Hairy details.

Today may very well be the day, but do I wake Papi from the graveyard coma?

Nobody would like to be woken after a 10 hour vampire shift with, "Honey, I think we need to put Mr. Moustache down today instead of tomorrow."

If I do wake my love, it has to be done soon, or we'll have to wait until tomorrow.

Papi and I have an orthodontic appointment to get our teeth filled with clay muck to see how crooked mi esposo's teeth have become (because Papi didn't want to wear that retainer as a kid, so naughty!), and to see just how much work it will take to correct my 100% overbite.

sexy ... thank gawd i'm not bucktoothed!!!!

We would have to say farewell before, then go to the appointment in tears, and that just doesn't sound appealing.

hello!  we're your new patients and we like to come to appointments crying ... you don't mind do you?

Besides, Papi wanted to spend the day with the Goat-ee Kitt-ee for our parting; the 'it's all about the cat' day.

Yet, I don't know, Smokes from Okotoks is looking like he REALLY doesn't want any company.  I try to pet him, but he looks uncomfortable.

You know cats, they want to be left alone to pass on.  It's so humiliating to them to end their lives with someone looking.

not proper!  do you mind!?!?!?!

We will take the selfish route though, and give him a goodbye in our presence, so that we have our closure.

It seems so wrong, but us humans are not like cats.  We can't just toddle off to the wilderness and allow mother nature to be the last eyes upon us.

No, we need appropriate goodbyes.  We are a strange bunch, us humans.

Papi has the fortunate luck to be on a work-a-holic bender right now.  So, my love is able to use work to distract.

I'm not back to work yet, 

(soon though ... phew!  let's get 'er did you muther fucker of a back!!!)

but when I am, I'll be able to use work as a wonderful commotion to keep me from thinking about 'life' and 'it'.

'It'.

I think it's quite possible that 'it' is seeming a little more normal. 

normal?!?!?!

Ok.  Maybe not normal.

How about: it's seeming easier to help Papi put on that binder before work every day, so my love can hide those beautiful breasts from the world.

They are mine to see alone.

They will be taken from me too soon, only to be replaced by a soul patch and an emptied womb.

Oh, Papi tried to push leg hair through to wear like a 'guy' would. 

wrong!  shave that shit off.

Another 'rule'.

For now.

Now, to go clean up the bile that the dying kitty has just left for me.

Last day for our Smokey.

Another award :)

This one is so sweet.

This one is paying homage to being a reader.

A 'follower'.

An award for being a follower of one of my favourite bloggers and seriously, a talented, wonderful person.

Bio.

I strongly recommend you go check out Bio's store too.  Just click on the award and look to the right for her artwork.

I love it!

Thank you Bio.  You truly are a sweet, loving heart.

This little light of mine ...

I woke to a clean kitchen.

This pleased me greatly, as it was part of that 'ToDo' list that has grown over the past few days of sloth.

I can at least delete it from the list and continue to beat myself up about the other stuff that needs to be done, that I know I don't have enough energy to accomplish.

I'm still feeling like a bag of doo, but I guess what my blogger friend said is true,

(i'm always rhyming things ... just can't help myself ... a little OCD? or the poet in me? hehe there i go again) ...

"I would allow yourself to sleep, if you need it. Its only an issue if it goes on more than a couple weeks."

I'll allow it, but I don't like it.  No, sir, I don't like it one bit.

Anyway, back to the happy kitchen.  It must have been the kitchen gnomes.  My dear Papi is sleeping off a graveyard shift.

what crazy person cleans a kitchen after working a 10 hour graveyard shift??!?!?! ... oh ya ... my nutbar love.

That crazy love of mine is sleeping in the La-Z-Boy ... the ugly man chair.  The monstrosity of the pit of doom.

Papi likes it, but I feel guilty when I'm in it.  Yet, there lies my love, with puny whiskers of pride.

Proud that there's peach fuzz on that upper lip.  Proud of the tiny hair that you almost need a magnifying glass to see, but to my love it's standing at attention.

Mi esposo is already calling it a soul patch.  I can't help but giggle, then agree with all the people who say that when you're with a transitioning person, it's all about them.

Yeah, well, they haven't met me.

high maintenance much?!

I still get my 'all about me' in amongst the 'all about Papi'.  I just time my moments right.

I do love that my love is having an 'all about me' time.  I have nothing but joy when I see people allowing themselves to delve into raising their self-esteem.

As long as I'm not forgotten about, I'm good.

I suppose that's why it hurt so much when I was abandoned by so many people in my time of need on that stupid Facebook site.

I am actually grateful for this experience to have allowed me to weed out the artificial friends.  I've never done that before, I'm usually the one to be spewed from people's lives when I'm the weakest fledgling in the nest.

It used to feel like defeat.

how could you not like ME?!?!  i'm lovely dammit!  ok a little self centered, narcissistic, selfish, ad infinitum, but lovely!

It's a great time in my life amongst this mayhem, grieving and anger.  A time of genuine love.  A time to let go of needing everyone to like me.

I am of the camp of 'everything happens for a reason'.

I have enough love from those that matter; my Trust List, Papi, and new friends that I've met along the way who don't judge me.  They just accept that I'm as loony as them.

Our darkest times are there to teach us how to enjoy our brightest moments.

I'm shining.

My awards ...

I don't normally post twice in a day, but today I will, as I just want to post about my awards I've received.

I hadn't gotten to this one, because it required work, but here it is:

I had received this from Shareena (you can click on the award to see her blog), and thank you my dear.  Now have to give it to 7 people and say 7 things about me.

I'm giving it to:

http://writingsofaprodigy.blogspot.com

http://timoslt.blogspot.com

http://rabblerousernyc.blogspot.com (unfortunately, you'll have to be invited to see this one)

http://myconfusiontheory.blogspot.com

http://dirtycowgirl.blogspot.com

http://itsagaylife-jamiessmiles.blogspot.com

http://www.boimeetsplay.com

And now 7 things about me?  God I don't like this part.

I'm the wife of a transgendered FtM

I play 5 instruments, 3 of them well: my voice, electric bass and piano

I love yoga

I am healing from a brain injury from a motorcycle accident 2 years ago

I'm almost 12 years clean and sober

Even though I'm a lesbian I shave ALL my body hair thank you very much

I only swim in water where I can see the ground.

And now the second one, it doesn't take work, just a sweet thank you to that Dirty Cow Girl.  (click to find her):

A few weeks ago, I received one from K Marie: (click and read)

Thank you all of you.  

I really appreciate it.

And to those of you whom I gave it to, thank you to you as well ... I enjoy reading your words.

I'm a fucking nutbar, but then so is Papi.

Is it depression?

Maybe it's my anemia upping the ante to bring me down me again.

Could it be cancer finally filling my uterus with black death like it did with my mother and grandmother?

goddammit i told you ... it's mine!  leave it the fuck alone!

I'm not feeling so great, and of course my mind would jump to cancer.  I jump to the most horrid outcome possible every time.

I've slept 23 of the past 34 hours.  I just don't feel good.

I do have an avid imagination.  I guess that's what makes me the creative artist I am.

But damn!

ok ... time for you squeamish boys to stop reading if you can't handle the girly stuff.

I have something going on in the womanly world.

It's so hard to think of myself as a woman.  I still consider myself a girl.  I'm probably the most immature of all my aging peers, yet I'm also one of the most youthful because of it.

age is just a number.

I have had strange goings on with my monthly sequel.  That rat bastard acted as if the world was coming to an end and didn't want to leave the comfort of my womb to see what's up.

I have had spotting for a total of 10 days now since the last visit of 'ugh'.

I thought my normal womanly situation would never come.  It was 4 or 5 days late, but sometimes, it's hard to tell with my finicky womb.  I get that stopover every 23 days or so.

Yeah.  Ridiculous.  I know.

At least it only lasts 4 days.  I guess that's to make up for the every 3 weeks of the blahs.

Anyway, it freaked me out, all this spotting and no getting busy with the deed.  This has never happened before and it scares me.

Behold!  Good ol' Rick the Red finally made an appearance yesterday, and at the same time I slipped into the off and on coma.

I haven't accomplished anything since Thursday, because the times that I actually WAS awake, it was all about Mr. Moustache.

He's had a resurgence of energy.  It's so nice.  We'll be enjoying him during this temporary 'up time'.

A small window of peace for us, and a new opportunity for my love to resume terrorizing me via a calendar that now hangs on the wall.

Papi thinks it's funny.  I can't stand looking at that ugly mug.

It's for "T-Boys" and Papi bought it at the same time as those playing cards we used on Valentine's Day.  Every month has a different picture of an F-M, none of which I find attractive.

Papi told me the money goes to support transitioning people.

"Fucking excuse me?!?!?!  Trannies have all the fucking support in the world!!!!  What about the wives who sit in a La-Z-Boy pit of doom and cry for 2 months straight?!?!?!  Give the fucking money to US!!!

