The Hero Factor

Being diagnosed with depression, anxiety, or bipolar is both a gift and a curse.  The obvious downside to having any one of these 'disorders' is the obvious:  The highs and the lows.  The nerves.  The sensitivity.  The inability to cope.  The inability to breathe.  The inability to function.  I'm not enlightening the medical field with these words because all of these 'symptoms' can be found on WebMd.  The side effects that you cannot find on WebMd are the ones that cause you to be unique from the rest of the world.  Nobody's giving seminars right now on how to embrace your super-sensitive side.  I don't see Tony Robbins catering to manic depressants to show them how their powers can be used for good, and not evil (well, at least not yet).  But there are good things that can come out of these 'stigmatas'.  The universe gives us these uncanny gifts, yet most of us are scared to tap into them.  I've discovered several personality traits and quirks that I have that I know make me exceptionally unique.  My personal favorite:  I call it 'The Hero Factor'.

We've all heard or read accounts where a random person jumps into a river and saves a drowning child, or how someone was pulled from the wreckage of a car, or maybe how they even pulled another individual from a burning building.  In order to complete one of these random acts of kindness, you must have a certain recklessness about you.  You have to be able to abandon care of self, and think of nothing but another individual and their well-being.  Easy, right?  Shiiiiiiit.

Not everybody can do that.  Not everybody knows how they're going to react when put in this situation, because, let's face it, not all of us have been there.  Many people are saying, "OH yeah, I'd definitely try to save this person", or "....i'd do that to be the hero", but I don't think people know exactly what is involved with this process.  I do.  I have 'The Hero Factor'.

I can't determine if we're born with it or not.  My research on that data is still inconclusive.  However, I do know that you must have certain characteristics in order to have 'The Hero Factor'.

For starters, you must have reckless abandon.  You have to be able to stop caring about your own well-being, if only for a few seconds.  I think I got that one covered.  Anybody who has attempted suicide twice clearly has the ability to put aside his own safety concerns.  Reckless abandonment?  Check.

Secondly, you have to 'Care' enough.  If you're self-centered, insensitive, or shallow you probably don't qualify.  Sorry.  We have lovely parting gifts for you once you get to Hell.  I'm kidding.  Seriously....that was a joke.  Nobody's going to hell.  Relax.

But you do have to Care.  You must feel empathy and compassion (and not just at the moment that the heroic act presents itself).  I'll give you an example of my empathy, and how I've tried to change the world (one person at a time).

I was riding Marta (Atlanta's rail system), and I was sitting next to a middle-aged black woman.  She wore a plain outfit with her hair pulled back and she had a bad case of acne.  She wore glasses, she had large ears, and I was almost certain she had not won any beauty contests growing up as a child.  I'm not judging her.  I'm just stating logical facts.

She was turned slightly away from me so that she could pretend that she was actually paying attention to the world just outside of the glass window.  Her face lacked expression and her shoulders sagged, causing her purse strap to fall down by her elbow.  I was unable to completely see her face, but I could make out enough of her expression to know that, emotionally, she was hurting.  She didn't weep, or make any sobbing noises, but I could almost hear a soft whimper in her breath.  Although her gaze remained emotionless, she had a look on her face as if she was getting ready to speak, yet she would never utter a word.

As the train began to slow and my stop quickly approached, I realizing I was getting ready to speak to this woman.  At the ripe age of 27, I had never done anything like this before and my heart rate accelerated as the train began to slow.  I was getting ready to speak to a stranger and I had no idea what words my mouth would form, I just knew I had to say something.  I turned to the woman, put my hand softly on her arm and said, "You have an inner beauty inside of you that not even you are aware of."

I stood up and began to slowly back towards the door when I saw one single tear roll down her cheek.  I turned and quickly stepped out of the closing doors, never again to see her face.

I don't know why I said what I did that day, but I know if I was 'normal', I probably would have never even thought to pay attention to what she was doing.  Because of my anxiety, I am always extra cognizant of my surroundings. The smallest encounter could have triggered an anxiety attack.  If I saw someone get their feelings hurt, or somebody that was sad, or crying, I always longed to reach out and help them.  I wanted to soothe their pain.  I wanted to fix what was wrong with them.  It made me feel better.  Focusing on someone else's pain, allowed me to forget about mine.  Even if only for a moment.  That is why all my girlfriends were fucked up head cases (no offense Sheena), but it's true.  It allowed me to focus on them, instead of me.  I don't know what ever became of that woman on the train, but I'd like to think that I did some good in her life.  Even if only for a moment.

