Trust.

I suppose my life experiences have made it very difficult for me to trust people.  It's strange to be known as such a people person, yet I've realized, I'm terrified of the ability people have to harm one another, especially when they're already wounded. 

Perhaps it's why I tend to be a people pleaser.  I desperately reach for acceptance and hope that I will be loved enough that I won't be abandoned again.

My fear of being tormented has been dismissed repeatedly since I started to open my mouth and let my words of my pain trickle.  I've been surprised at people who would take the time to give love to an outright stranger.

So, why is it that I constantly and consistently think of the one's who have harmed me?  I put all that fear on each character I encounter.  I take the chance by letting out the hurt, then cower, covering my head to protect it from the beatdown.

Then the shock comes.  The realization that the majority of the people in this world are genuinely good hearted.  I'm reminded of this so frequently.  They'll surprise me with words to help, not hurt.

Yet still, I go to bed and lie frozen with fear.  I panic about the possibility of people finding ways to peck at the weakest chicken in the coop.  I'm reminded of the groups of people who have blatantly ganged up on me and made my life hell until I slinked away, marred and defeated.

I'm reminded of the day I came home to find my partner of 6 years having a 'packing party' with about 30 of her cronies.  I came home to my belongings in the hall and the locks on the door changed.  I'm reminded of them all standing on the balcony pointing and laughing at the dismay of my new found homelessness and broken heart.

I'm reminded of the people who believed the heroin addict when she said I was just trying to start rumours about her.  I'm reminded of them belittling me instead of believing me.  I'm reminded of them taking the side of the addict, and an entire community putting blame upon me for trying to harm her with what they believed to be lies.  And all the while I suffered the loss of someone I loved in solitude.

In the case of my most current torture in life, I'm reminded of only 2 people; the first 2 people I contacted, whom I thought would answer my plea for the support I desperately needed.  They didn't take the time to come back to me with a response and they left me ready to yet again be dissed.  These 2 people have re-opened the wounds and made it so fucking hard to trust anybody, lest I be pecked once more.

I'm just way too unsteady to handle another blow. 

Somehow I still take a chance at opening my mouth to people who don't know me, and I'm ready for the backhand, because if people I thought were my friends would reject me, then strangers most definitely wouldn't hold back to harm me.  I'm ready for the attempted murder of my ego. 

I'm proven wrong.

The gentle souls of the world have been so good to my damaged self.  These are the ones who would stretch a hand out to try to wipe my tears for me.  The new psychologist who would spend a half hour on the phone with me to ease that moment of pain without my wallet being opened because she recognized that my voice sounded as if I was ready to permanently take refuge in the pit that I'm falling further into with every tear.

All the people who have proven my distrust wrong fill the 'pro' side of the list leaving the 'con' side to look like a meager paper cut.

So why is it that I fear the 2 people will grow into 4, 8, 16, 32 until eventually I'll be left alone again?  Why is it that when it's time to sleep I'm tormented by these 2?  Why are they the ones who keep me hiding silently in my house, unable to speak my words of pain?  I keep writing to 'you', my imaginary friend, yet I know that there are people other than 'you' listening and shining their light on me.

I see their light, but I guess I'm just so far down the pit that from here, the luscious ray only looks like a strand of fiber optic.

I'm so afraid of the dark.

Frozen.

I'm immobilized.  I really just sit in my padded Lay-Z Boy cell all day and look around at all the opportunities to 'do something'.  Anything.  But I don't.  I'm perched on the edge of lunacy.  I do the least amount that I can do to take care of myself.

While I'm off work from my back re-injury I could be doing so many things that I don't have 'time' for when I'm working a 40 hour week.  But I hunker down and allow the feelings of anxiety about my love's decision for male transformation sabotage my personality.

My love says I'm one step away from being institutionalized.  I'm hanging on to that brink as best I can.  Papi says at some point I have to get back to my life and leave the house, see people, be 'me'.  Papi has no idea how hard it is just to manage my little world I've created for myself.

The depth of my grief is so abysmal.  It's bizarre to be grieving over someone who I can still touch, kiss and speak to.

Papi came home from a doctor's appointment upset that the process isn't moving as quickly as it could.  Letters from the professionals who hold my love's future in their pen and paper haven't been forwarded to anybody, meaning I get a little more borrowed time.

It upsets my love, but to me it's a loan of conquest.  This loan agreement has steep interest.  I'm delaying the inevitable by feeling I have more time.  What's better?  To just jump right in and 'deal' or take the time to accept the process will be happening.

I really don't know.

All I do know is I can't willingly seek out the support I need.  I let people come to me to see 'how I'm holding up', and in this busy world, it doesn't happen often enough for my desolate brain to spit it out the venom.

Yesterday's therapy appointment was so difficult to get through.  Speaking about my love leaving me had me stuttering my words and all I could think about was that I would be leaving the office in tears.  I can't stand people to see me so messed up.  I still have that part of my ego to entertain.

The psychologists office is on the 13th floor.  Fitting isn't it?  When I'm done with my appointment, I take my fragile injured body to the stairwell.  Each step I take down those 13 deserted flights is done with stabbing torment.  But somehow that physical pain is better than taking the elevator with people looking at me with pity.

This medical building is full of so many types of specialists, that people who witness my tears probably think I've just been told I'm dying.  I'd rather be having tears from that scenario.  People who see me distraught can come up with any story they want, but none of them could actually conclude what my tears are for.

More retreating.

I am frozen.  I am isolated by my own wretched agony.  I'm still searching for that path that someone else has already cut for me, so that I don't have to fight my way through the backwoods.

I haven't found my 'person'.  The one to tell me that they've been where am I right now and it's going to be ok.  I need that regenerated heart to shine their light on me now that they've come out the other end of the tunnel.

It's so cold here in my self proclaimed lock up.  The chill is petrifying.

I'm waiting for the thaw.

A Blink of Peace

There were no tears yesterday.  I don't mind this anger thing.  It keeps me from wallowing.  But man I'm cranky with the animals.  Hard not to be when there's 3 cats and 2 dogs in a house that isn't a home because of a sewage flood. 

I got through some yoga yesterday and my back re-injury is getting so much better.  I had a moment where I actually had sweat.  That's a good thing.  There's an couple of rolls on my gut that weren't there a few weeks ago.  I suppose binging on all those bullets shot me straight in the gut. 

And the butt.  So, the mirror is not my friend right now. 

I think the emotional binge is over.  I forgot that it seems to be evidence of anger brewing when I binge like that.  I have had my eating disorder under control for so long that I forgot what it was like to try to kill myself with cookies.  And dairy.  My sinus cavity is also my foe right now.

I've been supplementing my loneliness with strangers here on the blog forums.  It seems that I just need to aimlessly speak to people about 'nothing' at all really.  They also made me giggle.  They don't know me.  It's safe, and I've had company.

One sweet soul said he did read my blog and felt for me.  I had to jump off the forums right away lest I speak about 'it'.  I felt a moment of non-judgement and caring.  I also contacted a person who was an M-F and she had some love to show as well. 

I'm just so terrified of people I know in the 'real' world.  I tried to ask for help from one person and they pretty much shut me down on the spot.  I knew it was confirmed when she said she had no time to see me, but when I saw her hanging out with someone else, she had the heebie jeebie attitude with me.  I knew that she wasn't interested in supporting me.

Then I contacted another friend and told her flat out that I really needed support.  She never returned my plea.  These two people don't know that they've created a world of fear.  They're part of the reason that I can't go on to Facebook.  They're part of the reason I can't speak.

I am hanging on to the few strangers and small gaggle of wonderful friends who have given me sparks of confidence.  The people who don't terrify me in my fragile state.

I'm just so weak right now that I can't handle one more rejection, so having a few days of beautiful people who have adopted my heart and gathered the little pieces that have fallen to the floor has been good.  Really good. 

My heart is getting put back together by these amazing souls. 

Oh crap.  Now I'm having tears of joy.  Could you let up for just a minute?!?!?  Jesus!!!  Give me a break!

Woke up with the birds.

In a way ...

I woke from a strange dream where birds were trying to help me, but all they did was make things worse by tangling the straps of the bag that I was trying to put items into.  Then there was Lady Gaga in that same café dancing for money.  Don't know what that was all about.

I also woke up with rockstar hair.  Too bad I won't be leaving the house again to show it off.  Doesn't go well with my swollen eyes anyway.  I'll just parade my honky 'fro around my jail cell and tell myself it looks great.

It was a ferociously emotional day yesterday.  The vehemence launched because I made the mistake of peeking into Facebook.  My love had posted a plea for anyone who has been in my predicament to message privately.  Papi told me that one of my friends had contacted me and that I should take a chance that this could be another friend that may give me the help I obviously need.

This person has such a delicate, loving heart.  I appreciate that she recognized that even though she's in a relationship with someone who is transitioning, it's not her life partner in marriage.  It was considerate of her to verbalize this.  I really value her friendship acknowledgement and will do my best to connect at some point.  I just don't know if she can handle the depth of my pain right now.  I'm a bit of a loon.

Regardless, I wound up sobbing because I still felt so terribly alone.  I wouldn't choose to date someone who was transitioning.  It's just not what I'm attracted to, so I felt more isolated than ever while I'm helplessly in love with someone who is going through the male transition.

If Papi had have told me when we first started dating that there was a chance that this beautiful butch would become an F-M, I would've said, "Well, we can still be friends," like I've done a few times before.  I would have shut down the flirting and I wouldn't be married to my love right now.

I couldn't write a Facebook reply to this sweet soul.  I was in too much agony from the tears that surged forth.  I couldn't breathe.  Papi had to help me out of the crying pool that I was drowning in.

