I was talking to a friend of mine last week. He and his partner of several years just broke up. He was saying to me, “ Everything was so good between us. My life was really good. And now, its not.”
I replied to him, “You know, babe. As unfortunate and painful as this is, most relationships in this world come with a “shelf life”.
I was kind of shocked to even myself say that. I went home that evening and began thinking about what I’d said to my friend.
Am I jaded? That was so inappropriate! What was I thinking to say that to him?
But, after considering my words I thought to myself: How many people in our lives really do last forever?
If I were to just sit here and tell you that 98% of of your relationships had an “expiration date” on them, you’d probably think I was trying to be a douche, or just a jaded fag with no friends. LOL.
But, when I sit and think of the literally hundreds of men and woman who have made appearances in my life in one facet, or another. Maybe for a week. A month. Several years.
Then, I compare those numbers to the amount of people who I’m still really close with for 20+ years…
That’s a pretty vast ratio!
The point I’m getting at here is this:
It never occurred to me that there is nothing wrong with simply enjoying time with another human being for as long as it’s meant to be. Then letting it go with love when it’s done. I think its a natural part of the human condition to covet something (someone) that makes me feel good.
Sure. There are challenges with every relationship. And many can be overcome. But, that’s not what I’m talking about, here. I’m talking specifically about when a relationship with a friend or lover has simply run its course.
This deluded ideal of “Best Friends Forever” and “Happily Ever After” really fucks up how I handle my parting of ways with other human beings.
I don’t know about you, but I’m a “fixer”. I can’t tell you how many sleepless nights I’ve spent agonizing over thoughts like, “How am I gonna make things better? What words do I use to change his mind?”
And, when my best efforts to “fix” something that is not fixable fail, that’s when the anger and blame comes to a head.
I get burnt up when a friendship has run its course!
“She fucked me over! After everything I did for him, this is what I get in return! He just stopped loving me the way he used to!”
I create dramatic narratives that aren’t true. We all grow as individuals. In one way or another. It’s inevitable. So, of course as we grow as people, we grow apart as well.
And, instead of looking at all the wonderful things that person has brought me. All those moments of laughter, tears, adventures, personal confessions. A literal mental scrapbook of memories gets warped by these insane judgments I make, just because its over.
I have, VERY FEW TIMES in my life walked away from a person ands genuinely said, “Thank you. Thank you for every amazing thing you have taught me. Thank you for the memories that I’ll cherish forever. And thank you most of all for helping me become a better version of the man I was before I met you.”
The pain from the loss of the relationship clouds that. The void. And the fear that I may never feel that way with another person again all makes the truth and my gratitude towards that person turn to pain, resentment, and anger.
People come into our lives for a reason. Maybe its just supposed to be for a season. And if you’re lucky, you get those very few who last a lifetime. There really is no equating time and substance. Looking back on my life, I’ve had some people who were in my life less than a week teach me more than people that I’ve known for years. The point is, they all taught me something. Holding on to that “something” they taught me is so much more valuable than trying to hold on to them. (and besides..I believe thats called a hostage crisis 🙂 )
Having this clarity gives me a much deeper sense of gratitude for every interaction I’ve ever had in my life. They all meant something. I was just to blinded by the fear of losing each person to see why.
Maybe you can relate to some this as well.


“How’s my little monkey?”, he used to say. I remember running as fast as I could,  jumping into my Dad’s arms. He would swing me around in his arms and tussle my hair. All the other kids would stare in wonder at him.