Going through life with a heightened sensitivity level isn't necessarily the worst thing in the world.  As you can see, my powers could be used for good.  Years later, as my anxiety, depression, and addiction to Xanax worsened, so did my level of self-esteem.  Unfortunately, I used my knowledge of others' emotional state to my advantage.  At that point in my life I was numb.  There's no such thing as a con artist with a conscience. 

My greatest act of heroism was performed while I was living in Trenton, New Jersey.  It was about two a.m. and I was sitting on my front stoop, smoking a blunt (cigar filled with marijuana), and talking to a neighborhood girl (that I would later marry).  It was the middle of summer and my front door was slightly ajar and I could hear my roommate and a few friends playing Madden, on PlayStation, in the Living Room.

I heard a scream.  I looked across the street and I saw flames shooting out of the third floor of the rowhouse, that was directly across from us.  I turned and sprinted inside the Living Room and yelled, "Call 9-1-1, the neighbors house is on fire!"  I then turned and immediately sprinted down our front hallway and jumped off our front stoop, skipping all four steps.  I sprinted past my future wife, across the street, and with one last leap, I was inside the front door of the burning home.

Before I go any further, let me give you a little background of where I lived in Trenton, New Jersey.  I was one block off Stuyvesant Avenue.  For any of you that have ever lived in the inner city or ghetto, you know that every 'hood' has a Stuyvesant Avenue.  So if your home residence was only a stones throw away from Stuyvesant avenue, well that pretty much meant you lived in the hood too.  The actual street I lived on was East Hanover.  All of the houses were rowhomes, and if you were lucky, your tiny little backyard didn't have any crackheads living in it.  I wasn't that fortunate (to make matters worse, my backyard crackhead had the same name as me.)  I had only lived there for a few weeks, and I was the only 'white boy' on the street.  The rest of the community was made up of either latino or black people.

As I burst through the front door, I was greeted by 3 spanish women in their pajamas running down the stairs, with children in tow.  I had no idea how many people were living in the house, but just based on my observation the last few weeks, i knew it was alot.  Doors started opening and people were pouring out of every room.  Children were running past me with looks of fear and confusion on their faces.  I ascended the steps to the second floor and I could feel the heat pouring down the flight of steps leading to the third floor.  There were several latino men running frantically from door to door and, although I could barely understand a word that passed their lips, i began to hear a common chant, "Maria."  It began as a faint yelling outside of the house, but now the two spanish men on the 2nd floor began to yell the girls' name, "Maria!  Maria!".  Feeling helpless, I joined in the chant yelling the girls name, as I closed and opened doors, hoping to find the lost tot.

As I stopped and came face to face with the eldest of the two men still performing the room to room search, the only word I could utter was, "Donde?  Donde?"  Where?  Where was Maria?

"No Se.  No Se"  was his only response.  I knew he didn't know where the girl was but my limited spanish vocabulary didn't grant me the luxury of proper questioning.

"Mira, Mira" he yelled as he pointed up the smoky staircase leading to the fiery death trap.  As I ran to his side, I knew what he was about to do.  I looked up at the ceiling and saw a thin film of smoke beginning to form in the second floor hallway.  The staircase was illuminated orange and yellow from the billowing flames that were causing severe structural damage only a few feet above.  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as to say, "Fuck it" and he quickly started up the steps.  I kept my back to wall and my head down as we slowly ascended the steps and crept inside the attic door.

The heat was absolutely blinding.  I kept my hand on the back of the old man in front of me because visibility was next to nothing.  Blankets of smoke poured past me as we crept in the room.  As I peered above, I could only make out orange transluscent waves that were rolling across the ceiling.  As odd as this may sound, the fire was beautiful.  Its heat and ferocity kept me hovering in a low crouch, but I coudln't help but stop to admire the orange and red artwork that flowed across the ceiling.

I kept my shirt over my eyes and mouth and could barely get out the words, "Maria" when I heard a man yelling from the bottom of the steps.  The old spanish man pulled at my shirt and we both quickly made our way back down the flight of steps.  I began coughing incessantly as I heard the word, "Maria" repeated several times except this time the concerned 'pitch' of their tone was gone.  I could only assume Maria had been found as we made our way back to ground level.

I ran out of the front door, jumped the four front steps, and landed safely on the sidewalk.  A crowd had begun to gather outside the house as I made my way back across the street to my humble abode.  I heard a loud crashing noise as I turned around and saw the 3rd floor air conditioner crash a few feet from where I made my safe landing, only a few moments ago.

As I let out a few final coughs, trying to clear my lungs, I walked back to where my roommate and friends had gathered.  My roommate approached me with wide eyes and mouth agape, and blurted out "What the Fuck was that, Son?"

That, my good man, was the Hero Factor.