So the best thing for me to do at that point was eat.  Yup.  Emotional eating.  But I didn't choose healing living food.  Oh no, no, no!  I had to eat my allergy food.  My sinuses are already congested from crying and now I have to deal with a deadbolt in my air way, along with the stabbing ice pick to my brain from my allergy to dairy.  I really know how to make myself feel worse.  Geeeeez.

At the end of my day, I received probably the most compassionate private email from another amazing soul that I have ever redeemed.  Someone who has joined 'you', my imaginary friend, in reading my blog.  I didn't know someone else I knew in 'real life' was reading this.  Well, other than my cherished aunt.  (love you ... thank you for not committing me yet)

The fact that she was perusing my pain wasn't what was encouraging.  It was that 'someone' out there gets it.  Well, actually, not just 'anyone'.  It's a person whom I adore for her strength.

I can't go on to Facebook for a moment without staggering into despair and this person takes herself off Facebook for similar reasons.  But not only that, she's also felt the pressure to support someone in their transition even though it was difficult.  On top of dealing with trying to be there for someone, she had one more wound to add to the pile; it was during the passing of her dear mother.

Double grief.  This is another soul who is living through the science experiment of life.  Her days haven't always gone her way, but she walks on with graceful deliberation and this divine person is someone that I've regarded as nothing less than an angel since the day I've met her.

I may have found my person.  I may have found the one who's felt this heart wrenching grief of losing the one you love to a stranger.  It may be possible.  We will see.  But regardless of whether we're cut from the same cloth, I know that someone loves me enough to extend a hand while she's in her own isolation.  It meant more to me than she will ever know.  Part of my tears were from the joy of having one more person I can trust.

I'm gathering hearts one by one to build my fortress of strength.  These mighty people have shone their light so that I am able see each step I take a little more brightly.

Thank you.

Stage 2 of grief?

It's interesting that when we're in a state of loss/grief that we think it's never going to end.  Everyone keeps telling me it will end, but damn I feel like this is going to be my state for the rest of my life.  This is when I feel like I want out.  I just want the pain to end and honestly there's only one way to stop it.  But I'm not going to be selfish and make others go through grief and loss over me.  I'm just going to remain the sacrificial lamb.

I know that when others are suffering, it's so bloody easy for me to promise them that there will come a day when the tears will stop.  They will look at me with those doe eyes of denial and take a step back from me and delve further into their distressed thoughts, alone and defiant.

I've been through grief once before.  I had an ex that became a heroin addict and I gave her the ultimatum that it was me or the drugs.  I knew what I was indicating.  It meant I was leaving, because heroin will win every time.

Off I went and the grieving began.  It was 2 years before I got over it.  It felt as though she was dead yet still walking this earth.  I cried every day for months on end, until I noticed the changes begin.

I started crying with a few days breaks here and there, and then the tear-free days started to outnumber the wailing days.

Eventually, I would only cry when those nasty hormones would come and invade my body once a month.  PMS would kick me while I was down and I'd spend that time waking up with those swollen, translucent eyelids for the world to see.  The evidence that I wasn't quite over my loss yet.

One fancy day came when I was PMSing about 2 years later that I cried about something different.  Those were the happiest tears I have ever cried.  I probably looked like a lunatic smiling and crying at the same time.  It was a glorious day.  I knew that I was getting over the pain and heading into the 5th stage of grief.  Acceptance.

So, here I am again grieving and suffering a loss, even though my love is still alive.  I'm losing the wife I married to an F-M that I haven't met yet.  Papi can't figure out why I'm grieving, because my love is still here and says they will be the same person.

My love doesn't get that all I'll be left with is a different version of the same shell, just like our home when it's done it's restorations.  In our home, we get to choose what it will look like.  With my love, it's a crapshoot.  I don't get to see this new person until it's too late and permanent.  I have the worst image in my head as to what my love will look like.

I know one thing for certain; Papi won't look like the person in our wedding photos.  Will I be able to look at them in time to come?  This is the person that's leaving me.  All that is guaranteed to me is I get to keep the mind and heart of my wife.

I'm starting to feel the anger of my love's male transformation decision.  It welled up on X-mas when I finally got upset with my love and expressed that my feelings of loss and grief aren't being respected.  I told Papi that the person I wind up with is not the person I married and will never again be that beautiful butch in the photos from the best day of my life.  I'm losing out and all Papi can say is, "But I'm still going to be the same person.  You're not losing 'me'."

Wrong.  My love is leaving and I'm being forced into an arranged marriage.

We've only been married since July and I'm already being abandoned.  I want my happily ever after damn it!

So, yes, I suppose I'm getting to the second stage of grief.  I'm angry.  I read a blog that I'm surely going to be showing to my love.  This M-F has gone through the transition and their blog expressed that yes! all your relationships are going to change.  It's what I've been trying to tell my love.  It's not only my love's beautiful body and skin that will be changing, it's also myself and our marriage.

I was able to express my feelings for about 5 minutes without crying and the only reason was because I was hopping mad that my love just doesn't get it.  I don't want to be angry with Papi.  I love my soul mate so much that I don't want any pain inflicted upon that wonderful person.  But I am starting to get angry now.

My recent back injury is calming down and it couldn't come at a better time.  It's time to go to the gym and show that rowing machine who's boss.  Maybe beat myself up a bit to get out the venom that's beginning to roam through my veins replacing the poison that has held me down for a month and a half.

I don't recommend anybody get on my bad side for a little while.  I think I'll still be keeping off Facebook lest I show my insanity to the world.  I just can't pretend to be the person that people have experienced as their virtual 'friend'.  I don't know who I can trust with this sick grieving person.

Besides, out of my 636 'friends' there, only a few have realized I've disappeared.  Thanx for the love.  You 'friends' really know how to make someone feel supported.

Yup.  I'm angry.  I'm just glad I have 'you', my imaginary friend to hear me out.  I promise to keep it to a simmer with 'you'.

I feel like a leprechaun ready to start fighting Irish.  Where's my boxing gloves?!?!

Happy Boxing Day, where's my gloves?

Yesterday started as a rough one, but in the end it was a great one.  Being that I'm not a fan of X-mas, we don't celebrate and that suits me just fine.  But that doesn't mean I ignore the joy of the rest of my family who do find delight in it.  So, being that it's ingrained in me to make contact with family, I had to use that phone.  That little device I've been hiding from for over a month now.

That's where the obligation burden comes in.  I've never liked being told what to do.  That bratty teenager will try to do anything other than what's good for her or what other people say she 'should' do, but the adult picked up the phone and called family.

Troublesome in so many ways.

Got the hardest one out of the way first.  My father.  My lot in life was to have a deadbeat, druggie dad.  I got over it a long time ago, and now I feel like I'm the parent keeping in touch with a wounded teen of a dad who never seemed to escape his underdeveloped state of mind.  He's emotionally immature.  He looks for that magic wand and expects everyone to take care of him.  He got his wish in in a lovely woman, his common-law wife.

I adore her so much that sometimes I call because it's her I want to speak to, not my father.  She's delightful, but now she's ill with dementia.  The conversation with her was really confusing.  I couldn't understand anything she was talking about.  It saddened me that such a wonderful person has withered away.

My father is now forced to grow up and take care of someone.  He's doing his best.  But I feel so sorry for them both.  They're having some bad luck thrown their way and unfortunately, I just don't have it in me to feel for him while I'm going through my own madness.

Then I called my father's sister.  She has always been a good person to talk to, but I haven't been able to pick up the phone with her because I know with her I'll break down in my honesty.  Sure enough, there I was blubbering about losing my wife to an unknown 'male' being.  I explained to her why I haven't been calling: I don't want to cry.  Every time I speak about 'it' I cry and my mission in this journey is to see how many bone-dry days I can muster for these sad eyes.

Poor thing had to listen to my very near hyperventilating and hinting at finding my peace by not being on this planet.  I explained that I just don't know who can actually handle my insanity and who I can trust with it.  That's why I don't pick up the phone.  Who can listen to someone with such tortured words?  It's like they're watching a hawk circle it's prey and all they want to do is save that sweet innocent bunny, but in reality they know that ruin is inevitable.

I stiffened up and changed the subject to stop the torrential downpour and grant my aunt to carry on with her lovely day.  I really hope that she let go of my words and had a light heart full of smiles on her X-mas day.  God I hope she enjoyed herself.  If she didn't, I'll feel so terrible.

Time to call my mother.  All I do is cross my fingers while that phone is ringing.  I will her to pick up the phone before her creepy homophobic husband does.  And hooray!  I got my wish.  That's enough of a X-mas present.  It was the obligatory call where I don't have much to say, especially after a sobbing episode that left me drained of all personality.

It was a nice easy call.  Simple.  I gave thanks to her for those goddamn tarts and cookies I gorged on that were part of the reason my pants are tight this week.  She's such an amazing cook, damn her.

I left the best for last.  My awesome sister.  I love her so much and I enjoy calling her because she's the only person I don't have a chance to talk about 'it' with.  When you call her house, you really only get 2 minutes of a conversation in before she starts yelling at someone: kids, dog, cats, husband, all of the above.  Then you try to carry on with your hello after this initial scream session and in the background you'll hear siblings fighting, pressuring my sister to yell at them so that she can hear what I just said and then it circles back to the start again.

There's so much chaos in that house!  I don't know how they do it!  But it's an interesting dynamic.  They're all used to communication by way of yelling.  It's a comedy routine.  They all love each other and show it by screaming, almost like they're a stereotypical Italian family yelling and using their bodies to express themselves.

I love calling her because all I do is giggle at the unruliness.  I don't have to talk about 'it' because there's no chance.  So I call her as much as I can to be distracted and hear her voice.  God I love her and her family.  I just love them so much.