He stood 6’4”, and was well over 220lbs. Like a giant. He dwarfed most of the other children’s fathers. And his personality made him even bigger. Deep, bellowing laugh. Charismatic. And, he had swagger. A true New York Guido. With the hairy chest and the thick gold chain, and the Cornicello (Italian horn) hanging from it. He drove a 1980 blackT-Top Camaro.
And, my Dad was always there to back me. I remember when I joined a pee-wee soccer league, both my parents would attend the games. My Dad was literally kicked out of one of my games by the referee, for cheering to loudly for me. He was my biggest cheerleader. He was my hero. I suppose every 7 year old looks at  his father, like a God.
My Ma used to mutter under her breath,when we hosted parties at our home, “It’s time for the Joseph show, again.” I would giggle. He made me laugh with his loud mouth, and macho banter. Women swooned over him. And, I wanted to be just like my Daddy, when I grew up.
Every other weekend, he organized family soft ball games with several other Italian families. I remember my first bicycle. My Dad taught ride it. First, with training wheels. And, when I initially tried to ride my bike without the training wheels, and crashed..My dad picked me up. He spit on my elbow to get the dirt off. Then, he said to me, “Get back on that bike, and show your Dad how a big boy rides his bike.” And, I did. I felt like I could accomplish anything when my Dad was there to guide me. It was such a wonderful time in my life.
Until the darkness came…
Something shifted. In my Dad. He started taking work trips, for days at a time. Apparently, his work trips weren’t exactly going as he explained they would, to my Ma. I remember listening against a closed door, as my parents yelled at one another, My Dad was desperately trying to lie his way out his infidelity. He owned a high end hair salon, and he had told us that he was traveling to San Francisco for a hair convention. My MA had credit card statements, from a honeymoon suite in the very city we lived in. They documented every purchase he made while he was on his supposed trip to San Francisco. Nothing was ever the same in my family, from that day forward. Nothing was ever the same between my Dad and I, either.
Without going into a detailed narrative, (I’ll save that for the memoir) I will say that my father’s presence in my life became sparse.
The after school video game arcade trips. The weekend softball tournaments. The family outings. They were gone.
I still had my Ma. And, please don’t misinterpret my words. My Ma is my world. She has never been an absentee parent. She always made me feel loved. And, I am aware of how blessed I was to have a parent who was always there for me. I do know how many men and women weren’t fortunate enough to have even one of their parents present in their lives.
But, this is my story. And, for a 7 year old child, who grew up with a Dad who was very demonstrative with his love. Who was always present in his life. Then gone. It was earth shattering. He didn’t pack his bags and leave. We were all still a family. But, a very broken one.
My Dad had begun a love affair with cocaine. It was the early 80’s, and cocaine had become a huge part of many people’s lives. My Dad had also started an affair with the manicurist, who worked for his salon.
Now, hindsight is 20/20. Having this knowledge as an adult’s helped me to understand what was happening at this time in my life.
My Ma was trying to protect me, as best as she could. It’s not like she ever sat me down and explained to me, (at 8 years old) “Don’t freak out. It’s not you. Daddy is fucking the manicurist and snorting large quantities of cocaine.” That wasn’t a conversation that ever came up, if you know what I mean.
This was also a time, when divorce was just become a “thing” amongst married couples. Kramer VS Kramer has just premiered 3 years prior, and sparked the “divorce revolution”, amongst American families. And my Ma, coming from a Sicilian Catholic upbringing,was still trying to find some sort of way opt salvage some sanity in our insane household. Shows trying to find a way to salvage a functional “family unit” for me to grow up in. But, you can’t fix broken.
And, there is nothing to find, once something is gone. And, my Dad was gone. Long gone. As a recovering drug addict, myself..It’s not difficult for me to relate to what the disease of addiction was doing to him.
But, for a hyper sensitive little boy…All I knew was that my Daddy was gone. He was no longer at my soccer games. He was no longer at any of my elementary school functions. He was no longer present in my life, whatsoever. There was no explanation given to me. I concluded that I had done something terribly wrong. I would lay awake at night, wondering to myself, “Why doesn’t Daddy love me anymore?”
By 1984, the cold war in my home, between my Ma and Dad shifted to a full on World War. Frequent arguments. Yelling. My father breaking things. Looking back, I would imagine that he was most likely in a cocaine induced psychosis.The yelling between my parents scared the shit outta me. I would be huddled in my bed. Door closed. Blaring Culture Club. My hands over my ears. Crying. Trying to drown out the screaming and slamming doors. When the front door would open and slam shut, I would timidly go to my bedroom window, which faced our front driveway. When my Dad’s Camaro would go flying up the street, I would finally be able to breathe again. The monster, whom I once called “Daddy”, was finally gone.
I’d come out of my bedroom, and curl up in Ma’s arms. She would hold me and rock me, as I cried myself to sleep.
And, that was the way things proceeded. Me and Ma. Dad gone. And me constantly wondering what I could do to win back my Dad’s love.
By 1985, my parents were barely speaking, When they did, they were usually cursing, accusing, and pointing at one another. I was becoming more and more distressed. Anxious. Frightened by my Dad’s rage. And, deeply depressed. Despite every effort I made to win his love back…I had failed. I blamed myself completely for this mess. I would spend school functions, locked in the bathroom, crying. Everyone wanted to know where me Dad was. I had run out of excuses.
My 11th birthday was the breaking point. It was 1985, and Chuck E Cheese was the new, cool place for a child to have a birthday party/ (This was long before the franchise became notorious for gang shootings and brawls)
I had invited many of my classmates, friends, and their parents to my party. Despite the disharmony, which had become the dark, corroding thread woven through my families existence..I was hoping that this birthday party would somehow give me a few hours of family bonding, without the yelling, or pain.
I was dressed and ready to go. Ma had just finished putting on her lipstick and she looked radiant and beautiful, as always. I went through the house. looking for my father. I walked into the living room. There heat, on the couch. Unshaven. Untoward. In his bathrobe. I began to grow a bit nervous. I ran to him, and jumped in his lap. “Daddy. It’s almost time to leave. Ma is out of the bathroom now. Are you going to get dressed?”
My Dad looked past me. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes. And, he said nothing. I began to panic. I threw my arms around his neck and whispered, “Please, Daddy. Please get dressed. Everyone will be there. And, I was hoping we could play ski ball, like we used to! And, air hockey! And, make great big sundaes together.”
My Dad finally looked me in the eye and said solemnly, “I can’t go, Son.”
I shudder, writing this now. Remembering the sinking feeling in my 11 year old heart, when I heard those words.
The tears spilled, uncontrollably down my face.
“But, why?? What did I do wrong? Whatever it is, I did wrong. I’ll make it better. Please. Please, Daddy! Please come to my birthday party.” I was growing hysterical.
Out of the corner my eye, I remember seeing my Ma enter the living room. My Dad had just begun speaking again…”Your mother doesn’t want me there.”
My Ma quickly swept me off of his lap, pulled me upright to my feet,and took me by the hand. She faced my Father fearlessly, looking him square in the eye. She said, “No, Joseph. Not this time. You will not put this on me. And, you will not lie to our son.”
Before he could even answer, Ma had taken me outside the house, onto the front porch. She took a tissue from her purse, trying to dry my tears. But, I was inconsolable. I ran back int to he house, and threw myself at my Dad. “Daddy, please. I’ll do anything. Please don’t leave me on my birthday!”
I looked into his eyes. They were vacant. There was nothing there. No sadness. No remorse. And, I felt helpless. Ma came back in to the house again. She scooped me up to my feet, once more. And, she delicately led me out of the house. Down the driveway. And, into the passenger seat of her car. She dried my eyes. She kissed my cheeks. And, she told me in the most convincing tone she could muster, “We are going to have the best birthday party ever.”
But, her words slipped through me. A mantra of sorts was repeating itself in my mind. Like a drumbeat. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”
Those words weren’t directed towards my Ma. And, they weren’t directed towards my Daddy, either. They were directed towards myself. I hated myself. All I could think was, “What kind of a Son could make his Daddy, no longer want to be his Daddy?”

THE CAPRA DIARIES – “The Dollhouse”

Let me preface this piece with a sincere thank you to everyone who has taken the time to send me messages, emails, and PM’s, while I was absent. I apologize to each of you for being so unresponsive over the past four months.

Most of my close friends were keenly aware of how out of character this type of behavior is, for me. And, many of you who have come to know me through my posts and more so, through my writing…were aware that I was in distress.

As I mentioned in my last piece, I was prescribed a medication called Klonopin. It was prescribed shortly after my ex lover committed suicide in 2013. Though, my psychiatrist was weary of prescribing a powerful narcotic to a recovering drug addict, I had already been hospitalized twice from debilitating panic attacks. I also mentioned in my last piece, how controversial Klonopin is, in the recovery community, due to its addictive components. My sponsor, as well as several close friends, were aware that I was taking the drug. My sponsor referred to it as “a very nasty drug.”  I was just grateful that it was preventing me from having any further panic attacks.

So, let’s fast forward to this past April. I had just come back to San Diego, from a month long work trip to NYC. I was dating someone who operated on what I would call a very low frequency. He was constantly whore shaming me, and seemed quite jealous of the attention I received, publicly. He was the least of my problems, though. I had come home from NYC extremely sick. I had developed a lower GI infection. Anyone who has ever suffered from this, already knows how painful and gross it can be. But even that, was the tip of the iceberg.