From that day forward, I was known on my block as 'Loco Gringo'.  Crazy white boy.  The same people that, only days prior, would not even speak, were now waving, saying hello, and asking me how my day was.  I lived on that block for almost a year, and was given nothing but the utmost love and respect from everyone on the street.  I loved Hanover Street.

Please know that my words are not an attempt to coerce anyone to don a cape and mask so they can patrol the streets nightly in an attempt to thwart crime.  If you're old enough to read this and you don't have 'The Hero Factor' yet, then maybe you just don't have it.  It's not something that can be learned or taught, it's instinctual.  But if you don't have it, then what do you have?  If not 'The Hero Factor', then what is your gift(s)?  If you suffer from anxiety, depression, or bipolar, then you have that something extra, somewhere.  It's the balance of nature.  It's the yin and the yang.  You suffer in one aspect of your life, so you'll have the ability to excel in another.  It's why most all extremely beautiful people are dumb as shit.  It's why autistic people can count their asses off.  It's just how nature works.

Stop looking at the depression or anxiety as an illness, and count it as a blessing.  Start embracing it by finding out what it is that you excel at.  Get more in touch with You and find out what gift(s) you have.  I'm still learning mine, and I just added superhuman-writing-ability to my list.  What'd you add to yours?

Shrink Me, Shrink Me

I turned my attention towards the window, letting out an exhaustive sigh.  I was trying my best to ignore the inquisitive stare being placed upon me by the elderly psychologist sitting only a few feet away.  It was my third session with this guy, and I still haven't decided if I'm going to fully open up to him yet.  We didn't hit it off right away, but he did have certain qualities about him that allowed me to give him another shot at this 'therapy' thing.  I'm weird like that.

When you grow up in a household where nobody talks about anything, it's hard to start opening up later in life.  It's hard to tell a grown man, sitting with his legs crossed a little too tightly, only 3 feet away from me, how I really feel.  Hell, sometimes I don't even know how i feel.  At least not in a way that I'm able to put it into words.  So I bottle it up, keep it inside, and hope it goes away.  I'm trying to stop doing that.  Apparently, it's unhealthy and not good for my psyche.  Maybe this is why I smoke weed.  Just kidding.  No I'm not. 

The best analogy ever told to me, in reference to my psyche, was by a young, female shrink about ten years ago.  She wasn't more than thirty years old, fresh out of grad school.  I was living in Columbia, South Carolina at the time.  I was only a few years removed from the military and I was working as a mortgage loan officer getting paid 100% Commission.  If I didn't close loans, I didn't get paid.  That environment is not conducive for a man with my issues.  So I had a breakdown.  I lost it.  Instead of going to work, I went and sat in a park and cried.  I was shaking uncontrollably for hours.

That day in the park is what led me to contact the gorgeous, analogy-laden, shrink.  Only seconds prior to bestowing her numerous analogies upon me, she would always tilt her glasses down ever so slightly, allowing her sexy brown eyes to peer over her designer glasses, cocking her head slightly to one side, arching one eyebrow, with her mouth slightly agape.  This classic pose was the same performed by hundreds of female porn stars only moments before they let they violently let their hair down, snatched the glasses off their face, and ripped their blouses' open.  I loved that pose.

She leaned forward with her 'pose'  that I was certain she rehearsed hundreds of times in a mirror, and said "Michael, you're like a big pot that has been filled to the brim with all of the problems and issues you've ever had in your life.  That pot is now so full that even the smallest of problems or issues can cause it to overflow.  Because you've never discussed any of your issues in life, you're now unable to handle even the smallest occurrence without having an anxiety attack."  I couldn't tell what I liked more, the analogy or the 'pose'.  Several weeks (and sessions) later, she and I would have a disagreement, which led to me telling her how much I wanted to fuck her.  She then responded by politely declining that offer.  Lesbian.


The kind, older gentlemen, with 14 diplomas on his wall, sitting across from me, repeated his question.

"What is it that's really troubling you, Michael?"  He had such a way with words.

"Everything......and nothing."  No other words have ever described more accurately how I feel.  Everything and Nothing. 

In the past, the anxiety attacks and bouts of depression could be caused by a certain event, or occurrence.  Many times, it's unavoidable.  It's just nature running its course.    I can feel it coming days in advance.  The depression is the worst.  Physically, it will weigh on me.  At its onset, it can be a small, constant lump in my throat that can't be cleared.  That is usually followed by a large, gravitational weight being placed on my shoulders, causing them to slump.  The weight continues to increase, as the hours progress.  Unknowingly, my gaze will continue to lower, until eye contact is only made with the ground that lay before me.  My thoughts become dark and oppressed, and my bed is my only place of solace. 


