lord help me.

Yay!

The internet is back on!

But now I can't remember what I was going to write about.

I had my thoughts all ready for an entire blog-o-rama monologue for you.

No idea now.

The other day, I was watching Jon Stewart and his guest was writer David Mitchell, who helped facilitate someone with autism write about what it's like to live with the disability.

He can't hold a conversation with someone, but he can communicate by typing quite well.

I immediately was reminded of my ICBC case when the lawyer said, "You so eloquently write in your blog every day.  You're trying to say that you have brain injury?"

It's so hard for people to understand my lack of memory.

Just a few days ago, Papi spoke about his drivers licence that he had renewed in Vancouver.

I said, "It came that fast?!?"

He sighed and replied, "Yes, and you've said the same thing twice now.  That it came so fast."

All I can do is giggle and accept that this is my brain now.

Now, I'll remember, and then move on to something else that I have no idea I asked about prior.

Or said prior.

Or did prior.

It's a crap shoot as to what I'll actually remember.

I have selective memory, only I don't get to choose what it is I remember.

Get stressed or over-tired?  I lose even more.

Yesterday's Spanish lesson was a gong show.  I couldn't even remember words I'd learned in Canada 4 months before we came here.

But I remember them today.

Papi thinks I use it a lot to my advantage.

That I just say I don't remember things.

Then I get stressed out about him saying that and I forget even more.

"How can you forget something so important?!?!?" I hear on a frequent basis.

Selective memory loss.

I feel like a bouncy orb in a pinball machine.

I just bounce from thought to thought, yet here, in my blog, I am able to stay focused on the topic most of the time.

At times, I fall off topic and start another one, realizing I've digressed after reading what I was already writing about and get back on track.

Yes.  I can write much better than I can remember, and generally, it takes me a good hour to write this short page, because as I read back what I've written, it triggers memories of other points I wanted to say.

But dammit if I can remember what I was going to write about.  Maybe the fact that my body is turning into a great whale from lying around all day?

I can't even tell you what I see in the mirror every day, and today we have to go meet with a bunch of expats for a DR1 Forum meet up.

I feel like crap.

I don't want to go meet people looking so horrible.  Then there's the fear of seeing the creep again.

My hair?  Maybe I was going to write about how my hair looks like a fire hazard on my head, or that I have found a hair dresser and now I just have to get the funds to pay for that cut.

Or maybe that I'm losing my mind because I'm not playing music?

Who knows what the hell I was going to write about.

All I know is, I wrote a blog today.

Good enough for me.

Oh fuck.  I just remembered and now I finished the blog.

OK.

I'll make a draft to write about the guy who attacked the tourist outside on our beach, tomorrow.

Fucking hell.

i have non-stop daily determination to reach my healthy weight

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

i can do this.

OK.

So I'm a sick puppy.

I never said I wasn't.

Papi said it's not right of me to speak publicly about just how deranged I can get at times.

Hey!

What kind of entertainment would you have if I didn't?

Anyway, I'm feeling a lot less self-destructive today, although I now have to deal with the Anorexia Monster who took over 3 days ago.

Still, this is a substantial start.

We spoke last night, long after his 'normal drinking' didn't lead to doom and destruction, and he told me it's also not right of me to talk about his business.

Fair enough, I apologized.  I'll do my best to keep this to my problems.

However, I'll tell you something.  Someone out there, right now, is going through the same fucking emotions as I'm going through right now.

They're dealing with the same pain.

They need to hear that they are NOT alone and can get through it too, by being honest.

I am not ashamed of my lunacy.

It is who I am.

I was born this way.

Trust me.

I put my mother and my baby sister through hell when my utter unsound mind kicked in at the age of 10.

I was given the gift of music to help me through these times, only I can't use it right now, because my recording system is so fucked up.

So, I have to do what I can to survive these emotions.

My best technique is to write to 'you', who are either here to enjoy the madness, here to see that I'm ok, or here to relate.

But hey, the crazed cleaning was pretty nice.  I've never had a house so in order.

Judge me and call me crazy if you like.  It's the truth.

I know WHO I am.

I also know I'm married to someone who shares similar mental illnesses.

Having those that are slightly different is what makes it difficult.

I will trust his 'normal drinking' for now.

All he asks, is that I trust him to only want it for hanging loose in the beautiful Caribbean and not for the annihilation of his spirit.