The 3 year anniversary of Tony’s suicide was quickly approaching. (He died May 7, 2013) And, I was beginning to, as I do every year since he died, to unravel. Being in a miserable relationship.  Experiencing terrible physical pain from the infection, and dealing with unreconciled grief and guilt over Tony’s suicide, was tearing me apart.

My sponsor was reaching out to me. Friends were attempting to contact me. Yet, I was recoiling further and further from my support group.

This is not an unusual story for any addict in recovery, who may be reading this. I stopped going to meetings. I stopped contacting my sponsor. I stopped communicating with close friends. And, I stopped writing.

It’s not hard to guess what happened next.. I had forfeited every tool, which provided me a daily reprieve from my addiction. Sinking into a sea of sadness, emotional, and physical pain. And, there was a bottle of powerful narcotics (Klonopin) sitting in my kitchen cabinet. And, I wanted an out from all this pain. I wanted it all to stop.

I took a handful of Klonopin, and I slowly sank into a cloud of nothingness. I was numb. The pain was gone. And, I had relapsed.

There’s no candy coating this story. I didn’t have a “slip”. I didn’t “fall off the wagon”. I made a conscious decision, and I had a full blown relapse. This was the first week of May. In 48 hrs, I had gone through a month’s  worth of Klonopin. I had sunken into a vaporous hole of nothingness. Taken In large quantities,  Klonopin completely wiped my brain. And the moment I realized that my prescription was out, I wanted more. Klonopin isn’t the easiest drug to find on the street. But, being the resourceful dope addict that I am, I found other drugs in the benzodiazepine family, which were readily available. 10mg pills of Valium (blues) and 2mg bars of Xanax.

The vicious cycle had begun. I purchased 100 Valium and 25 Xanax, bullshitting myself into believing that the amount of pills I purchased would sustain me for the next 3 1/2 weeks, til I would refill my Klonopin, and just go back to being sober again. But, there was no turning back. I was moving forward. Downhill. Fast. The 125 pills I had purchased to last 3 1/2 weeks, lasted 5 days. And, I was purchasing more, and more. This went on for months. I would black out. Days would blur into one another. I would regain consciousness on the floor, in my living room. I even “came to” one late afternoon, on the floor in my kitchen. It was tragic.

And, I was alone. Ma was gone. My friends were gone. My sobriety was gone. And, I was gone. Long gone.

I don’t think it’s productive to sit here and drone on and on about the disease. However, I do feel that it is necessary to qualify, in case anyone reading this story might be thinking that pills are the answer to their problems.

So, what happened? What was “the moment of clarity” for me? This is not something I wanted to recount, but this is what happened…

In late July, I was still fucked up on pills, unreachable to my friends, and a complete non entity. I called my best friend, Chicken Titty, while I was in a blackout. She told me later, that I insisted she come pick me up because I was hungry. I do remember getting in the car with Chicken Titty, and I recall her driving us out of my complex. That’s all I remember. Several days later, I called her up and asked her, “Where did we go eat dinner, and when did you drive me home? She replied, “Drove you home? You drove yourself home! You were complaining that I was driving too slowly, and you drove my car back to your house, at over 100 mph. I have no recollection of me driving her car, to this day. That was it. I had put my best friend’s life in jeopardy, along with my own. In a complete blackout on pills.

I had to get clean again. I wanted to get clean again. More than anything.  I was terrified of the physical withdrawal, that would be inevitable…coming off benzos.  If you’re not familiar with this class of narcotics, benzodiazepines are the only class of drug which you risk death, detoxing from. A grand mal seizure is usually what kills people, who are trying to kick benzos, “cold turkey”. I was scared out of my mind. But, there is something inside me…Call it stubbornness. Call it utter determination. Call it stupidity. But, once I decide something…it’s done. And, I’ll die, fighting for it. And, that day, I made the decision to get sober, again. To save my life, again. Death was the only thing that could have stopped me.

I called my psychiatrist. The same one who had prescribed me the Klonopin. I told him everything. The amount pills I’d been taking. The amount of time I’d been in a relapse. All of it. He had me come into his office the very next day. We met. I confessed. And, what I appreciated most about that visit…the lack of judgement. And, his genuine concern from my safety. OF course, he told me I could never take Klonopin again. He suggested a 10 day medical detox, which would help me to avoid the physical symptoms from the benzo detox.   On July 29th, I began a 10 day medical detox, taking a muscle relaxer called Flexeril. By Day 5, I was down to half the original dose of Flexeril. And, by Day 11, I was weaned completely from prescription narcotics.

I need to add that halfway through my med detox, I decided to fly to Pompano Beach, Florida. Against my psychiatrist’s advice, I went. I needed to remove myself from the apartment I had mad my tomb, for so many months. Florida turned out to be the best decision I could have made. It was tranquil.  There were no familiar faces to influence me. It was ideal. A beach front high rise. Time to get back to basics. Staying with a buddy who was sober, and who knew the predicament that I was in. He never left my side.

I would like to add that during this period, one person from the industry reached out to me. Because he’s in a 12 step program, himself, I’ll leave him anonymous. Of course he said to me, “You stopped doing your sober day count on social media. You stopped posting anything at all, on social media. For addicts, that’s a telltale sign.” He wasn’t accusing me. He was approaching me with genuine concern. And, I told him everything. He listened, and he responded with something I won’t ever forget. He said, “I had multiple years sober, and I relapsed. My sobriety today, is better than it was the last time. Because my approach to my sobriety is different.”

That gave me hope. Enough hope to reach out to a few more of my sober friends. Another buddy of mine, who lives in NYC, told me, “You don’t need to tell the whole world right away. It’s your life. You do it when you’re ready.”

That took so much pressure off of me.

You may just see me as some mouth breather, who shoots skin flicks…fair enough.

I see myself as a little more than that. Over the years, I have actively used my platform which was created from the porn industry, to reach out to others…through sobriety..And more so, through my writing. And, if I can hold myself accountable to the public for my success in sobriety, than I feel it necessary to share my struggles, and setbacks, as well.

I should be dead. And my best friend should be dead, by my hand, as well. I drove the two of us at over 100 mph in a complete blackout. But, we survived. I survived. I survived a detox from a class of drugs that has killed other addicts, who have tried to come off, “cold turkey”.  And, I believe I was spared because I still have shit to do, in this life.