Today, I refuse to go back to that place.  Now I keep my head held high, my shoulders back, and my chest out.  I still have 'bad' days from time to time, but they're manageable.  Now, they're just a part of life and not some crippling force that causes me to use all of my sick days at work by August.  After 20 years of trial and error, I think i'm starting to get this thing right. 


After rambling for several minutes about the universe and star alignment, the kind, gentle shrink gently tapped his watch to let me know my 50 minutes was up and it was time to go.  I gazed down at the street below, watching the cars maneuver and jockey for position.  Everybody just wants to get ahead, and they want to be the first ones there.  They all seem normal and okay, yet i struggle.  It's cool, though.  I'm learning to embrace it.  It defines me.  I haven't had a bad bout of depression in almost a year and a half, when I used to have them once a month.  I've had only a few minor anxiety attacks in the past year, and I plan on never having another.

I'm on the verge of great things, I just have to keep headed in the right direction.  And if talking to this kind, old man twice a month is part of that path, than so be it.  So I pay this guy a couple hundred a month, to assist me with breaking down my walls, and understanding 'Me' just a little bit more.  I figured that if I'm going to do some great things on this journey, I might as well try to understand me the best that I can.

Me:  Good Luck with that, Big Mike.

Big Mike:  Thanks.  I love you.

Me:  Love you too homey.

I Need a Remedy

The hardest part about 'struggling' as a child is trying to explain it to your mother.  Especially a mother that talks to you so little that you've convinced yourself she doesn't love you. 

"Oh Mother, I think i'm more acutely aware of my surroundings than others therefore causing me to have a heightened sensitivity level to my environment and it's making me nervous."  It's not exactly going down like that.  This is coming from the same kid who would only masturbate in the shower because of the fear that someone would see him because he KNEW he was the only 12 year old that touched his penis in that manner.  I was a horny little perv.

So I kept it to myself.  I just grew up different.  I gave the world a representative of me that I thought could best hide the real me.  I just wanted to feel on the 'inside' how everyone else appeared to feel on their 'outside'. 

I would mask my anxiety by portraying the Tough-guy role, or my personal favorite, the He-just-don't-give-a-Fuck persona.  Growing up in a "dysfunctional family", you have enough to worry about in life, let alone have it compounded with anxiety attacks, nervous shakes, and depression.

I wish there was some magic pill to take and you'd be all better, but it just doesn't work that way.  Trust me, I've tried EVERYTHING.  Numerous shrinks, over 1,000 different combinations of meds, exercise, drugs, alcohol, meditation, and even hypnotism. 

So i did what any troubled, handsome young man would do - I always made sure i was dating a girl more fucked up than me - so I could focus on her and her issues instead of worrying about mine.  Now please don't get it twisted folks, I was a pretty fucked-up individual, but with hard work and perseverance I was usually able to find a girl with tons of compounded issues that would somehow exceed my own.

The doctors would tell me that there is no wonder drug or true cure for anxiety and depression, and I would tell them they're liars, because there is.  It's called Xanax (a benzodiazepine). That pill would take the edge off, my shakes would subside, my heart rate would slow, and i felt as if that huge weight had been lifted off my chest.  Basically, it would allow me to breathe.  I immediately fell in love with the pill the moment I felt the first one take effect.  I mean, why wouldn't I?  It cured me.  I loved that pill so much i named my dog after it.  No bullshit.

One small problem with that beautiful oval-shaped, heaven-sent blue tablet:  It's habit forming.  Habit forming?  Habit forming, Schmabit forming.  I was taking it.  That's all there was to it.  I was fucking taking it and nobody could tell me otherwise, (actually nobody would tell me not to take it because I had moved far away from home and had alienated myself from any family or loved ones by that time). 

And so my addiction began.....

It's not that I begged, stole, robbed, and killed to get high.  Not the case at all.  It took me years to build up a tolerance to Xanax before my doctor became alarmed.  And how the hell could you tell me I had a habit?  I had a bottle with my name on it. With pills in it.  Prescribed to me by a doctor.  Yeah, that's right...a doctor.  You know the guy who went to college like four times as long as me in order to make important decisions, such as these?  Yeah, him. 

But eventually a day came that the 3 milligrams a day the doc was prescribing wasn't enough.  So i just went out and got me another doctor while still maintaining my other doctor as my "family doctor". 

This began the downward spiral of different benzodiazepines, mixed with other 'mood-stabilizing' pills, mixed with alcohol, mixed with life.  Bad, bad cocktail.  I stopped caring.  I lost touch with reality.  In all actuality, I just stopped giving a fuck. 