All I ask is that I'm shown he loves me.

I felt that his drinking meant he didn't love me enough, and was trying his best to rid me of his life.

He does love me, and there's no way for me to tell you how he proved it, because you could never understand the connection we have.

As long as I have his love, I can pretty much get through anything.

I will get through this with some trust and a lot of love.

Many people have sent me their angels.

Thank you.

They have been received.

I am out of the Pit of Doom today.

Just because I am loved by mi esposo, I am not crying today.

Just because I am loved by so many friends, I have some peace today.

Just because I begged the angels to get me through this, I am trusting my love.

He had his 'normal drinking' last night and he didn't die.

I will do my best to trust that he can do this.

I know he loves me.

That's all I need to get through this.

For now.

i release any desperation and allow love to find me

if i could pop you like a zit ...

Communication in the Dominican Republic doesn't need to have a language barrier to make it difficult.

It just isn't their strong suit.

Mind you, it's not the strong suit of some friends who seem to have gone dorment since this all started, echoing the experience after my motorcycle accident, when people just didn't know what to say, so instead of supporting me, they merely vanish along with their awkwardness.

All I can say is, I'm grateful for the few that have said words of strength.  YOU lift me up.

"Come back on Monday for the biopsy, the doctor will be ready," said our attending.

So, I freaked out all weekend, having never had a biopsy before.

I had panic attacks.  I cried.  There were more than a few Hurricane Andréa sightings as I was at the bottom of the Pit of Doom once more.

No matter how hard I tried to calm down, my mind just whispering, "Monday, you're mine.  Monday, it all comes down.  Monday ..." like some stalker calling me on the phone every hour to torment me.

Only, I couldn't hang up.

Well, Monday came and I was a mess.  I had done so well the day before with everyone telling me it was just a cyst and I actually felt that I believed it, but the day came and I was hooped again.

Off to the hospital we went, and after 2 hours of waiting the appropriate Dominican Time to see the doctor for our 2:30 appointment, he asked us, "So, what can I do for you today?"

Really?  You're for real right here?  Papi and I looked at each other with disbelief, like he'd just barfed shards of glass through our already thin skin.

We started from the beginning of the story, sounding monotonous, because the story now FEELS tiresome.

He had me disrobe right there, felt Mr. Lumpy for a moment then said, "It's probably benign, but we should do the test anyway because it's on the lymph node.  Come back tomorrow after fasting for the blood tests and after the results we'll book you a biopsy."

You're fucking kidding me, right?  I panicked all weekend for you to push around Mr. Lumpy and tell me to go starve myself?

Now I have to deal with this bullshit for a few more days?

Well, we did what we were asked, and the blood tests were ready for that afternoon and he went over them and told us to come back tomorrow for the biopsy at 9 a.m.

We were there, he wasn't.

He showed up around 11.  Dominican Time.

The biopsy was finally done at about 12:30.

It really didn't hurt all that much, so really, I was afraid of nothing.

Again, he said, "It's probably benign."  The only problem is, there's a mark on my mamm where the needle went in, but that's not where Mr Lumpy resides.

Mr. Lumpy is about 3 cm lower, and my damn tit is still just as itchy as it was the day I started complaining about it.

Now we wait for a week to find out that the results say, 'benign', then we go for a 2nd opinion.

After that, I carry my ass off to Canada to get the cancer gene test, where I get to go be in pain from the temperature difference.

I'm so sick of all this that I just don't even care anymore.  I honestly don't.  I'm done crying, I'm done being afraid, I'm done worrying.

I'm fucking pissed off.

This was not what moving here was about, but all of a sudden it's all about Mr. Lumpy.

Well, you know what Mr. Lumpy?  You can just fucking sit there and do whatever you have to do for a week.  For a month.  I don't care.

Grow if you want to, go away if you get bored now that I refuse to be entertained by you anymore, but Mr. Lumpy, I'm done.

The depression Mr. Lumpy has put me in has robbed me of all strength and energy.

This is not living.  If you're going to kill me, get it over with.  If you're not, then fuck off.

If I could pop you like a zit, you'd be MY victim.

Go bug someone else your own size.  Like a cockroach.

At this point, I feel if this really was something sinister, I doubt my angels would put me through the wringer to find out.

I'm through with your pestering.

loving myself heals my life ... i nourish my body and soul

The Vacation - Part 1

I can't tell you how hard that first day was.

