Posted on May 28, 2009


Where are we? What the hell is going on?
The dust has only just begun to fall,
Crop circles in the carpet, sinking, feeling.
Spin me round again and rub my eyes.
This can’t be happening.
When busy streets a mess with people
would stop to hold their heads heavy.

For some reason, things have not been going my way today. Part ego, part the belief that there is in fact a “my way” and that things should follow in that general direction, and part the solid realization that I can never take the easy way out again. That my life is in fact changing, be it for the better or worse, the changes I am going through, the new turn in my life’s direction, is completely up in the air, and not up to me. I am powerless. My life had become unmanageable. All I can do is hope for the best and continue the path I am on. These are the things I say to myself while driving down Beverly Blvd. crying on the phone with Duncan as he repeats the things I need to hear through my blue tooth, sometimes it’s hard to drive while crying, with your dog farting in the back, sometimes its hard to breathe, and sometimes it’s hard to be alive, but this is all part of the process and suppose I shouldn’t be so terrified, but I am. I am.

Hide and seek.
Trains and sewing machines.
All those years they were here first.

I had dinner the other night with a few old friends, friends from the industry who are real friends, not industry friends, and one confessed that she has been reading my blog. She said she agreed with everything I was saying, that the feelings of confusion as to whether I am an onscreen persona or myself, Jennie, resonate with her, and there are times when she is not sure who she is, and how she got here. She said that I am saying everything true, and that these things can only be said once you are out of porn. This statement stuck with me for one big reason, and I think it is that reason that I’ve managed to have a meltdown on Beverly today, driving and crying, repeating to myself that my life is changing for the better, and I have choices. And I do have choices, but going back to porn is not one of them.

Oily marks appear on walls
Where pleasure moments hung before.
The takeover, the sweeping insensitivity of this
still life.

Aside from my pride, which would never allow me to go back on a final decision just because it is easy, and I’m financially insecure, the industry would never have me back as I am now, only as I once was. And that is someone I can no longer be. After being scrupulously honest about my state of mind for the past year, with myself, and with the world, I can never return because I will be seen as a traitor, as someone who built herself on a lie, and for some reason that is heartbreaking. For some reason, that makes me feel more hopeless than the thought of never taking a drink, of not having sex for a year, and of living in a new place with 400 less phone contacts combined ever could. The safety net that I’ve been using for my wild trapeze act has just fallen to the sandy ground while the lion tamer laughs at me flying through the air with nothing below. But reality.

what you say?
that you only meant well? Well, of course you did.
what you say?

that it’s all for the best? Ah of course it is.
what you say?
that it’s just what we need? And you decided this.
what you say?
What did she say?

For the past 8 years, if I needed to pay parking tickets (which I’ve paid out over $200 in the past month) I would work an extra day. If I needed to pay my registration (which just expired last month) I would do a solo scene. If I needed to get my car’s oil changed, tires replaced and rotated and detailed, I would give someone a blow job. Making money became so fucking easy, but at what expense? What have I lost in exchange for a nice two bedroom home, a Mercedes Benz with four new tires and current registration and the ability to take months off at a time? Have I lost my freedom? Have I lost my will to make money in more traditional ways? (which I don’t know if I can blame on porn because long before I made easy money this way, I sold pot and made plenty) Have I lost the ability to see myself as someone who is lovable and capable of loving?

Duncan repeated, over and over, on my drive up Beverly.

“You’re changing your life right now! You are surrounding yourself with people that can help you instead of people who don’t even know your real name! You just have to keep chugging along on this new bright path, and I know it’s scary and intense, and I know it’s terrifying, but it is YOUR path, and you’ve chosen to walk it, to run it, and you attract wonderful things everywhere you go so why wouldn’t you in this new wonderful life???”

And I sobbed, uncontrollably like the status of my life, not because I am overjoyed at the thought of having people around me that can help me, but at the pure and simple fact that I do need help. I HATE asking for help. I hate asking anything of people. I don’t even like to ask people to push the button for me in the elevator. And now I am confronted with the direct possibility that I am in desperate need of help. And thankfully not desperate need of financial help yet, but it may come to that. It may come to me begging on the streets if I am too prideful to ask for help, and fighting over the good non-piss covered spot on the corner of Sunset and Vine.

Ransom notes keep falling out your mouth.
Mid-sweet talk, newspaper word cut-outs.
Speak no feeling, no I don’t believe you.
You don’t care a bit. You don’t care a bit.

I had the strangest dream last night, and I’ve been having strange dreams the entire time through my sobriety, so it’s about time I share those as well. Vivid, exhausting dreams that leave me spent when I open my eyes and snuggle Saucy for our morning love session. Jill said I should start writing my dreams out here so I can see how they relate to my days, so I will commit to doing so, whenever I may dream so authentically that it stays with me throughout the day. Last night I dreamt that I was traveling in Europe, staying in London actually, and that I was trying to get to Amsterdam but had somehow forgot my passport in the states. And I couldn’t figure out how I got to London without a passport in the first place, and every time I tried to dial my phone to call someone who could Fed-Ex me the necessary document, the fucking phone wouldn’t dial, and my finger couldn’t even push the button. There was this air bubble, an invisible force field that kept my finger away from that call button. And I woke up feeling stuck, and went for a hike feeling out of breath, and then onto therapy where a whole garbage truck full of shit came tumbling out onto Jill’s nice clean floor.

And my 45 minutes were up.