But meds aren't the answer.  Now I'm no Tom Cruise/Scientologist anti-medication preacher.  By no means.  But meds aren't the answer.  At least not meds, and meds alone.  You might need a NON-HABIT FORMING medication because there's plenty of them out there.  But you just can't take a pill and think it will fix what's wrong with you.  It's so much more than that.  I know i'm not you and i haven't walked in your shoes and I don't know your journey but I do know that a simple pill won't fix what's wrong.

You may need to find a good shrink, get daily exercise, eat healthy, take meds, and meditate just to get your shit together.  In a nutshell, that's pretty much what I did.  But it took me years and years of bad choices, major mistakes, and a bunch of trial and errors to even get where I'm at today.  And I'm still fucked up.  But I'm now only slightly fucked up AND happy.  I can honestly say that I'm okay with myself today and I could NEVER say that before.  I loathed me.  I hated who I became because I knew I could be so much more, and today I am.  Today, I'm truly Happy.

So this journey that I'm on has brought me here.  Actually, it's brought US here.  That's what this blog is all about.  My journey. 

So along this journey I'll give you me.  Past, present, and future.  Hopefully these words could help you as much as they're helping me.  As much as I started this blog in order to help someone else, I'm also helping me.  My words are my therapy.

I'll leave you with some helpful tips in case you're having a "bad day" (the term i use to describe my days that are plaqued with depression and anxiety).  I hope these help:

1.  Make up a fictitious disease.  People will not only be confused, but they'll empathize.  My personal favorite:  Vitamin B deficiency (my explanation if someone noticed my shakes).  Someone once told me that the reason people have the shakes when they're hungover is due to a lack of Vitamin B, sooooo......I made it my own.

2.  Play this music everytime you walk into a room.

3.  Head up, shoulders back, chest out.  73% of all depression is caused by poor body language.  Please note:  The percentage given in the previous sentence is fictitious - i usually add percentages in to make the statement seem more factual.  A trick I commonly use when attempting to win an argument and a statistic is one thing needed to sway the opponent.  87% of all statistics ever quoted by me were off-the-cuff.

So what's the next step for you?  It all depends on where you're at in your journey.  I had to lose everything:  the house, the car, the dog, the girl, and the job.  All of this had to be lost in order for me to get headed in the right direction.  But my hope is that you won't have to let it get that bad.  Hopefully, you're stronger than I was.

So if nobody's told you yet today that they love you, then let me be the first.  I love you.





Now I'm Living

It's hard to explain the thought process that has to take place in order for you to be at peace with the concept of taking your own life.  There's no such thing as an impulsive suicide or an involuntary killing of one's self.  It's a long, arduous mental process that involves you asking yourself a million questions, posing a million different scenarios.  I took the most comprehensive and detailed self-inventory that my distorted mind would allow, and I just really didn't like anything about me.  The good was gone.  I was dead inside and I all I could feel was hate.  I hated me.

The anxiety and depression spawned the alienation, which spawned the addiction, which spawned my inability to feel.  For years, I isolated myself because I didn't want anyone to know what was wrong with me.  I was ashmamed.  I was void of emotion.  I was numb.

Two of my favorite sayings were, "People are overrated" and "I'm just not cut out for this world".  I had lost hope.  I had lost purpose.  I had lost my reason to live.

At this point in life, I had been living in Las Vegas for almost 5 years, I hadn't talked to my kids in months, I was homeless, I lost my job as an escort because I robbed them, and to top it all off, now my girlfriend was back to being an escort and she sucked at it, figuratively speaking (she just wasn't cut out for the industry because she had too big of a heart).  And to make matters just ever-so-slightly worse, I had a nasty Xanax habit.  If I didn't have one in my system by 10 a.m., the 'shakes' would start to kick-in.  The 'shakes' (more commonly known in the medical world as delirium tremors a/k/a 'withdrawls'), would usually start in my hands and, if it went untreated, it would travel to my legs and eventually my lower lip.  When it got that bad, you could find me in the fetal position, in bed, with a blanket wrapped completely over me with only a small opening formed, to allow in enough air to breathe.

My shakes were a constant, bitter reminder of my weakness.  Trying to ignore your own hands is pretty fucking hard to do.  (Please note that I did try to throw in a 'Hands Down' reference/pun, but I couldn't make it work).

Due to my anxiety, my shaky hands became visible at an early age, which was years before I even consumed the first pill.  So when my body started going thru withdrawls, it was a 'shaking' added to an already existing 'tremor' (as the doctors called it).  So needless to say, I made Pookie the Crackhead look like Cool Hand Luke.

The complete and utter devastation of being an addict is indescribable, especially when you're addicted to a drug that a doctor started giving you, just to cure your illness.  That's the part that hurt the worst.  I just wanted to get better.  I just wanted to be 'normal'.  I really didn't want to die, but at the time, that option was far better than continuing life in my depressed, miserable state.