My X-mas frolic started at 4:30 pm when Papi woke up from the graveyard shift pass out.   We went out for our day of celebrating by gambling and taking in a movie, 'The Fighter'.

Fitting, isn't it?

(**Well, here's the good**)

I won $80 and was proud of myself.  Did a little chair dance every time the machine sang that 'hello gorgeous, you've won' tune.  I stopped when the going was good.  Played it safe as I always do at the casino.

Then came the movie, which is perfect for this journey.  It made me remember those few years I was training to be an amateur boxer until my knees finally gave up on me.  I love boxing movies.  My love told me I'd have been a great scrapper if I was ever able to make it into the ring, but I should stop picking fights in elevators, because I don't have gloves anymore.

(**Here's the bad**)

The drive to get to the festivities was a little emotional however, as Papi wanted to talk about 'it'.  So there I was sobbing in the parking lot at the casino, speaking my honesty and having my love hint towards the possibility that if I can't get out of this hole, maybe I should go to that place where the crazies go.

(**And now the ugly**)

Great.  Now I'm so fucked up that my soul mate is threatening to send me to the loony bin.  Merry fucking X-mas, here's your straight jacket.

Then things got easier because Papi gave me a little happy pill.  We went in and enjoyed our time together.  I won money, my love lost everything.  We smiled and laughed, ate really bad fattening food and came home to lie together and just look into the eyes of one another.

No words needed.

Just love.  A perfect ending to the one day of the year that I despise.  And now it's over and I can get on with my life for another 364 days.

Oh god, do I really have to?

(**Sigh**)

Here I go.  I hope 'you', my imaginary friend, had a great day yesterday.

Crazy lady over here ...

Yesterday I got to listen to the newest mix for HECTOR.  An amazing mix done by Lin Gardiner who is going to get it mastered before the new year.  I wrote this music 4 years ago after coming out of a nervous breakdown due to a bottom in my chemical imbalance.  Interestingly enough, these songs seemed to eerily foreshadow my emotions now.  The only difference is now I have a 'happy pill' to aide in managing the feelings without spiraling as far as I used to. 

I got out of that gruesome depression by getting on medication that saved me from killing myself.  As I listened to one of the songs, 'Cry', I realized that it was a suicide note set to music.  The reason I had taken so long to mix this album?  Directly following recording this album, life started doing what it does best.  The science experiment. 

I was rendered homeless after being dumped from a 6 year relationship and had to shut down my home music teaching business of 13 years to find a day job and a new bungalow.  When I finally got my life together by way of a steady income, an abode and a new relationship a year later, I was hit on my motorcycle, resulting in a brain injury that took 2 years to heal from.

Just a tiny 4 year excuse, but it all plays a part.  I'm just so happy that this ep is getting finished as I write this.

It's hard to believe that all these crazy feelings I had from my crackup, I had only let go of 4 years ago.  Hindsight is 20/20.  Life moves along and now I have HECTOR music to express those feelings of chaos and pain, and I have BlueLight music that seems to be speaking to the bratty teenager who just won't let those feelings go.  It seems BlueLight is giving great advice that HECTOR should listen to.

Hello!  Crazy lady!  Are you listening?  Perhaps it's time to start picking up that phone and possibly talking to people?!?!?  Ummm ... no.

I must say though, the tears are getting easier.  Instead of streaming down my face every time I speak about my love's male transformation, they seem to roll.  I can say words at the same time as crying and I can actually breathe a little smoother.

The new tears did come with Papi's agreement to take a break from the testosterone until the hysterectomy comes.  There's a direct correlation because honestly, the 't' is the biggest fear I have with my love becoming an F-M.  It's really the cherry on top that creates the 'man' look my love wants and that I shudder from.

I can handle Papi wanting to get 'top surgery'.  It's something my love has been speaking about since we started dating and I've wrapped my head around it.  As soon as that luscious sun starts to warm our bodies my love's clothing starts falling off.

People are so uncomfortable seeing breasts in public here in Canada, the U.S. and South America.  Seriously.  My love should be living in Europe, but we don't.  And here we are with the creeps who will try to be sly by hiding behind a log at the beach and snap pictures.  Inevitably there are words exchanged and they hightail it with their shots they've proudly snuck in.

There are also the prudes that can't handle it resulting in words thrown at us.  For example: "You're exercising your politics at the expense of my child!!"  Ummm ... did you not breast feed this child?  Were your breasts a hideous sight then?  Or how about when you disrobe for your shower?  Does your child have no idea what women's breasts look like?

Come on people!!!  They're breasts!!  Half the population has them!  They're just sacks of fat and mammary glands.  But to the majority of people here, they're disgusting when seen outside of the house.

This is when I get so uncomfortable.  The only time I can handle discord is when I'm feeling feisty from depression or have PMS.  All the other times, I'd prefer it if the world held hands and sang 'Kumbaya'.

When Papi shows that beautiful bosom, I start looking around at other people's reactions and ready myself for the fight.  It's not enjoyable for me and that's my selfishness.  I keep it quiet, except right now to 'you', my imaginary friend.

In this sense, I'm 60% on board for the 'top surgery'.  It will make my life calmer at the beach.  Yes.  I'm self-absorbed.  Like all addicts, 'it's all about me'.  But there's still that 40% that saddens me.  I'll never get to touch them again when they're gone.  I'll never get to take pictures of my love's gorgeous naked body and see those shining stars.

If that were the only change I'd have to witness in my love's transformation, I'd get used to it.  You can't see a missing womb and we have mostly given up on having a biological child.  That's another novel in itself.  Maybe one day I'll tell 'you' about that disaster.

Anyway, 't'.

This is what kills me slowly and creates those sobbing tears that make it hard to breathe.  It changed my love's scent within 2 weeks.  It will change my love's face adding hair and broadening Papi's jaw line.  It will change my love's skin and add that icky 'man hair' all over Papi's already perfectly smooth body.

Oh, and then there's baldness.  That could happen.  Ew.  Not to mention the fat will shift around in Papi's body from curvy hips to a typical man's pot-belly.

Am I painting the picture for you well enough?  Do you see what I see?  An ugly middle aged 'man' that I didn't marry.  My hot butch would disappear and it feels like I'll be in an arranged marriage to someone I don't find attractive.

I didn't marry a balding, pot-bellied, hairy man.  I married my marvelous 'husbutch', who hates it when I use the term 'wife'.

And I wonder why I'm crazy ... oh yeah ... merry fucking X-mas.

Couldn't help myself.

I exercised to give my brain some relief from the 2010 cookie battle.  But I had to!  My wild idea of how to get all the cookies and goodies out of the house was to devour every last one.  If I ate them all, there would be none left to obsess about.  So, I went to work and completed the job.

Success!!  I think?

Prior to the cookie madness, I had taken a phone call in hopes that it would all be about business regarding the board I'm treasurer on.  It wasn't.  It gave me tears and failed to award me with the 3rd arid day I was hoping for.  It was the worst possible person I could speak to.

This person lost her wife a year ago in a tragic plane crash.  Her grieving is so much heavier than mine.  She hasn't come out of the pit even for a second.  There are no moratoriums for her.  She suffers every minute she breathes.  She will never see her wife again.

All she wants is her wife back.  There are many times that I've felt a similar way as I do my best to speak through the wailing tears, "I just want my wife."  Our grief is different and I know that I could never get support from her.  I know that she would say to me, "You've got nothing to cry about.  She's still alive."  Her words would be the echo of my mother: you have nothing to cry about.

Like a knee jerk reaction, when I answered the phone I said, "Hi, how are you?"

We tend to do this without realizing that we're not actually asking the question expecting an honest answer.  Then at the same time, we are likely to answer the question with 'fine', even if we're dying inside.  This greeting is a shallow verbal dance.

I never get 'fine' out of her, however.  Every time, she sighs with disappointed impatience and tells me how she's really feeling.  That she would like to die and that she just wants her wife back.  But after yesterday's verbal blunder, I got the worst reaction yet. 

She raised her voice saying, "Would you please stop asking me that?!?!  I'm dying inside and I'm miserable!  So how are you?!?!"

I quietly told her, "I'm having a terrible time right now, for reasons that I won't get into."  She stopped and realized that the sadness in my voice vouched for this.  Her tone softened and she told me I was missed at the board X-mas party.  I told her, "I'm sorry I couldn't make it, I just couldn't do it," while I was holding back the tears.  I didn't want her to hear me cry because I didn't want her to pry into my pain, lest she spit it back at me with repudiation.

She is the very type of person I'm hiding from.  She would reject my emotions and could never give understanding, because her grieving would minimalize my own.  I couldn't get off the phone fast enough to escape the discussion.  All I could do is give one word answers and shrink into my chair to make myself as small as I could possibly be.  I wanted to disappear and become a meager molecule in the ocean.

The flood gates turned on when I disconnected the phone call.  I'm just not strong enough to defend myself.  This is the type of individual I'm hiding from.  She represents the fear of people that I have and is the reason that I haven't been able to show my virtual self on Facebook for over a month.  I can't trust everybody on that site and I can't fake that I'm 'ok'.  I'm so not 'ok'.

I like her.  I feel very deeply for her pain and I would do anything to help her heal.  But she doesn't want to recover and has been very honest and clear about it.  She feels that her grief is the only thing left that she has to share with her wife.  She would like to hold on to that until the day she dies and gets to finally be with her beautiful companion.

I can relate to this in a slightly different way, because sometimes feel like I would like the grief to stay as well.  I don't want to heal and accept my love's male transformation.  If I go along with it, then I will allow the 'male' being that my wife wants to be to become real.  I don't want my beautiful butch to leave me.  I want the woman that I married forever.  I want the person that is in all my wedding photos.

I want my happily every after.

