what next?

To get through this, I need to remember that there are some really good men here that would protect me.

I think I'm going to ask them to help me communicate better with the creeps here.

They know what to say.

They know what to do.

They know how to help me protect myself without getting decapitated by a machete for doing so, and perhaps build my confidence in this new culture.

I have my Spanish lesson on Thursday.

I think the focus will be about what to say and how to say it.

I won't be going back for the lessons with the kid.

We have a day to figure out what to do about it.

Do we write an email to the mom?

That could cause real problems.

I saw a picture of her before her boob job.

She wasn't anorexic then, she seemed healthy.

She didn't have botox then, she had natural facial features.

Her hair wasn't dyed a brassy blond then, it was light auburn hair.

She was a drop dead, natural gorgeous, with beautiful energy in this photo.

She's still gorgeous, just more like stripper gorgeous.  However, she doesn't seem to have the light she did in the photograph.

She's probably trying her best to get the attention of her husband who is too busy looking at all the other women around, not her.

If I say to her that her husband disrespected me, would that cause harm to her already fragile state?

Would it cause problems in their relationship, and in turn, the scary guy would figure out where I live for his revenge?

I don't know what this man does for a living, but my instincts say it isn't good.  Not to mention, his own child doesn't even know.

That doesn't sound reassuring to me that he's an upstanding citizen.  He scares me.

Or do I just not show up for our lesson, block their phones, and hope I don't run into them down the road?

That's not really what Papi and I want to do, but the people on the DR1 Forum seem to think it's 'the Dominican way'.

It just seems rude.  I'm not rude.

Or do I lie?  Say that I had to take on a full time job?

All I know is, I can't go back there.

He IS a predator and I refuse to be prey.

A sweet girlfriend of mine commented yesterday, stating that it wouldn't matter what I wore.

She's right.

I can't go back.  I didn't stick up for myself.

I blushed, giggled and shook my head.

To a predator, that says, "I won't fight you, go ahead."

Which is how I was violated so many times in my life.

Which is why I now have P.T.S.D. around predators.

Why on earth do I freeze?

But honestly, I just wanted to teach the joy of music to a child that was JUST starting to REALLY enjoy playing staccatos and slurs.

I didn't go to be violated.

Today, I go teach piano at Dream Project, then when I'm done, I'll play some tunes with the MusicMan who doesn't disrespect me.

He sent me an email asking that I bring my bass today so we can play music together.

He is one of the good men.

He is someone who sees me for who I am; a human being who just wants to enjoy music.

There are good men out there, and I will be grateful for them every minute of every day.

i refuse to fall victim to a state of panic

the creep

your sunday sillies

So, I really wanted to sleep in today, but Papi was up to talk about what happened to me the other day, still processing the anger he feels, and the need to defend me.

I can't get back to sleep once I've started talking, so here I am.

Up.

Thinking about my experience.

I knew the guy was a creep, but I had to deal with him to teach piano to his daughter.

He was always commenting on what I wear.  I wear clothes that keep me cool.

Apparently, it's not right for a gringa to wear clothes that are to help with the heat here.

He would say, "I like your shorts," or "I had to laugh when you came in, because the wind lifted your skirt."

I would just take it, because I know that Dominicans are very forward that way, but thought that if I didn't give any indication that I was interested, he might get bored and cut it out.

Then the other day, I went to go in to teach, and when I let myself in the front door, there he was, sitting on the couch with his 'man zone' standing at full attention, sticking out of his pants!

I averted my eyes, thinking that the 'poor guy' would be embarrassed that I saw 'his issue'.

Looking down at the dog, I diverted all my attention elsewhere, giving him a chance to put that thing away, and went straight in to teach the child.

However, I learned the other day that his boner was NOT an embarrassment.

It was intentional.

Friday, having finished teaching his daughter, it was time for me to get paid and go home.

He walked me to the gate, with his usual comments about what I was wearing, "I like THAT dress you have on."

I tried to take it as a compliment, "Aw!  Thank you!" the way any polite Canadian would.

That was the wrong thing to do.

He immediately pointed to his crotch, "Look!  This is because of your dress," and there it was; his fucking pecker pointing straight out of his nylon pants that are meant for the gym.

I suppose they're great for an erection too.  They show the full meal.

Then as I shook my head and walked away as quickly as possible, he pointed to it again, saying, "This is all YOUR fault!"

I drove away as fast as I could, but I realized that I still have a lot to learn with my P.T.S.D.

I freeze when predators come too close, and can't defend myself.

I get this ridiculous nervous laugh and I can't control it.

I've always done it.

I get nervous, I laugh.

Some fucking defence mechanism!!!!

"Hey Andréa!  What's your super power?!?"

"Giggling."

Yeah.  Really good.  Couple that with the flashbacks I've been having all weekend and we're close to a Hurricane Andréa sighting.

Now, I see him as a full on predator.  That's what predators say, "It's YOUR fault I raped you, because of what you were wearing.  I couldn't help myself."

I can't go back, and I feel bad for the kid, because she was just getting somewhere with our lessons.

Then what we learned from the people on the DR1 Forum is that because I'm white, I can't wear tank tops, shorts or skirts above the knees.

If this was Canada, I could report the guy and be done with it.

Here?

They'd laugh me out of the office and do the same, or worse to me.

We are not in Canada.

I am a white woman.

I am fair game for the huntsmen.

i take comfort in the fact that i can always leave this situation

naked.

Favourite top, eaten.

Razor, chewed upon.

Holes, dug.

I put chicken wire down on their favourite digging zones to dissuade them, after getting so angry at them for ruining a top I'd worn only twice, not to mention, everything else they got into yesterday.

None-the-less, we prepared for a walk down the beach.

But then the issue happened; Sir Bark-A-Lot got his little toe twisted and stuck in the wire.

He ripped his toenail right out of his toe!

Blood!  Screaming!  Papi and I panicking!

We cleaned him up and left him behind to lick his wound, while we took the rest of the cretin for their run about.

Jersey Girl saw me and invited me for a visit afterward.

Sounded like a great idea!  I needed to just not be around all the animals for a little while.

Upon returning from our little visit of chit-chat, I was full of sand from walking on the beach, and dogs jumping all over me.

I tried to run a shower.  No fucking water.

No problem.  We have a pool and I'll just dip myself in there and rinse all the sand off.

A quick skinny dip.

I mean, I didn't want to get my hair wet or anything.  Just a dip.

I brought my towel, and in all my nakedness, looked at the gate in front.

Seems the coast was clear.

I can run to the pool without anyone seeing me and once I'm in, we're high enough that anyone walking by won't see me in my birthday suit.

I got in and sat on the stair, and began to pool bathe.

Then I heard it.

The Guards next door were up on their wall peering in at me with no clothes on, excited about their show!

I immediately shrunk into the water and tried to hide what I could.

Fine.  The rest of their show would only be a view of my bare ass.  That's all.

I called to Papi, asking for help, or even suggestions as to how to escape this dilemma.

Neither of us wanted to say anything.

Papi didn't want to, because they have machine guns.

I didn't want to, because I didn't want it to turn into a game for them, prompting them to believe I was naked just for them.

I wanted to tell them to turn around while I got out, but thought they would just laugh at me, thinking I was playing around.

I was only grateful that the pool light wasn't on for them to see every little bit I've got!

As the sun sank further, I waited for them to lose interest, all the while, I hadn't moved from that spot.

They must get bored at some point if I wasn't going to give them a show, right?!?!

The moment they looked away, I grabbed my towel, jumped out and ran inside.

Only problem is, for someone with P.T.S.D., it will now create a fear of always thinking I have stalkers again.

I will be constantly looking out doors and windows to see if men are staring in, looking for another show.

Fuck!

Not to mention, I have to drive past them every day on my way to teach.

I suppose those tinted windows will come in handy for a little while, as I calm down from the fear of 'worst case scenario' looping in my mind.