Papi giggled, "But most wives wouldn't do that.  Most wives would leave."

It's hung right where I would be looking while working on my journey via my words to 'you', my imaginary friend.

Fucking hell.  You are an evil imp my love.  Why would I want to look at that when right behind it is a perfectly pleasing calendar with a picture of a mama frog and her baby!?!?

This is why I love Papi, however.

My wonderful bull in a china shop.

and now, i return the original obsessive fretting ...

Murphy, please don't come to call.

Last night, every step he took seemed tortured.

His will to live was limited to walking to his glass of water.

When he reached his destination, he stared, wondering, how he'd find the strength to lean down, stick his tongue out and lap it up.

It was too much energy to ask for.  This body is imparting with it's last breaths of a journey.

His head droops, his neck barely having enough force to hold it up.  His eyes are only half open, too drowsy to even think of giving the mind melting stare to the humans who inhabit his space.

There was no demanding for food yester-eve.

I touched him with sweet support.  I laid my hand on his emptying body.  His bones protrude through his usually soft muscles.

i caress him with comfort, but i know that this pampering is really a way to try to tell him he's free to go in peace.

He took weak steps, back across the couch, into the familiar corner that is set up as a cozy spot for warmth.

Here he sleeps, his body rests, in hopes that he will heal.  We all see it.

Time is a theif.

I removed his collar to give him room to be the free spirit he will soon exist as.  He doesn't need to take it where he's going.

Besides, we don't allow him to leave the house anymore, lest he allow a pillow of nature to be his final secret resting place.

No, we need to say goodbye with our own closure.  A selfish act that will allow us to sleep with knowing that we were there to see him off to his next venture.

If he were to leave and grant nature to see him off for the farewell, our minds would slip into horrid thoughts of what might have happened.

Coyote?

Car?

Freezing weather?

Any of these could be possibilities, even if we already know what the reason for his passing would be.

I texted my love to speak of Mr. Moustache's weakness, and how it is breaking my heart.

Papi asked me to remove his collar.

"I already did 10 minutes ago, boo.  I'm with you."

we truly do share the same thoughts

Tears fell.

Our wish is that he just goes calmly in his sleep, but we both know that this adamant cat will not lie down an let natural history take place.  He's a stubborn fighter.

My love has told him that it's ok to go, verbally and spiritually.

Then comes this morning.

He's peppy walking quickly for food and eating.  There was even a meow of sorts.  He's being his normal self, asking for another day.

He even was the Bathroom Buddy this morning!

Another day with a cat being a cat, which will inevitably lead to an evening of tears.

One more day with Goat-ee Kitt-ee.

Here comes the weekend, where there is no vet open except the million dollar emergency.

If Murphy's Law is in place, it will be this weekend that we need to bring him in for a farewell.

That Murphy is an expensive bastard.

Sparkle and Shine

My drummer and I went for our promo shots for the newest HECTOR CD to promote.  Lara Gray did an amazing job.

That's the nice part about digital.  We now get to see straight away what the shots are like.  It is a blessing, that newfangled technology.

It would prove to be a comfortable photo shoot, as I would be with 3 people from my Trust List.  Another blessing, as I don't have to look perky to try to fool anyone.

All I had to do was give a sparkle in my eyes, exposing energy to translate in a picture.

While we were waiting for our photographer and her wife, my good buddy was talking to me about 'it'.

He has known me for years, and has known me very well.  He has seen my life take it's twists and turns, as well as watched me change with every scene in this lab experiment of life.

"Don't be offended by what I'm going to say.  You are someone who remains very calm in moments of crisis, but when there's nothing going on in your life, you seem to not know what to do with yourself."

"Yeah, it's my defense mechanism.  But don't you think it's fucked up that all the experiences I have are not something I run out to look for?  They just come to me."

He laughed and nodded with a silly squinty face of agreement.

He then said, "I usually run from things, where as you tend to go in head first and get it over with."  He explained that by running away from it, it comes back to hit him twice as hard.

I know this to be true in his life as well.

He also went on to tell me he doesn't know what to do to help, or what to say.  It's just not an experience that most people have to deal with.  It's pretty far-gone and out there.

However, one thing he did say is, "You married for the person, as the person is, good or bad."

True.

He also admitted that if I'm not happy, this is not something I should feel I have to stick out because of marriage.

Also true.  I told him I have been very honest with Papi in terms of my biggest fear; that I would no longer be attracted to mi esposo.

If it was mi esposo who had that awful accident 2 years ago, and became disabled for life, or if any other disaster was to happen to change my love, I would still remain married to Papi.

I love this person I married.  The level of my commitment is far deeper than that pit of doom.

Right now, I'm wearing Papi's engagement ring, and here's why:

One; my love only wants to wear the wedding band, not the engagement ring as it doesn't look 'manly' to have the great karat diamond hanging out on that ring hand.  Papi is afraid of someone recognizing it as a female trait and doesn't want to get tranny bashed.

Two; we are going to have to sell it to get my surgery for my jaw/orthodontic work done, and the ring will pay for it.  I get to wear it until it's time for me to get this 'eek' of a surgery done.

I get a piece of my love on my hand, day in, day out.

It's chunky and shiny and looks really good.  Too bad I'll have to give it up in a year or so.

and dammit!  i also have to be careful where i am ... i'm now wearing a total of 20 grand on my fingers.

Still, my love is there on my digit for me to hold and look at during every moment of every day.

And now, my dear imaginary friend, I must go tend to the fading, old, sick kitty.

He's still hanging on, barely, yet still.

as am i.

Time.

Haven't gone on the hike yet.  Nobody is feeling like an exploration right now.

It's been a sad house the last 24 hours.

We're dealing with a sick kitty.  He's about 16 years old, and on the last stretch of his journey.

I took him in for a check up yesterday after dropping off Papi at work.  I just wanted to know what we could do to get him to eat.  I didn't expect to hear bad news from the vet.  He is certainly not a candy-coating-it kinda guy.

Straight up, he'll lay the truth out on that cold, steel diagnosis table.

"His kidneys are probably failing.  He's lost too much weight.  Don't worry about feeding him anything for his diabetes, just feed him anything that will get him eating for now."

All day long I sweetly sang coaxing songs to Mr. Moustache (aka Goat-ee Kitt-ee) to try to get him to eat.  I gave him the other cat's food, treats, but no more than a few nibbles were accepted by this fragile, thin, fading being.

c'mon smokes from okotoks ... it's the food you're ALWAYS trying to get your paws into!!!!

To pick him up now, you only need the strength of your pinky finger.  It's truly filling our empty home with woe.

I never got to know this cat when we were down in the basement.  Thanks to the sewage flood, we're living upstairs with the Bathroom Buddy.

Yes, dear Bathroom Buddy, thank you for your company.  I NEVER have to worry about loneliness in the loo.   Honestly, I look forward to his visits.  It makes me giggle every time.

His comforting visits are like clockwork, except for the past few days.

He has won my heart, this crazy cat.  I'm lucky to have the chance to really get to know him.

You can't ever leave a glass of your water unattended, lest it becomes his.  If he can't get his tongue right to the water level, he'll just use his paw.

Yes.  The same paw that he uses in the kitty litter.

He now has his very own glass on the tv tray (aka the living room side table), since he knocked over my glass a few times, giving us our panicked, "Oh my god!  My computer, the phone, the remote!!!!"

He won't drink from the communal water dishes like the rest of the peasants.

Yesterday, the poor little soul jumped up to look at his food, then only whimpered.  He didn't eat.  It is heartbreaking.  He's so into his food normally.  He will bellow it from the depths of his boisterous lungs.

When he wants food, he will get it.  He will win EVERY time.  You can't ignore the sound.

It's a bit like a cat in heat when he gets going.  You know how those air raid sirens take a little bit to warm up, but when they finally go, you have to cover your ears?

Yeah.

That's Smokey-Joe.

You can't ignore it, lord knows I have tried.  It's easier to give in to the lament.

However, the house has been very quiet for a few days.  No songs of hunger from the loud one.

There were tears in Papi's eyes last night while my love looked at this gem of 16 years.  He just slept most of the day.  I think we can all see it's time.

He will be called to peace soon.  He will be a creature of my dreams, coming back in his best form possible to say, "I'm happy, healthy and free!"

Oh, dear kitty.  I am so lucky to have gotten to know you.

Please eat for just a few more days?

Time for an expedition.

It hurts Papi that I'm scared.

I don't ever want to be the one to hurt my love.

I suppose it's only balanced that if I'm hurting, then my love gets a dose of the poison as well.  We do share the same thoughts, after all.

My love just wants me to explore, and feels crushed that I won't go anywhere near the growing 5 foot vagina.

I know logically it's not going to be like that, but my brain is a funny thing ... even without a brain injury, I have always jumped to worst case scenario.

If you know me personally, I'll do my best to have you believe that most of my reasonings are positive thoughts.  It's a defense mechanism to battle my pessimism.