A little time has passed since that fateful night in July, when I so recklessly out myself and Chicken Titty in harm’s way. I’ve opened up to more people who are sober. And yes, I’ve also been approached by a few members in San Diego gay recovery community with their patronizing bullshit.

At the gym, someone with a few years sober came up to me and said, “Are you done this time, for good?” My response:

  1. A) Go fuck yourself.
  2. B) I’m done for today. So, hopefully I’ll be done, again tomorrow.

I’d love nothing more than to say, “I’m never falling down again.”  But, I’m no demigod. I’m not a guru. And, if I fall again, I’ll get back up, and keep fighting. That is all I can guarantee. I will never stop fighting, until I die.

Before this relapse, I took my sobriety for granted. I did believe that I would never relapse again. I know now, that I am NEVER immune from relapse. I will never “fake it, til I make it”, either. There are so many things I didn’t say, when I was in pain. Fear of judgement. Fear of being seen as  ‘weak’.  I can’t afford to let those fears burden me, today. My life is at stake.

And, all the things that were suddenly gone, while I was loaded on pills. They are slowly coming back again. My Ma.  My friends.   My self worth.  It’s all coming back to me.

And yes, I realize the haters will come to. “Poor little porn star. Poor little bleeding heart.” They come out of the woodwork, like roaches. But, it’s cool. Bring it. There is absolutely nothing anyone can say to hurt me, that I haven’t already said to myself, while I was loaded.

I know that My true friends are here with me, til the wheels fall off. And, my true fans…they get me.  They aren’t going anywhere.

I’m so happy to finally be publishing this piece to the public. Now, I can let it all go.

Last, but certainly not least:

To my friends, fans, and followers…I’m sorry if I let you down. But, I can’t be your “sober champion”. I’m an addict, just like every other addict. Trying to make it through each day, clean.

I will continue this fight. And, I will continue to write my stories. And my hope with this piece, (as with all my stories) is that one more man or woman, who is out there…Who thinks they have lost the power of choice..They will read my little story. And, they will decide to fight for their lives, as well.

I know what it feels like to look into a starlit sky, and see only darkness. I also know what it’s like to be swallowed by the darkness, and to find my light, once more.

I hope you can find yours, too.




THE CAPRA DIARIES – “A Seven Year Old’s Salvation”

We stood underneath the large tree in the front yard, as dusk settled. Me and Ma. Tears running down Ma’s face. I was so confused!

My best efforts to make Ma smile had led to tears. In my spinning, whirling, ADHD driven world, I thought I was going to make my mother proud. Yet, there she stood. Looking down at me, trying to smile through tears. I threw my arms around her waist, hugging her. “Ma. I’m sorry! Whatever I did wrong. Just tell me. I won’t ever do it again. Please don’t cry, Ma. Please!”
I didn’t understand. I was just trying to be myself. But, there was too much of me. And, at 6 years old, I felt like an utter failure. A burden to my family. An embarrassment. And, I hated myself.
No matter what I did. My brain was always flying at warp speed. From one intense thought, to the next.
Ma took me by the hand. And, we walked back to the house together. As we entered the foyer, I abruptly stopped in my tracks “When I grow up, will God make me normal??” Ma looked down at me with a loving smile. “You already are normal. Just a different kind of normal.”

2nd grade rolled around. Not much changed. The kids grew a little crueler, and more judgmental. I began hearing the word “faggot”, more often. And, I became more hyper sensitive. More self aware. And plagued by insecurity.

What finally shifted for me? How did I find my salvation?
There wasn’t any “magic” therapy. No ‘burning bush’ moment.
My 2nd grade teacher was a very animated woman. And, every afternoon, after lunch recess, she read to the classroom.
What was cool about her:
She would change her voice, to create the different characters, in each book she read.
Something about all of the different tones and speech patters she used to mimic each character, held my focus.

At that particular time she was reading us the book, “Harriet The Spy”, by Louise Fitzhugh.
It was the story of a 10 year old girl, growing up in NYC. Harriet was an only child (like me) and she was, what other children would consider, “weird”…
Harriet had a daily “spy route’, consisting of several eccentric neighbors. She spied on each of them. And she would write every last detail about her neighbors in a little notebook.
What really intrigued me about her Harriet?
She didn’t just write the “dirt” about her neighbors in the notebook. She wrote about herself. Her feelings. Her triumphs. Her fears. Everything she learned about herself, she wrote in her notebook.
There were so many layers to Harriet. And, at 7 years old, I could relate to every single one of them.
She was unusual. Yet thoughtful. She didn’t see the world the same way as other kids her age.
I remember rushing to the drug after school.
And, I purchased a 5 subject notebook. I went directly home, and opened it up for the first time. I stared at the naked pages.
Then, I began to write. And, boy did I have a lot to write about!
First, very random thoughts. A few lines about a classmate I had a crush on. (yes, it was a boy!). Another few lines about how much I loved the smell of my grandma’s Gardenia perfume. Then, on to another subject. I wrote and scribbled across the pages of that notebook, just as quickly as my mind processed thought, after thought.
I was having a conversation with the notebook.
But, there was a significant difference between this particular conversation I was having, and any other conversation I’d experienced in the 7 years I’d been alive.

The notebook was capable of understanding every word I had to say. It followed my swirling, fast paced speech pattern, with ease. I never once received an eye roll, or an exasperated look, while I was confessing my long winded narratives. The paper kept up with me. The paper was patient. Even as I careened towards one self revelation, then veered off to another.
As time passed, I found that there were days I could write an entire story, on just one subject.
And, For a little boy, with undiagnosed ADHD…that was such a triumph!
There were also many days, when I rambled on, and on, and on. About a million different things. But, that was okay, too. Because there was never any judgement.
I found safety, when I wrote. There was a sense of completion, when I wrote.
But, most of all…there was freedom.
I began to write more, and more. I never made up stories. I was never interested in creating characters, or writing non-fiction. I always wrote about my personal experiences. Journal format.
That year was 1983.
I began to grow from a spastic, little ADHD child…Running home as fast as he could, to cry. To, an excited little boy…Running home to write.
I would finish my writing. Slam my notebook shut. Go play. Come back to my notebook. Open it. And there, before me, were all of my crazy, erratic, impulsive, nonsensical narratives. Little sparks of my soul. Spread out, into stories.