I don't want to encourage anyone.  There are enough people getting raped here without the incentive of being in a pool naked.

When I got up this morning, I heard the dogs barking off the balcony.  Sure enough, I looked out to see them watching our yard again for another show.

Looks like I'll have work to do with my P.T.S.D.

there is a great reason that this is unfolding before me now

day 1 of my roots.

I am so grateful today.

I got one of the two jobs.  The piano teaching job.

My first student in the Dominican Republic.

Yup.

They got me for dirt cheap.

No matter.  It doesn't cost a lot to get food, as I ate the last of my vegetables yesterday.

I was so sad wondering where the hell we were going to get money for veggies!!!

This will cover my veggies!

It feels like I'm really starting my life here now.  I'm putting in roots.

The reason they needed a new piano teacher, was their piano teacher had died.

At first, the opportunist in me thought, "Damn your teacher died?  Does she need a replacement for all her other students?"

Until I heard the story.

She just moved here and was only here for a few months.

She bought a scooter to travel to and from the lessons.

She was killed on her first day riding the scooter.

Absolutely horrible.

I can't tell you what the story brought up for me for flashbacks of my motorcycle accident.

The fact that I'm replacing an angel who wasn't as lucky as me is almost too eery.

It is pretty typical for people to die here, or at least lose a limb, from motorcycle accidents.

I don't know if they keep stats on it, but I would venture to say it's in the top 5 of the world.

Papi and I can't go a day without seeing someone who's missing an arm or a leg here.

Not to mention, it's very rare to see someone wearing a helmet.

Unless of course it's raining.

Because that's what a helmet is for, right?

To keep out the rain.

Anyway, I'm on the verge of panic attacks here just writing about the insanity on two wheels in this country.

Actually if I'm being honest, I'm in the middle of a panic attack.

My poor lungs feel like there's a mattress on top of them.

Let's change the subject.

I made my first dehydrated coconut yesterday!!!  Success!!

Oh, it is sooooo sweet and needs a little more time in the heat.

But I have coconut for treats now.

I'm going to search for coconut recipes that I can make without coconut oil to begin with.

Once I get paid, I'm on an all out man hunt for cheesecloth so that I can make the oil.

I have the YouTube videos to show me.

But you think I can find cheesecloth in this damn country?!?!

Aaaarrrrgggghhhh!!!!

I don't know how people make coconut oil here without a cheesecloth, but the last time I asked SOMEONE to show me how to toast my coffee beans, they were destroyed.

Yes, the Housemaid destroyed my first batch of coffee beans because she thought she knew how to do it.

I learned the right way.  On YouTube.

But I need the damn cheesecloth so that I have the damn coconut oil for the damn treats!!!

I want my goddamn treats!!!!

There.  Panic attack averted.

Now I go get ready to meet my new student.

My first student.

I'm so grateful.

the more grateful i am, the more reasons i find to be grateful

peace?

What is this I hear?

Nothing?  No workers?  No children?  Silence?

It's almost as if I feel 'peace'.

Other than the puppies crawling all over me.

There's no more money to do the last of the finishing touches The Carpenter wants to do, so there's nobody working.

The dogs are free.

I'm free.

Papi has no money for his drugs of choice, so there's a forced sobriety at the moment.

I get a ray of peace in every corner of my day.

Of course, there is the Housemaid coming in an hour and a half, but that's only for an hour of work today as I won't have her clean upstairs to allow Papi rest.

Papi will be sleeping quite late today, as I gave him one of my pills I used to take for nerve pain, that tripled as an anti-depressant and knocked me out so I could sleep through the pain.

Papi will be knocked out for quite some time and have one of the best sleeps he's had in a while.

He's going to go through withdrawal from the clonazepam, because he ran out, so he definitely needs some sleep.

There's usually a silver lining to every hardship.  Being broke means he can't go buy pills and beer.

Anyway, I have some herbs I'll be force feeding him, without him knowing it, that should help wash the drugs out of his system faster.  "Here baby, have some orange juice," or, "I opened you a pop."

It doesn't matter how I get it in him, as long as I do.  It's tasteless thankfully.

Still, I feel like there's someone around me in the yard.

Every noise I hear I think it's the workers coming to ask for a trip to the hardware store, or to oversee something they're working on, or a question.  "Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!"

Every time the dogs run toward the gate I think it's another child just wandering in because they can.  "Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!"

It's almost like I have a bit of a P.T.S.D. reaction to people in my space calling my name.

There is a very good possibility that I have a line on work for the month of July though, so I'll be away from the house a lot, leaving Papi to fend for himself with the dogs and tail end of work that needs to be done.

Not to mention, chasing away the kids from the yard, yelling, "No Andréa aqui!"

It's also possible that I have a piano student.  Here, it's all about how cheap you can get things, so she's searching for the best price of a teacher, not the best teacher.

However, ANY money is money and that's how it goes here.  Everyone charges a lesser amount than the first person, just to get the job.

Desperation.  I feel it too.

So my normal charge of $40/hour piano lessons will be chopped to $15/hour.  I'm not shitting you, but it's balanced off by how affordable it is to live healthy here.

Nurses here only make $200 a month.  You don't come to the Dominican Republic to make money.

I have no idea how much the other month long job pays, I'll just be proud if I get it, because I would be teaching music to children with the Dream Project at their summer camp.

I went there looking to volunteer, and found that there's a possibility of work.  Not that I'll be making very much money, but I'll be meeting other musicians and people who speak English.

Who knows?  Maybe I'll meet that physical friend I need so badly?  Or that female percussionist I so badly want to collaborate with to get a new feel for music.

I went in to the Dream Project office on the way back from getting my negative results from Mr. Lumpy, which also happened to be the day the shit hit the fan with Papi's 'normal drinking'.

I needed to feel like I was starting a new life, with or without my love.  I needed to feel like I could still HAVE a life whether Papi was going down or not.

Anyway, the results were negative and I'm trusting their test that says that rat bastard lump is just a cyst now, and really don't feel like going for a 2nd opinion.

I'm done fretting over Mr. Lumpy.  If it turns out to be something that grows and is sinister, it means I get new boobs.

Not a bad trade.

But my time can be better spent right now.  I don't need to have the obsession of fear.

I need to experience peace.

i feel total peace with my powerful self-esteem

you will never win to addiction

I feel like death.

I couldn't eat yesterday.

All I could do was drink ginger tea, lime water, coconut water.

I just wanted to settle my stomach, but it still didn't happen.

He asked me, "Why are you so angry?"

Because I know that when someone tries to win over addiction, they will always lose.

Papi made his choice.

He 'should be able to have a beer every few days' without the consequence of me going into full on P.T.S.D.

He has quite blatantly chosen alcohol over me.

It's not like It hasn't happened before.  We always lose to addiction.

I had to watch someone fade away from heroin, and when I gave the ultimatum: the drugs or me, guess who lost?

We can never win.

I'm angry because I've lost.

I've lost the sober person I married 3 years ago.

I now have more pain to look forward to.

"Can't we just see how it goes instead of jumping to the worst case scenario?"

I've already seen worst case scenario.  I already know what comes next.

He says he won't get drunk in the pool and pass out, or go home with strangers, not knowing where he is or who he is with, again.

Well, the truth is, when you're a drunk, you can't make those decisions.

So, I lose.

Again.

I see this very much like a repeat of the past.

We repeat the same mistakes, until we get it right, don't we?

Perhaps the first time he drank and he wound up sobbing in the gutter in the DTES and I left to keep myself safe from the pain?  Perhaps that was supposed to be my only heartache with his addiction.

He said he would never do it again.  That he was done with the drinking.  That I could trust him.

But instead of learning from my past I've relived more pain.

I'll stick around for even more I'm sure.

I got so angry for my never ending tears to accompany my loss, while I was doing dishes, I had cleaned a knife and I dug it across my forearm about 8 times just to punish myself even more.