Luckily, I sucked at killing myself.  My first attempt at suicide was done by swallowing 60 Xanax (a calming, mood-stabilizing, narcotic) and 15 Seroquel (a sleeping tablet for crazy people).  I had just gotten out of jail a week prior for driving with no license and an outstanding felony warrant, for a bad check I cashed at a casino.  Some old silly shit.

I was sitting in the lobby of a Motel 6 with the realization I had nowhere to go and nothing to do.  I was broke and defeated.  And I was tired.  Damn I was tired.  Tired of struggling.  Tired of the hurt, tired of the disappointment, tired of the shame.  I was so fucking tired of the shame. 

I went to the clerk and told her that the soda machine just took my money and I wanted a refund.  After a few seconds of arguing, she realized she wasn't going to win, so she gave me some change to buy a soda.  I walked over to the machine, purchased the drink, and went and found a comfortable place to sit.  I emptied my pockets on the table next to me, removed the cap from the bottle, and took about 15 pills in my hand.  As I stared at my trembling hand, I fought back tears trying not to draw attention to myself.  I hadn't cried in years, but if there's ever a time that warrants a tear, i figured this would be the one.  I looked at the blue oval-shaped tablets for what seemed like hours, silently contemplating the pros and cons of life.  I quietly uttered the words to myself, "Fuck it" and my outstretched palm smacked my open mouth and I quickly gulped down the liquid beverage.  The pills went down easier than expected so the next handful was nearly twice as many as the first.  After one more quick dose, I sat down and listened to my body begin the unenviable task of trying to digest 60 milligrams of Xanax and 1500 milligrams of Seroquel.  Good Luck Mother Fucker.

I sat there in that lovely Motel 6 with my head down and my hands clasped between my knees so I wouldn't have to watch them shake.  I just kept my head down and tried to avoid eye-contact with anyone because I didn't want them to see my pain.  I felt like an old dog whose last dying wish was to go find a nice, warm place to lay down and close my eyes for a final time.

It only took a few minutes before the Xanax swept over me like a wave.  It was as if my whole body just downshifted from 4th to 1st, missing all the gears in between.  It was euphoric knowing that my deep, permanent slumber was only moments away.  I just had to close my eyes and go to sleep for the last time and all of this would be gone.  Gone.  All of life's cruelties and evil would vanish and I'd never have to face them again. I just wanted the pain to go away.

But apparently, I wasn't going to let that happen.  Through my distorted thoughts and fogged vision, I knew I couldn't die this way.  I was not going to let my legacy (and i use that term loosely) end in the lobby of a Motel 6.  I stumbled up to the counter and asked the hotel clerk to please call 9-1-1.

"What is the reason for the distress call, sir"  she replied.

"Because I just took a whole bunch of pills and I'm getting ready to die." I managed to utter through slurred speech.

--------------------------------------------

Two and a half days later I woke up in the mental ward of a local hospital.  Apparently, they gave me some activated charcoal (induces voming), i threw up a few times, and then I went to sleep for a few days.


All's well that ends well, right?  Well, yeah....eventually.  Over the next six months, I would attempt suicide once more, along with a brief stay in two mental wards, one rehab, and one (long-term) behavioral-modification program.


But Today?

Today I have great relationships with my children. Today I make slightly less than six figures. I live in a nice apartment in South Philly.  My best friend is previously referenced ex-girlfriend.  My other best friend is my dog, Smokey.  AND, I'm only $9300.00 away from getting my license back.  I can honestly say I'm Happy.  Today I have functional, improving relationships with the rest of my family. I'm constantly learning, trying to improve myself, and I continue to try to become a better person everyday. 

Today, I read instead of watching television.  Today, I think before I speak.  I breathe and reassure myself that it's not that serious.  I exercise daily.  I eat healthy.  I take my meds, as prescribed.  Today, I search for answers instead of accepting what is given to me.  I'm honest with self and I never lie do my BEST to never lie.  Today, I practice patience.  Today, I am humble. 

Today, I am grateful to be alive.

 

My Favorite Male Escort Story

To my female readers:  I'm apologizing in advance.
To my male readers:  Eat your fuckin hearts out.

Little Un-well-known fact about Big Mike:  While living in Las Vegas, I was a Male Escort.  (Please note the accentuated capitalized letters on 'Male Escort'.  It makes it look much more professional than actually calling it what it was: a prostitute).  Oh well, no sense in sugar coating it.  I'm actually rather proud of my 11-month stint as a male escort.  I got paid to have sex.  When you're a guy getting paid to have sex, you're the fucking MAN.  When you're a woman, you're a dirty whore.  You don't have to say it ladies, I know, i know.  That sucks.  It truly does.  I didn't make up that rule, so please blame the twisted society we live in.  Me personally, some of my best relationships were with prostitutes/strippers/tricks, so you know i have nothing but love for you.  Granted, these relationships only lasted a week or two, but they were a shitload of fun.  Okay, enough about them.  Back to the Greatest Job Ever.