I share this chapter of my life with you, because I know that I am not the only adult who grew up with a diagnosis.
Maybe you’ve experienced depression, PTSD, OCD, ADD, ADHD, bi polar, etc…
I believe we all share a common denominator:
We are all extremely sensitive people. We see and internalize things differently. And, that leaves us yearning an outlet.
Maybe you’ll find your outlet in extreme sports, dance, drawing, yoga, science, or teaching.
As long as it’s a safe, non-judgmental outlet. And, it gives you a sense of freedom…
Indulge it!

Over 35 years later, I sit here writing my experiences into a 5 subject notebook. Then, I transfer everything to my computer.
The writing still produces a feeling of satisfaction and freedom, inside me.

The difference now:
I’ve become brave enough to share my stories, with others. With you. And strangely, some of you started to respond. Relating your similar experiences back to me.
That has been life changing. I’m not alone! And, hopefully, when you read some of my stories..You aren’t feeling so alone, either.

Please, don’t misinterpret what I’ve written. My writing didn’t “cure” my ADHD. But, It eliminated some of the self loathing and pain that my ADHD produced.
I am a firm believer in getting medical help for any diagnosis that may prevent you from living a productive, fulfilling life. Therapy has played a huge part in mine.

I’m sure many of you are wondering if I use medication to treat the symptoms of ADHD. Unfortunately, I found meth, as a teenager.
Once I received an ADHD diagnosis, I was already addicted to meth.
The meds used to treat ADHD are amphetamine based. So, I was never a candidate for treatment.

In sobriety, doctors were exploring different ways to treat my ADHD, (and the massive anxiety attacks it produced) with non narcotics….To no avail.

In 2013, I was prescribed Klonopin, a benzodiazepine used to treat acute anxiety. Klonopin is controversial in the sober community, due to its habit forming components. But, l was suffering such terrible anxiety attacks, after my ex lover’s suicide. I was hospitalized twice.
My doctor stepped in. He believed that because I was firmly rooted in my sobriety, Klonopin would be the answer.
And, for several years, it was the answer…until it wasn’t.





THE CAPRA DIARIES – “ADHD and the 80’s”


“ADHD and the 80’s”

Growing up, I never felt “normal”. Obviously, there was the gay element.
But, all gay things aside…
There was something much more, which made me different from your typical 6 year old kid.
I was hyper. And, I don’t mean your typical hyperactive 6 year old. I couldn’t sit the fuck still. I was extremely impulsive, and easily distracted. To the point where my Ma was starting to receive phone calls from my concerned first grade teacher…on the regular.
“We were in the middle of a spelling test and your son abruptly got up, before he finished his test! He went to the music closet, and pulled out a tambourine. He disrupted the entire class, playing the tambourine, and singing, It’s a Small World!!”, she exclaimed to my Ma.
When my Ma tried to calmly extract a reasonable answer, as to why I was creating chaos in the classroom, I answered as honestly as I could: “I got bored.”

This was 1982. It was a time when ‘psych diagnosis’ was reserved exclusively for people who were having psychosis, mania, or what was considered a complete “psychotic break”.

Terms like ADHD hadn’t really been established. And, psychotropic meds were barely on the horizon.
There was such little knowledge and information regarding ADHD. And, when there is no knowledge.. Ignorance rules. I think we all know what ignorance can breed.

For me, it bred “labels’. From my teachers. From my friends and peers, in school And, generally from anyone who shared more than 5 minutes with little 6 year old, me.

“Slow down!” “I can’t understand a word you’re saying. You talk so fast!” “Sit still!” “Why don’t you ever listen?” “Spastic!” “What’s wrong with you?!?”

Today, when I hear other adults, who grew up with similar issues. Many of them share with me how quickly they became immune to the name calling and insensitivity. And, I find myself feeling somewhat envious, when I hear those stories. That wasn’t my experience.

Because for me, at 6 years old… Being gay. Extremely sensitive. And desperately wanting to feel some kind of acceptance. Every single time I was judged for my “weirdness”. Or shamed for being too loud, and speaking too fast. And called terrible names on the playground…I died inside.

I remember running home from school. So fast, I could barely catch my breath. I would throw myself on my bed. Grab one of my stuffed animals. And, I would cry. I wished and wished that something out there would make me “normal”. I hated myself for being defective. I felt hopeless. And most of all, I felt unlovable.

My Ma would hear me sobbing, and come into my bedroom. She would sit down next to me on the bed, and hold me. “I love you more than anything in this world.” she would tell me. “But, you only love me because you’re my Ma!”
She would shake her head and say, “You are such a creative, beautiful boy.. God made you exactly this way, for a reason. You just haven’t figure out why, yet.”

She loved me, and I knew it.
But, even she was pushed to the edge, by my ADHD.
It took many years for Ma to come to terms with the fact that my intensity, my lack of concentration, and my infinite amount of energy, couldn’t be simply disciplined.
But, boy…did she try.

I was always a physically active child. And, I had absolutely no fear of injury. No matter how many bruises, scrapes, and stiches my physicality brought me.

There was a large tree in our front yard. It stood, easily40 feet high. It’s long branches extended in every direction. And, I knew each branch, like the back of my hand. I remember climbing to the highest branch that would carry my weight.
I screamed at the top my lungs, “MA! MA!! MAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!”
She came running. I heard her burst out of the screen door. And, I hung upside down by my legs.
“Ma! Look at me! Look up, Ma! MA! LOOK AT MEEEE!. I felt the blood rushing to my face.
Sprinting towards the tree. My poor Ma was hysterical. “Get down from that damn tree before you kill yourself!
She was gnawing on her fist (Italian style) and pacing in front of the tree.
And, I just kept swinging. “But, Ma! I’m a fancy daredevil! Look up, Ma! No hands!!”
Ma’s face contorted in horror.
I realize now she feared for my life. But, at the time, I was too consumed by the adrenaline that pushed me faster, and faster, and faster.


I saw worry on her face. But, my mind was whirling so quickly. I continued swinging faster.

Ma ran back towards the house, screaming for my father.. “God Dammit! Joseph! Get your son down from that God awful tree, before the neighbors call Child Protective Services, and they haul us all off to God knows where!”

My father finally emerged from the house. Newspaper in one hand. Beer bottle in the other.
He was a burly Italian man. Standing 6’4″. 220+ lbs.
There was no mistaking my father’s intent. Standing under the tree. Rolling up the newspaper, like he was gonna swat my ass.
My little circus performance was officially over!