Yes.

It's the first time since I was in my 20's that I cut myself.

Not much.

Just enough to stop the tears.

They stopped.

Then I went a bit manic; house is cleaned, seeds are planted, bathroom is cleaned, laundry is done, microwave combined with wall and counter are scrubbed clean with Borax and PineSol, as is the stove and toaster oven.

There's more that I did.

I can't remember everything, because I was in a haze of trying to keep myself busy so I didn't cry anymore.

I did it right up until 10:30.  Then my body finally told me I had to lie down.

And what happened?

I started to cry.

"Why are you so angry?"

Because my love, you don't realize it, but you're leaving me.  I'm sure you'll have lots of fun drinking with the other neighbourhood drunk, Mr. Gummy.

So, I have a choice.  Stay here and live with emotional pain of losing someone to their addiction, or go back to Vancouver and live with physical pain of the cold weather.

Either way, I've already lost.

I suppose I'll choose the emotional.

It's easier, I've had it all my life.

i have a wonderful partner and we are both happy and at peace.

survival.

Shit hit the fan yesterday.

Wasn't mine.  I'm feeling much better thank you very much and I'm also a good aim in the toilet.

We took the last pennies out of our credit cards and we're totally, 100% screwed.

Like, we have zilch and we have people to pay.

The DoorMan will wait a few weeks.  He's a patient guy and has lots of money until we do.  It's the hard workers in our yard that I'm worried about.  They live with very little and depend on our money to feed them and their babies.

We'll be living off staples for a while.  Hello rice 'n beans!  Food of the nation!

... if you like my blog, you could by me a coffee ... here >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Can you see me when I've run out of coffee, begging in the village for a cup, while haggard and out of my mind from the lack thereof?

I don't have anyone in the family who has an abundance of money, so I can't ask them.

Papi, well, he feels that he's been such a thorn in his family's side growing up that he can't ask now.

I reminded him that the last time he borrowed, he paid back.  That shows he's not the same bratty drug addict that just took, took, took.  That shows that we are responsible.

I'm brainstorming in how to get a job here, even though it could mean disaster, because Papi sleeps til quite late and someone needs to be up for everyone; The Carpenter, Dominican Daddy, Housemaid, Little Angel to be dropped off for a few hours.

But I think I need to try to find money for food, and I also need to remember that every time in my life that I've been this desperate, everything always works out.  I will ask the angels to help it work out.

It would be nice if Mr. Lumpy would lend a hand.  Goddam freeloader pops up without so much as OFFERING to paying rent.  That bastard has cost us $800 so far!

I emailed PanMan to say that I wanted to come and talk about how I can help him, and earn money at the same time.

I also thought about all the amazing wheat free, dairy free options in the world that aren't here on the island.

Hey, I need 'em.  I could distribute them, then I could have them and earn money at the same time, no?

It's going to take me way too long to find my musician people to make an income from.  That will come, but not right now.

I need money now.  Prince Papi couldn't even buy his orange juice yesterday!  The horrors!  He goes through 2 litres in a day and a half.  It's better than pop, but I'd sure like to see him on water.

One of those massive water jugs is only 40 pesos, which is equal to one buck and is healthier and definitely cheaper.

I've had to stop drinking the water from my machine, because I can't afford the filters, and we're going through them fast because we STILL don't have clean, healthy water.

Now, we need to buy a machine that will clean the water, akin to my little drinking machine, only for the whole house and pool.

That's a lot of work for a machine, so it's a big bugger, which is a lot of money, so it's gonna have to wait too.

At least it's not shit water anymore.  It's just really full of sediment, but still, I'm thinking that's where that last round of sickness came from.

Someone does owe us some money, and I've contacted them, but no response, so I guess I won't hold my breath on that one.

New 'rule': NEVER do money business with friends.  It inevitably ends with no friendship.  Keep them separate.

I've now lost 2 friends in 4 months due to money and it hurts, really, really hurts to lose friends over money.  From this point forward, money and friendship will never happen at the same time.

Unless I'm giving.  That's a different story.

I give a lot, but I also get screwed for it, like when in a heated moment, someone commented on how selfish we were because we only 'threw a few 20's their way' and that we could have given more.  Live and learn.

Anyway, it's time to try to find a job so that I can keep buying the locals' veggies and fish.

I'm so fucking scared right now it's got my PTSD on high.  Panic attacks galore.

You know it's bad when I look at what I have left of my chocolate and am thinking of how I can ration it out to last the 20 days before we get paid again.

Torture!

More importantly, the puppies and cats need food.  Looks like they'll be eating rice too.

This is where the fun begins and the stories of yesteryear happen.

Survival.

i prosper wherever i turn and i know i deserve prosperity of all kinds

pass the clonazepam

Today is a lovely day for a biopsy, no?

Sound like fun?

Massive needles stuck into my boob.

Nice.

I did really good in the fear departement yesterday until bedtime.

What is it about bedtime that makes my mind crazy!?!

Since I was a kid, I've had anxiety galore before going to sleep.

When I was a kid, I was afraid I'd go to sleep because I thought I would forget how to breathe and die.

Yes.

I'm a well trained drama queen.

I didn't know that our bodies were just equipped with the know how to continue breathing.

Well, that is of course until you have a panic attack.

Then there is no breathing.

Which is what would happen when I was a kid, when I worried about not breathing when I slept.

Or when I'd get overwhelmed with learning that the universe just kept going on and on forever.  I think that was the day I blew my mind and the rest of my insanity is history.

Then there were the times I wouldn't breathe when I was a teen, worried about the next predator that was hiding behind garbage cans and bushes as I walked home alone from the bus stop after a shift at McDonald's.

And the big ones?

They really started coming after the motorcycle accident when I had flashbacks of smashing into the car ... over ... and over ... and over ... echoing as if edited in a loop, blinding me with a movie screen that drops in front of my eyes, hindering me from seeing any beauty in life.

I've been having panic attacks since finding Mr. Lumpy.

And now?

As I write this, I just gave myself another one thinking about all the panic attacks I had and from what.

Seriously.

I know there's going to be nothing wrong with whatever Mr. Lumpy has in store.

I know that it's all going to be OK, because everyone else's intuition says it will.

I'm going with everyone else's intuition, because mine is so fucked up right now.

I had a very successful pajama day with Papi yesterday.  The kids didn't find us until much later when they realized they could see us up in our bedroom, then the chorus of, "Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!" began.

I just didn't move from my spot, pretending I was asleep.

I did my best to distract myself with editing, trying my hardest to get my new keyboard to work so that I could at least make some music to help ease my mind, and then there was that daunting task that we all hate but need to do; cleaning up my computer files.

There came a point, however, that all of that had to stop and I needed to try to sleep.

That's when the thoughts of today came.

Terror for the pain they will inflict upon Mr. Lumpy, who will in turn, bite my nerve endings having me jump to the heavens.

Papi said to take some pain killers before we go in.  He's always thinking, my love.

They don't really give you pain killers here like they do at hospitals in Canada.

If you need them, the doc comes, gives you a prescription and whoever is your caretaker has to go and get them from the pharmacy.

Seriously.  So odd.

So, having that information after seeing it happen with Our Fave's Mom after her C Section, we at least can take matters into our own hands and take the pain killers BEFORE he starts the torture chamber proceedings.

Am I scared?  Hell ya.

Then there are the two days I have to wait for results, even though, like I said, it's all going to be OK because all my Eternal Friend tells me so.

Still, she's not here in my brain.

Mr. Lumpy is.

I think I'm going to be sick.

every cell in my body vibrates with energy and health

new world

2 beds.

That's all they have in the emergency room in the city of Gaspar Hernández that our village borders.

All the new mothers with their babies are lined up for their immunization, and when they're done with immunization, everyone waits in the hallway with about 40 other new mothers.