Nothing like being stuck in a car with someone who has just ripped your heart out, and knowing that you have to spend at least 3 hours in the car with them.

True to my suicidal nature, I was not mentally well.

I don't know that I would ever take my own life, but I'll tell you, I will beg the angels to do it for me.

Every car that Papi passed on the left, I would say to the angels, "Do it now while there's a car coming at us.  Head on collision.  Take us out together.  We're both suffering."

We could go together and live in a place where the pain would stop.

I didn't wear my seatbelt, because I thought for sure I could will an oncoming semi-trailer to do us in.

When Papi finally asked me why I'm not wearing it, I was honest, "If I get into another accident, I don't want to suffer through the pain again.  I just want to die in an instant.  I want this all to end."

Let it be known that when Papi relapses, we both suffer.

He has to live with the pain of a spouse who becomes suicidal.

I've lived with way too many alcoholics and drug addicts to know that this disease doesn't allow for love.

It robs all inklings of love.  I can't lose my soul mate to this.  Losing Papi to alcohol would be the final straw of my life, that seems to have so much goodness, but seems to be balanced out with so much pain at the same time.

He begged me, "Please, I don't want you to be unhappy.  I don't want to drink anymore."

"But you will.  You can't help it.  You're an alcoholic."

In frustration, mi esposo replied, "Can you just trust that I won't drink during this trip to the capitol?  You can go back to not trusting me after, but we're going for a mini-vacation.  Let's try to enjoy it and you can hate me when we get home."

He didn't get it.  "I don't hate you.  I couldn't ever.  I don't think you have any idea how much I love you.  But how do you expect me to just 'let this go'?"

I couldn't.  I didn't.

Until we actually hit the city.

We had pulled over so I could drive for part of the highway, while Papi slept off the effects of the alcohol the night before.  It was getting too dangerous for his bleary eyes to keep looking at the road, and besides, it was a really good highway with very few insane drivers.

That was of course, until we hit Santo Domingo.

I was slapping Papi in the leg, pushing him, as I begged him to wake up.  "We're here!  This is it!!"

He told me to pull over, but I decided that I'd had enough stress and wanted to drive myself, so that I know what's around me and I was in control.

I haven't had enough control over the the past few days.

So, no, I would drive.

I scared the shit out him as I found my place in 4 lanes of traffic where there were no lines, nor were there any rules.

I cut off people without a care in the world.

... hit me ... go ahead ... i don't fucking care anymore ...

But somehow, while being scared shitless in this driving chaos, I managed to get us to the malecon.

Then Papi had enough.  "Pull over.  I can't take it anymore.  You're going to give me a heart attack."

So, I did.  Then all of a sudden I noticed that the traffic was calm.  There were no more crazy drivers.

While we drove along side the beautiful Caribbean Sea in awe of it's beauty, we were actually talking for the first time since his drunkfest the night before.

We arrived at the hotel, illegally snuck in Sir Bark-A-Lot, who doesn't make a peep when he's in his carrying bag, and up to the hotel room we went.

This is when the adventure really began.

A trip to Ikea was in order to finally get our bedroom suite started.  The day was not over yet.

This little trip took us to adventure, where our Vacation began, and our communication followed suit.

It was at that point that I apologized to the angels for asking them to wipe me off the planet.

I felt bad that I had asked them to help me die, after all the love they'd given me.

I've had suicidal thoughts since I was a child, but this was the first time I had ever apologized for them.

I do want to live, but I'm so tired and all I want is for my emotional pain to stop.

i love and honour myself

no hiding today

Here's yesterday's YouTube show.  There were some technical difficulties, so some of what I wanted to get on there didn't, but it's here none-the-less:

I cleaned my kitchen.

The counters are no longer sticky.  Most of the dishes are no longer globby and greasy.  My stove is spotless, including the years of stuck on grease that were never cleaned off.

I couldn't handle it anymore.  PMS does that to me.  I can't keep telling the Housemaid to clean it with Borax and she just wipes it down with plain water, regardless.

I can't ignore it, or get used to it like some people have suggested.

When I'm PMSing, I can't live with grime.  It's gotta go.  So, I did her job I've been asking her to do.

Today, we're going to talk to the Housemaid about trust and thievery.