It was directly after this incident that the cookies and treats were eaten with fervor.  It temporarily stopped the pain, those sugary devils of addiction.  They filled up the lonely, empty, painful holes that I just don't know how to satiate.  It was the same feeling I used to get from doing drugs during times of agony.  The fleeting fix.

My eating disorder demon popped it's ugly green oozing head out and the freak out of exercise began, bringing me a painful back and I was left to waver between two choices: take pain killers and have nasty bowels for 2 days, or just 'take' the pain and suffer for my actions.

Seriously.  I beat the hell out of myself.  Inside and out.  I've got some lovely wheat pimples on my face from the last 4 days of cookie gorging.  But all those tempting delicacies are gone now.  If I feel the need to overeat, it will be done with green crunchy veggies and fat filled nuts.

I have allowed the teenager her time.  She got the immature binge she wanted.  Now I'm going to have to let her sleep it off.  It's time to strengthen up the outside adult so that her steps are visible enough that the inside brat may follow.  Today there will gentle stretching and healthy cleansing foods. 

Today I will be gentle to me.  Today I will not pick up the phone for anyone that I know I can't trust.  It's just not worth it.  My tears while writing this confirm that.

I must keep myself safe, because there are no cookies left to hide in.

Oh sweet addiction ...

I'm an addict in so many ways I couldn't even begin to tell you.  It plays a part in every aspect of my world.  I'm 11 years clean and sober, but it doesn't mean the demon won't find ways of attaining delight where it can.

The addicted brain loves trauma, drama and pain.  To the addicted brain, having a problem is like a child looking out the window shouting, "Snow day!!!!!!" and pulling out the sleigh.  And just like a kid with a face of glee, we slide with exhilaration, faster and faster down that slope.

Satisfaction to the addict inside of me means I suffer in other ways.  Right now, being that depressing time of year, my bane is cookies.  It's inevitable.  Food I would never touch 48 weeks of the year is fair game during that 'X-mas' low.  I'm not a fan of this time of year, even when life is at it's best.  Every 'X-mas' the binge happens and I battle to keep it in control by consuming boxes and boxes of mandarin oranges.

Goddamn it!  I did so well at flushing my system with healthy raw veggies yesterday, because I had binged the day before on wheat filled cookies and tarts.  I worked hard at keeping the sugar cravings down to a minimum by eating those easy peelable, oh so sweet oranges.  I really did do well.

Until the movie.

What is it about movies that make us want to snack on bad food?  Most of us have been programmed into thinking that the moment we commit to those 2 or so hours of indulging fantasy, we must actively be gnawing our jaws, giving our taste buds gratification and filling our wanting stomaches that may not even be hungry!  And we certainly don't reach for the healthy stuff, we want comfort food.  It's ingrained into us from a young age.

Well there I was, having finished a pleasantly healthy salad, I settled in for a festive movie.  It's my absolute favourite at this time of year: 'Black Christmas'.  On the first commercial I strolled to the kitchen like a habitual zombie in search of the treat that would go very well with the aged slasher flick.  I could have reached for a number of healthy options, but what did I grab?

Cookies.  They were wheat free, but they still had sugar, that other blissful poison.  These are designer cookies from a health oriented store, so they're marketed to be a little better for you.  They fool you, oh yes they do.

Because they're fancy, these million dollar gems only come in a package of 6.  This is a blessing and a let down at the same time.  I grabbed 3.  I thought I'd be able to eat this as the maximum amount.  Well ... like a rat in a science experiment, I gravitated back to the rest of them and said, "What the hell.  It's only 3 more."

On the next commercial break, I ruefully added up the calories: 848 delectable, evil calories.  I sunk into self loathing while I looked down at my thighs.  My eyes instantly saw my thighs grow twice the size they were before the cookies.  Good old eating disorder strikes again.

There I was looking to the next day, "I'm going to exercise tomorrow!" even though I am told by my physio that right now I'm not allowed to do my usual exercise due to the flair up in my back that has dogged me for 2 years post-motorcycle accident.

But oh how the teenager is back in full force.  Stomping her temper tantrum feet she yelled, "I don't care if they told me not to, I'm doing it anyway!!!!"

Wow.  Great plan.  Harm my back more to make up for the goody bender I've been implementing for 3 days.  Who wins?  I couldn't tell you.

There's so much going on right now I can't even pinpoint where the weakness to drive me to binge is coming from.  Take your pick: my love is going through a male transition, Papi and I are living with very few of our belongings in a skeleton of a house due to a sewage flood, my back is aching 24-7 because of a fall a month ago, I have no income coming in because I'm not working because of said fall, ICBC and WCB are fighting over who is responsible to cover me for financial support (meanwhile giving me nothing), it's Christmas (ugh) and I have never felt so alone in all my life.

Right now, my head feels like the teenager is running around in circles, arms outstretched above her head with fingers reaching to the sky in an effort to pull in the sunshine, all the while screaming at the top of her lungs in non-worded utters just to get someone's attention so they may help the madness settle.

Is there a magic wand?  A super-human pill?  A fairy god-mother?  Anyone?

It doesn't help not being able to work.  Working would take my mind off all these 'little' issues.  Instead I'm stuck on house arrest, walking on floors that we could potentially fall through into the basement.  It could be like a scene from a movie just for trying to get to the washroom.  Can I tell you how lovely it is when you're sitting on the toilet and you can see the workers below you?

This is a playground for insanity, and what is the only thing going through my head?  "I only have a few more cookies left in the house until they're gone."  Typical addict in the throws of obsession.

When the cookies have left the building, I'll be forced to get back on track, because I'll only have the veggies left to eat and I'm out of money to go buy treats.  I can eat myself into a frenzy with snap peas, salads and steamed greens.

But hey!  Because my love is on a break from testosterone, I haven't cried for 2 days.  2 days folks!  I suppose I've exchanged the obsession grieving over my love's male transformation decision for food infatuation.

Whatever works, eh?

Moratorium

I think I may have some breathing room.  I didn't know if my love taking a break from the testosterone would help, but it's possible that it did.  It seems to be the root of my angst.

I did feel there was a lighter beat in my heart yesterday.  The only problem is that I binged on cookies and tarts because I wasn't being preoccupied with crying and distracted by demons.  It may also have been that I let go of some control as well.

I have absolutely no control over my love's decision for male transformation, and I was controlling every bite of food that went into my mouth as a coping mechanism.  I wasn't starving myself.  I don't allow the eating disorder to take hold of me in that way anymore, but I was definitely controlling my food intake with precision.

Well, yesterday I suppose I let go of some of the control when it felt like I had a small part to play in asking my love to back the train up to help me get on board.  It was either that, or it was the teenager sitting terrifyingly alone in the station and the only way she could cope was to binge and fill herself up so that she didn't feel so empty.

The only problem is that the teenager is not allowed to purge or rebound into limiting caloric intake to make up for it anymore.  She just has to deal with the bloat and clean herself out with fresh living food.  Today she gets purifying vegetables to let her body have a break from the crud that's floating in her system.  I hope she enjoyed herself because the cookie coma is over.  But I know she did.  The face of ecstasy while eating the butter tarts confirmed this elation.

So now it's 'tomorrow' and the scouring begins.  I felt like crap when I woke up today.  I'll feel like a sack of trash all day today, because I didn't just binge on cookies and tarts, I binged on the allergy foods that take a good few days to get out of my system and a good week to leave my skin.

My face will have the verifying evidence of my wheat and sugar orgy for a week.  Let's hope there's no tears for a few days.  It would be brutal to wake up with not only swollen eyes and a pale face, but also to add to the monster in the mirror, it will have little red hives all over and a good few zits to accompany them.

Nice, eh?

The picture I've just painted for 'you', my imaginary friend, is either making you giggle, or relate.  Or possibly both if you've healed enough to laugh at yourself over it.  Either way, right now it makes me cringe because I know the depth of where this face came from.  This is the price I pay for holding in the control and then letting it go with an expulsion of fury.

So here I am, with the possibility of a moratorium.  Until my love gets a hysterectomy, the 't' is not going into Papi's beautiful, already perfect body.  I was able to take pictures of my love while Papi's hair cutting was going on and blissfully enjoy the view.

When Papi is doing 'the army crew cut', it's done naked with clippers in hand.  There's a lot that my love does naked.  It's just something Papi does and something I love my soul mate for.  Even if it makes me uncomfortable when it's done in front of a wide open window for the neighbours to see.

Yes, very uncomfortable for me.

But I took pictures of this beautiful body that I have a little more time with.  The gorgeous breasts that will be mine without 'man hair' on them for a little longer.  The picture perfect face that will remain soft for a few more indeterminable months.

Mine.  For now.  A small moratorium and a beautiful present to me throughout this horrid time of year that I despise.  It's my love's gift to me during this difficult healing journey.

I am loved.

Baby steps.

I feel as wiped as I thought I would today. There was a lot of 'getting it out' yesterday. I think today will be a 'no speak' day.

I need more sleep. I got up early so that I could have more time to let these eyes settle down. The longer they're open, the better they get. I have to see my mother today, and the last thing I need is for her to recognize that I've been crying the night before.

I love my mom, but she's not someone I can trust with my emotions. My parents are part of the reason I am tilted more towards the depressive side. It wasn't the best upbringing to have. It could have been worse, but growing up with a drug addict and (functioning) alcoholic mother was problematic as I'm sure you can understand.

My parents split when I was 10, leaving me with a deadbeat, drugged out dad and a mother who was way too young to know how to deal with two orangutan kids. She didn't have the mentoring that she needed from her mother either, so being a young woman stuck with two kids, she grew a lot of resentment for us. I've sensed it all my life.