Everyone thought the baby was mine, but I was only there to be part of the Little Angel's very first immunization.

They all laugh when I tell them I'm the godmother.

I suppose it's just a novelty to most to have a gringa for a godmother.

But the Little Angel is quite comfortable with me, and Our Favourite keeps offering for us to take him home for good.  Make him OUR baby.

I tell him, "I want to!  But your dad needs him."  Papa is VERY proud of his boy.

2 pediatric doctors tag team with all the mothers who need them.

There are signs everywhere that say to wash your hands with soap and water to ward off disease, but obviously that only applies to your own home, because there is no soap with which to do so in the hospital.

Newborns are everywhere, and dirty hands are touching them.

Not that we have it much better here at Casa Paraíso.  We have soap, yes, but no water.  However, we have electricity.  It seems we get a choice of one or the other.

Today, I'll be the smelly gringa who tries to cover up my BO with more pit shit.

I've given up on trying to feel fresh and pretty.  I'll leave that up to all the other lovely ladies here.

I might as well become a hippy.  My hair is definitely long enough now.

I just tie it back all the time, or up in some kinda do with my hair rags.  What's the point if I can't shower?

Anyway, Our Fave's Mom is in Gaspar Hernández with her sister who cares for them with all the love of the mother herself.

She's a great help.

They're grateful when I come, because they get a break and pass the Little Angel off to me.

I fawn over him as they clean and giggle at me speaking to him in English.  Baby doesn't care.  He can't understand Spanish either, so I'm good.

The people in the tiny little dwellings where Our Fave's Mom is staying are starting to get to know me and vice versa.

A few of them make sure I'm safe.  They watch over me as I walk, talk between people for me and surround me with their presence.

When they're not there, I have to say, it's like putting a young, pretty, naive girl in the pit with a gaggle of construction workers back home.

The leers, ogling, cat calling, attention sucking sounds and words I don't have to understand to know what they mean, really make me MUCH more than uncomfortable.

I know how to handle those creeps back home now, as I'm not the spring chicken I used to be, not to mention, not being the spring chicken, they leave me alone now.

There are good things to be said about aging for this femme ridden with P.T.S.D.

Still, I have visions of the poor woman who died from a gang rape in India.

I try my best to put on the 'don't fuck with me' face, but just like my intuition doesn't work here, neither does my Pissy Face.

I keep my stun gun in my purse.  I don't carry any cash.  I dress down.

It's a new world, and it's not MY world.

It's not the same when Papi is with me.  The men don't bother me as overtly.  But today was too early for mi esposo to play The Godfather.

It's a world that I have to adapt to, learn how to survive and most definitely, seek out the better hospitals.

No matter how bad off I am, I won't be visiting the one in Gaspar Hernández.

No toilet paper or soap, and only two beds with every sick person in the city lined up against the wall.

Nope.

I come home and clean myself pronto after a visit to that building.  Today, with water we bought from the local store.

New world, new dangers.

New life.

i maintain my self-confidence at all times in all places

and they judge me for having a wall ...

I just saw a man in his underwear!

And it wasn't Papi.

It was my Plumber Friend, and no he didn't have butt crack.

He's in our pool, putting in a piece that has fallen out.

Here, in the Dominican Republic, men don't always use a bathing suit.

Definitely, the majority of the children don't.  Mostly because they don't have enough money for one.

Men and children just strip down to their boxers or tighty whities and jump on in.

The first time we invited Our Unadopted Child into the pool, we were a little taken aback that he just pulled down his pants and in he went.

We understood pretty quickly, that it's because this family doesn't have money for a swim suit.  They're used to it.

Most toddlers don't have diapers, they just run around in their little undies until they have an accident, mom pulls off the offending ginch, dips the child into the communal bathtub and puts on a new pair of drawers that had been drying from the last piddling episode.

A lot of toddlers just run around naked.

Gotta pee?  No problem.  Do what all the other males do.

Side of the road, in plain view.  No, don't try to hide your 'man zone' or anything.

This Canadian Queen will get used to it.

Prince Papi just laughs as I cringe and wanna click my heels to get back to Vancouver, for just that moment.

Maybe I need a teleporter.  That would be faster, and I could just come back when they're done.

In Canada, they'd be fined.

Here, the police don't care.  They probably do it too, when they're not in uniform extorting people.

Anyway, I'm not used to it.  At all.

It's fine with the wee ones.  They're not going to trigger my P.T.S.D.

Especially the cutest one I ever saw, running around with nothing on but gumboots, that were definitely a size for an adult.

Sometimes, I wish I could have my video camera perched 24-7 to have caught that one.

However, it's not a good idea here.

It will get nabbed and there will be no more YouTube show.

Papi has decided that we need to get more dangerous with our videos and go into places that are potentially a threat to our well being.

He says we need to up the ante on our movies.

OK.  Fine.

You wanna do that, YOU are the one holding the camera.  They might not think of stealing it from you because in this country, tattoos mean you've been in jail.

Imagine their first thoughts of me?  A female criminal?

It's not the same as in Canada, where there are many women desperate enough to be corrupt and wind up in jail.

Here, the men do the big stuff, with guns and masks, and the women do it covertly, like stealing your toothpaste one squirt at a time.

Yesterday, the women in my village made sure I knew that the night before, there was a gringo bound and gagged at gunpoint, while the thieves stole everything from her house.

She lives just a few doors down from us.

She doesn't have a gun.

She doesn't have a wall.

She doesn't have cameras, or dogs and she was all alone.

They got her and there are no police here to come and help her.  They'd probably send Mr. Extortion to tell her to give them money just to rub salt in the wound.

I know that everyone in Vancouver's 'community' who judged me, then abandoned me for putting up a wall probably don't read this blog anymore, because I'm now labeled a horrible person.

But you know what?

It wasn't me that got attacked.

So fuck all of you, who think that just because you read a book or went on a holiday to a developing country, you know how it works here.

I'll be holding my gun a little closer.

i stand firmly in my belief in myself

Gratitude List, Last day.  Have you been keeping up with yours?
1. I am grateful we have security in place to deter the thieves.
2. I am grateful for the rain to feed the plants in the yard.
3. I am grateful to have electricity for 2 days in a row!
4. I am grateful for the warmth to heal my back.
5. I am grateful for the good people here who restore my trust.
6. I am grateful to have eaten well for 2 days.
7. I am grateful to be feeling stronger.
8. I am grateful for the love of puppies.
9. I am grateful for the love of friends.
10. I am grateful for this list and that I doubled it up for a bit.  It really helped.

I'm a fucking wreck.

Here's your weekly YouTube show:

Yesterday, a Blogger Friend asked me why I'd need a vacation, if i live in a house on the beach with a pool.

I didn't even have the energy to tell him how much work this was, but I tried.  How could I explain to someone that this is not easy?

Everyone out there believes we've moved to paradise, because we believed we moved to paradise.

We didn't.  We moved to a gorgeous view and wonderful weather that heals my wounds, but it's more work than I've ever experienced in my life.

More work than I had before, and healing from, my motorcycle accident.  More work than Papi has ever experienced as well.

We try to convince each other that it will get better.  He reminds me that my Eternal Friend told me to give it three months.

Supposedly, it will calm down after that.  I feel like it will never end.

It is part of the reason Papi drank.  Again.

I found him on a floaty in the pool, beer in hand.  I screamed his name but he didn't hear, because he was too drunk.

I pulled his floaty to the front where I could pull him out, then smacked him in the face until he woke up from his drunken stooper.  I then convinced his drunk ass to get out of the pool before he killed himself.

I tried to get online to book a ticket home, but there was not enough money in my bank account, so I asked him to book it for me from the credit we had in his JetBlue account.

He said he wouldn't.  Right.  Then if you aren't going to help me leave, we're going to talk.

Every single time he started to doze off in bed, I sprayed his face with the spray bottle intended for disciplining the animals.