When I first got clean and sober, I wrote positive affirmations in a little red book all day long.  When a bad thought would come in, I'd write it out as a positive.

Eventually, the words that left my mouth would come out like that too.  I trained myself to switch the negative to the positive.

It worked for many parts of my life, and soon I realized that I don't need to be afraid of the emptiness of the future, because everything works out.

i hate the unknown .. i like order ... i want control dammit!!!!

If I look at every horrible, difficult, heart wrenching time in my life, I can see that they indeed have all worked out.

I do get my fair share of disaster around the twists and turns in this existence.  I get a little more doom than the average person, so I've had lots of practise.

I guess all the adversity is to prove to that scared little girl inside that she doesn't need to worry about what's in store for her, because it will all work out.

ok little one ... stop fretting about the fact that the universe never ends and go to sleep ...

It always does.  One way or another.

However, it's the 'other' that haunts me now.

I can make positive affirmations all I want, but the terror that my 'wife' is leaving me, replacing that wonderful person with a stranger to my eyes, is much too real.

I just keep staring into the smokey blue peepers of mi esposo and the positive comes back.

Those gorgeous windows to my love's true nature are the positive prove that everything is going to be ok.

"Can I just explore without any sex attached to the experience?"

Papi looked surprised, "Yes!  I didn't mean for us to have sex!  I just want you to see how it looks before it gets any different.  It will be too much for you then if you wait too long.  You need to watch the changes."

"But I can only deal with one thing at a time.  I can't take all of it at the same time."

My love understands, yet Papi's tears were being held down in agony, with the realization that the woman mi esposo loves is afraid of one aspect of the body that used to be cherished from head to toe.

I have to go on an expedition.

It's time to rediscover the embodiment that surrounds that beautiful spirit I love so much.

Time to take a step on that path.

Balance, don't fail me now.

Quite the day, I'll tell ya.

"Don't you think you should touch it before it becomes something that will traumatize you?"

Meekly, I answered, "I'm too scared."

the 5 foot vagina is coming.

Papi tried to reason, "It's just a swollen clit."

Ok, maybe it is.  Been there ... had that, but I just wanted to enjoy the fact that I'm not being triggered every time we have sex.  I just wanted to enjoy Papi.

don't take this away from me my love!  i just got you back!

At the beginning of this day, Papi woke up and told me we're going on a road trip.  Just a day trip, but to beautiful Whistler mountain, only a few hours north.

Brain injury prevailed.  I forgot that we were going to a higher altitude, which means snow.

duh!  it's a fucking ski mountain!!!

With my mind being so much more simple now, I dressed for the Vancouver weather outside my door.

Goddamit it I was fucking cold up there, but it was so beautiful.

It was during my putting shoes on that Papi wanted to bring 'it' up.  Tears welled as I told my love it means my 'wife' is getting closer to leaving me.

"I just don't want to lose you so fast."

please don't cry!  i want to look pretty for our day trip.

Mi esposo was standing talking to me while I was sitting.  I felt like the child was being scolded.

"Can you please sit, sweety?"

After getting out the words about my love leaving me by taking more hormones, Papi surprised me with, "If it's hurting you this much, I'll talk to my doctor and see if I can stay on this dose."

We'll see.  Papi HAS promised other things about the hormones before and reneged.

Off we went, with dogs in tow, to the great white north!  I'm a terrible Vancouverite.  It's only the third time I've been to Whistler and it's right in my back yard!

Well, it's mostly because I don't ski, but you don't really have to be a skier, snowboarder, etc to see this beautiful corner of our province.

After the dogs had their day in the snow,

(oh dear one eyed retriever, how sweet it is to see you roll in the powder ...)

... it was time for dinner, and we had a really shitty experience at the first restaurant.

Papi had time to accost me about 'it'.  I froze again.  I could only answer my love's questions with nods of the head, or shaking it back and forth.

Most of the time it was a nod of the head, due to our being able to know what the other is thinking now.  It's creepy!!

Now to the second restaurant, filled our bellies, and with sleepy dogs, we began the drive home on that long windy highway, yet more processing commenced.

"I don't think you should come with me to the appointments anymore."

"But I want to support you!"

"But it traumatizes you every time you go.  I can bring someone else."

"Then I won't feel like I'm the one supporting you."

Very gently Papi said, "But sweety, you kinda don't support me in this anyway."

dagger to my heart

In the silence, knowing that this would have hurt me, my love said, "I know you're trying really hard, and you're doing really good, but do you have to put yourself through more difficulty?"

I just can't imagine not being there for every step of this journey for my love.  Even if it kills me, I just don't know if I could handle it being someone else that Papi uses as the support person.

It was a lot of dealing for one day.

Today I have to let my heart take it all in.  What a day.

Talons are sharp.

Once upon a time, I had an evil ex that I was trying to get papers served to, so I could sue her for robbing me and making me homeless, amongst other pleasantries.

She was very good at evading the process, but we got her one day when she was trying to terrorize me by flaunting the girl she left me for.  It was while I was having a coffee of support in a café with a Trust List friend.

I called the server and said, "I'm looking at The Beast right now.  Come and get her."

Ah, the art of avoidance.

Not much unlike what I'm trying to do right now.

I don't want to talk about 'it', but I have to.

Papi tried to casually talk about 'it' during the 10 minutes I got to spend with mi esposo yesterday, which happened to be right before my love was to leave for work.  Visions of me crying alone were devastatingly protruding thoughts and I said, "Not now.  You're on your way out.  It's not time."

"But you don't even know what I was going to say!"

"Yes, I do, and you can't just throw it at me then leave."

ah my love, when will you learn that we've become 'one' and your thoughts are mine now **enter evil laugh here** be careful what you think !!  mwahahahaha!!!

I thought today would be yet another day where I wouldn't get to see my love.  It would make it 3 days since we've hung out.

3 days since Dr. Scissorhands said mi esposo needs to go up on the hormones.

I don't want to hear it from Papi.  Hearing those words from mi esposo will make it real.

So today, while my love was going to be sleeping off another graveyard shift, I was going to mooch off Bill Runge's sophisticated skills at a composition workshop, in hopes of learning how to orchestrate horns in an improved fashion.

When I told Papi, I received a panicked text, "But I had plans for us!!"

I canceled my plans for the workshop.

We will get to see each other today.

I miss my love.  I hate it when our schedules don't mesh, but I know that seeing Papi today means I'll have to hear those words during our time together.

I know my love needs to talk to me about the hormone doses going up.

fuck.  here comes the nausea ...

I don't want it to happen, but it's going to.  I don't have any choice in the matter.

I will be served MY papers today, in the form of loving words that Papi will try to make sound like it's a good thing, with a cherry on top.

Well, I suppose for half of this relationship it's a good thing.

Only half.

My wife is leaving.

demons have wrapped their talons around my heart ... it hurts ...

it really really hurts ...

The crest of the wave is coming ...

I'm realizing where I can feel safe is amongst strangers.

These outsiders don't know what the hell is going on with me.  These unknown people are not going to ask, "How are you?" or become one of the brutes who may think my love is a freak and I'm an aberration for loving a transitioning transgendered person.

New-comers will talk about things that are funny to entertain each other, or light conversation to keep the flow of company going, sans white noise.

I went out for dinner last night with a person on my Trust List, and a bunch of her friends.

I got myself all worked up about going.  Stomach turning, hands shaking, legs weak, the conversation in my head of why I shouldn't go ...

When I got there I noticed there were 3 foreigners with that dear heart I love so much.

(and two more that i've met a few times, but they never speak to me anyway, wtf is that about?!? what ... ever ...)

I sat myself down and started chatting up a storm.

I was fine!

I was having fun! 

I had no fear because they didn't know my secret, giving them no reason to be mean or start a serious conversation that might make me get sad, angry or scared.

I just enjoyed myself.

I was a little more reserved than I usually am in groups.  Being an extrovert, I would normally need the attention on 'me'.  That entertainer will rise up wearing the boa, arms raised in a 'V', eyes to the sun, inviting that luscious light to shine on me, and those lucky enough to be around it.

it's all about 'me'

Last night, it was just a great time of banter, about 'us all', minus the 'secret'.  I got to call my love my 'wife', 'she', and other things to be sure the ladies there all knew I too was a lesbian.  I needed to keep my identity strong in the face of similitude.

I needed to prove I was no different.

I didn't get to see Papi yesterday, and that's probably part of the reason I found the strength to go.  I hadn't dealt with 'it' and wasn't a maelstrom of emotions.

My dear soul mate is again working too hard.  Not sure when my love will realize there's a reason for the non-stop sickness; overworking.

(note to Papi if you're reading this, "you're not 20 anymore my dear!!!")

Anyway, I didn't have to download and talk about 'it'.  'It' is still deferred to another day.

phew!

I have to come to terms with the fact that the surgeon recommended Papi go up in the hormone dose to help stop Papi's menses.

My stomach just sunk thinking about it.

