive relationships with people as messed up as I am.

At least here in the west I have hope. There is real hope on every corner, with every sincere strangers face. It’s almost like each and every one of them are wearing their hearts on their sleeves just struggling to make it each day, like everyone else. Here, daemons don’t seem to hide behind perfect make-up, designer clothing, and layers of lies so thick the host can’t even see through them anymore. Here, people are real. And if I ever want to get back to the world of plastic people to be with my son, I need to learn to be real with me again.

So, today, I take that first real step. I guess the vacation is over for now.

Does it matter

That I really just do not care anymore?

Crack – the Epidemic

Every society has its flaws. Reading Gulf News this morning I found this, not so uncommon article about a drug bust in the UAE. In UAE, we get to read about these busts, as adults we may have encountered drugs of some form at one time or another, but there really isn’t a huge problem on a social level. And I believe that law enforcement is going to continue making this a fact for a long time to come.

Last week we went to Beacon Hill Park. There, we fed ducks & geese, and watched an old man feed squirrels peanuts from his hand. It really is a beautiful park, the type of free-entry parks Dubai could use. Anyway, we sat down at a bench, just 30ft from a children’s playground where 20 odd children were playing. I lit up a cigarette, feeling somewhat guilty as in the west smoking is so frowned upon, you learn to feel guilty when little eyes can potentially see you.

A guy walks up from behind me with a cigarette in his hand, and asks to borrow my lighter. I dig through my bag and pull it out. As I hand it to him, he places his cigarette in his pocket and pulls out a crack pipe. He proceeds to smoke crack, right there, in the peak of day, right next to us complete strangers, and 30ft from the children.

Rick pretty much freaks out on the guy, which much makes him turn away. I no-longer want him to return my lighter (God knows what’s on it, Crackheads aren’t the cleanest of folk) so I tell him to keep it, just get out of there. He proceeds to walk a little down the path, and sits behind a bench. He sucks on his pipe a little while longer before starting to rummage through the grass. He’s now searching for any rocks he may have possibly lost while smoking. He spends a good 15 minutes doing this, while we contact the police.

Crack is the most addictive street drug, created by free-basing cocaine with (the most common choice) baking soda. It’s incredibly cheap, available to the public, easy to use and offers a euphoric high that will last less than five minutes. A user will no sooner be done smoking, when they’ll be craving another hit because the down is simply that unbearable compared to the high. And it’s now a real problem in British Colombia, from teens to senior citizens.

The highly addictive nature of the drug will have most people addicts after just one hit. It turns decent people into the soulless, turns friends into shells of what they used to be, and turns almost all into slaves of the pipe. Social repercussions of this increase violence, theft, and pure delinquency. Good girls literally become crack-whores, and decent men often end up homeless, mooches, and thieves, if not worse.

I read an entire book on it one day after seeing our favorite hobo, sucking the pipe down on the boardwalk. As I sat out on the balcony reading, my next door neighbor, also on her balcony asked me why I was reading a book titled Cocaine. As part of an elderly couple I thought just drank a little much, I told her the truth, I was curious because it seemed to be everywhere here. She came back and asked again, not 15 minutes later, only this time inquiring whether or not the book tells how to spot people on crack.

A conversation stuck, and she mentioned that she’d just gotten home. I asked her what they did for work, as it seemed both her and her man slept most days and worked nights. She responded by telling me, he was a taxi driver, and she was a hooker. Thinking she was joking, I laughed and told her it’s nothing to be ashamed of. She coughed and then shot back at me, ’I’m not kidding.’

She then proceeded to tell me that her cough was from ’sucking the devils cock’, and asked if that description was given in the book. She went on to talk about her being on 160mgs of some other drug simultaneously, and if she wasn’t smoking crack she was shooting it up. She said she needed help. She then decided she wanted to show me something so she ducked back into her house, for about ten minutes. When she came back there was a camera in her hand and a needle sticking out of the top of her shirt. Though I wanted to believe she just was attempting to hold or conceal it here, it honestly looked more like it was somehow braced by her chest – sticking out of her skin.

Searching through the pictures she found what she was looking for and handed it to me to take a look. There she was as she said, just six months before, a beautiful much-younger-looking woman, with an infant in her hand and a toddler on each side. As I started to look, her needle started to slip, she rushed back into her place. In the photo, she was clean, well dressed and her children were perfect examples of Gerber babies. When she got back, she proceeded to tell me that she’d lost her son six months ago, and she’s now losing herself to crack. She told me she had a college degree, was once a medical worker, and the guy she was staying with was angry at her because she wouldn’t sleep with him. She pulled up her pant leg and showed me bloody drips making their way down, from where she’d obviously stabbed herself with a needle just minutes prior, and almost in tears cried she really needed help.

Other than agree with her, that she needed help, there wasn’t much I could or can do. Crack is a growing epidemic in British Colombia. May it never become that in UAE.

Later that day by the way, the Crackwhore came back, and asked me if there was a man in the tree in front of our building. She strenuously tried to point him out to me, just above the plastic bag that had somehow made its way to a branch. There was no man. God help these people.

This isn’t the most thorough article on it, but here’s wikipedia’s information on crack: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crack_cocaine

Far more information on Cocaine & Crack Cocaine can be found here: http://www.cocaine.org/