I climbed down from the tree.
My father was standing beneath it, holding the rolled up newspaper, ominously. Ma was pacing the front lawn, like a tiger.
Yep. I was in shit water!
Logic entered my mind, vaguely. It told me that my best bet was to ‘cool it’, once I hit the lawn.
But, the intense urge inside me, which always outweighed rhyme or reason. The whirling mass of intensity which dove me. It prevailed.

“Ma! Didn’t you just see me? I’m gonna join the circus. Not like a clown,. But…but, like an acrobatic person. Maybe they’ll decide to shoot me out of a cannon, Or, I can walk a tightrope, while I juggle fire!
Or, Ma! What about a trapeze? Did you see how I was up there, Ma?! Can I take trapeze lessons next Summer, when school lets out? Like, real trapeze lessons? Oh boy!! I’m gonna be a famous trapeze person! And, you both can be in my act, too!! And, we’ll be real famous, like the Brady Bunch! Except, we’ll be the Brady Bunch in the circus, without Marcia, or Greg, or Peter,or….
I paused. But, only long enough to gasp for air.
“Oh, Hi, Mrs. Elliott!” I waved furiously at the neighbor, who lived across the street. She stared incredulously, at this little six year old tornado, who was just spinning round and round.
“Did you see my tricks, Mrs. Elliott? Wouldn’t that be a really neat circus act?”

Back to Ma..
“Or Ma, I could be a fireman, and rescue kittens, stuck in people’s trees!! What about that, Ma?!?”
My father just shook his head. He walked back inside the house. Ma was still pacing the front lawn. Holding the sides of her head.
“So, Ma. When the circus comes, can we show them my act? Do you think it was good enough yet, Ma? Or, do I need more practice?”

Finally, she bent down and gently squeezed my lips together, in an effort to silence me.
All you could hear were my stifled exclamations. “Buh, Muahhhh..We shuh john da circuhhhh!!”

Ma knew I wasn’t being a little asshole. She knew I couldn’t stop. I could barely pause to catch my breath!

I remember that day, so vividly.
What I remember most about that day:
Despite my misconduct. Despite scaring the living shit outta my mother.
She was still trying to smile at me. To console me. But, tears rolled down her face. I think that was the moment she realized that there was nothing she could do to stop this disorder, which drove me.

I saw the deep sadness beneath her smile.
And, I felt like an utter disappointment to the most important person in my world.

The Capra Diaries will continue…img_1643

Like Its Your Last

Mortality. We think we have an understanding of it. But, do we?
I had a terrible relationship with my father, from the time I was a boy. He was abusive to both me and my Ma. He was an absolute monster.
At 18 y/o I wrote my father a letter, telling him to never speak to me again. Time passed. I grew older. And the resentment I felt towards him, corroded me. Like mercury, flooding my veins. All of the pain, disappointment, and sadness ruled me. In 2011, I received a call from my dad’s niece. She told me that he was very sick with bone cancer. Beyond treatment. And, he was being released from the hospital, to hospice. Something in me shifted. That little boy in me, who always wanted to hold his father’s hand, resurfaced. Past the pain. Past the hatred. To the truth. And, the truth was, that I loved my father with all of my heart. And, my father was going to die. I desperately wanted to see him before he passed. To look into his eyes and forgive. Hug him, and let all of the years I’d wasted, sitting in hatred, melt away. I immediately booked a flight from San Diego to White Plains. But time waits for no one. And, my father left this world before I could get to him. The pain I felt…the pain I still feel, is immeasurable. No forgiveness. No closure. And it haunts me to this day. Yeah. I know what you’re gonna comment and say..”He’s watching over you now from Heaven.” And that’s great.  But, it doesn’t console me. That’s my truth. I live with it.
Most of you know, my ex lover, Tony Serafini, took his life. After almost 3 years together, we broke up. Due to my addiction. I had relapsed, after he and I were having problems in the relationship. And after we broke up, he emailed me. He begged me to get sober, so we could be together again. And, in my sick addict mind, I believed I would get sober again. “Just a few more weeks of partying.” I told myself. Then, I would get sober. Tony and I would resume our relationship, and everything would be better. But, I couldn’t bring myself to answer his email. Not while
I was still high. I told myself that I’d respond to Tony’s email once I was clean again. Just a few months later. I awoke from a blackout. I had been on a crack cocaine binge for about 5 days. My friend Chris was blowing up my phone. I answered. He told me solemnly, that Tony was dead. By his own hand. My baby was gone. Gone from this world, forever. And, there was no closure. No last spoken word. And living in the knowledge that I will wait ’til the day I die, to see my love breaks my heart.
The message I’m sharing is not only for extreme cases, like the ones I just wrote about.
How many times in a day does that little voice within, tell you to text an old friend you haven’t seen or spoken to in awhile and say, “I’m thinking of you.” But, you disregard the notion because you’re “too busy”? Or, you see an associate at work..just in passing.. and it occurs to you to smile at them. But you quickly disregard that notion, because you aren’t in the mood to smile? Or, you have a petty argument with a friend or lover, and ice them out for a few days, weeks, because you “need space”? And yeah…sometimes, we do need space, when we are angry, or feeling frustrated.
Just remember:
That moment…when you’re finally ready to reach may be gone. Life is fragile. Someone, who is perfectly healthy, living their life, can be taken. Here today. Gone tomorrow.
So, my advice:
“Never let the sun go down on your anger.” If you’re “beefing” with someone you love, because they did you so wrong. Take a look at your part. In my experience…unless someone has held a weapon to me, I’ve had a part in the problem, as well. So, make the amends. Get over it. And love each other. Reach out, when you get the vague inclination to hug a friend.
Smile at your work associates, Or,even at that stranger in the gym. If you’re in a crap mood. Get over it. The power of a smile is stronger than you know.
If there is a person in your life, whom you haven’t spoken to in forever. And you’re waiting on them to reach out. Pick up the phone, and initiate.
It’s such an easy concept to discuss. But more difficult to put into action. The ego is a formidable opponent. It tells us to seek revenge. To ignore kind gestures. My ego even tells me that I’m less of a man for doing these very things.  But honestly, I’d rather feel like a moron, for attempting to do these things,,,than live in the pain I have felt, for not doing them.
Treat every moment you share with a person, like it’s your last.IMG_8913