"Stop it!!!!  Why do you keep doing this?!?!" he begged.

"Because, if I'm going to be awake, crying and miserable all fucking night so are you.  Then you're going to tell me why you think it's ok for me to possibly find my husband dead in the pool?  I'm not sticking around to watch you die.  You can be alone to do that."

But he was dozing during my monologue again.  So I sprayed.  "Stop it!!!  I'm awake!!!  Why do you have to keep spraying me?!?!?!"

"Because I feel like hitting you, and this is the only other option."

"Well, why don't you hit me then if it will make you feel better!"

"It wouldn't make me feel better, that's why I'm spraying you," as I sprayed him again.

That must have woken him up enough to talk.  He cried violent tears from the guilt leaving the G'ma alone in a home with Alzheimer's, and how tired he is from everything we have to do here.

Between the guilt and the exhaustion, he's wanting to escape reality.

I get it.  I would love to as well.  Reality is, nothing comes for free.

There is no paradise without a cost.  Our cost is a stress level every minute of every day, that is beyond belief.

It is waking up every day to work that doesn't quit until we actually sleep.  Even then there's work to do, because when you hear a gun shot in the middle of the night, Papi is up stalking the grounds with our gun, and I'm chasing after him to see what's going on.

Nothing is free.  Even our relationship.

He has vowed to start going to the only AA meeting there is here, and I've decided to find the spouses of these folks and start an Al-Anon meeting, or perhaps some reasonable facsimile thereof.

We all know how I feel about the 'g*d' word in these rooms, but still, I need it.

I'm crazy with running around, sniffing him to see if he has drank again, checking the garbage for ber cans, hearing him open doors and running out to find out where he's going (because obviously he's going to go to Cabarete and drink again, not let the dogs out to pee, right??!?!), begging him not to drink when he's up past my bedtime.

Seriously.  I'm a fucking wreck, but I can't leave the relationship yet.

He has promised to work, not that you can EVER trust an alcoholic's word.  Not ever.  I'm just going to have to have some faith that he does want this relationship to continue like he says.

Trust comes with time and every time he rolls his eyes at the evidence of my paranoia of him drinking again, I tell him to cut it out, because his drinking the reason I'm in this position of hyper-triggered P.T.S.D.

I see every ex who has harmed my trust and faith, I see my father who cared more for his addiction than he did for his children, I see no good endings.

I don't believe in good endings with addiction, because I haven't experienced any, and losing the greatest relationship I've ever had makes me feel like life isn't worth anything.

So, I stay, and I work, hoping that he will too, in every other corner of our lives.

We need a vacation.

i must know what awaits me at the end of this rope, so i do not give up

always a solution

Yesterday, a sweet Blogger Friend left a comment that I'm strong and loved.

Well, maybe not strong enough, but resourceful?

YES!

You see, I chickened out.

I got ready, preparing for my adventure, then had a thought.

There's a man here who made our wall, fixed a bunch of stuff in our yard and I've grown to trust him over the past month.

... yes folks ... it's already been a month!!!!!! ...

He has a truck.

His truck is just like the truck the last man drove us in, a Toyota 4 cylinder, although circa 1980.  A little more modern.

I realized, hey, we had hired him to build the new well, and if I'm paying him to work, I'll ask him for help.

I asked him to drive me to Cabarete, because Papi was sick.

I told him I needed phone cards, to talk to the car dude and get to the bank to get his money.

He agreed!

I filled his tank with gas and off we went, 1st stop to talk to the car dude.

Well, all I wanted to do was tell the car dude we couldn't go to the lawyer today to get the papers, because Papi was sick.

However, he's a bit of an alpha and told my chauffeur to drive us to Sosúa, which was another 20 minutes south.

You could see my chauffeur wasn't happy about it, and I tried to say I don't want to bother him because he's working at my house, but the car dude wouldn't hear of it.

Off all 3 of us went in the little truck, that didn't seem to want to drive beyond 20 km/hr, but I got to my lawyer, I got my phone cards, I paid the chauffeur after a stop at the bank, AND we got our placard for our car.

Done!

Now it was time to head home and I said in very broken Spanish how thankful I am for his help and could I put more gas in his truck.

Right after we left the gas station, there was a sound in his truck that didn't sound like a healthy bang.

Oh, but the truck was NOT happy.

We drove 8 km all the way home.

A normal 30 minute drive with Papi was now taking more than an hour, but I'll tell ya, it was sure nice to let everyone pass us as I looked at the view.

When I'm with Papi, I'm so busy holding on to the 'holy fuck handle' above my head, white knuckling it while fighting off panic attacks, and saying, "OMG!!!!" so many times that I really don't have time to enjoy the view.

I'm too concerned with oncoming traffic as we pass car after car and think this is the end.

Yesterday was beautiful.

I got to look at goats, cows, kids, donkeys, chickens, stores that seemed like it was just a house with a few clothing items on hangers on the balcony, and people being hard workers.

I had the best time, and I had a body guard.  Hell, at one point I had 2!

2 men that I could trust to get me where I need to go without trauma.

I have to say, Vancouver has scarred me for life with the amount of times I've been attacked and worse.

I'm terrified of people and like the comment yesterday reminded me, predators can smell fear.

How do you just stop being afraid, though?

After spending the majority of my life with P.T.S.D. brought on by the hands of rancid monsters, I just don't know how not to be afraid of strangers.

I suppose it will take time, and hey, we almost have our car, which I'll drive without a license before I take a 'taxi'/'bus'.

I really think that horrible experience in India has really had an impact on my fear, and considering the amount of times I've been attacked on a bus, I'm not just being paranoid.

I don't want to die like that.

I've already lived through enough in this life and reality is, in this world people can be terrifying.

I'll take that solo 'taxi' ride some other time.

In the meantime, I'd rather drive my car illegally.

Apparently, I'm good with illegal actions now.

every problem has a solution and i seek my solution with resolve

we saw g*d

I guess that was all we needed to forget about all the grief we've been receiving.

A field trip.

We were taken by the Pool Man, his wife and son to Santiago.  They were talking about how wonderful this 'Price Smart' was.

In Vancouver, we have 'PriceSmart'.

When spoken, sounds identical because you don't hear the space between words.  I never thought the one in Vancouver was anything special, but it's a hell of a lot better than the dimly lit little stores here where I try to find something, anything to eat.

Off we went over the Moca, which is so treacherous that it puts our Sea to Sky highway to shame.

We rolled past hills of green grass that looked like something out of The Hobbit, gorgeous, space seeking trees and too many cows to count.

When we got into the heart of the city, we saw a massive store being built.  It seemed like perhaps we would find something I could eat.

Then we turned into the 'Price Smart'.

The moment we walked in, it was like we saw that g*d really existed.

It was their version of Costco.

I'm not a material person, but I am definitely someone who looks for comfort when shopping.

This was it.  We found it.

A store we could relate to that had so much of what we need that it was like we'd seen snow for the first time.

A microwave!  Big batches of salted cashews!  Honey!  Mixing bowls of stainless steel!  Knives that will actually cut our food!  Papi was thrilled because he was able to get his treat like he always would at Costco; a big cup of fountain pop.

Then we were escorted through town to be shown a few more grocery stores with so much to choose from, we were content in thinking that we'd never miss Vancouver now.

The one store that got my attention was one that actually carried my favourite wheat free pasta, Tinkyada, and a $10 loaf of Glutino, wheat free bread.

Papi was as bit dismayed that I'd be buying a $10 loaf of bread, but I assured him it would be my once a month treat.  Kinda like his once a month junk food binge in the big city at McDonald's or any other fast 'food' joint.

After returning from our shop and it was time to go home, back over the Moca, I saw something I wasn't looking forward to seeing.

I'd already seen a dead dog, a dead cat and a dead horse at the side of the road.  I knew it was only a matter of time before I would see what I didn't want to see; a motorcycle accident.