My mom did the very best she could with what she had. She really did try. She helped us grow up with everything we needed, and I love her for it. I didn't make it any easier for her being a suicidal, addicted and depressed teenager. All of these life experiences make me out to be the person I am and have wired my brain to give me the feelings I encounter today.

And here I am. Last night at my friends house, it was 2 people asking a million questions and giving harsh suggestions, 1 person answering with as little defensiveness as possible and one person sobbing for 4 hours.

Can you guess who the weeper was? Yup. You win a prize.

This is the reason I don't want to see anybody or speak to anybody. 'You', my imaginary friend, can walk away any time and not have to listen to it. But imagine being stuck in the room with me? Bound to a chair while you witness the grief that has thrown me into this dark place and you can't reach in and pull me out? You can only helplessly observe the disaster unfold.

I really can't stand to subject anybody to this madness. But I'll tell you that last night I felt so supported, protected and loved. I really do have wonderful friends who love me. I'm hand picking them one at a time in this event. I've found two who would lovingly fight for me and last night they did.

In my therapy session yesterday, I expressed how I was feeling about not wanting to share my pain with anybody, lest I be judged and abandoned. She told me something that I hadn't really admitted. That all my life I've held back my pain so that nobody sees it. She identified that I've done this out of fear of people, but at the same time, I'm screaming to be held and supported. I incedingly accepted this. It's so true. And last night I was physically held every time the tears took over my breath and I reeled into the hyperventilating landslide. I was held by my love and by my friends.

It felt really good to be embraced, and at the end of the night, I was told I am loved. On the ride home, I was told I'm protected. The little girl had a place to go to get the love she's never trusted she could have. I love my mom, but I realize that she is the reason I can't speak right now in my darkest place. I understand now that not everyone is going to be that mother who doesn't want to wipe my tears. Not everyone is going to be that father who will abandon me then nervously laugh at me while I'm lying in a hospital bed after a suicide attempt.

My friends helped my love see what the male transformation decision is doing to me and they convinced Papi to just take a small step back to take my hand and help me on to the train. The train that my love has driven from the station, leaving me alone on a platform to watch it go.

Abandoned.

There was compromise that came out of the evening. Papi will stop the testosterone until the hysterectomy is done. After the hysterectomy it's mandatory that Papi goes on a hormone, and we can deduce that it's definitely not going to be estrogen.

This is Papi's way of putting the train in reverse to come help me on to the train. It's a very steep step and I'm not able to do it on my own.

My end of the bargain is going to be very difficult. Not that all I'm going through now isn't already hard, but I do have to lift my foot on to the step and reach my hand out in order for my love to pull me into the cab. I have to actively learn about testosterone and when my love wants to talk about everything, I have to engage in communication.

Good lord.

My love's sacrifice is hard, I know this. My sacrifice seems more difficult every time I think about it. I have to tell the stubborn teenager to go and distract herself because she can't look at it right now. I have to let her go protect herself in the only way she knows how. The teenager thinks that if you just ignore it, it will go away.

Well, it's time to hail the adult who has the toolbox. She has to come out and deal, learn. The teenager is offering every manipulative trick she knows, but unfortunately, she has to go sit in the station and wait for a different train. Damn she's stubborn. She just doesn't want to do this and is throwing a hissy fit. Damn good thing the station is empty and we're alone.

The adult has to walk away and let her sulk.

I have to learn, grow and deal. For my soul mate, for me, for my marriage

Well ...

I didn't quite make it to day 3 of no tears, but boy those 2 days were sure nice. Yesterday wasn't all bad, it was just that I had to remind my love a few times that I didn't want to talk about 'it' and when we went out for lunch, we processed a bit of what I wrote to 'you' about yesterday. But the part that was hardest yesterday was the 't' topic.

'It'. 't'.

Honestly, I feel the testosterone is the part that is killing me the most. I had to deal with 'it' silently yesterday. My love was moving things around in our sewage flood graveyard to let us have some space in our teeny wooden skeleton of a home. We have been living in an attic and a den for a month now, and there's this big beautiful open space with light from the outside world and breathing room that nobody has touched because the contractors are so focused on the basement. So, thanks to Papi we're moved in to the front room for a break from the dark claustrophobia.

While Papi was moving things around, there was sweat coming off my love. And when Papi would walk past me, I could smell that odor. 'man stink'.

It's hard for me to bear that my love's smell has changed. The worst part is when we physically show our beautiful love for each other, in that moment of divine intimacy, that's when 'it' will cause the most agony. Anxiety. Pain. Love making isn't supposed to be like that.

With a big open heart, my love asked, "How are we going to do this if you're uncomfortable with sex?"

I didn't want to speak. I didn't want to wake up today with those swollen, puffy, spiritless eyes. So, I simply said, "I just don't want to cry right now." That was the end of the communication.

Don't speak.

I know I'll be crying today. I know that I'll wake up with those eyes tomorrow. I have a therapy session today and it will be all tears. Exhausting tears. I'll need to process the question Papi asked me in that therapy session so that I can continue the communication with my love tonight.

Then after that, I will already be burnt out from crying and off we'll go to see some friends tonight to 'talk' some more.

Speaking is the problem. I speak, the poison flows through my words, veins, eyes, stomache, right down to my toes. It's so painful for me. Everyone talks about tears being cleansing and good for you to 'get it out'. But for me, it hurts. I cry from every muscle and cell in my body, then my mind spirals into the dead zone where my demons flirt with me in a seductive move to sway me into thinking that I could go to that breathless place forever and never have to cry again.

Today I speak to a therapist, friends and of course, my love. Yesterday's tears were nothing compared to what I'm going to go through today. It's going to be a rough day of communication. I really don't look forward to it.

I dread tomorrow morning.

Day 2

No tears, but it was close I'll tell ya. I think that part of the ability to have two arid days is because Papi told me, "I'm going to stay on the lowest dose of testosterone." I think it gave me a small measure of relief. But, I do take back what I was saying yesterday about actively making music never making me cry. I forgot about writing lyrics that are too close to home.

One of the songs Lin gave me to work on was a piece that we had started months ago. This was months before any idea had entered my mind that my love would be going through male transformation. The topic was about making sure you talk to someone when the troubles in your life get to be too much.

Heed my own words? No. We never do, do we? We are pros at telling people what to do to feel better, but listen to the advice we give? Hell no!! What are you nuts? We know best how to deal with this situation because 'you just don't understand'. Familiar?

It was painful to complete the lyrics, because I know speaking about the fear and pain is the right thing to do, but I'm way too scared to talk about it or the tears will flow and I'll look like a crazed, pale marshmallow again. Not to mention the pain I'm feeling is so raw that I don't have the strength to defend myself or my love if I had an adverse reaction from someone.

I remember when I came out of the closet and thought that everyone that loved me would be supportive.

Wrong.

My 'bff' dumped me in seconds. She believes in god and told me that the bible doesn't approve of homosexuality. So, showing 'love and tolerance', my jesus worshiping friend cast me aside, flicking me like a bothersome cockraoch. It made my world feel like the scariest place I could imagine. Who could I trust if I couldn't trust my closest pal?

So here I am again. Who can I trust? I have a handful of people that I could talk to about the F-M topic and not have them dump me over that, but what about the insanity I'm going through? This is the part I'm afraid of the most.

In the past I've been judged for my mental illness. Mental illness comes in many forms and levels, but people just put everyone into one category if they don't understand it or have never experienced it themselves. The person who sits next to you in class, or at work, or even the person you know very well may have a mental illness and you don't know.

Part of the reason you don't know is because people don't talk about it, lest they be ostracized. I've been there. I have my illness under control, but during this agony over my love's male transformation, it's poking out it's green, festering, abscessed head and doing it's best to show the world who I really could be if it wins this battle.

Who do I trust with that?

I have a chemical imbalance and an eating disorder. My chemical imbalance is taken care of through medication. If I don't take it, I'll wind up suicidal. Taking my medication keeps me alive in the same way someone who has a heart condition would die if they stopped taking their pills.

My eating disorder took a lot of hard work in therapy to deal with, but I now control it, not the other way around. I still see the body in the mirror as less than desirable (that's putting it in the nicest way possible to myself), but I'm not damaging my precious being with a lack of caloric intake so that I can see the woman in the mirror as 'perfect'. The proof that I haven't lost to this demon is being revealed right now.

An eating disorder is a way of controlling one thing: our body. When the world around us can't be bridled, we stoop to the one thing alone that we can bully. Our body. Our food intake. And in this case of terror, it's my love's decision that I can't manipulate. Still, through it all I'm eating in a healthy manner.

I also haven't flipped to the other side of emotional binging. However, I do see that controlling my over-eating is a way for me to find my domination. I've bought all the cookies that I would usually gorge on, yet I'm curbing how many I eat in a day. This is where I see my eating disorder's talons still piercing my skin. I'm very afraid of putting back on the 30 lbs I gained after my brain injury. I worked very hard to lose that weight when I could finally exercise and eat properly. So, I allow myself the treats in a controlled fashion.

I'm in control. Of food. In everything else, I'm so very powerless.

Who do I trust to show my insanity to? Well, I show it to my dear, understanding soul mate and 'you', my imaginary friend. Do you judge me?

No Tears!

Yesterday felt like a relief of inhalation. You know that feeling you get when you're crying so strenuously that you can't breathe a deep breath? Living air bursts through to your pink lungs through choppy, disjointed and desperate gulps. You try to pull in air without gasping, but to no avail, the evidence of a sobbing session is audible.

Well, yesterday I could breathe. Yesterday I didn't have to reach for the kleenex box. Yesterday I had a lighter heart and the best part? Today I woke up without the swollen eyes of a boxer having gone through the entire twelve grueling rounds, and even though the fighter is victorious, they have the eyes to say, "really? This is winning?"