More hormones means that my love will be stepping further into the 'man zone'.  There will be more changes.  More to deal with.  More to work on.

More to accept.

I was just getting used to this point in time.

I don't know how this will play out for my injured, limping ego, but currently I'm back to shaking, feeling nauseas, and fear is ripping through my blood.

oh, i see you, my demons, i see you ... you don't need to pull so hard at my wrist

I don't want this, but it's going to happen.  I had a nice month and a half of coasting on no more changes.  I suppose that was a small gift of a brain break.

It's time to deal again.

fuck.

It'll come back and bite you in the ass.

Sometimes, it's hard to measure the success of this journey.

Success:  I kept my breakfast down, and made it to and from the appointment with Dr. Scissorhands without glaring at him and crying afterward.

There were some moments where I felt I could have cried, but I didn't.  I just kept saying, "I can't talk right now."

don't speak

I know I promised my love that wouldn't happen anymore, but damn, there are some times that are really hard.

Yesterday was a wash of emotions that had me interlaced with demons.

It wasn't only hard at the doctor appointment.  As a matter of fact, he was a really good guy.  He made me giggle a few times.  He won my heart and I trust him to take care of Papi, even if I am devasted.

Part of the problem yesterday, was that we were in 'bumfuck nowhere'; Abbotsford, home of the bible thumpers, pedophiles and people who marry their cousins.

They would stare at Papi like I was in company with that alien I speak about.  I would wait for them to finally see me giving the death stare ...

(mama bear is gonna fuck you up if you say ANYTHING!!  THIS i promise you fuckface)

 ... and they would drop their eyes from my love in a moment of, "Damn I've been caught!"

While out for lunch, I tried to find 'food' that would be good for my allergies.  It's hard enough in Vancouver to find this at food courts, but in Abbotsford they even make healthy choices bad for you.

Deep fried, battered everything.

I ate it only because I was feeling so triggered by the people in this town, that I needed to stuff my throat full of food like a tub plug, to keep the fear down in my belly.

I started envisioning every man there in a mug shot after having raped a child or woman.  I was so fucked up by the time we left the mall that I was having panic attacks from fear of people.

We also had one of my love's very best friends with us.  It was two for one day at the hysterectomy office.

Just kidding, but it's a little odd to be sitting with two people who want a hysterectomy for different reasons.  I felt very possessive of my uterus during this time.

what are YOU looking at?!?!  i'll be keeping mine, thank you very much!  back off bitches!

It was really difficult to listen to two people talk about the operation like it was having a wart removed.  I was quite silent for the entire trip.

When I got home, I was fully exhausted from emotions and bad 'food'.  I had a headache from hell.  I jumped on the 'coffee shop' to have giggles of distraction from the terror I'd endured, and what happens?

I get into my first heated debate on the 'coffee shop' about the very people I was provoked by all day long.

My heart was breaking that this one person sounded like he was sticking up for the crud of the world who I think of as less than flea excrement on my dog's back.

My poor injured brain couldn't handle it.  I had to calm myself and really look at what the guy was saying.

focus ... focus ...

He was saying I lived in a fantasy ...

(fair enough ... i like my bubble) 

... if I thought that the world would start to use these creeps for medical testing instead of animals.  I finally got that he wasn't PRO pedophile/rapist, nor was he fighting for their rights.

I'll tell you, it was very hard to get to sleep last night with visions of detached uteri and predators dancing through my head.

I did not like yesterday at all.

Now it's today, and I've promised to speak to Papi about the conversations I deferred.

NOW I feel like crying.

O gawd.

Here it comes.

I go with my love to an appointment today.  The hysterectomy doctor.

Today may prove to be difficult.  I'm going as support for Papi, but my stomach is not happy.  I need something to support my stomach.

what about me?

This is just a consultation, but it signifies so much more.

Another step towards the abyss.

Another step toward losing my 'wife'.

Yesterday, we went out for brunch with a couple on my Trust List.  I was amazed at how I was able to joke around about 'it'.

Mind you, it was expected of us.  We were at The Elbow Room.  This is a restaurant where you have to have your wits about you, as the staff are instructed to verbally abuse you in any way they see fit.

When I told the fine fag I was allergic to wheat, and could I please have hashbrowns instead of a muffin, he stated, "Well, not having your regular muff must be hard for you!"

I retorted with a sideways thumb point at Papi, "Yeah, well, this one's transgendered, so I don't get it anyway."

I couldn't believe that I joked about 'it'!

damn!  who's that girl?! 

Then we openly spoke with our friends and the flamboyant waiter about the whole process.

It was a rather quiet day at the diner of debasement.  The lovely gentleman got to be himself a little, letting his corrupted character of the show have a well needed break.

He was very sweet.  I gave him a free 'Bitch, Bitch, Bitch' cd :)

Papi forgot that I'm sensitive about the mutilation of that beautiful body I love, and did the 'whoosh' action that kills me so much.  There was a quick reminder and then an apology.

All in all though, I was surprised at myself.  I am getting stronger.

Maybe my Trust List friends are right.

Maybe I am stronger than I think.

Well, here we go ...

I must eat and leave with my love.

I hope my food stays put.

12 pages

... of loss.

We received the disposal list of everything we lost in the sewage flood.

Papi was more devastated than I was, as I was prepared that everything was gone.  Sometimes it's good to think as the pessimist.

The one loss that smashed our hearts however, was my love's vest and tie from our matching wedding attire.  They're made of silk and there's nothing you can really do to clean it.

When the restoration vultures had come to take all our belongings, I salvaged my wedding dress, also silk.  I didn't want them taking it with them, because I didn't want them to ruin it.

It was already defiled a plenty from the sewage water having been draped over it's delicate neck strap.

I was going to bring it in to the seamstress who had adjusted it, as I trust her.  I didn't want just 'anybody' touching it.

Yet, my fear that it was maimed beyond repair denied me from actually bringing it in.  I didn't really want to know what could be.

There it would hang on the wall in our makeshift home in the attic.  I would see it front and center every damn time I'd climb those stairs to our temporary abode.

I had getting it cleaned on lists as 'most important', or 'most urgent'.  Alas, it drooped every day staring at me, daring me to bring it in to add to the disaster of the flood, my love going through a gender transformation and just plain old being fucking sick and tired of being off work due to my fragile back being reinjured.

It was time to snap out of it now.  We received the letter of loss.

Having known Papi's wedding frock was ruined, we pretty much assumed that my dress is a write-off as well.

So, on Valentine's Day, one more thing we had done (i don't think i wanted to tell 'you', my imaginary friend, about it just yet), was bring in the wedding dress to my seamstress.  She told us she would get back to us 'tomorrow'.

She got back to us on that day, only a few hours later.  The bad news was, there was a good possibility that these stains were not going to come out.

She will let me know if 2 rounds of dry cleaning will help remove the blemishes.

If not, like Papi's vest and tie, they will have to remain in our possession as is.  A filthy remnant of the sewage flood tangled amongst the beautiful memories of the greatest day of our lives together.

July 10, 2010; the beautiful verbal admittance of our bond in front of our family and friends.

November 23, 2010; the day the demons came out to play.  The sewage flood that hit 2 days before I re-injured my back, not mention only 10 days after my love dropped the bomb about the male transformation, and I slipped into a catatonic state for 6 weeks.

Our silk will forever remember the balance of good and bad that life is really all about.

Something tells me however, that even if those articles are only to hang, only to be seen by our eyes, they will eventually only be a souvenir of our love and not a symbol of the difficult times.

Love outweighs a silly 12 page letter.

Ah, Cupid ...

... that little imp!

He shot us with a dose of love and sent us straight to our makeshift bedroom for bad behavior.

It didn't hurt that Papi bought me a brand new bunny pearl for a VDay gift.  It wasn't the actual Bunny Pearl brand, but it was worth a go with the Rainbow Rabbit.

Rainbow Rabbit is a little bigger than the Bunny Pearl.  Hehe.

It'll do.  Definitely.  It did.

Papi wasn't even supposed to buy me anything! 

Remember that day that I didn't have the brain power to figure out my love was going to work?  In between the hots and colds of suffering through that shift while still having the flu, mi esposo brought a colleague in to a sex shop to buy me something.  It was the only store open on that late, late Saturday night.

My love came out with the Rabbit and a deck of cards with transitioned F-Ms on them.  The latter was a joke to taunt me.

Mi esposo is a cheeky bugger, I'll tell ya.  Just another reason I love Papi.

So, on our non-electronic day of cherishing each other, we went out for heart shaped pizza, sans cheese for me, and my love had the usual potato skins and pizza crust with parmesan.

Of course, having wheat is problematic for me, as it will cause me to fall asleep involuntarily, but I managed to keep it together (with the exception of a very cranky tummy) for the day.  I'll also be washing my face double time with my 'special water' to be sure those hives don't turn into full on boils.

Sexy, no?

We played card games with our new cards and we each blew the other one out of the water with our choices in games, then Papi conceded on the last one because it was time to numb out and watch our Monday night show of House.

