Fucked if I know.

I find that to be a very hard question to answer, at least for myself. It’s one I am never prepared to answer. When someone asks me that – even if it’s me doing the asking – my mind immediately plunges into the roiling chaos of infinite possibilities and is torn apart.

But it’s more than that. I react to the question almost like it’s an attack. Like someone pulled me into a dark alley and said “We’re going to rip you away from your warm safe place and drag you into the world. CHOOSE HOW. ”

That’s clearly not a healthy response. Not only is it maladaptive, it’s also delusional. The person asking – even if it’s me – just wants to know my desire so they can help me act on it. They are actually being very nice.

And it is a question that would not induce panic in a healthy person. In fact, I assume that most people, more often than not, would like being asked what they want to do.

But not me. Because I never have an answer. Either I have no plans or intentions whatsoever or I have some and I am in the middle of putting them into action by myself.

The idea of involving other people in the process is foreign and alien to me. All my life, whatever I have done I have done alone, and so I have never learned to collaborate and cooperate on coordinated actions.

The only group thing I have done and enjoyed that I can think of is take part in a theatrical production. I liked that because it’s exciting being part of something while also being given a clear task and role and being left alone (in a sense) to do it.

Otherwise, my lack of kindergarten experience leaves me in a state very similar to those poor monkeys that were raised in captivity way back when. I treat other people as a threat and freak out around them.

Not all the time, of course. But it’s always there. It’s something I have to actively suppress in order to act in a more or less normal way around people I don’t know.

And that takes its toll.

So I can’t answer the damned question. And I get the feeling I am going to have to dig deep down through many layers of dirty ugly scar tissue in order to fine the spark of will necessary to be able to answer it some day.

I’ve tried gettting around the question by imagining that I have infinite money and therefore do not have to worry about expense at all.

What would I do if I was a billionaire?

You know the first thing that comes to mind? Getting a massage. I store a hell of a lot of tension in my muscles and I would love to find out what happens when all that tension goes away. Plus, of course, massages feel wonderful.

Now that I am thinking about it, I am pretty sure a good deep massage would do wonders for me psychologically. I should ask my therapist if that’s the sort of thing the province would pay for if he referred me to a massage clinic.

After that? Sex. My god, sex. SO MUCH SEX. A very luxurious hotel room, room service done buffet style, and so much the sexing times.

I would get me a half dozen super hot male prostitutes and spend an entire long weekend fulfilling my wildest desires.

The legal ones, anyway.

After that? Real estate. I have a deep desire to own some. I would get myself a grand, cozy house with lots of room for guests and facilities for my entertainment etc. It would be out in the country both because it will need the room and because I want peace and quiet away from the rest of humanity almost as much as I want sex.

Then I would buy a luxury apartment in the city for when I want to go into town and be urban for a while. Someplace on Commercial Drive or maybe the Davie Street area.

Then, travel. Luxury travel. I’d see the world.

Although, my idea of luxury travel has a lot more to do with freedom and autonomy than opulence or overt displays of wealth.

As long as I am reasonably comfortable and relaxed, I would be just as happy hitching a ride in someone’s beat up old van with some college aged backpackers as I would riding in a private jet that’s like a luxury apartment on the inside.

The money would be there to make me feel secure, not to inflate my pretensions. If I knew I could get myself out of whatever mess I get myself into, I would be far more willing to take risks and have wild adventures and be spontaneous.

Remember, it’s the performers with safety nets that do the best high wire acts.

Once I had thoroughly exhausted my travel bug, I would go home and work on building a life for myself. Go husband hunting. Set up a home studio for making the kinds of wacky funny videos I want to make…. written, directed, and produced by yours truly, of course. And possibly starring me some of the time too.

But to be honest, I don’t see myself as broadly castable.

I would love to develop my own little troupe of hilarious people who crack each other up constantly and who would have a grand old time working hard at making amazing stuff.

Now at this point, one might ask, “Couldn’t you do some of these things right now?”.

Yes I could. But without the money to aid in my feeling of security, it’s just not gonna happen. It’s truly amazing what cash can do for one’s confidence and self-esteem.

If only my therapist could refer me to a whole lot of money.

That would really aid my recovery.

In fact, it would probably cure me.

But that just ain’t gonna happen.

I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.