So I'll give you the basics of how being an escort works.  I go 'On Call' by calling up the agency and telling them that 'Derek' (my escort code name) is now 'On Call'.  I then just chill out and wait for my phone to ring.  Once I do get the call, it's a dispatcher telling me which casino I need to 'check into'.  I call the agency back when i arrive in the lobby, and then I'm given the room number and name of the guest.  Most of the time, I can go straight up to the room.  Other times, I have to sneak past a security guard that's checking room keys, but I usually either had an extra key for that casino or I'd slide by using a variety of tricks and ploys. 

Once I get to the room I ask the customer (or 'mark') what type of fun they're looking to get into.  They would usually respond with some sort of scenario or fantasy that they've previously played out in their minds a hundred times before making the trip to sin city.  I tell them that the $200 they were quoted was only for my 'entertainment', it was the agency's fee, and this did not include any touching at all.  I would then quote them a few hundred bucks more and tell them that my money or 'tip' that I'm paid, is for whatever they were looking to do.  I'll get more into detail about this whole process, as well as some of the various odd requests I had during my time as an escort, in a later post.

So once I had all my money, I would call and 'check in' to the agency.  Once that process was complete, it was time.  Time for Big Mike to put it down. - cue 70's funk porn music -

So now that you know the process involved, here's one of my personal favorites:

I got the call about 9:30 on a Thursday night.  I quickly grabbed the phone on the second ring after reading my agency's name on the caller i.d., "Hello". 

"Hey Derek baby, i need you at Circus Circus".

As she uttered the last two words of that sentence i could only let out an exhaustive *sigh* and respond with a half-hearted, "okay baby, i'll call you in a few". 

You can always tell about how much you're going to make depending on the Casino to which you're deployed.  The higher-end casinos, (MGM suites, Bellagio) is where you make your money.  The lower-end casinos (circus circus, el cortez), the less money you make.  So i was less than thrilled to hear I'd have to turn a trick at the one casino that's dumb enough to cater to kids.  "Welcome to Sin City, Kids!! The iconic-clown slot machines or on the left!!!" 

So I hopped in a cab and I was back on the phone with my agency only ten minutes later.  "Hey baby, this is Derek at Circus".

"Ok Derek, Room 234, last name is Johnson and it's a married couple.  Check-in amount is $150"

Shit.  The 'marks' have already negotiated their price down to $150.  Never a good sign for my wallet.

"Ok baby, I'll call you back in a minute." 

As always, I head to the bar for a quick drink because I need something to wash down the Xanax. 

Rule #1 of being a Male Escort:  Never Be Sober. 

I ordered a double bourbon and eagerly knocked down the two pills as I waited a few minutes for the cocktail to kick in.  I gave myself a quick pep talk, took a deep breath, and headed for the elevators.  No security guards to worry about in this dump. 

I gently rapped on the door and took one step back doing my best to look as suave and sexy as possible.  I'm greeted at the door by a middle-aged, average looking guy in his mid-40's.  As we walk into the room, the first thing I feel is the rush of power.  I feel it everytime.  It's why I love this job.  I just entered a hotel room where i'm about to encounter a couple that has a fantasy.  This fantasy is what prompted them to call my agency.  My agency sent me.  I'm the guy that helps people live out their fantasies.  Take a moment to think about how powerful of a role that is.  Go back and read the last few sentences.  Do you think I wanted to use that many italics?  You're damn right I didn't want to use that many italics, but I had to in order to stress to you exactly what it was that I did.

I was a fantasy-fulfiller.  With my trusty penis and my pills, there was no vagina alive that we could not conquer.

Immediately after my rush of adrenaline-filled power, I look to my right and I notice the beautiful blonde in bed wearing nothing but a sexy negligee that was barely concealing her enormous breasts.  Oh yeah.  If I wasn't so high right now I might actually jump for joy.  But in that state of mind, I'm way too smooth to jump for anything.  Derek was in full effect. 

As I followed this guy to the couch, he began to speak, "you know they said it's only $150.00". 

I replied, "I know sir, it is $150.00 for my entertainment but please be aware that this fee doesn't cover any touching at all, this is an agency fee.  What I work off of is tips, which is what I get paid and that is above and beyond the agency fee.  So what exactly did you have in mind?"

He was quickly irritated after learning he would have to pay more.  "I wasn't prepared to pay more than this." 