The Beast

The Beast

We all know it. We all live for it. And we are all completely enslaved by it. Social media. Before I proceed, let me preface by saying that when I write “we”, I am including “me”.
This thing we all live for. Pass our time with. Whatever you want to call your involvement with social media. It’s a swirling, pixelated, perfectly edited reality show we have all created for ourselves.
I can barely remember what my life was like when I just lived for myself. And not for what the world thought of me.
Today, I can take a picture, edit the picture , write any narrative I choose, and project an image of myself that I want the world to perceive as my truth. And maybe…just maybe..if the bullshit I’m projecting is believable enough, I can start to believe it, as well.
OK. So, you’re getting a little uncomfortable right now. That’s ok. Take a breath. Relax. Cuz there’s more!
How many times during the day do I grab my phone to check my different social media pages? If I actually counted and told you the number..I’d probably cry.
For me…an addict. Social media is the perfect playground. I can be validated for any random emotion I’m experiencing..24 hours a day! “I’m feeling sad!” Retweet me, so the world knows just how sad I am.” CONSOLE ME!!
 If I’m feeling sexy, tell me how sexy I am! “Like” and “favorite” my sexiness!!
And the information I disclose…the most random, silly shit! Then I am sooooo shocked when a stranger comes up to me at the gym, asking me if that hemorrhoid I had last week is better.
And let’s not even touch on how social media has completely destroyed social graces. Ok, ok…let’s talk about it!
Can we get through a nice meal at a restaurant without “checking in”, updating our status. or photographing our actual meal??
My boyfriend told me, “You spend so much time invested in that fantasy world. And, I found myself feeling really defensive. I am far enough along in my sober journey to realize that anything which makes me feel defensive is usually true.
And let’s not forget about the ongoing “nighttime soap operas”  we create, in the form of social media wars. WTF is that?? Today’s answer to addressing a “beef” with someone is to completely humiliate them, saying the most malevolent, vicious remarks on social media that we can think of. Involving innocent people with our “beefs”. Rallying troops. All over something that could be settled with a simple one on one conversation with a person.
I’ve been guilty of this. Admittedly. And it never fails. EVERY SINGLE TIME I engage in a social media war, I feel darkness. Like, I’ve utterly failed in my ability to grow as a human being. Aside from the fact that I feel like I lose IQ points when I participate in this childish behavior.
I don’t get it. I’m from the back east. And, I was also raised by 2nd generation Italians.
I was always raised to believe that if I am hurt or frustrated by a person’s behavior, confronting them face to face is the most healthy way to resolve it. Or, you can agree to not agree. And respectfully go your separate ways. But, at least you’ve handled it.
But again, I know people who feel empowered by social media wars. I think they are pussies. People who are too afraid to confront a person, and would rather strike out, whilst hiding behind their computer screens. Grow a pair!
So, what’s the solution to the fascination and addiction we all have with social media?
I honestly can’t give you a solution. We are all drawn to it for different reason. To promote our businesses. To validate ourselves. To be seen. To criticize and rip other people to shreds. To simply pass time. To live vicariously through others.
Social media isn’t something I plan on abstaining from. It is  something that I’m learning to put into perspective.
When I’m hanging with family and friends, keeping my phone in my pocket and being present for them…that is a start.
Continuing to share my experience, strength, and hope with addicts and alcoholics  who have less clean time than I have, helps.
Am I going to stop posting gratuitous selfies. Probably not!
I’m not that spiritually fit yet, either!
Let’s face it. Social media is here to stay. It can be a brilliant tool to promote yourself and inspire others. Or, it can be grossly thrown out of balance and consume a person’s life.
I hope I didn’t ruffle anyones feathers, considering I am posting this piece to my social media. HAHAHHAHA..
And If I did, that certainly wasn’t my intention. This is my experience. And whats mine isn’t necessarily yours.
Life is short people. And this isn’t a rehearsal. Live every moment like its your last.

Crash…The Journey Never Ends

2016 started for me with a BANG!
Well, more like a crash.
On January 11th, I was taken to the ER, for some flank pain and trouble breathing. I was convinced it was an anxiety attack. Anxiety is something I have struggled with for years. However, In 2011 I suffered from bi lateral pulmonary emboli. Since then, any medical issue regarding my breathing must to be taken seriously. So, I went to the ER. They ran X-rays of my chest and a CT scan of my lungs. The doctor came back with the results. “You are clot free. However, your liver is swollen. Have you been excessively drinking?”, he asked. “My liver?! I don’t drink at all!!”, I replied defensively. The doctor responded, “Well, what are you taking that could be making your liver swell?” I immediately blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “Anabolic steroids??” The doctor peered at me through his glasses, “Yep. That would do it. How long have you been on your cycle?”