She's going to pull out the aligator tears, in exactly the same way she did to convince us to keep her hired on in the first place.

My 'I'm sad and let down' face will trump her tears.  I promise you.

I am sad that I allowed myself to listen to people and give her a chance.  I am sad that she has ruined the majority of my clothing.

Oh, here's the newest one.  She ruined my bra.  No chloro needed.

Nope.  Ripped the wire right outta that bitch and left it hanging there on the clothes line.

It was my all function bra.  Not the pretty one that I sparingly use.  Not the earthy one that I don't mind the world to see, because it looks like a top.  And not the black one that I can only wear under certain clothing.

My white, all function bra.

It's not like I can just zip down to Change and grab another one.  Maybe I can get one shipped to me and hope for the best?

Today, we're going to talk about trust and honesty, and about how we have no more.

Then we're going to give her husband, the Dominican Daddy, a raise, because he's a really good worker.  Next the locks get changed so that she can stop thinking this is her house to do what she wants, then finally, fire her.

The thought of having our house back has Papi and I in a state of joy.

So much so, that Papi did The Happy Papi Dance yesterday!  The Papirazzi was in full form yesterday, so I got to catch it on film.  This means you will be able to enjoy it as well.

We do like our space alone.  We're two peas in a pod that way.

We don't feel like we've had our space, because we're looking over our shoulder all the time.

Papi's depressed.  He feels it's because his space is invaded as well.

He hides in the bed the whole time she's here, leaving me to deal with her on my own.

I got him back the other day.

Papi was sitting on our little outdoor seat, I was in the hammock, when all the kids arrived, screaming at the gate to be let in.

Sometimes, I equate them to a scary movie where the vampire is at the window tapping, "Let me iiiiiiiiiiinnnnnn."

But anyway, back to the story.

I slithered into the hammock so they couldn't see me and left Papi holding the brunt of it.

I was just lying there giggling as he waved every time they yelled.

At least he didn't give my cover away.

When they see me, they're be relentless.  "Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!  Andréa!" they yell, nonstop.  Kids seem to be drawn to me and won't leave me be.

Probably because I have an immature energy and they relate.  It's also because they know I really do genuinely love them, just not when they're not invading my space when I don't want them to.

Anyway, there will be no hiding in my hammock or the bed today.  We have to do a job that neither of us wants to do.  It will be good for us though.  We need to learn how to do it.

Today, we talk dishonesty, set boundaries, then when the time comes, we take back our space, and my clothes.

Did I tell you how clean my kitchen is?!?!?

Today, I'm moving on to the little nooks 'n crannies in the bathrooms that have me cringing every time I go to pee.  There's nothing else to look at but the 'ick' when you're stuck there.

PMS.

I need to clean.

i deserve to have boundaries, and my boundaries are respected

bossy boots in da house!

The pool is being filled with river water!

By tomorrow we should be swimming.  I was hoping for today, as I kinda put my back out yesterday and I'm in a little need of some exercise, pain free floating and fresh blood to pump into the spasm.

I forgot we have a walkway with a step now and I went down jarring my bloody back.

Of course it was because I was distracted.

This damn injured brain can't do two things at once, or there's trouble, and its balance is so horrific that I'm a permadrunk.

I was distracted because was angry about the Housemaid meddling in our business again and telling the workers what we wanted, when we have told her, and them, 20 times what we've wanted.

She wants to keep more of the money she wrangled from us.

Nope.  You steal that amount of money, you're giving us what we paid for.

But she kept on telling the workers, "No door.  Just a concrete wall."

Right.  We just moved to paradise on the ocean to look at a fucking concrete wall.

I don't think so.  We're having our wooden slats in front so that we can still look at the ocean, and that is the last word.

I had to get stern with her and tell her she is not in charge, that she works for me and that if she's going to talk about this, she talks about it with me and nobody else.

Then I had to remind her of our contract of what we agreed upon, and that we WILL be getting what we agreed on.  Period.

This exchange of hardheaded communication was while Papi was yelling at the entire neighbourhood.

You see, we came home from a quick shopping excursion to practically all our neighbours having a party in our yard.

Everyone was hanging out on our deck, sitting in our furniture, hanging out pool side, and kids and dogs were running around the yard.

I have to keep telling the kids to stay away from the pool to set up the ground 'rules', because I'm not being responsible for a drowning accident on my property.

But this was ridiculous.