"Well sir, what exactly did you have in mind?"  I'm keeping the mark focused on what their fantasy is so I can stay in control of the situation.  My years of working in sales as a mortgage loan officer were finally paying off.  No close-ended questions being asked over here, pal.

"Well I was going to let you have sex with my wife, while I watched." he exclaimed.  "She and I had a threesome with one of her friends, so I told her that I'd return the favor, except i was just going to sit over here and watch." 

"Okay well to have sex, that's an additional $200.00."  I knew I was stretching  by asking for $200, especially in this dive hotel, but I had to start somewhere.  So why not start with my self-imposed minimum to have sex?

"Oh well I don't have that much."  he exclaimed.  His wife shot him an evil glare.

"Ok sir, well how much do you have?" 

"I have like a hunderd some bucks"

"Okay, I'll take $150".  I said with a grin, through gritted teeth.  As he hesitantly counted the money and continued grumbling, I kept glancing over at his wife and giving her sly smiles and winks.  Sometimes it's good to heat up the engine before you start revving it.  Take notes, gentlemen.

After a few more minutes of haggling me on the price, I was able to scrape $145.00 out of this cheap bastard.  He's lucky his wife is so fine because I think I just broke Rule #2.

Rule #2 of being a Male Escort:  Never fuck for less than $200. 

As you can see, I was in a forgiving mood that night and I wish I was able to tell you that this was my only time breaking one of my rules.  Unfortunately, it wasn't.

I snatched the money from him, tucked it into my pocket, and headed straight for the lucky lady waiting to claim her prize.  I climbed on the bed slowly as I kicked off my shoes.  "Hi, I'm Derek".

"My name's Patricia", she shyly replied.

I slowly pulled her hair back and quietly whispered in her ear with a voice that I purposely drop a few octaves (envision hearing a white Barry White), "Hello Patricia, do you have any rules that I should know about?"

"Just don't put it in my butt", she cooed.  Clearly, she was a romantic.

"Okay baby, I promise I won't".  My calm, confident voice giving her reassurance by using the word 'promise', and all the while embracing her tightly, attempting to make her feel secure in my arms.  I then slowwwwwwly worked my way down to her vagina where I slipped off her silk panties and I began to ravish her with licks and kisses.  I would occasionally glance over at the husband to see what he was up to and he was clearly not real thrilled to be watching this (or me) go down.  After several minutes, I felt her body tighten up and I knew she was getting ready to cum in my mouth.  She and I broke eye contact as her back arched and she lifted her torso into the air.  I gripped her by her thighs tightly, only releasing after I was certain her orgasm subsided. 

I heard his footsteps approach the bed as he bellows out, "I NEVER, EVER saw you react that way when I make you cum.  Your FUCKING eyes just rolled IN THE BACK OF YOUR FUCKING HEAD."

At first, all I was thinking was, "Way to Goooo Big MIIIiiike."

After a few milliseconds of inflating my already over-inflated ego, I then realized that this was all I needed to attempt an early exit. 

I slowly backed off the bed, gathering my clothes along the way, "Hey guys, clearly there's some unresolved issues here that you two need to discuss.  Frankly, I feel uncomfortable here and when I feel uncomfortable, I have to leave."  Short, sweet, to the point.  I thought for sure I'd be shown the door. 

Patricia locked eyes with her husband and shouted, "Now you got to do this already.  I gave you this already!!  This isn't for you.  This IS FOR ME!!"

I again quickly chimed in, "I'm sorry Patricia, but i can't stay here.  This isn't going to work.  I'm going to go."

She raised herself up to a kneeling position and she was now in the middle of the bed only a few feet from me me, and as she stared intensely into my eyes she calmly whispered, "Derek, what is it going to take to get you to stay?" 

At this point, I'm standing in my boxers with my eyes on her husband because he's my only threat of danger.  So I nodded at her husband, who was still fuming,  and I responded, "He's got to go".  I gave a scenario that I figured probably would never happen.

She looked over at her husband and quickly replied, "Honey, Bye".

He dropped his head and let out an exhaustive sigh as I could tell he was contemplating his options.   He then quickly grabbed his room key and wallet as he stomped out of the room and slammed the door.  Apparently, I was wrong.

Patricia didn't miss a beat as she reached forward and slowly pulled me on top of her. 

What was I going to do at that point?  Our early labor negotiations were previously resolved, and although we did have a short work stoppage, technically, I was still on the clock.  So I did what any 29 year old working man would do.  I got the job done.

Stay Tuned for 'My Most Profitable Male Escort Story', and one of my personal favorites, "My best Orgy Ever Created by Me Male Escort Story'.

Moral of this Story:  Uhh......Er.......don't be a Male Escort because you can't do it sober and you'll just be getting high all the time.