The wheat got the better of me quite early.

I went to bed, leaving a sad faced esposo downstairs, alone for the remainder of the night.  It was the same eyes I get when I leave the dogs for the day!  Talk about feeling the meany!

My intention was to give Papi a 'sext' to lure my love up behind me, but that damn stomach from the wheat!  It was not smelling like romantic rose petals in my vicinity I'll tell ya.  I opted not to embarrass myself with the decision to invite Papi up.

Then came the text from my love apologizing for it not being a romantic day.  I bit the bullet and thought, "Dammit!  I can keep that stomach calm for a jaunt, I'm sure!"

"You can make it up to me by taking the Rabbit for a test run." :)

And we did.

And there was no fear.

And I finally got my love back.

And I held the stomach together during the romp.

Phew!!!

One thing though; I'm still not ready to go inspecting the 5 foot vagina to see what's going on down there.  Good thing Papi didn't want any action on this day.

It was all about me.

And it truly was the best Valentine's Day I could have ever asked for.

Thank you Cupid.

The love is back.

*rules are subject to change without notice

Happy Valentine's Day.  I say that with sincerity.

It's a hell of a lot better than when I was saying 'Merry' Fucking X-Mas, as I levitated with my head spinning in 360's spewing split pea soup as venom.

It is indeed a happier time than it was a month and a half ago.

Our day will be spent with no electronics.  It's about all we can do to celebrate each other while we're still in a bit of a muck of the flu.

I better get my heart out to 'you', my imaginary friend, as fast as I can before Papi wakes up and I put the laptop down. 

(oh, btw, the dishes got cleaned.  i'm looking at a tidy kitchen.  phew!)

We're obviously feeling better because there was a bit of dealing with 'stuff' yesterday.

There hasn't been any talk about 'it' since we got the flu, other than joking around, of course.  Humour is necessary to get us through this.

However, yesterday I began to trudge uphill (without the cement blocks now) to the washroom, when I heard a shriek come from the kitchen, "HONEY, NO!  DON'T COME IN!!!!!"

All I wanted to do was get more toxins out in the bathroom, but instead I had to witness the evidence of that poison being put into Papi's perfect body.

I felt embarrassed.

I had really bad timing, as all Papi was doing was trying to conceal this hormone being forced into that lovely body, as per my request, or my 'rules' as I feel negatively.

Papi knows I'm queasy about this.  My love knows I don't want to know about this.  Mi esposo did the best that could be done, thinking I'd still be lying like a sloth due to my weakness.

Wrong.

When Papi got back, I felt horrible.  My love's usually pleasant face looked worrisome and a little more pale.  Something was not right.

I asked if everything was ok, and got a rebuttal of the same question.  We were both 'ok', but something seemed askew.

Then Papi turned to me with panicked eyes, "I think I made a mistake." 

My stomach turned.

Papi thinks there's a possibility that double the dose was administered by accident. 

I remember what happened the last time this occurred.  It wasn't pretty.  My love was horribly sick for 4 days and I fell further in fear about this poison of a hormone infiltrating the body I worship.

My love is not so great with math, and I'm quite good at it.  Still, Papi knows not to talk about this with me, and therefore tried to figure out how much to put in the new needle that was to be used.

Papi wasn't 'allowed' to ask for my help as per my 'rules'.  Now, mi esposo doesn't know if it was given properly, which could result in a very bad side effect.

Here I am on Valentine's Day, waiting for my love to wake from a Seroquel and Trazodone blackout, to find out if I have a sick puppy on my hands.

It's really my own fault.  I could have helped Papi with the math, but I have trained my love not to speak about 'it'.

Therefore, I must lie in the bed I've made.

I just want Papi to be ok.

Perhaps it's time to let a little bit of the 'rule' lapse?  Maybe just to keep Papi safe?

Another day in the science experiment

Today's the day I'm sure of it.

Today's the day I'll get the dishwasher completely unloaded (i had given it a good attempt and only got the top half done), and those stinky dirty dishes loaded up to hear the cleansing swish, swish of the motor.

The flu is leaving.

Right now I'm having my usual breakfast routine.  It's a start.  I couldn't remember what I do first in my routine, which is in part because I still struggle with an Acquired Brain Injury's memory deficit, but the other part is because I haven't had my routine for 4 days, which trips up that injured brain.

Routine is my friend.  OCD is a good thing when you need normalcy in a world of brain injury.

I got it done though, and damn this is tasting good.

I got it done right after the nightmares that woke me of being stuck in a wheelchair again.  The feeling that I couldn't walk down stairs (i had to 'bum-toe' it, inching like a crab), making an appearance in a familiar reoccurring dream of the school I go to in that artificial realm.

I cried, "But I've been going to this school forever!  If I went to those classes before then there HAS to be an elevator, otherwise how did I get to my class before?!"

I guess the brain injury in my dream also forgot that I would normally visit this school on two legs, not four wheels.

Papi has had to deal with a lot in terms of my accident and my brain injury.  Sometimes it frustrates my love more than it frustrates me.

it doesn't frustrate me half as much as that bastard cat meandering through the dirty dishes on the counter right now, however.


"get the fuck off there you mangy vermon!!!"


that will last for 5 minutes.  don't know why i bother.  he's trained me very well to keep those counters clean.

Yesterday, Papi was wandering around the house talking about the rain, "Look at that miserable rain I have to work in."

I thought to myself, "what are you worried about?  you don't have to work in it today.  relax!  you're sick.  it might not even be raining on your work day."

Then my love spoke about the uniform that is covered in our one-eyed golden retriever's hair, because it's been sitting on the floor due to the fact that we have no furniture to put it in.   

Thank you sewage flood.

I said to myself, "mental note.  clean papi's uniform so that when it's time for my love to go back to work it will be nice."

Then mi esposo said, "O god, I've gotta leave in 20 minutes and I feel like crap."

I asked, "But, where are you going?!"

Papi looked at me with that look I've seen periodically for over two years now.  The look of, 'really?!? You don't remember?!?'

I shriveled in my chair and bit my lip with my forehead creasing a little deeper than it had been a moment ago.

Brain injury has struck again.

"I'm going to work.  Didn't you get it when I was complaining about the rain and my uniform, not to mention I told you this morning?"

O geez.  Now that I think about it, I do sorta remember something like that being said a few days ago, but this morning?

Brain injury.  It's kinda like a party trick, except I'm the only one who gets duped.

I think I just might be stuck like this, but I'm functioning.  I'm just a little more like the blonde that people joke about, and that just sucks.  I've spent a good portion of my life doing my best to prove those blonde jokes wrong.

Oh, Acquired Brain Injury, you are truly not my friend, but I've got to learn to work with you.

Just another lesson to learn in this science experiment of life.

The drama of the flu

Alas.

Boredom.

It's not that I like drama.  I don't invite drama into my life, but it comes, just like it does with everyone else on this planet.  Except for some lives, it's seems to barge in more than others.

Some invite it, others just receive without desire.  Then there are the folks who lead the most boring, safe lives out there, leaving them with no idea what a drama filled life even feels like.  They don't take chances for happiness, love and success.  They live vicariously through their television set.

I'll tell ya, having a little drama right now would be more entertaining than lying here making sloths jealous of our positions on day 4 of the flu.

Our kitchen looks as though we were a couple of teenagers who had friends over for a Friday night good time.  There are emptied, abandoned faux ice-cream containers, barren pop cans, numerous dirty glasses, spoons and mugs littering the counter tops, and remnants of cold and flu remedies; shiny, yet disheveled, depleted and left to be thought of no more.

Someone should clean that shit up.

Yes, on first glance it could look like there was a big whoop-de-doo, but in truth, it's just 3 days evidence of 2 people unable to keep up with the demands of a somewhat tidy house.

Even my t-shirt has reminders of the meal we ordered in; Swiss Chalet dipping sauce drizzled down the front, in blotches of 'I don't really give a fuck'.  First however, they had to have a running start down my chin before taking that leap onto the clean white cotton.

This, I suppose, is how the old folks feel.  When you get to a point in your life where you feel crappy all the time, who cares if there's food strewn down the front of your shirt?

Certainly Papi doesn't care.  If you could see that hair!

I'm one to talk.  Mine's looking like Cosmo Kramer's right about now.

At least we had showers.  Not because we could smell each other, due to our noses being so plugged with mucus.  But none-the-less, we had lovely 'I can barely lift the soap' cleaning sessions together.  I would rest my head on mi esposo's shoulder while Papi would lovingly envelope me in those gorgeous tattoo clad arms, gently rubbing my back with soap.

I could fall asleep there.

Ahh ... the sight of my love, naked and perfect.  Soft skin to match the downy personality of this teddy bear of a human being who, to those non-risk takers, looks like a hard-core biker.

However, we don't have enough hot water to entertain the thought of standing there for eternity.  In this house, there's only enough hot water to get you clean.  No monkey business.