So, Papi lost it after hearing that the Housemaid was trying to talk to someone in Spanish saying something contrary to what we agreed on.

He yelled at everyone, "If your'e not working get the hell out!  This is our damn home!  This is not a public park!  Go on!  Get the hell out!"

Oh, they didn't understand what he was saying literally, they just knew they should leave, NOW!

From that point forth, the kids stayed on the perimeter and just looked in.

It was then that the Pool Man's wife said, "You're a strong man now.  Now everyone will respect you. You won't have any troubles anymore."

The funniest part was, everyone just went on like nothing happened.

I know that in Canada, if Papi yelled like that, there would be much hostility, glaring of eyes, exchanges of hurtful words and perhaps even a fist fight.

Like I learned from my Spanish teacher back home, it's the way people communicate here.

You fling your arms about and puff yourself up, speaking louder than the one before you, and it's just the way it has to be if you want someone to listen to you.

I have to say, I was a little taken aback, because I'd never seen Papi that angry!

But then, I've never seen myself be so strict with someone who is trying to take advantage of us either.

When the Housemaid and I were finished communicating, I found a place in myself that was stronger than I'd ever seen.

I say that I have to teach the Housemaid how to clean, because from living in a shack her whole life, she doesn't really know what North American clean means.

But honestly, she's training us how to be firm, and the nicest part was, there was no disrespect involved.  It was just hard-nosed heart.

This morning when I let the puppies out to pee, ...

... not that they needed to, the floor was covered in puppy art for me this morning ...

... the workers just waved like they do every morning with a smile.

And you know what?  There were no kids running around our yard.

We're closer to the peace of Casa Paraíso we came for.

That light at the end of the tunnel is shining very brightly as I watch the last of the river water getting poured into our pool, and that damn wooden door is finally getting put up so that I can let the dogs run free.

Shine bright, light.

I can see you now.

i feel good about the way i do my job

self-loathing.

Sometimes, my emotions get too difficult to bear.

Sometimes, I can't handle it.

Sometimes, I really don't like myself.

Sometimes, it would be easier just to die than not have to deal with my feelings, because they're just so big they're hard to overrule.

I've fucked up so much in the past little while and last night was the worst one, because Papi was so angry with me.

I can't multi-task since my brain injury.

I can't retain anything in a conversation if my attention is on something else.  I need to focus on focusing if you want me to know important information, and when I'm stressed, it gets even worse.

When I'm stressed I can get lost in the city I was born in.  When I get stressed, I only get the first words and if I'm lucky, the last words of instructions.

We moved here for a better life, and I'm so grateful I have so much less pain, but all the sun in the world is never going to fix my injured brain.

I feel stupid and worthless.

I was already angry with myself for all my errors, and this emotion was made more challenging because I didn't get the full story from what Papi was needing me to understand.

I didn't hear everything he said.  I heard, "Here is money for the plumber."

I didn't hear the rest of the monologue, which was that he didn't actually know how much it would cost,  and to ask the man.

I was busy cooking, so I couldn't listen very well, not to mention, I was upset with myself for not checking the jar pasta sauce properly in the fridge and used up the next jar.  It was supposed to be for Papi, the plumber and I, but Papi had to go out to buy more and driving at night here is not very safe.

He put the crumpled wad of bills in my pocket as I cooked and ventured out to the store in fear of every minute the sun was setting.

I didn't hear anything Papi said past the money for the plumber is in my pocket, and even if I did hear it, I didn't remember.

I gave the guy the whole fucking roll of bills.  It was beyond the amount Papi meant me to give.

Papi was so mad at me that I couldn't handle the energy that was exuding from him.  I felt I had to go hide in the guest bedroom alone.

My alone place.

We can't be in the same bed right now, because the master bed hurts my back too much and cripples me.

We can't sleep in the guest bed together because there isn't enough room for the 2 of us and dogs, even if they are small.

Alone I cried self-loathing tears.

I hate myself sometimes and wish I could just be my normal self again instead of telling myself I'm a moron.

These are those times that I feel it would just be easier to die.

I'm hurting from people attacking us online.

I'm hurting from a lack of trust in our space.

I'm hurting from being in survival mode and needing to protect ourselves from so many people.

I am sure this will get better.  I believe it will when there aren't 30 strange men in my yard watching my every move.