To the fighter, yes this is gain. No matter how bad the fighter looks, if they've fought through to the end where the referee holds that one glove encased arm in the air, they're triumphant.

This morning I wear the prize winning belt. I made it through a day without tears and woke to see my pretty eyes open.

Of course, I had a little help. The only thing that can keep me from crying is music. I can't 'listen' to it, because my overactive brain will find lyrics or melodies that will speak to whatever challenge I'm going through and augment it way beyond it's actuality. So no, I can't listen, but to play an instrument is like being lifted into the clouds where nothing else matters.

I've never been able to meditate. My brain has always had way too much going on. It's worse now since my brain injury from my motorcycle accident. I have to reel it in very forcefully sometimes. However, even before the accident I was a bit of an ADHD kid.

Except when I play an instrument.

Yesterday's instrument was my voice. My producer, Lin Gardiner, has a whack-load of music for me to work on with BlueLight, but since my love told me about the decision to go through male transformation, I've had no voice. No voice for me, no voice for music and no voice for getting the poison out of my mind.

Until yesterday.

I must admit, the first step to finding a squeak of a voice was when I brought my tracks for HECTOR over to Lin's for mixing. I got to listen to music that I had tracked so long ago that I actually forgot about the castle I had built.

We had tracked the music oh so many moons ago, then I had the world's worst break-up where my beast of an ex of 6 years threw me out by way of having a 'packing party' where all her sidekicks gathered my personal belongings, put a few choice boxes in building the hall, then changed the apartment locks so that after a 16 hour shift, I came home to no abode.

Nice.

Threw me for a loop and life was all about survival ... not music. Shut down my music teaching business, got a job, found a home and next thing you know, I fell in love with my soul mate. I was a wee bit distracted with life to be getting to music.

Then came the brain injury from the motorcycle accident and no ability to hold an instrument or even remember how to compose. But after 2 years of scratching my way out of the brain injury hell, I am here ready to finish my cd.

I'm here with music to mix and when listening to it, I was completely inspired by my own talent. I've never thought I was good enough, but damn! When you take a step back (a 4 year long step, yikes!) and listen, you can really get a sense of the inventiveness people loved your tunes for. You can look at yourself from someone else's eyes. I got to see my music as others see it and not be the picky musician that never feels a piece is finished or quite worthy enough to spread to the masses.

It came. The inspiration to find distraction from the hell I've been nesting in for a month. Yesterday I spent the day working on a new song for BlueLight and today I'll work on 2 more while Lin slaves over the HECTOR music to make it sound it's absolute best, as she always does.

In all the chaos, depression and pain, I forgot how much actively making music heals me. I was so overwhelmed with my love's decision to change to a male that 'I' disappeared. Well, I'm grateful that it took 4 year old music to draw me back.

I'm so grateful for a day without tears. Let's see if I can make it two! Wish me luck.

(**sighing a long hearty sigh** because I can)

5 stages of grief.

You're supposed to go through these in order, apparently. So far I'm not following the norm, but in my life, I never really do. It's supposed to start with denial, move to anger, begin bargaining, fall into depression and finally accept it. Well, I'm like a bull in a china shop right now, crashing from one to the next.

Really I started with denial before my love even told me about the decision of male transformation. I honestly thought that if Papi just kept binding, packing and using the men's washroom that would be enough. From the beginning of our relationship, my love has been vocal about removing those beautiful breasts through 'top surgery'.

I could understand Papi's pain in a way, because I have never been happy about my own breasts and wanted to have a breast lift since I was a teenager. I have never wanted them to be bigger, I've wanted them smaller so I would never have to wear a bra like some of my itty bitty titty friends. That has always been my dream. But I learned to accept my breasts and I found million dollar bras that made me feel more comfortable about them.

I've never really been happy with anything about my body and my eating disorder has hindered what I see in the mirror. I had to come to terms with my disease and take control of it. I now have control over the disorder, it doesn't rule my life anymore, but I still see distorted images of myself in the mirror. I honestly don't see the 'tiny' body people tell me I have. I just accept that they see something different than I do.

Anyway, back to the stages. When Papi first told me of the decision to become an F-M, depression set in and it hasn't left. I have cried tears of grief over losing my wife every day but 3 for a month now. Sometimes I feel like when I'm being honest with my love about my feelings, I'm giving Papi a look into my war trenched brain and I have hopes that this will give my love a hint that I would like to bargain.

I won't bargain out loud, because I cannot be the one to ask my love to change anything about this decision. If my love does anything to change this decision, then that choice wouldn't be for Papi, it would be because of my pain over the whole thing. If that happened, there would be resentment on my love's behalf, because Papi wouldn't be doing it for anyone but me. It would destroy our relationship. Resentment seeps into love and rots it.

So, just as my fear predicted, there were the words last night from my love, "I'm going to stay on a low dose of testosterone."

I was terrified. Was Papi doing this for me? Oh my god, if that's the case then there could be bitterness in the future. I said, "You can't do this for me. It will destroy our relationship."

"But I see you crying every day and I don't want my decision to be what destroys our relationship."

So. There was a bit of bargaining. I just stared at Papi and didn't say anything more. I can't be the one to make any decisions for my love. I have to remain silent when it comes to this. I already harmed the heart of Papi by telling the truth about the change in smell I've noticed and how it affected me.

This is so hard. This is the hardest, fearful and lonely thing I've ever gone through in my life. My gorgeous wife is leaving me and is being replaced with a person I don't even get to see or meet until they're here. I don't know who this person will look like and they are not who I married. I married my beautiful butch. All I want is my beautiful butch.

The grief is overwhelming. If this is the depression part of the stages, I really don't want to see the anger part! It might be over the top! In my life, I've noticed that a sign of my own depression is when I take on strangers as if I were a mama bear and god forbid anyone do wrong.

It happened on my 'off day' day off from speaking to 'you' my imaginary friend. I saw a man hit a woman because the elevator was too full and she was trying to tell him to stop pushing. Nobody did anything, so I intervened by stopping the elevator door with my foot, grabbing him by the shirt and telling him to "Get the fuck off this elevator NOW!"

He was shocked and slightly afraid, but I saw him look for any kind of evidence that I was someone with lawful authority. When he realized I wasn't that person, he told me he was staying on this elevator. I told him I would remove him if he didn't do it himself and then everyone left the elevator leaving me, the other crazy person alone with the nutbar.

Finally, a man bigger than me decided to take control and I happily allowed him to. When I got on the next elevator with all the people who had left the violent man, one woman said, "You're very brave to have done that, but you have to be careful. You don't know what you're dealing with."

I replied, "Oh I know exactly what I was dealing with!" Us crazies know each other well.

"But he could have hit you."

"I would have hit him harder." And I looked at the 80-something man beside me who gave me the nod of approval.

Yup. When I'm crazy, I'm really crazy. I wanted to take out all the hurt and pain on someone who really deserved it. I would have become that mama bear that in the past has lifted a man off the ground by way of his shirt and slammed him against the wall, leaving him to piss himself.

He was drunk and was warned about my precious keyboard that he was leaning too close to. He fell on it and spilled his beer onto the knobs. I saw red and it resulted with him running out of the party with piss stained pants practically crying of fear. I was too busy trying to save my keyboard to notice the flee.

I don't know where this mama bear comes from, but when she's here, she's a scary person. My heart's pounding just thinking about her. She's an odd part of my personality. If I'm having a depression over the grief this bad, I'm very afraid about the anger stage.

I would like to just jump to the acceptance part if I could. That would please me. I want someone to tell me how to do this. Anyone?

Day off.

Well, more like an 'off day' in terms of feelings. I had one of those days where you can't even spit out the poison that's making you sick.

My mission was just to find some power in myself. Being the magical person I seem to be, when I ask for something, strange things happen. It's not always what I want or have asked to happen, just that 'things' happen. A simple road trip to a warehouse to get our stored clothing proved this certainty yet again.

Because of the sewage flood situation, we don't have enough clothing to choose from as they took every belonging away from us to be tested for contamination, then cleaned or written off. So, my love and I have been living with a tiny wardrobe consisting of one outfit change to choose from.

We went to the warehouse where they do all the testing and cleaning, and we walked up the front stairs to reception. On the door was a poster that read, "You have the power." The picture was of a child in a superhero costume flexing his muscles with all his might. I laughed so hard! Here was the child that I'm trying to toughen up showing me their power!

It gave me a moment of strength seeing that child. I felt that I was able to take some of this child's force just from seeing this enchanting picture. It was absolutely what I needed.

From there the day was wonderful. We went and picked through clothing and had shrieks of joy in finding the gems that pleased us. Underwear, socks, sweat pants so we could finally get to the gym, jeans ... it was like going on a shopping spree. I've never been so happy to see my favourite pair of panties!

We had a beautiful day together enjoying each other's company including a moment to physically share our love. But that's when our beautiful day crumbled. Things have changed in our marriage as my love no longer smells like the person I married.

Taking testosterone is putting a chemical into your body to make you more of a man. My love now has a 'man smell'. It's not that I'm cringing with disgust over Papi, it's just that mi esposo no longer smells like the person I married. It was like having a stranger in my intimate moment. It brought back memories that I can't share here right now. Memories that made me feel stressed in our moment of intimacy.

I was quite silent after that. Until my love wanted to talk. That's when all hell broke loose. My emotions got the better of me and I had to tell Papi. I had to let it out that my love no longer smells like the person I married.

I want my love to be happy. I don't want to hurt Papi in any way. But the next day, the 'off day', I had a melt down like none I've had since hearing the words that confirmed Papi wants to go through the male transformation. My feelings of wanting to disappear became stronger. Really, I just want the pain to end and I don't know how to accomplish this. The only way I can think of is to disappear from this planet.