Not that we could find the energy to get down to it.

Unquestioningly, we wouldn't be able to make it a double 't' hott time, during this phase of, "Could you pass the kleenex?"

The most drama we have is being forced to get up to use the washroom.  Every step is like walking up hill, both ways, with concrete shoes on.

No, there is nothing interesting going on in our house.

I love that pale sickly person sitting there in the tandem La-Z-Boy.

That's all I have the energy for right now.

To love.

Still home from school.

When I was a child, I couldn't fake being sick.  My mother would know when I was truly ill by the fact that I wouldn't obsessively play my piano.

Not much different than being able to tell an animal is sick by it's not eating.

As soon as the urge to play every single one of those 88 keys would take over, I would hear, "Alright!  You're going back to school!"  My mother would say it with glee in anticipation of getting rid of one of the brats.  It always felt like an insult or punishment.

I don't have my piano obsession like I used to, I'm more obsessed with composing, being a performer and how I do on stage.  Besides, my dear piano is in some warehouse being babied with the right temperature and perfect humidity, while they put our house back together from the sewage flood.

But I do have my letters to 'you', my imaginary friend.  They seem to have been a great compulsion every morning.  Something to keep the border collie in me occupied.

However, I was too sick to put more than a couple of words together these past few days.  My only typing was to the Coffee Shop Forum.  Even then, I mostly only read and giggled.  It was distraction during the moments I was awake and/or coherent.

Well, here I am.  I've managed to muster enough energy to make my morning routine breakfast and coffee and have a chat with 'you'.

I still can't really taste the coffee, but I feel my body likes it.  This will probably be the only thing I accomplish today.

May you be so lucky that you don't have to go through this flu.  It's a doozy!

What's a doozy?

Anyway, it's unfortunate that my 3 days in bed with Papi, who also has this flu (my love shared it with me, nice eh?), was spent coughing, blowing our noses, passing the cold remedies to each other and having the back and forth conversation of, "I'm so fucking hot," and, "Oh?  I'm freezing."

I would check the thermostat to make sure neither of us were having genuine temperature reactions to a heater gone wrong.

Sometimes, it was like there was a washroom game.  The person who got up to pee out all the toxins was responsible for getting supplies before coming to lie down again.

"Ok.  I'm up.  Anything you need?"

It would have been nice to have these 3 days of Papi time as quality, not quantity.  Alas, we suffered together.

Mi esposo was cranky and I was needy (which makes for a bad combination), but we were together.

Papi told me that there were some reading of my blogs as an occupier of my love's time.

I was informed that me being the boss in my bed was not going to happen.

We'll have to see when things get healthier around here.  There could be a power struggle.

Oooooh, that might be fun!

Right now, I'm only able to write a few words.  The thought of sex or dealing with strife around my love's male transformation is too much to think about while my head is being overrun by mucus.

I'm not well enough to go frolic in the playground.

I still need a few days before I can focus on my lessons of loving my transgendered person.

Nothing to see here ...

Sick.

Dying.

Doom.

Flu ...



Drama Queen



It took all my energy just to write that.  Now, I return to my sleepy NyQuil infused coma.

Crave

It was odd.

The craving hit me with a wash of adrenalin, as if I had actually taken the drink of that fiery, wicked red wine.  I could feel the burn of alcohol slide down my throat, inviting the surge of euphoria that would blossom in my toes and rush to my head.

I could feel that dark energy of the poison like I had felt almost every day oh so many years ago.

But why?

I was reading, like I do every night, in an effort to turn off my mind so I may fall asleep.  I was not indulging in my pastime of years gone past; the alcoholic that was.

Still, I could taste the delicious intoxicant and smell it's perfumed fragrance, yet it was nowhere in my vicinity.

My eyes widened and my heart struck with excitement of receiving the treat.

I don't know how my mind thought this was going to happen, as I was cocooned warmly in my bed with my toes curled in a pillowy duvet.

I haven't had a craving of this magnitude for years, but that really doesn't mean anything.  Even though I'm 11+ years clean and sober, I'm not immune from the persisting alcoholic brain that will try to trip me up and tell me, "Go ahead.  You can handle it now."

This is why we never say we're cured.  This is why it's a lifelong mentality of being a 'recovering' addict, and not a 'recovered' addict.

My mind would not shut off.

I was thinking about the dinner's company of My Person and her love, and the wonderful phone call I received just prior to this meetup.

I received a phone call asking if both of my projects, BlueLight and HECTOR would have an electronic night at the Queer Arts Festival here in Vancouver.

It was hard for me to grant myself an ego to say, "Yeah!  Let's have the Andréa show," because I couldn't imagine anyone wanting to watch an entire evening of my chaotic musical mind.

However, even though I said, "Gimme a day to talk with both of them," my mind was already having it staged, performed and taking the bow.

Dinner was an energetic happy hang out after that call.  I didn't tell them about it, as I had way too much to talk about concerning Papi and all our goings on.

I told My Person's F-M about my love's wispy chin hair that looked like Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, and how there was great pride in these protruding fibers.  This ally told me to tell my love to, "Shave that shit off."

I laughed with glee as he told me to tell Papi it's a sure fire way to expose the transition, and that my love wouldn't like that.

Wrong.

When I told mi esposo, there was laughter, "That's the goal."

Damn!  I suppose a phone call from this person will straighten out my love, because I certainly can't.  Obviously Papi needs guidance down this path that has been blazed!

Shave that shit off.

Regardless, I'm sure between the dinner conversation about my rules for Papi, the 2 hour show I had choreographed in my mind, and the fact that all these obsessions weren't going to grant me sleep until at least 2 a.m. were the reason for my brain slipping into thoughts of dousing it with venom.

Perhaps if it gets worse, I'll take a walk into the rooms that helped me let go of years of addictive behavior.

It was odd.

The games 'Wii' play ...

I had a dream my Dr. actually ok'd anti-anxiety medication.  I was holding a beautiful, sparkling bottle of clonazepam.  I stared, counting each pill to see how many days I would feel it was easier to get through this phase.

Alas, this is not the case.

I have to keep working out these fears on my own, drugfree.

It's so very frustrating, because I never had any anxiety/panic attacks before the brain injury from my motorcycle accident.

The other half, is I didn't have this type of social anxiety before my love dropped the bomb about the male transformation.

The social anxiety is not about the transformation, but about how people will react in my presence.

I have a completely different anxiety about my love's male transformation, but the fear of how people will treat Papi and I has turned into a full on fear of people in general.

This has now extended into difficulty in leaving the house.  Even when I need to go shopping, I feel as though every eye in the store is watching, judging, waiting to pounce.

I put on the strongest smile possible and speak with excitable tweets in an effort to be the non-threatening face, persuading strangers not to speak with cruelty.

The omega.  The child who needs to be loved.

It can be a perfectly beautiful day outside, and I just stare out the window, as though I've created my own lockup.

My twisted mind that weaves my world into another hemisphere has struck again.

I'm not in the pit of doom anymore, however, I'm now stuck in a detention cell.

It's as though I am a living video game; every level has something else to conquer before I reach the end of this heart pounding amusement ride.

The feeling that I can't defend against the creeps and critters that would say harmful words has shifted slightly.  I now feel that I could defend Papi, just not myself.  However, I still feel that it would be done from a place of fear rather than strength.

Regardless, it's a start of the new level.

Papi is still testing the waters about speaking of the day that there is a hormone injection.  Every time I hear about it, the nauseating stress wells up.

My love threw it in nonchalantly when speaking about the horrendous day that happened yesterday, and that one of the stressful moments was because of, "that thing you don't want to hear about."

My dear.

Do you not understand what I mean by, "I don't want to know, or hear about it"?

Then my impish love wanted me to feel the stubble on that changing chin skin.

I wouldn't do it.

Jeeeeeezus my love!  I don't want to know!  I can only deal with one thing at a time!!!

In a sly act, Papi asked to see my glove, pulled it off to take a look, then grabbed my hand, forcing it against the chin stubble, rubbing it back and forth with great giggles of victory, "See!  It's soft!"

With my tongue in cheek, I rolled my eyes to the ceiling and pressed the elevator button with a choreographed sigh.

"You're a jerk and no, it wasn't 'soft'!"

It felt like memories past; horrid razor-like shards of glass.  Those nasty prickly strands would rub my skin leaving red, streaking welts of evidence that the bristles had been there.

I don't like it, and I've told Papi oh so many times.  I suppose because I love my soul mate so dearly, mi esposo feels I'll just get over it and it will grow on me (pun intended).

I love Papi deeply, but that doesn't mean I have to like everything.  We all have traits in other that bother us in relationships, but never would I have imagined that the thorn in my side would be 'man hair' on my love's perfect skin.

Wish me luck in my game.

When do I reach the next level?

Agoraphobia has set in.

I sat shaking.

I had told my Trust List friends I'd be there at 7:00.  I started trembling with fear at 6:00, terrified of a group of people I don't know, and distressed that people might sincerely ask me, "How are you doing?"