How long have I been on my cycle? Excellent question! That is where this story begins. For those of you not familiar with steroid use, the average steroid cycle should last no longer than 12 weeks. Then you take 6 weeks off. The reason you go “off cycle”, is to allow your system..the pituitary glands..the adrenal glands..basically, your entire endocrine system, to function normally again. And I was all for that. I had every intention of taking a break once 12 weeks rolled around. But, time waits for no one. And once that 12 weeks did come, I found myself full of wonderful excuses as to why I needed to continue a few weeks longer. I was busy! I had work. Bookings. Shoots. Appearances. I told myself that I just needed a few extra weeks to get all these shoots done, and then I would “cycle off” the steroids.
My steroid cycle officially began December 2013. It started with Testosterone Cypionate. Just some extra testosterone to give me that extra edge at the gym. But as my work load increased. So did my mental obsession with cultivating the ‘perfect body’. I wanted more bulk. Naturally, I added some DecaDurabolin to my regiment. But, after a few weeks of that, I noticed I was getting too thick. So, that’s when I decided to add the most sought after ‘gay steroid”, Trenbolone. Trenbolone, for those of you who don’t know, is a steroid that was originally used on livestock to increase muscle growth before they are slaughtered. But, we gay men love it because to adds bulking AND cutting to the body. One of the only anabolics to give you both. So, there I was. Going from 1 to 3 injectables in the blink of an eye. That was a perfect combination! Until I heard that there was an oral steroid called Anavar, that really gave anyone who was taking Testosterone, the most benefits. Well, how could I refuse? And before I even knew it, I had become a walking science project. I used to joke to people who knew about my steroid use, and say that I was the “hormone whisperer” Yeah. Those hormones were doing a lot more than whispering!
But, it seemed like everything was working out gloriously. I was still working a ton. I looked amazing. And I just kept going. That’s the way it always starts out, right? Everything is amazing. Until its not. Then, the very thing that seemed so amazing, started to turn on me. It took awhile. Over a year passed. I was still on my “12 week cycle”. And I started to get back acne. The acne was annoying. And then it got really bad. It wasn’t just the acne. It was the marks the acne was leaving on my back. I was starting to get nervous. But, it never occurred to me to just stop. I tried to control it. Dermatologist visits. Anti bacterial pills to battle the oils from the steroids. Salicylic acid treatments. You name it. I did it. I did everything a person could do…except stop. And more time passed…and I still hadn’t gone “off cycle”. So now, we’re looking at me in January 2016…2 years have passed..And I’m in the ER of the hospital with a swollen liver, wondering what the hell has happened. Sure. My 12 week cycle ended up lasting over 100 weeks. But who was counting?!
My liver was. Thankfully.
Had my liver not blown up, I would have most likely continued my cycle til I suffered renal failure. That’s what my endocrinologist says was next on the list for me.
So, I stopped. I quit the moment I left the ER. 3 injectables. 1 oral. All gone. And yes. my body crashed. Hard. I slept over 12 hours a day. I felt weak. I had no energy. I was morbidly depressed. And I cried. Not from physical pain. But, from the knowledge that my broken thinking had, once again, taken me back to another dark place in my life.
My broken thinking tells me that steroids are gonna make me whole. Make my life perfect. That even though studies have proven that performance enhancing steroids are dangerous, I’m going to be an exception to the rule. For people like me. Addicts. Just because I stop using dope and alcohol, doesn’t mean that my broken thinking stops as well. This is not a story for people who exclusively used steroids. This is a story for anyone who excessively uses anything that they believe will fix them.
But speaking along the lines of steroids, I would like to emphasize something here…there is no one in the porn industry who tells performers it is mandatory to take steroids. Do many performers use steroids? Yes. That is a given. There is pressure to have an extraordinary body. But this goes a lot further than my industry. Steroids are an unspoken “secret” amongst many gay men. And for those of you who manage to use steroids successfully…Mazel, to you! That simply is not my story.
Trust me. This is not the first essay of 2016 that I would like to be sharing with my friends, fans, and followers. I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Raw. All of it. But this is my truth. And maybe, just maybe..there will be someone else out there who is reading this, who can relate. And hopefully, they won’t feel so alone.
I crashed. Hit the floor. I learned. I grow. And my journey continues.

Here is a selfie taken last night. My natural body!


‘Tis The Season

The Holidays are upon us. And though traditionally this is supposed to be a time of reflection, gratitude, connecting with family, friends, and loved ones..I find myself being swept away in a sea of resentment, anxiety, and financial stress.

Our culture perpetuates this idea each Holiday season, that shiny new toys and outdoing ourselves from years past, should be our primary purpose.
With that deluded notion in mind,I forge ahead. Arguing with my boyfriend over nonsense, resenting my Ma for being the same person she’s been for over 70 years, and my friends: How dare they want to spend tome with me during this festive season. Can’t they see I’m busy?!???
Basically, I’ve found myself behaving like a crabby douchebag.
Its so easy for me to forget how many blessing are sitting right underneath my nose.
For instance:
My Ma. Sure,there are times when she wants to punch me in the throat. And yes, I want her to mind her own God damn business, and quit meddling in mine.
But, really…underneath that surface bullshit. There is a history between the two of us, like nothing I’ve ever shared with another human being, in this life. So much love, loyalty, forgiveness, honor, respect, and downright crazy fun, that I have shared with this amazing woman, over the last 41 years.
So, perhaps instead of allowing the little things that grate my nerves, get to me..and corrode my Spirit. I can take a few moments every day to reflect on how, every day of my childhood, this woman consistently made sure that I felt loved and cared for. And, I can look at her today…and smile in the knowledge that our relationship lis greater today, than it has been in the last 20 years.
So, being present with my Ma. Honoring her, this Holiday season, for all the love she’s given me. That is the true spirit of the Holdiays.
My boyfriend and I don’t see eye to eye on everything in our relationship. And my ego expects EVERYONE TO BE ENTITLED TO MY OPINION!!
But maybe, instead of jumping to conclusions about Reese’ motives in any given situation, (contempt prior to investigation) I can feel safe in the knowledge that Reese has NEVER once given me the inclination that he would ever go out of his way to hurt me. He shows up for me, listens to me (even when I’m speaking like a moron) and makes sure, every single day that he lets me know he cares for me. Not by saying it, but by showing it. If that’s not a Holiday blessing…what the fuck is??! Reciprocating that love. From the simplest thing, like rubbing his arm and back (which he loves) or giving him attention, void of my selfish wants. That is what this Holiday season is about.
I find myself wishing I had more friends. But, the truth is…The friends I have are nothing less than amazing. They are loyal. They tell me the truth about myself, even if I don’t want to hear it. They don’t judge me. I might not have a slew of different friends to jump around to, but I do have friendships that are built on mutual respect and love. So, taking time to honor my friends, during this paramount. Because it wasn’t so long ago, that these were the very friends who believed in my when I was newly sober, and didn’t believe in myself.
However, my ego is dangerous. It’s corrupt. And when its in full effect,  I will come up with excuses as to why I can’t do lunch or dinner with someone that is a true friend. That’s crap! Relationships take time and they are an investment. And if the people in my life are good (which they are) they are worthy of me taking time to spend with them.
Outside of the people in my inner circle, there are many other ways I find to overcome the malady of my spirit.
Meditation, every morning is a must. Just 15 min to be silent and still. Of course, writing for me is necessary. Sharing my discoveries, challenges, and solutions with the world keeps me accountable. And, hopefully helps another person who might be struggling with similar challenges.
Little things get me out of my anxiety and negative thinking as well. For instance, when I’m at the gym, my natural inclination is to put my headphones on and avoid eye contact with strangers. Not cuz I’m trying to be a dick, but because I’m naturally shy. So now, I always try to look people in the eye,and smile…a genuine smile.
The power of a genuine smile is quite moving. especially to a stranger, who might be having a rough day, during this holiday season, as well.
I am constantly reminding myself: We are all facing challenges. Especially at this time of year. And many, are facing difficulties, far worse than my little issues.
So, the basic law: Treat others as I would like to be treated, applies!
I take time out as often as possible to remember every person who, throughout my life, has ever shown me kindness, compassion, and love. And, I try to reflect the love I have been so freely given, onto others.
For me, that’s what the Holidays are really about.
Not the gifts we give, and how much we spend on them.
But, the love we give to the people that matter. And the time we allow ourselves to give to them.

The blog of Adult Video Star Nick Capra