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*Originally posted on myspace 6/13/07*

I have an insane fear of roaches.  When I say insane, I mean that when I see one I literally FREEZE.  My entire body becomes frozen in fear.  I can’t breathe, I can’t even think straight.  For an onlooker, this can be quite the hilarious scene, but when I am alone it is flat out horrifying.  I have to say that it is SO bad that even writing about this right now is making me sick to my stomach and scared to death.

I was walking on the subway platform a few weeks ago and a roach crawled across my foot and I lost it.  There was a subway musician playing guitar and saw my reaction to the roach and actually started singing a fucking parody about how I am afraid of roaches.  Talk about embarrassing.

Anyway.  On to the story.

Last night at about 10:30 PM I was in the computer room, which is really Craig’s “work room”.  I was surfing the web and trying to keep my mind off of the fact that Craig had not called me once all day.  The room was really dark, except for the light from the computer screen.  I felt something on my arm, thinking it was a stray hair from my head I just casually looked down and attempted to brush it off.  As my hand reached towards my arm, something HUGE moved.

I jumped out of the chair and let out a blood curdling scream.  There was a waterbug, about 4 inches long (no exaggeration) crawling up my arm. 

::pause::  I am literally getting asthma right now. 

Whew.  OK, I am filled with the sweet aerosol of Albuterol.  I can continue now.

So, obviously when I jumped out the chair, the thing went flying off of my arm.  It’s time for the face off.  I flip the light on and it’s not just any roach, but some weird looking HUGE brown one with orange on its back.  It also fucking FLIES.  What do I live in Hawaii now?!  It flies over to the printer and starts crawling across the paper in the hopper.  I, still frozen in fear and can’t think straight, start crying hysterically.  I slam the door to the room, run through the dining room, slam that door and proceed to shove towels under the door so that there is NO way this flying hell bug can get me, then I go to the bedroom.  I turn on the light, get under the blankets and continue to shake.

I can’t sleep, but somehow I manage to fall asleep after about an hour of crying.  At 1:30 AM, I wake up to find the waterbug crawling across my fucking NECK.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I jump out of bed, and my dog (oh how I love him) springs into action.  I am screaming at the top of my lungs, trying to spray the thing to death with Craig’s aerosol “Sure” deodorant.  It won’t die and now I have turned it white. 

Doobie goes after this thing with a fury.  I am screaming “Doobie GET HIM.  KILL HIM” as Doobie dives beneath the end table.  As all of this commotion is going on, Craig walks in the door freaked out thinking there is a strange man in the bedroom trying to rape me.

Doobie kills the roach.  Craig gets the carcass with a tissue and tosses it in the toilet.  I, reeling from the roaches and depressed from the state of my marriage, just fall into his arms shaking and crying like a chick from a 1950’s film.

I can conquer all of these horrible things in my life.  I can punch someone dead in the face without even thinking twice about it.  I can cut someone’s throat if they ever dared to harm me, but I can’t kill a fucking ROACH?!  I sat up all night and could not sleep.  I did not sleep 1 second.

Seriously, no matter how sad and pathetic that is… I have to move.  Craig then proceeded to tell me, the fucker, that the night before he was taking a piss and another roach was crawling up his leg.  He killed it.  That makes 2 or 3 roaches.  We are officially infested.  We are officially moving.

Eyes closed, mind racing.  Thoughts of my childhood, like running down 13th ave. with it’s littered curbs and cracked cement, on an especially hot and sticky afternoon in late July.  I am 8 years old and wearing my favorite pink, white and black L.A. Gear sneakers.

My shoes hit the pavement in rhythmic bursts.  My frail, young body, out of breath but not in the least bit tired.  My long mousy brown hair flowing behind me, sweat pouring off of my neck, down my spine and gathering in a pool at my almost non-existent waist.

I’m running from something, it’s just not physical.  I turn my head over my shoulder with every 5th step, half expecting to see someone chasing me.  With each glance, I am somewhat disappointed to find the street empty behind me.

There has to be a reason for this gripping fear in my chest.  It feels like icy cold fingers wrapped around my heart, squeezing gently, but firm enough to cause discomfort.I could run forever, but it will not cause this feeling to leave me.  I finally stop, heaving almost to the point of vomiting.

The problem is me.  The fear is in my mind.

Flash ahead 24 years.  I am perfectly safe, yet feel as if the world is closing in on me.  It is a feeling I have grown accustomed to over the years.  It is a feeling I have become great at hiding.  It is a feeling I would never let the world see.

All of my choices are affected.  The way I live my daily life is evident of someone who was/is somewhat damaged.  The question is… Aren’t we all somewhat damaged?

I could go on pretending that I am happy.  That my life has taken the course I had always planned for it to take.  I could go on pretending that my childhood did not damage me, that excessive drug use did not damage me, that choosing the wrong men did not damage me.

The fact is…  It all did.  It all took its toll.

Yet, I wake up every morning and I wrestle the devil inside of me to the ground.  I dredge up the strength to force myself out of bed and smile.  I live my life everyday by doing the right thing.  It’s not always what I want, but I know it’s *right*.

Things could be so much worse.  I could be a homeless, drug-addicted lunatic in the streets.  Somehow, I found the courage to make it through all of that – why would I give up now when the race is not even halfway done?

Life…

Is funny sometimes, kids. 

I have always been good at taking photographs.  Mostly of myself, because let’s face it… I genuinely love myself.  Taking pictures is expression, without words.  It is my form of visual creativity.

The female body is amazing.  The soft curves, different sizes and shapes, the ability to look amazing naked when most men can never achieve that (well there ARE some).

There is NOTHING in the world like hooking up some ghetto lighting, slipping into some fantastically sexy clothing, popping in some soft, sweet, acoustic music, propping my camera up n my tripod, setting the timer and going to town.  It makes you feel sexy, wanted, IMPORTANT… but in a non-shallow way.  In an artistic way.

Any cute girl can walk down the street and demand attention, that is easy.  Demanding attention from a camera, which captures every imperfection on your body AND soul, is a gift.  Looking perfect through the lens of a camera is difficult to achieve, but certainly attainable.

In short, while taking photographs of myself and other women is not my lifelong aspiration, I am good at it.