I shuddered with a battle in my head (i'm not going.  i've gotta go.  i'm not going.  i've gotta go.) until 6:45, when the obligation to my Trust List friends kicked in.

If it wasn't for them being there for me when I needed them, I wouldn't have felt the pull to keep my word and show up.

I dressed faster than lightning in what little clothing I have due to the sewage flood.  When there's not much to choose from, it's easy.

I pulled on my only pair of jeans with a 'heave-ho", allowing my muffin-top to fall with certainty over the sides (they're a little tight after 2 months of being idle), found a fresh t-shirt that is clearly meant for warm summer weather, then sniffed and pulled on one of my 2 sweatshirts (it really needs cleaning, but damn! it's not as bad as the other one!).

I didn't bother doing my make-up, as that would make me later still!  Besides, I just didn't feel like drawing attention to myself by being the fancy one.  It wasn't a peacock tail spreading night, that's for sure!

It was now 7:00 and I live on the other end of the city from where the gathering was.

As I drove, my stomach complained odorously with displeasure of being forced to go somewhere it didn't want to.  There were also hints to say that if I didn't tread lightly, I could expect the next level of trouble.

The moment I stopped my car in that well lit spot of the parking lot, the panic attack set in.  I grabbed my belongings tightly and marched toward the taproom anyway. 

I'm here!  I might as well go in!

Walking to the lounge, I texted my dear sick Papi, "I'm not doing very well.  I'm having a panic attack."

I grasped the door handle of the building, and closed my eyes in hopes that I'd get to sit before I actually fainted.  Passing out in this neighborhood is asking to be robbed and/or physically attacked.

I found the table and sat eagerly in the seat beside 2 of my Trust List friends, just as the feeling of a black out became absolute.  I was grateful for the dark bar, because they couldn't see tears that were welling up.  I could just pretend I was ok.

I was far from 'ok'.

I was having trouble breathing from the panic attack, and felt I was on the verge of becoming unconscious.  I've never actually keeled over from these attacks, but it seriously feels so damn close each and every time when I lose all feeling of my face, hands and legs.

This feeling of euphoria was something I used to chase when I was a using addict.  It's not welcomed anymore, but it pompously displayed it's presence for the full hour and a half I suffered through.

During my first few minutes of trying to calm myself and catch my breath, it came.

The birthday girl wanted find out how I was doing.  "Really, how are you?  How is the transition coming along?"

I meekly said, "I can't talk about 'it' right now.  Not here.  But happy birthday!  This is my first outing in a group since it all happened."

She gave me the knowing nod, eyes staring with intention of support through non-verbal words, lips pierced tightly, then said lovingly, "I'm honored that you could be here."

The tears welled up again.

This was an awful hour and a half of pretending I'm 'normal' like everyone else chirping happily at that table.  I was in survival mode.

When 2 of my Trust List friends had to leave, I didn't want to be rude and make it seem like the birthday girl's clan were abandoning her, so I decided I would stay seated for a few minutes. 

nope, not gonna happen

I jumped up while the chaos of leaving was upon the room and gave my goodbye hugs.

It was more like a desperate hug that said, "Please hold me!  Don't let go!  Cradle me like the mother I wish I had."  I fell tiny and weak in their arms.

My friends obliged.  They held me and told me I did well.

That was as good as I could do.  I did my best.

It exhausted me.  I felt I'd been up for 48 hours straight; numb and speechless.

I slept very well last night.

Utter fear

I'm feeling it big time today; the anxiety of being in a room of people who are not on my 'Trust List'.

I am going to a 'Trust List' friend's 40th birthday party tonight.  This group will be like training wheels, as none of them are in the community of the people I fear could do damage to my weak heart.  There won't be any 'Rah-Rah Tranny!' people there, but there will be people who don't know my secret.

Papi won't be going.  My love has a fever and needs to rest up.  Two of my very closest friends on the 'Trust List' will be there as a safety net along with the birthday girl herself.  This is the only reason I feel I can go, really.

What lingers as my biggest foreboding of possible devastation is next week.

I awoke this morning to read a middle of the night, graveyard shift, love text from mi esposo.  My love also sent one stating that Papi wants to go to another birthday next weekend.

'They' will be there.

The predators.

Those who could peck me, and have the rest of the community agreeing that I'm a horrible person for not accepting my love's male transformation.

Will they point and laugh at my dismay?  Is it a revisiting of the 20 or so people who packed my belongings and changed the locks on my abode?  They left my whole world in the hallway of my condo as they leaned on the balcony rail snickering, maintaining obscene stares of 'you lose'.

Start over my dear.  Just like you have oh so many times in this life.

Next weekend's soiree is with people who accepted me back, even though I left them for 6 years, when I was in that relationship with the bully who told me these people were freaks.

I was manipulated to believe I was never going to be accepted by the person I cherished if I stayed with my community of kinksters and leather lovers.

I left.

They took me back when the ending of this relationship with the beast was authenticated by way of me becoming homeless after returning 'home' from a 16 hour work shift.

They accepted me back.

They may not anymore.

It petrifies me.

I have transphobia when it comes too close to me.  I said I would never date a person who would go through the male transformation.  I love their hearts, but I don't want them in my bed.

Yet here I am,  married to that 'never', and this community is full of F-M people and the people who will strike out at anyone who would think adversely about these souls.

I'm paralyzed.

One person I emailed for support will be at this gala next weekend.  She outright never even emailed me back.  This person is one of the main ringleaders at getting people together in this community.

Will she turn her nose up at me?  Do I ignore her?  Do I pretend the email never happened?

This person once told me she was happy that I was back in the whips 'n chains community, and that she hopes I will stay this time.  I took that as a confirmation of love, but I realize now those words were just as much surface talk as the Facebook page I was abandoned on.

I was duped.

I'm sorry my love.  You may have to do this one without me.

The boss in my bed.

I ventured out again yesterday to have another visit with a trusted friend.  I'm beginning to find my strength.

Thank you my friends.  Thank you for the sushi date 2 nights ago.  Thank you for the support last night that was abruptly halted by a tea mob that took over our space, leaving us to giggle as we fled.

The tea people stared at us in confusion as to how we could exit!  There was a slide show about those wonderful, drinkable, water staining leaves!

Before we were interrupted in our fantastic sharing each other's feelings, I was reminded that I haven't been allowing myself to feel safe.  I've forgotten about the adult who has learned the lessons of safety that could comfort that broken little girl.

I am understood in the fears of Papi's male transformation, because my dear friend is dating an F-M and has very similar feelings about the need to be with a woman, or at least an assemblance of a woman.  We both have had rather unsettling experiences with bio-males in the past.

We both have had the feeling that men can cause anxiety, degradation and repulsion.  It's not about us feeling that all males are this way, it's just the ones that have the ability to make you feel you are nothing.

We've experienced those male beings before we took that grandeur step out of the closet with fervor.

As we made our grand entrance to that gay world stage, our boas and hair were gently being swept by a fan's forced air, helping us look the part of the powerful, amazing femme.  We promptly strutted center stage, allowing that awkward entrance door swing forever shut.  We granted the waiting audience their time to stare in awe.

Here we are world!

Behind that door, we leave memories of being trapped beneath the bio-male, our hearts breaking as we live the lie of authorizing that male to take our body.  We dream of what a wonderful world it could be if we were to step out on that stage.

We kept those dreams to ourselves as the body holding us down was pumping madly.  It was merely for their own pleasure.  You may as well have been a blow up doll.  Or for that matter, a hole in the wall.  Hell, the palm of a hand.

They can use any of the above because it's not about the heart.  It's not about the soul.  It's about an object deemed for their pleasure.

The only difference between those holes and our bodies, is that we are moist and warm.

As you lie suffocating beneath this being that is larger than you, you feel like your air is that of the blow up doll.  It is being forced out of you and all you can do is disassociate from the moment and count the tile holes on the ceiling.

You try to ignore the fact that there is a body part invading your sacred space.

There is no pleasure.  

Once you just let it be over with, you can carry on with your body as your own again.  However, after this feeling of being regarded as nothing more than a cavity, your body may be your own, but your mind certainly doesn't see it that way, and your psyche has decided to shut off.

Don't think about what just happened, or it may make you realize you're having feelings of horror.

You wouldn't want the wet streaks to roll down your face, for if they did, that bio-male beside you may mistake them for joy; that they've done such a great job that it brought you to tears.

There is no you.

There is revulsion of this physical body that has stolen your sphere, and there is fear that it might happen again.

The feeling of my love turning into this monster that inhabited my life prior to finally coming out of the closet is upon me.  I'm in search of tender touches from my love who would do anything to make me feel good.

I need the presence of mind and body that intends on making sure we both have an experience of enchantment.

I realized through my words here with 'you', my imaginary friend, that my desire in sex must adjust.

Papi and I enjoyed our aggressive encounters for the past few years.  We have had animalistic sex.