I had written to 'you', my imaginary friend, in regards to this topic. I had told 'you' that if I had thoughts of suicide that I would go for help. I failed to keep that promise in my therapy session yesterday. The feelings felt so strong that I feared that to speak them out loud may result in me being thrown into a psyche ward. However, I did share them with my love because this is the person I trust more than anyone in this world.

This terrified Papi. The tears started to stream down my beautiful love's face. I hurt Papi. This was never ever my intention. I would never want to do anything that would hurt mi esposo. But, I did.

Papi meekly asked me if I was conjuring plans and I admitted I was. So, while I was out with one of the friends that I took the chance to expose my hell to, mi esposo removed all the potentially harmful pills from the house with love. It is indeed an act of love to do your best to keep your soul mate from potentially harming themselves.

At the end of the 'off day', I broke down and told mi esposo how our love making affected me. Again ... tears streaming down my love's face. I have hurt my love so bad just by telling the truth. I wonder sometimes if speaking the truth really is the best thing? Could I just keep those two monumental issues of my dark journey to myself? Could I just find a way to deal with them on my own just to save the feelings of my love?

No.

I have to tell someone, and the person I trust with my state of mind is Papi. I have to tell my love how I'm feeling. I have to be honest. Whether it destroys our bond or not. I suppose the pain that I'm suffering through has to be shared with the person who is changing my life, marriage and their own self.

I suppose I had to share this with my soul mate. It was a brutal day off from speaking to 'you' my imaginary friend. Thank you for listening. You do have a good ear.

Power

I've lost all my power. I feel so small and weak. Last night's sobbing episode had Papi holding me like I was a child. I felt like one, that's for sure. I was cocooned in my love's blanket from childhood, while Papi held me on a one person recliner. My love lying sideways, my legs draped over Papi's strong body. We held each other so close that it seemed like two people were meshed into one. We were so convincingly integrated it was as if we were saying to the inspirited seat, "Whaddya mean? This is only one person. Don't know what you're talking about," with a clueless stare.

About 2 weeks ago, my love had taken too much testosterone and was very sick because of it. I was so frightened that I couldn't even type those black and white words for my imaginary friend here. I could only write about the swollen eyes that I woke up to. That post was all about the eyes. The victims of my pain. This morning I woke up again with battered eyes, only this time, they looked so bad that I almost cried about my eyes looking so tragic from crying.

Good lord! All this sobbing is just too ridiculous!!! When do I get to snap out of it?!?!?

Yesterday, I took chance number four of trusting another live ear to speak about 'it'. Again it was not as bad as I thought it would turn out to be. I wasn't judged, I was only supported.

I have chosen good people in my life. I have done well. As much as I feel so damn alone in this world, because there's nobody I know that's gone through this, I feel that the friends I've chosen to gush out to would honestly do anything to be able to be that person who has been there. I sense they would do anything to understand what I'm going through. They can't know, but they have compassion. I do recognize their love for me. I have chosen great love in my life.

My friend told me that it will get better every time I talk about it. Logically, I know this is true, but when you're living in this reality of hell, it's so damn hard to really believe it, especially when you wake up to these eyes.

Papi's decision of male transformation is not only changing the body of my beautiful wife, but it's also changing my life, my love's life and our marriage. When Papi was speaking on the phone to a friend last night, the horrid mistake 2 weeks ago that was made with taking too much 't' came out in their conversation like it was just a little error. The words in that conversation came out 'funny', like when you'd accidentally put a red item in with all your white socks. Silly pink socks.

This is not something I'm laughing about. This is killing me and when it's spoken about like it's just a flippant topic, I feel like the war zone I'm living in doesn't even come into the radar. I become invisible and 'it' becomes so overwhelming, I'm forced further into my tiny self.

Forget about the indignant teenager, I'm now the skinny child with long blonde hair blowing bubbles in the front yard in her favourite red skirt. She's so innocent and fragile, she has no idea how hard it's going to be when her daddy leaves in a few years. She has no idea how bad she's going to take it when he's abandoned the family and it's just her mother and sister that she's going to go through life with. Tiny Andréa is just going about her business of watching the shimmering bubbles float through the air, popping on the branch of the massive cherry tree she uses as a swing or a hideout.

The scariest part about all this is, I know many relationships can disintegrate when one half of the equation becomes depressed or powerless. There is an imbalance. My love asked me what scares me the most? My fear of losing my soul mate. Coincidentally, that is Papi's fear as well. But I've made my decision to stay in this and work my way through, no matter how much pain I feel.

I'd say this is the biggest sacrifice I've ever made for love. I love my boo that much. I just need to figure out how to find my power to heal from this. Talking about 'it' just seems to make me shrink into a fetal ball in front of people. It doesn't feel like walking my way out of hell to secure my power.

When Papi told me one of the first changes that was happening to my wife's beautiful body last night, it was like I was stabbed in the heart. It felt like I was physically attacked in the weakest area of my body. All I could do was touch my love's neck to see if my wife was still there. Touching that beautiful skin that encompasses that amazing soul that I love so much. It's the strangest sensation to be able to physically touch the body you psychologically feel slipping away.

Well, today I'm going to search for my power. I'm going to take care of that little girl. It's the only thing I can do.

What's Up With The Phone?

I just can't call anyone. No, it's not a technical difficulty, it's an emotional one, but now I believe it's turned into a physical affair. I'm getting better at answering it, but dialing (or rather tapping the illuminated screen) is a no-go.

Really, this failure to communicate started out with Facebook. I haven't been able to go on the horribly addictive site since November the 24th. It sorta reminds me of the time I shared a bottle of tequila with my ex, then we both choked down the worm and next thing I remember, I woke up being spooned on the couch in clothing from the night before, with vomit on the back of my head.

Somehow I was to blame about that one. Umm ... not sure how someone can puke on the back of their own head, but you know how it goes with alcoholics. We never take responsibility for our own actions.

After the tequila, worm and vomit episode, I couldn't drink tequila anymore. Oh, that didn't stop me. There were MANY other poisons to experiment with. Goddamn I'm happy to be 11 years clean 'n sober and hangover free.

But, I digress. My life got a lot better when I told the bottle to hit the road. And to be completely honest, my creativity has been streaming since I stopped going on Facebook. However, I stopped going because I just wasn't strong enough to speak to anyone about my love's transformation. It has just been easier to speak to my imaginary friend here on my blog, whoever 'you' are. (**waving at you now**)

You see, every time but one, when I speak about Papi's choice of male transformation, I stomp into the tearful war zone. My mind spirals down into the great hole of anguish and I reel into that bloodcurdling place where demons proudly strut. They take your hand, pull you on to the dance floor and the next thing you know, you're thinking of buying a home and starting a family with the rayless spirits you're flirting with.

I've learned that Facebook is a shallow, toxic place. Great for promoting, however. Which brings me to my next concern of my isolation. My producer (and wonderful friend, albeit still my boss) has asked me to promote our newest video that was just finished (it's here if you're interested in seeing it), but I told her I just can't get on to Facebook yet. It's too difficult. If I were to go and start showing my virtual face, people may realize they haven't heard from me in almost a month and ask where I've been, because they had seen me every day for years. I can't safely expose my grieving and pain to this empty place. I couldn't bear any negativity and judgement that could come out of it. I'm still too weak to put on the boxing gloves and defend myself.

It killed me when I dropped off Facebook and found out how shallow my 636 'friends' really were. Hardly anyone cared or even noticed that I vanished. That's how I figured out who my true friends were. The ones that actually noticed I was missing. Those few are the people who texted, emailed, called and did their best to contact me even though I was avoiding everyone at that point. These are the people who love me.

I am grateful for those true friends and for the painful feat of hiding to find out who thinks about me. I think it was mostly my ego that got hurt when I realized how many people didn't care that I disappeared. Sometimes, I think I'm still that rockstar that was shortlisted for Hole oh so many years ago.

I'm not that rockstar. I'm still a professional musician, but I'm not that rockstar. And I still can't go on Facebook. I'm a mess. But now that messy being can't even pick up the phone and dial.

My aunt said she tried to contact me on Facebook and I told her I just can't go on anymore. I don't even remember if I told her that my love is going through the male transition (thank you brain injury, ugh) when I called her on her birthday. I've been in a fog. I know I told her I was going through something, but I don't know if I actually told her about 'it'.

I know I also told her I would call over a week ago, but I still haven't done it. I can't willingly get on the phone and talk to anyone about what's going on, because it will only increase the creases on my forehead and the little ones on the sides of my eyes. Every time I cry, those confessions of age get more prominent.

So, I just don't call.

However, I do answer the phone now. I've made a pact with myself that I'll answer the phone with people that I feel I could take that chance with to speak about 'it'. I found the strength after that 1st conversation with my dear friend where I didn't cry at all. It was the ONLY time I've been able to talk about 'it' without crying in over a month. Every time I bravely pick up that ringing little plastic device, I think it's possible that I'll have a second dry conversation.

Those arid words haven't happened in a phone answering episode yet. I suppose these are my first steps. The wobbly steps. The horrifying steps like the ones I had to take 2 years ago after my motorcycle accident. The brain injured steps that felt like 'walking on a canoe on water'. I had to teach my brain to walk all over again.

I guess that's what I'm doing here. I'm learning to confess the nightmare has taken over my psyche. I'm getting out the words through my fingers instead of my mouth.

I am doing this by speaking to 'you', my imaginary friend. And my suggestion to 'you' is to use that phone. Call someone you love and knows you love them. Because honestly, i'm really lonely here.

yikes.

Sometimes I live in a bubble. I still have that ego disease that teenagers have. You know? Where they think they know everything?

