When you’re part of a marginalized group you get used to the taste of blood

From biting your own tongue so often. From having to sit in those few seconds after a comment or joke is made. Those few seconds that feel like a lifetime as you decide “should  I say something?” and often we bite our tongues. Whether it be because we don’t have the energy, we don’t feel safe, or we’re just too damn busy to educate another person.
I’ve bitten my tongue so many times throughout my life I’m surprised it hasn’t fallen off
(re: Where are you going? Please Stay)

People often jump down my throat when I tell them someone said something offensive about SW and I didn’t correct them. While I’ve never had anyone threaten me because of what I do, it happens. People have been killed, raped, robbed. Every new person I out myself to I have to think about this. Will they react this way? Will they tell one of their friends who may then cause me harm? Its a gamble every time.

In one of my  recent post I left out a part of our conversation that has stuck with me, I’d put my foot in my mouth and said my ex roommate was threatening to blackmail me. He naturally asked with what and I said I didn’t want to tell him so he just said “Oh so like she has videos of you peeing on a bed with hookers?” I laughed and said “my family wouldn’t care about that honestly” his eyes widened “……but theres hookers there!!!”
And there it was – the situation I all too often find myself in. Do I speak up? Do I defend them? Do I make a small remark about the fact that ‘hookers’ are regular people? Any of these options can raise suspicion in the person I’m talking to. Or do I bite my tongue and swallow my words in order to keep myself safe? To keep my energy sacred?
In a few seconds I thought it all over and processed all the potential outcomes.
If I out myself he could freak out, yell, kick me out. If there’s anything I do know about him its that he wouldn’t understand he’s too young, too privileged, too sheltered in many ways. I don’t know how he’d react, but I know it wouldn’t be good.
I could make a small comment and point out the fact that SW are just people, but then he’d potentially wonder why I was invested enough to defend them along with his suspicion of how I make my money- game over.
In this case I bit my tongue, didn’t say anything, keep my relationship with him, got laid. Now I sit with the discomfort of knowing I fucked someone who could never accept part of my identity, part of my life.
As fun as the sex was – he didn’t deserve access to any part of my body.

First Generation American Growing Pains

Fuck do they hurt.
They come quickly, without warning, they ache, they feel like they just might rip you apart.

I guess this would be a good time to share how I came to be part of this world and the way my life began:

In spring of 1991 my mom had been living with my biological father for two years. Away from all her family and unable to leave the house without his permission, find a job, or learn more english than what she already knew. She fell into a deep double depression. One day she decided she couldn’t take anymore and so she took all of the pills he had in his medicine cabinet; antidepressants, blood pressure medication, sleeping pills and who knows what else. My biological father had already left for work, he was in the air force and lived about 10 minutes from the base- but on this day he forgot his ID so he couldn’t get on base. He drove back to the house and saw my mom laying on the hallway floor when she didn’t respond he called an ambulance. Doctors pumped her stomach, eventually my mother woke up and felt no relief instead she prayed “Dios por favor dame una razon para vivir porque yo ya no puedo seguir con esto” God please give me a reason to live because I can’t keep going on like this.
A couple minutes the doctor walked in to check on her and in that moment told her she was very lucky my biological father found her when he did because she was pregnant. My mother felt as though her prayers had been answered. I never knew this story until I was older, but once I did everything in my life clicked. Why I was raised in such a way where I held so much responsibility for others, why my mother treated me as if I could carry her problems as a child, why she had instilled a belief in me that I could not only change lives but save them, why she nurtured my already extremely empathetic nature – why I grew up feeling a constant pull towards aiding those going through hard times. I was built to heal from the moment the world discovered me. Its not something I take lightly, its an incredible gift. An honor to be able to have people share their wounds with you and its extraordinary to be part of the process of stopping the bleeding, sucking out the venom, and allowing healing to begin. But its also heavy.

Its no exaggeration when I tell people I was born into darkness and I grew up being the light throughout that darkness. This isn’t to brag or pat myself on the back, this is a fact and this is how my mother and I survived so much, I was born to be light even in the midst of horror. As I’ve gotten older my relationship with my mother has become more strained despite us being incredibly close some days I also grow tired.
I’ve been taking care of her since I was 15 when she first got sick. I was young, confused, angry, dealing with past abuse and present while trying to make sure my mother didn’t die…oh and trying to focus on my studies (its a miracle I passed honestly I was drunk 75% of the time between 15-18). She almost died doctors in the USA didn’t know what to do and kept trying different medications. My mother was no longer my mother. Her memory was gone, her speech was slurred, and she could barely recognize me some days.
My older siblings who live back in her home country suggested we try a homeopathic hospital there…I figured what the hell we’ve got nothing to loose. It worked! She wasn’t 100% back but she was my mom again.
She could no longer work and so I began trying to hustle to pay my bills/rent and have extra for her – this is when I discovered the world of sugar dating. And it was thriving in LA not to mention the fact that at 19 I was prime in this market. I stressed about making enough for the both of us everyday sometimes Id throw up after she called me asking for more money…how could I say no? She needed it, I knew she felt horrible asking but medication was/is expensive.
Eventually sugaring wasn’t cutting it I expended myself emotionally for these men and I wanted more control. So a friend suggested escorting I was reluctant because I had my own internal whorephobia going on, but once I started I never looked back.
So maybe I never would have gone into sex work had my mother been healthy, maybe she would’ve paid for my college, maybe she would’ve bought a house we could live in and I could work a “regular” job and save. But thats not how things went and honestly I’m glad they didn’t I’ve learned so much about myself my instincts, my ability to make something out of nothing, my ability to demand whats mine, and the confidence to know what I deserve.
It is exhausting though. I get tired. I get stressed. My anxiety shoots up if I ever have less than 15k: What if she gets more sick? what if her car breaks down? what if mine does? what if they need me to cover the mortgage back in our home country again? what if my brother has another kid I need to help with?
I feel an immaculate need to have money because life has shown me shit happens and I’m the only one in this family with the privilege to be able to remotely pay for the ‘shit’

My white American friends often say to me “wow you’re so nice!” it makes my skin crawl. Nice? No, I’m doing the right thing. Family helps family it has nothing to do with nice.
But where is the line between doing the right thing and wearing yourself too thin?