Now, with that fear of being triggered by the possibility of a male inside my love, I must change how I receive my intimacy.  I need the soft touchings of the woman I married.  The gentle reminder that my love still has a woman inside.

An assemblance.

There is also a possibility that I may switch from a bottom to a top.  Perhaps it's time to be the boss in my bed?

The late bloomer

I have another friend that has been added to the trust list.  I'm realizing that I'm safer than I thought.

I hide in the cocoon of a friend who would exchange tears with me last night, as she spoke about her pain, grieving and fears, after having lost the partner she had in her life.

She represents those I've chosen to support my heart, and I may be able to handle the dregs of the world who may say things that are meant to harm:

Those who live for the opportunity to peck at the weakest chicken in the coup.

It's possible that my encasing has thickened enough to bear the striking of beaks that may try to pierce my skin, but I certainly don't want to try out my theory yet.

I had a few tears last night while talking about my fear of people that has come to a head.

Gotta pop that bitch, but I don't know if she's quite ready.  There is a little more poison that needs to accumulate before I pinch it to release the pressure.  If I go in too early, I'll just wind up with a red swollen mess.

I don't need another experience like the one that backfired when I was in high school when I was ostracized by a clique that I was a part of.

There was confirmation that I was truly unworthy of love.  It stung that fragile child inside, uttering proof that I wasn't the only one who hated me, and it was my first visit to a suicide attempt.

For years, I spiraled into the bewildered delirium of drugs and alcohol to feed the person I felt I needed to be.  The 'I don't care' person.  The slow self-slaughter that would build a firewall higher and more brilliant.

I would look into the mirror at the stranger and say, "See!  Don't you EVER trust anyone again!"

I would accept every hurt as an opportunity to mold me into the person I thought I needed to be to survive in this world of predators.

That had to stop when I got clean and sober.  I couldn't hide behind the 'tough girl' and out came that child who needed everyone to love her again.  She was optimistically waiting in there for the opportunity to shine once more.

I don't have my drugs to hide behind to pretend I don't care this time.  I do care, and all of a sudden, after 11 going on 12 years of being clean and sober, I've finally realized why some people may be a little more private in their lives.

Fear.

I've always been so open about my goings on in life.  This one, I have to keep to myself and my gaggle of friends that I know I can trust.

But the point is, I know who I can trust for now.  I don't really feel the need to binge on collecting people who may or may not love me anymore.  I have all I need.

I have people that I know won't say the words I can't bear to hear:

"You're selfish for not accepting your love's male transformation."

"You have nothing to cry about."

"If you're that upset, then just leave,"

"I don't want to hear you whine about it,"

"You're married to a freak."

Oh, the list can go on and on and on.  I hear the echos of my childhood in every phrase I'm terrified of reliving.

Without my drugs to mask the fear, I hide from those who could do me harm.

They're out there.  I have the proof within the scars I'm finally taking a look at.  They're a deep and permanent part of me.

Truly, love is all you need.

I think I'll have a party.

Self-Mutilation

What's good for the goose should be good for the gander right?

Somehow, to me, what Papi wants to do to those oh so perfect breasts is not the same.

There are a few plastic surgeries that I'd entertain having.  Yet, when it comes to how I feel about my love, top surgery is permissible dismembering.

I suppose it's because of the difference between the reasons for our reconstructions.  Mine would be to maintain the pretty femme who seems to be aging, and Papi's are to become more of a beefcake.

Just getting my head around this is going to take a while.

I'm not attracted to femmes, and I'm not attracted to males.  I am definitely attracted to masculine women.  Transgendered women, really.

So, why then, is it so hard for me to understand that this is just an extension of this masculinity that I find so damn hott?

Yes, double 't' hott.

I would be more creeped out if my love got breast implants.  This would be a deal breaker.  Just the thought of my love parading around great DD breasts makes me laugh with absurdity, however my love would like it if I had them.  Papi half jokes and is half serious about this.

Well, here's a question; why do transgendered people have to go to a psychiatrist to get their psyche probed about getting breasts removed, but any woman can just walk in and get them enlarged?  Isn't it the same slicing and dicing of our bodies?

All these surgeries to 'improve' ourselves are out of control.  To me, it's a bit like the youngster I was; slicing my arms in an attempt to declare visible hatred to the person I loathed.

Modern day self-mutilation.  Chop ourselves up to become the person that our mind's eye sees.

I'm more inclined to starve myself to become that person in my head.  Taking the miniature cleaver to my body is not ever going to change the gobs of fat I see in the mirror.  I see a person who is way too big for her liking.  It's just part of the eating disorder that I will live with for the rest of my life, I'm sure.

You see, I know that rationally, being a size 7ish person is not overweight.  But the mirror lies.  I see someone much different than what that waistline says in those pants, dresses etc.

It would be nice to never have to live with a mirror in the house, but then what about doing my hair?

Oh dear.  I've gotten off topic.  I should never start talking about my hair.  It would create a novel.

OK ...

Hacking body parts.

In the horror movies I love to watch, I giggle with glee when parts are severed and butchered.  I know it's not real.  It's entertainment, and I have a sick mind to amuse.

But to think of the real thing in a surgeon's chair of 'let's make ya pretty'?

It saddens me.  I'm not afraid or sickened.  It causes me to cast my eyes down in reduced joy.

I have more respect for myself now than I have ever had, yet I know that given the right lump of cash, I'd get my breasts lifted; I don't want them bigger, I want them smaller.

I'd get that little sagging part of my outer eyelid lifted so that it would stop welcoming the proof of my age.

I'd get the skin under my chin tightened, so that I have a few more years of fooling the world that the turkey neck is not happening.

No.  Not to me!  I couldn't possibly be aging.  I haven't succeeded in all my attempts in life.  I can't be aging yet!

Yes, I'd do these things to my body to cease the itch that is an uncomfortable obsession.

Why is this so different than what my love wants?

What is that all about?

Time for rationale.

I like my imp

The aggravation of animals has turned me into a raging savage today.  Sometimes, 6 animals is a bit much, to say the least.

There's barking of alert to let me know there's someone at the door, whom I'm already speaking to.

Yes my fuzzy fiends, I already know he's here.  With my biggest boy voice I yell, "ZIP IT UP!!!"  I'm just as loud as the barking.  The electrician looks at me as if I'm worse than the four legged critters.

Then there's me returning to my table to find the most atrocious of cats, and yet somehow my favourite, eating my breakfast, "GET THE HELL OFF THERE YOU MANGY BEAST!"

Finally, there's me sitting at the table, trying my damnedest to get to my morning purge of emotions, but there's a one eyed retriever attempting to be a lap dog.  I suppose if you're surrounded by short beings like he is, you'd think you're a small varmint too.

But he's not.

"Please, remove your drooling muzzle from my pajama clad lap."  I'm a little more calm with this one.  He's a bit of a gentle giant.

Now that patience has taken the place of intolerance, it's time to get to me.

Me?

I'm feeling pretty good all in all.

My love was talking about the hysterectomy yesterday and I was able to speak about that part of the male transformation as flippantly as Papi, as the selfish teenager gives me permission.  Somehow it's ok, because it may cause cancer in that encasing of eggs and tubes.

When my love gets this surgery, it becomes mandatory that the hormones be used as replacement of this organ.

We have a friend who has to do this.  It seems that my brain can accept these hormones when they're for the sake of health, but if Papi is using them to look more manly, I feel nauseas.

Well my imaginary friend, here's where the imp in me gets her moment.  Here's where I get to snicker like Snagglepuss with an air of, "Hey, it's not my choice that you're putting that poison in your body."

You see, one of the rules is, I don't want to know about the hormones being used.  I don't want to see or hear about it.  I don't even want so much as an utter that my love is doing/done it on that day.

It's just a rule I have to help me get through this, and Papi has a hard time not saying anything, as it's very difficult for my love to do this alone, not to mention my love has difficulty not being transparent.

It hurts mi esposo, and Papi is not good with pain or needles.  But no matter ... it's a rule.

So ...

My love was removing an island in the basement to make room for our new cabinets.  Papi's jeans were covered in sawdust and I asked if sweety wanted to remove them (**enter porn music here**) so that I could throw them in the wash.

Papi bent over to pull those jeans to the ground and exposed that round, beautiful ass cheek.  It was so perfectly placed in my space.

How could I not give it a playful smack?

Of course I did!  It rang with a sharp echo throughout the empty basement.  Great acoustics!

... and I looked at my love, only to see Papi's face turn into a very serious frown.

"Honey ... "

I knew, without anything more than that one word, that this was the orb that my love had chosen to prick that pain of hideous poison into.

I couldn't help but cackle all the way to the washer with hand over mouth, chuckle as I added soap, and scurry up the stairs with a lightness in my step.

I giggled all the way to the living room, and the teenager had her moment of, "That's what'cha get big boy!"

I smiled with a face of defeat for a good 10 minutes.  

Terrible aren't I?

:)

It's how I deal.