I know people are killed for being trans, but I didn't know just how many. Papi is afraid of being 'tranny bashed'. I suppose I was only thinking of us living in this tiny Vancouver bubble where 'different' is more welcomed than other places in the world. We still have gay and tranny bashers, but there's a bigger circle of people who love us. Who welcome us with open arms. Hell, we even have the United Church who will let you believe in god if that's what you choose.

Papi said, "If this 't' is going to ruin our relationship, I'm going to stop this non-sense."

Papi would do that for me because of my uncontrollable water-works that come out in my very unattractive sobs. My love doesn't want to see me suffer. My love is in anguish when I cry. I can't imagine how rueful Papi would be if the real truth of just how much pain I'm in about the transformation came out.

I know that 'this too shall pass', so I don't speak the words out loud of where my mind goes to when my heartache feels like it's coming all the way from my toes. Nobody really needs to know that unless I was really planning on that horrid selfish act. If I was, I'd go for help. This I can promise, but I can't help just how far into the depth of darkness my mind will take me during those moments of mourning the loss of my wife.

The scariest part is not my crazy mind, the scariest part is, what happens if mi esposo goes through the top surgery and has a hysterectomy and passes for a man until the sweet voice of a woman comes out? Nothing in our little bubble of acceptance here in Vancouver, but when we go on our holidays to places like we're going in the spring, much could happen.

We're going to the Dominican Republic in the spring and they are not so forgiving of 'different' folk than what is taught to them from birth. They're quite religious to the point of being a zealot. They are a homophobic country by generalization. I know there will be some folk who are not, but as a whole, they follow the bible and the zealots who say that we are not people to be loved.

We are planning to move there. So. If Papi doesn't pass with a voice of a man and people figure out the secret of my love while we're living in a pretty little home with lush trees surrounding us in our self made haven, if someone figures out that Papi is not a bio-male, well, really bad things could happen.

I could not only lose my wife like I feel like I'm losing right now, I could lose my love from this world all together. It's a reality that people are dying all over the world from the hands of hate.

So, when my love says that this 't nonsense' will stop, well, it's not only the fact that I know I'll be the reason for stopping my love's happiness, but it's also that if Papi wants to pass for a man and we're in some part of the world that is not forgiving of 'different', Papi could die.

I have to look at that. I have to be realistic. Papi can't go half way or there could be consequences that I could never live with. It would make these dark days feel like a cake walk.

One transgendered person is murdered every three days. If I want to keep mi esposo here with me to live out this life together, there has to be a realistic look outside my bubble. We're not staying in Vancouver forever. I have to look at the outcome of more than just my selfish tears about losing my wife.

Yikes.

What if ...

What if I don't make it through this in time to save our relationship? The tears are definitely taking their toll on me, but I also see they're affecting how my love sees me. Papi said I looked rough.

Not good.

Femmes aren't supposed to look 'rough'. We're the pretty ones our butches excitedly rush home to with pride and love. Right? We're not the 'rough' ones!

Last night the look on mi esposo's face was that of pity. It was not the look of pride and love. But the conversation that followed was even worse. "I didn't know that going on testosterone would make you so upset."

I've expressed my feelings about women going on testosterone to Papi so many times in the past. Did my love just think my feelings were for show? That perhaps I was exaggerating? Papi then said, "If it's going to ruin our relationship, maybe I shouldn't be doing this."

I felt like climbing to the rooftop and shouting, "YEAH!!! I get to keep my wife! She stopped the madness and my tears will leave with that horrible drug!!!" But very quickly reality set in and I reminded myself and Papi, "You can't do that or you won't be happy. I'll work my way through this."

"But what if you don't get over it? Do you think it's possible that you may never get over this?"

And the truth, "Even if I don't get over this, you have to do this to be happy. No matter the outcome." And again came the mournful feeling of defeat.

This is the truth. It's Papi or me.

Either a) I'm happy that there's no more testosterone in the picture and Papi resents me for having to stop taking it to relieve me of my pain, or b) Papi's happy because there's a view in the mirror that is what Papi desires and I have to hope that I 'get over it'.

So. What if I don't ever get over it? About 2 weeks ago, Papi jokingly said, "I'll give you a year." But those words have resonated with me ever since. I was in a relationship once where there were many 'jokes' that turned out to be factual realities. I was fooling myself that my ex was only 'kidding' all the time, yet my friends would look those 'jokes' as horrid words and wonder how I could stay in a relationship so toxic and not even see it.

Is this where I am again? Seeing the red flag, but just taking it lightly for the sake of denial? For the sake of not wanting to see that I may really wind up alone after marrying the perfect butch I thought I'd finally found?

I couldn't even begin to tell you the terror that is annihilating my ego after last night's 'pitiful' stare. What if my sorrow and fear are the culprit of dismantling this marriage?

My love told me that a couple we know were talking about 'our problem' and the femme said she would leave if her butch transitioned. Yesterday, I had my 3rd blubbering phone call of trying to talk about it and 'get it out' with a friend who is the butch who told me that if she transitioned, her sweetheart would leave as well.

Yet here I am. Sticking it out, all the while feeling as if it's MY wife that's leaving ME, and all I can do is stand on the sidelines and just watch her go like sending a message in a bottle out to sea. I watch it bob with every wave that carries that fragile glass encasement further from me. All you really get to see of the bottle is the cork that holds in so much importance. You send it away so that someone else gets to open it.

Every day I look at my love I see more of the 'man' Papi desires to be. Are my tears ferrying away my love, leaving behind a salty remnant of what could have been?

I have cried every day but 3 for almost a month now. Sweety asked me last night, "are you depressed?" And we both know what that really means. We are both prone to depression. We both have had times where we've fallen into the black hole of desolation, and we both know the difference between being 'upset about something' and 'depressed'. If you're prone to depression, you too know what I mean.

"Yes," I admitted.

I'm in. I'm in and it's wrenching every vein in my body. I can feel it in my toes when the tears flow. That's depression. I didn't want the 'upset' to take over my entire body, but sometimes, we can't control it when we're that type of person.

What if I never get out? My options are to a) leave and hope I get over losing my love, b) stay and hope I can claw myself out of the pit and accept my love for who they want to be, or c) ... I don't even know what c) is right now, but there has to be a c). There has to be another option.

What if there isn't?

What if ...

Possible.

I did it again. I spoke out loud and the tears surged forth like the downpour of the sewage flood we're recovering from. I suppose it is good to talk about it. She did have some good words to say.

Really, her conclusion is I'm in fear of the unknown. True. I'm terrified that I'm going to be married to someone who looks odd. There is no telling what my love will look like after the male transformation has taken place. It's so slow that it's hard to even say WHEN that new 'male' person will arrive in place of my beautiful wife.

Rachel said, "You never know. Easton may just be the hottest F-M you've ever seen."

While this is a possibility, it's my fear that keeps me thinking of people I've seen that look so unattractive (to me) and have the 'sucking on helium' voice. I'm not attracted to F-M people, just like I'm not attracted to bio-males. I'm a lesbian and hot, butch women are what I desire. This is who I am.

Yes. I'm vain. Yes. I'm looking at the future exterior of my love. But tell me, when you look for the love of your life, are you only looking for the mind of the person? Or are you looking for that hot sexy babe that you can't keep your hands off? Aren't you looking for the one who's chemistry mixes with yours to create the most amazingly tasty beverage of steamy lust? Seriously. We all do it. We look for the person who's outside and inside combine to make your 'perfect' person.

I found my perfect person, and I married her. And now my perfect person is leaving me, to be replaced with the unknown. We've only been married 5 months. We've been together for almost 3 years however. While I've always thought of marriage as just a 'piece of paper' that really makes no difference to love, I suppose my mind has been changed after actually having experienced the marital bond.

It is definitely different being married. It is a secure feeling. Comfort. Assurance. Confidence. Trust. I can see how people become complacent in their marriages because of this security, but in my vows I promised to love as much in marriage as I did up to the day we were connected by the 'piece of paper' I so flippantly spoke about. I've only had 4 months to prove this love to my sweety, and the 5th month has been nothing but me crying in fear of the unknown F-M that will be squatting in our marriage.

But Rachel is correct in saying that I don't know. I don't know the outcome, because the future is never revealed to us. Hell, I could die before the transition even happens and would have wasted my time crying that my wife is leaving and I would die having depleted the joy of our union in doing so.

Papi was just here a moment ago drying my tears, trying to convince me that mi esposo is not leaving. Giving me the comfort of a beautiful bosom to rest my quivering lips, squinting eyes and wrinkle etching forehead in until the flow of distress had stopped. Then kissed me with those abundantly silky lips and said, "I'm not going anywhere." I'll miss those pillowy, protective, gorgeous breasts, but I get those bewitching lips for as long as I want.

I'm married to the perfect person. My only hope is that I do love for better or for worse. I've had the better for almost 3 years now. The better person who stuck with me through a brain injury while I was ensnared in a wheelchair because my brain couldn't tell me how to walk. This person took me to Cuba in my steel, wheelable legs, while I still felt I was 'walking in a canoe on water', and while we were there, this perfect person held me up so I could walk through the teetering sand to a quiet place that was all our own and proposed to me.

Like a villian, here I sit, crying over the perfect person who may turn into someone I'm not attracted to. I feel like the most selfish person the world has ever been offered. I feel like the most shallow person I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Who is this hideous person? Not a perfect person, that's for sure.

I'm glad I spoke out loud. It's one word closer to getting the 'stink' out of my head through my mouth so it may leave my soul. But I'll tell you, it was a chance to take. I could have been judged poorly like my ego judges me now. I wasn't. Rachel just said a few words that helped me think more kindly about my possible future.

I've always been told I'm too hard on myself. It's possible they're right. Possible.