Someone in the middle of the road who didn't look like he'd be moving any time soon, flat out like a pancake.

He had obviously been one of the hooligans who drive too fast and reckless, not to mention, there wasn't a helmet to be found.

Of course I went into full panic attack, but we were with people we didn't know very well, so I had to do my best to suffer in silence with tears being concealed, doing my best not to hyperventilate.

We were told before we went out on our venture that if there is an accident, you don't stop.

If you stop and help bring someone to a hospital, because you are a foreigner, they will blame the accident on you when you bring the person in, and you will get sued for hospital costs and more.

In this instance, I was extremely grateful that we didn't stop, because it was too much for my P.T.S.D. to deal with, but the sadness was so overwhelming for my morality.

I would stop in Vancouver, no matter how bad my flashbacks were, if I saw this guy and only one person helping.

I've learned that there's no point in trying to prove anyone wrong that has been here for 20 or so years.

We have to start believing people.

It was pretty clear our new friends were scared enough of the repercussions, when both the Dominican wife and son said, "Don't stop!  Go!  Go!" in such a panicked voice that it sounded like there was a gun pointed in their direction.

They assured us that many Dominicans will come to the aid of the only person helping this man.

They assured us that a Dominican taxi will drive him to the hospital if he's still alive, because the ambulances here will not take you without money up front.

This is a life like nothing I would ever expect in Canada.

I knew I'd be in for some new ways of living, but this truly is a day by day shock to my emotional system.

Good thing my Friend of the Angels sent help to us last night.

I can feel them with me now.

i focus on breathing and grounding myself

Ah! The Joys of S.A.D.

For some of us, December is a dire month for our emotions.  It seems the demons trap us during this time.

For some of us, the only exposure to the outside world is to merely peek through the curtains with one eye, in hopes that the world doesn't spot us.

We hide, we suffer, we count the days until it's over.  I see those who join me with this ailment are already experiencing the re-surfacing of their yearly torture.

This year, I'm making a difference for myself.  Maybe, if you suffer with this, you'll want to join me?

We've already had a Hurricane Andréa sighting, but it wasn't an Xmas Meltdown.  Still, while I'm feeling back up from my fall, I'm ready to fight my Pit of Doom off with all my might.

I'm going to do my very best to create a stronger dark season for myself.  Here's how I'm going to do it:

I'm staying off the processed sugar.

I'm drinking enough, or maybe more, water.

But hey, I'm no angel.  I'm having my one cup of coffee per day dammit!

I'm staying on my food plan of only a cup of grains per day, and at most a slice of wheat free toast and a handful of rice crackers.

However, I'm having my bag of popcorn while I watch Dexter with Papi.  That's a given rule.

I'm keeping my blood hearty with a little more protein than usual, but also keeping my blood clean.  I intend on sweating once a day.

Our blood is what feeds our minds.  It needs to pump ferociously to wash out the negativity we so wish to purge.

I'm keeping my veggie intake to MUCHO!  Minus those delicious little carrots and potatoes.  They should really be under the 'carb' list.

I'm keeping my fruit intake down to one serving per day.

This does include those lovely li'l Mandarin oranges.  I normally gorge on them every December, to ward of the envy of everyone else eating all the masses of sugary, carbed treats that seem to inundate our lives during this time.

Of course, being clean 'n sober, I have a one up on the demons as well.  If you're suffering, perhaps this is the month to try out what it's like to live in sobriety?

I have only one mission in mind this dark season; Peace and tranquility.  I don't want to hide and fret about the pain of ghosts past.  I already did that last week.

The most horrid part about falling is it allows the Anorexia Monster to start whispering in my ear as well.  Seriously!  Fuck off with that!!  I'm sick of looking in the mirror only to see hell!

Something I learned from my emotional fall was quite nurturing.  I've never been protected.  I've always felt alone in this world.

I've felt that all battles must be overcome by me, myself and I.  My Gemini battle.

I have my protector to see me through until I can protect myself: Papi, my fearless lion.

I also learned I've closed my heart to a lot of the world, keeping it only concealed by ribs and muscles.

Flesh and bones can only safeguard for so long, until something evil burrows it's way in and poisons my blood once more.

Even though, as I write this I feel the breath of P.T.S.D. stalking me, I know I'm strong enough to allow my heart to be open.  I allow myself to experience the fear, pain and all other negative feelings I've avoided for so many years, along with the joy, love and strength along with it.

I didn't realize that if I'm closing my heart off to the bad, I'm also closing it off to the good.  I don't want to do this anymore.

It seems, that when I've kept my heart closed, the only feelings that got to my soul were the painful ones, because evil is like a weed that has its tendrils wrapped around my veins.

I closed myself off to the good that can fight this intruder.  Good prevails!  Good fights bad always!

My heart is ripped wide open right now.  It's a big gaping wound that has to be healed by love, and I'm the one capable of healing it.

I want to feel my spirituality.  I want to live in the existence of joy.  I want that feeling of magic in life.  I've had it many, many years ago, and it's time to bring it back.

I am ready.  I am now open to life, good and bad.

It's starts now.

i choose to exercise regularly

and the phoenix has risen!

So, anyway, Papi and I were blessed by the Rabbi a couple of weeks ago.

Here were my opening words:

I've always searched for the place where I belong.  What I've learned is, that I'm a wanderer and I have been exploring since childhood, but never really realized it.

The greatest adventure that crossed my path, was when I fell in love and married another wanderer. 

These opening words are really all I need to know about life to this point.  I know that no matter what anyone says, like for instance, "When it comes to losing your dog, the way you're feeling is really only selfish."

... seriously! some people's kids! ... ok, that 'kid' thing is an inside joke ... that you'll never know about ... but that's ok, because i don't have to tell you everything, got it? ...

Or how about, "There are people suffering more than you, so you really have nothing to cry about.  You just have to move on."

Yeah.  Those words are really going to help me feel better, bitches.

Anyway, I'm learning that nothing anybody says or feels really has anything to do with me, because they have no fucking idea what it's like to be me.

I just laid for a week trying to breathe my way out of a 4 day stretch of choking on my own breath because of flashbacks of every trauma that has ever happened since I was 7 or 8 right up to my fucking motorcycle accident.  All of which just so happened to be triggered by the loss of The Golden.

Those people will never understand what it's like to have major P.T.S.D.

Well, fuck you and your fucking self help 'wisdom' mother fuckers.

I'm back.  And I'm feeling like I'm ready to take on that nasty mother of a world again.

I had some fierce little pills that took me for a scenic little stroll of La-La-Land for a few days.  You see, if you're so zonked out that you are close to a coma, you won't choke on your breath from a 4 day long panic attack.

There ya go.  You learned something new.  Glad I could help.

Anyway, I'm back and I'm pretty sure, bitchier than ever.

With a little hint of gratitude.

What can I say?  I'm a fucking Gemini.  Only this here Gemini has more than 2 sides.  You don't wanna mess with me.  I can wreck your whole day.

Good fucking g*d I got off track.

... what else is new, brain injury girl? ...

I wanted to share about 'what really matters'.

All that really matters is I'm on track in my life.  Where I am is where I'm supposed to be; with my wandering spouse who has taught me about love.

He has taught me that love isn't about cuddling up to a couple of funbags, or stroking a soft chin, chest, thing or stomach that has no hint of hair.

Love is mi esposo, who nursed me through my lack of oxygen for all those days and helped me come to the conclusion that it was time to stuff some pills down my yak.

That or bring me to the loonie bin for a little 'respite'.

I chose the pills, but I know he would have come to visit me if I was in my 'special' place with padded walls.

And that!!  Is all that matters.

He's cool with that psychosis of a Gemini that periodically pokes her head out to stir things up a bit.  I think he finds her a bit entertaining.  You know?  That someone could possibly be as crazy as him?  Or dare I say, crazier?

Yup.  I'm his girl and he's my guy, and we're makin' plans to wander a little bit further.

We're on an expedition on this eternally bumpy 4x4 ride, each on a sexy little quad.  Mine's all decked out in sparkles and boa feathers and his is decked out with faux tattoo shadings and great metal fangs on it's front bumper, ready to chomp the fuck out of the next hill that tries to tell us 'no'.

I suppose now that I'm back from the depths of my Pit of Doom, it will be Papi's turn to take a nose dive.

Hey.

At least we share.

i am valuable

i'm trying ...

She hasn't had time to really find out how I am, so she said what everyone else thinks, "Sorry you're so sad about losing him."  She, as does everyone, thinks I'm only mourning.  I wish that were all it was.

I know in the past, writing has helped.  It's just that I haven't been coherent enough to write.  However, today, this little page called to me from my bed.  I felt I needed to purge my words of all I've felt since Saturday.

After our ridiculous fight, I tried to go to the synagogue to find some healing.

I play a hand drum they have there.  I play because I don't know all the songs, and sometimes, it's nice just to play to be a musical addition to their energy, even if I don't use my words.

The problem is, I was told it was the wrong thing to do.  Apparently, I made The Guardkeeper spirit angry at my Rabbi, because way back when, there was a rule about nobody playing drums while people are singing.  Good g*d!  I make trouble everywhere I go.

Anyway, because I was in a place of weakness, in my embarrassment, I cried.  Everyone there thought I was only crying because I was told not to play the drum.

I had to explain that my dog just died, I had a fight with my spouse about me being 'wrong', then I came to the synagogue for healing, but was told I was 'wrong' again.  All of this, with the compounding stress of the disappearing days on The Countdown has me in a bit of a tizzy.

I told them, "If this had have been any other time in my life, I would have blushed about the whole 'drum thing' and gone on singing."  Not this time.

That evening, Papi dealt with his grieving about The Golden, and witnessing his way of dealing with pain broke me.

I went into a physical meltdown, whispering through my drooling, hyperventilating tears to the 'g*d' that doesn't exist to 'please help me get off the floor!'  I was begging to The Golden, to my Dearly Departed Gypsy and to my Great Grandmother to please help me.

Anybody!  Please!  Help me?

With shaking limbs, I was stranded on the floor in fetal position.  It was over for me, I was sure.  I was going to die from emotional pain, just like I thought I would when I was a tiny little girl when my P.T.S.D. first arose.

When I was that child, I was afraid to go to sleep.  If I were to sleep, I may never wake up, because my debilitated heart would stop beating, and I would die.

In this adult moment of a mental collapse, every single horrid experience life handed me flooded my mind in one massive tsunami of P.T.S.D.  Since that moment, I've had 6 days of not being able to find my breath, fearing I may choke.  Not to mention, pass out from the lack of oxygen I'm pulling in.

I've had 6 days, where every time I close my eyes, everything comes rushing towards me; my motorcycle smashing into that car ... a fork aimed at my head as it sliced through air, because I wasn't home in time for dinner ... the fist of a former lover smashing my chest in anger, because I said something wrong.  You name it, it came straight toward me, re-injuring my fragile mind with fresh wounds.

Sometimes, there is nothing I can even identify coming at me.  These 'things' come so fast and frantic I don't even see them, but every single time something rushes towards me, it sends bolts of electricity through my body and I flinch.

My breathing won't calm.  You know when kids have those after shocks from crying?  That breathing in short choppy spurts?  I'm getting it all day long.

All ... Day ... Long.  Long.  So very long.

I'm moving through quicksand.  Even as I try to pick up a glass of water from the side table, it feels like lifting a 25 lb weight.  It then takes all my strength and I'm down again.

I can barely keep my eyes open, yet I don't sleep.  I just stare at the little silver rings.  They're strong enough to hold the white, floor length curtains on brushed nickel rods in Our Closet.  I wish they could hold me.

I shouldn't say I don't sleep.  I lost a day there.  I slept a cool 17 hours from Tuesday to Wednesday evening.  Papi came in to wake me up, afraid that it was true; that I could die from emotional pain.  I ate a few bites, listened to Papi's history of the day and went back to bed, sleeping a full night again.

Still, here I am, staring at the mock silver rings that can't hold my weight.  Here I am.  Speaking words, that come out of my mouth even though they don't sound like they're mine.

I'm on another plain right now.  This is not sadness, nor is it grief.  This isn't even Hurricane Andréa.  I'm much too silent for that.  This is one mother fucking spate of P.T.S.D. that hunts me like prey.  I have to stop running and allow it to take me down and swallow me whole.

This Pit of Doom is nothing I've ever experienced.  This is physical.  I don't move from the La-Z-Boy, lest I collapse from weakness.

None-the-less, I must be getting better.  I'm writing.

i am willing to release all fear

big honking mess.

I didn't think it was going to happen.  I'm bloody nervous.

I could tell something was up a few days ago, when my appetite was becoming a tad ravenous, yet I'm not having PMS.

I'm eating so many carbs that I've actually felt my clothes tightening.  That doesn't do good things for my bitch of a back.  Keeping my weight low is wayyyyyy better for the pain.

Not to mention, my candida could errupt.  Too many carbs are about the same thing as eating processed sugar all day long.  I don't need to deal with those repercussions right now!

Then, for 3 nights in a row, I've had a pounding heart.

I'm no stranger to panic attacks, only mine are usually limb flailing dramatic, taking form of a lack of breath and my body parts disappearing one by one.

OK.  It's not that I can't see them.  I'm not delusional, yet.  It's just that I can't feel them.

When they happen, even my head feels like it's a mile higher than my neck.

Anyway, I thought I was going into cardiac arrest.  It actually made my fists begin to clench.

I remember being so tense in life that it was normal that I had that much tension in my body.  I would brush my teeth with one hand, and the other hand was a full fledged fist, ready to pop any predators who tried to sneak up on me in my compromised state.

Well, I had clenched fists the other night as I was trying to do my nightly 'distract my brain so I can sleep' crossword puzzle.

I texted Papi, my pill pusher, and asked, "Do you have anything for anxiety?  I think I'm going to have a fucking heart attack!!"

He offered up the only thing he had in his bucket of fun, a sleeping pill.

The next night it happened, he had some low dose benzos to offer.  They helped.

Last night?  He decided to suggest the big kahuna: a combo sleeping/anxiety pill.

I popped that little culprit, then set my alarm to wake up for my Google+ skype coffee date.

This morning?  My eyes man!  They wouldn't open as I very ungraciously groped around for the suspect siren that was going off.

I would have actually preferred to stay in the nightmare I was experiencing, rather than try to reach consciousness.

My head!  I was counting the seconds until my pain killers kicked in.  That and I prayed the coffee fairies would 'poof' make my coffee appear like magic.

Oh.  Speaking of the coffee?  I cracked my morning egg into my coffee urn.  That was nice.  Then, I cleaned it out and started again.

With a lack of patience, I waited for my water to boil.

And waited ...

And waited ...

I would've been waiting a long time if I hadn't have noticed the burner was never turned on.

But hey!  My toast was ready before everything else.  That's a tragedy.  At least it got the toast in my yak to start my brain thinking better.

Jeeeeeeezus!  That little pill won't be a repeat tonight.

Somehow, I have to find a way to get through the night without Papi's magical pills.  He's trying to turn me into a zombie!

I thought my eye twitching from the new pain killers was already annoying enough.  Well, they certainly are flickering faster than a fluorescent bulb now.

So, it's confirmed.  I'm scared.

I suppose I'm granted that, because people don't go through life changing moments like this every day.

My friends told me how proud they are of me and my bravery.

Would you like to come see me just before I pass out and say that again?

I'm a wreck.

i love and accept my body as it is, and work to make it better

let's make a deal.

So, Papi comes home, bright and early from a long graveyard shift, and announces, "Ok.  We need to make a will."

Fair enough.

We now own property together, and I've been given the green light to start a retirement savings plan that is for people with disabilities.

It's really cool!

I'll tell ya, it isn't too often the government will actually give us money, so I jumped on it.  They will actually match up to $3,500 I put in.

So we did some wrangling with our finances and got'er did!

Not to mention, Papi has the nest egg from his partial early inheritance.

Oh, and the fact that we're taking some big risks soon is another reason we perhaps should be thinking about it.

So, I agreed, "Yeah, we need a will."

But then he continued, "If you cheat on me or leave me, I get The Mrs."

Not the house.

Not the RRSP, or the nest egg.

The Mrs.

He believes that he loves that cat more than I do.

Let me tell you, with the fucking animal kingdom we have to deal with in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft, she really is the only good one.

Perhaps, it's because she's the only girl and the rest of the orangutans are boys?

... like we need to ponder the nurture vs. nature theory ...

It's just her and I in this male soup.

Anyway, he really only wants to make a will because he wants The Mrs.

Now, the other half that made me giggle, was the 'fooling around' or 'leaving him' part.

People just don't get the depth of my monogamy.

I am probably the most monogamous person on the planet.

Honestly.

Once I fall in love, there is only one person my heart is given to and with all the P.T.S.D. this femme has to deal with, 'fooling around' isn't taken lightly in my books.

No, there has to be trust in my bed.

I'm lucky in the fact that even though I've had numerous partners cheat on me, I've never been jaded by it and turned into a cheater myself.

I just kept on keepin' on until I found the one that wouldn't cheat.

So, Papi, you're safe there, and I trust you like nobody else.

As for the leaving thing.

Did you not hear the first part?  I mate for life.  I've only left because I wasn't treated like I deserve to be, or I haven't found what I want in a relationship.

Seriously.

Do you not see how much we've endured since the beginning of our relationship, not to mention the past few years of all we've toughed out?

Oh, I think you know I'm not going anywhere.

I'm pretty sure it was only a joke about the will.

Besides, this isn't a will we're talking about here.

We're talking about a contract or a post-nup.

Ok.

Here it is in black and white for the world to witness.

"I, Andréa Hector-Brown, do attest that if I ever leave or cheat on my dearest Papi, I will relinquish all rights to The Mrs."

There ya go baby.

Oh how I love you, Papi.

i am loved

guilt. please leave?!

Orange juice.

I only drink it when I'm sick.  It's tasting so good.

I don't know why I can't stand the taste of water when I have a sore throat.

Guilt.

I have it whenever my plans have to change for a virus.

It's feeling so bad that; (a) I made food for Shabbat and can't go because I'm sick, and (b) I had plans to go see the super fantastic band, Lisa's Hotcakes, and now I can't go.

It's not just any band, it's my friends' band.

Two of the lovely friends that are on the list to spend time with, and share their energy before I take off for my first long stint in the Dominican Republic.

So, I guess I have a good day of studying Spanish and Hebrew today.

I hope my foggy head will let those words and symbols set in!

I'll also have some time to study about Hanukkah.  This will be my first time celebrating it.

I don't have to deal with the guilt from those damn Catholics.

Fear god!?!?!

Right dudes.  I can't fear something I don't believe in.

Jesus was a Jew.

I can believe he existed.  But I don't believe he was magic.  He was just a good Jew soul that wanted peace in the world.

I've just learned Jews don't believe in hell.

Another good one is that I don't have to use the word 'god', but rather that you don't say it and it becomes g*d!!  I'm so grateful!

I'm finding so much more that I can relate to.

Don't worry.  I'm not turning into some religious zealot.  I still don't believe in g*d.

And the Jews are ok with that.

Mind you, I'm going to a reform synagogue.  They're much more liberal and inclusive. 

I get to be me.  No fucking guilt. 

Except for the fact that I swear too much and I know that occasionally, Rabbi Laura comes here to read and I feel guilty about the fact that I'm being myself on my blog.

That and that I have a bit of a violent energy when I'm talking about predators.

However, even with that, I've learned that I'm allowed to be myself, because there's no way I could be perfect.  I just need to know what I need to work on and it will get better.

Oh, I know.

I know that no matter where I go, day or night, I constantly and consistently look over my shoulder for the plausible creeps of the world.

I know that when I'm standing idle, I settle myself with my back to a wall, to be sure there's no crud standing behind me awaiting their opportunity to strike.

I know that when I cross the street, I look every direction, non-stop, for cars that could potentially hit me.  I do this until my feet hit the sidewalk, then start looking over my shoulder again for scum of the earth behind me.

I know that I need to stop thinking about the revenge I can get on all these people.

I know that I need to stop the P.T.S.D.

Only then will I be open enough to allow positivity in every way come into my life.

I know that I have a lot to learn.

I also know that the NyQuil has kicked in and I'm feeling a hell of a lot better.

I also know that I'm definitely sick.  I think I've jumped around about 5 topics.

Coma time.

i enjoy being positive and having positive feelings

gun therapy. oh yes.

While we were talking to the housekeeper at Casa Paraíso, telling her with all our sadness that we can't hire her full time when we move there, she told us in her broken English, "Get a pistol."

This is not because we won't hire her full time.  We told her she will be part of our family and that we'll take care of them best we can.  We already have plans in place to make them our DR Family.

She told us that the bandidos would come to rob us if they're not there full time, because we're gringos.

At first it was a little alarming, until I realized I finally get to have a gun and get to go back to the shooting range for practise.

Of course, people are a little worried about us, but I'm trying to reassure everyone we're going to be just fine.  

We're cool with it.  We love guns and I've always wished I had one to protect myself from predators.

I know that if I had one when I was younger, I wouldn't be living with P.T.S.D for the rest of my life.

I guess I will have to work on my anger management before we have an Uzi.

Also, there will be no sugar in my system to make sure there are no ocean side Hurricane Andréa sightings.

None-the-less, I promise you, this little femme will not hesitate to protect my home and family.

I also know, once we get the reputation for not taking any bullshit, the opportunists will leave us alone.

Not to mention, once we become a part of the community and show that we're there to help, not take, they will not want to diss us.

They don't diss family like people do here in our fair city of privileged white boys who don't give a shit about elders or children.

They respect those who respect family, and these lovely caretakers will be our family.

Dammit, I can't tell you how excited I am to start my target practise on Saturday.

I also have a couple of good friends who I've asked for help to get the best out of my practise.  One is my drummer from HECTOR who is the baby daddy of My Godson, The Turkey.

The other is the Godfather of The Turkey.  He's cleared to carry guns, and regularly goes to the shooting range to keep up his chops.

I'm sure they'll both want to get me the best I can be.

Envision this: I'm lying in my hammock, sipping on coconut water I got from our coconut palm in our yard.  The salty ocean breeze is drying my hair from the morning's ocean pain relief for my bitch of a back.  I may or may not have a missing tooth with a stalk of hay hanging from my mouth, instead of a cigarette, because cigarettes are gross.

Someone comes on the the property thinking that this li'l gabacha is an easy target to get past to take her items.

Wrong mother fucker.

See this Saturday-night Special?  I know how to use it.

He takes a step closer and the dirt beside him erupts from a bullet.  That is a warning, and one warning is all he gets.

I'll be sure to let him know the next one goes into his leg, prohibiting him from taking any steps closer.

That will take care of our reputation and will be the only time someone bothers to try and take advantage of us.

So, this weekend, I start target practise.

Perhaps, I should find myself some anger management to go along with it.

That, and there will be no sugar in my system to make sure my chemical imbalance is in check.

Good thing Papi and I don't drink.  There could be some troubles in Casa Paraíso if that were the case.

Lord knows that sliver of my Irish heritage comes out when I drink, and I become a leprechaun.

Just add alcohol and a gun.

i have deep faith and belief in myself