I am sure once we don't have every child in the neighbourhood trying to play with our puppies and asking for food and money, we'll feel it's our home.

I am sure once we don't have a security guard begging for more money every night after we give him his earnings for his job, we'll feel less guilty for protecting ourselves.

I told the house maid that everyone thinks that just because we're white that we have a lot of money, but that it is not true.

I informed her that all our money is now taken from the wall, the pool and Mr. Extortion and we're living off credit cards.

I'm hoping she gets the picture.  It seemed like she did.

This morning, I'm feeling a little less on the suicidal side, but I'm pretty depressed.

This week's online attack of Papi and I, combined with exhaustion, begging from so many people, being taken by those we thought we could trust and the frustration of never have a functioning brain like I did before the motorcycle accident have taken their toll.

I am sure, once I can get back on my food plan, exercise in the pool and do my yoga, my body will compliment my brain and I will feel better.

i am intelligent

trust is broken

I couldn't write to you yesterday, because our internet was out in the morning.

Welcome to a developing country!!

So.  What we've now learned is we were overcharged for our wall.

By our house maid.  Who took a cut.

And she is the one who told the authorities to come extort cash from us about our wall, in which she took a cut of also.

This has disheartened me greatly.

Not to mention the fact that I have to rewash every dish she cleans, because they're not up to my cleanliness standards when they still have chunks of food dried on.

I've already had to talk to her about the bleach that ruined the only clothes I brought, all my favourites from Canada, and now I have to talk to her about the dishes.

I'm not paying someone to rinse them off and throw them in the rack.

I can do that, but I won't, because I'm a germaphobe.

Anyway, I now know that I need to be harder and tell her to clean things up to par.

I fucking hate this!  I'm not a 'boss' like that!

Unless, of course, you're on four legs and have an abundance of fur.

However, now I have to be with her.  I can't trust her, and I have to teach her.

Papi goes on to the DR1 Forum and chats with expats there.  They told him we have to train our house maids because they are not very good.

How can she not be?  She has been a maid forever!!!!!

I guess nobody wanted to tell her.

I also noticed that she does the bare minimum and then is 'done'.  She doesn't clean for the 5 hours we hire her for.  She sweeps, throws a mop around, rinses the dishes then does a load of laundry and leaves.

I had to wash the counters off because of the grease that had accumulated over the years that she never properly cleaned.

I'm so frustrated and I don't want to be a 'boss', but we're not paying her for fun people!!!  We're not so rich that we can give money away for free.  We could do without paying someone to be here, but she guilted us in to hiring her when we bought the house!!!

You see, the last people were guilted into hiring her and the people before them were, and so on and so on.

We also learned we have to get her to sign a document stating when she started working, because the other scam is that people will say they've worked for 7 years and sue for severance pay, even if they only worked for a month.

Now that we are learning about how people operate because of the colour of someone's skin, I understand how it becomes 'us' and 'them'.

It's NOT what I wanted.

I wanted to be part of the DR Family.

I wanted to have love from our new neighbours.

I wanted to immerse myself into their 'community'.

I wanted to be accepted for 'me', the loving, giving person.

I don't get to have that.

The Pool Man and his Dominican wife are teaching us all about how people operate their scams, and it has really saddened me.

The Dominican wife told us not to trust her.  That she is the one calling the authorities who extort money from us.

I wanted so bad to believe that she was trust worthy and have faith in her.  I was wrong.

We've been taken.

I didn't want to believe it, until I realized something about the temporary guard we have.

The first day we hired him, she told us he was $1,000 pesos.  The next night when we were going to pay him directly, she told us it's now only $700 pesos.

Why?  Because she took a $300 pesos cut the first night.

She wants us to hire her friends to do 'this' and 'that' all over the place here, even if they don't know how to do it.

No more.

I'm not hiring one more person from her, because I don't need to pay a finder's fee for every job that needs to be done, plus I need the job done by a professional.

Like the Dominican wife says, "They'll never tell you that they can't do a job."

Now, I have to be a 'boss', and I don't like it.

my confidence reigns in any business setting

THIS is fucking ridiculous

I'm hiding in the bedroom, doing my best to write to you today.  This is one of the days I wish I was already video blogging.  You really would have enjoyed Papi's baboon-like behaviour.

Seriously.  Arms were flailing.

I have to remember, we both have a lot of emotion around losing The Golden, but for fucks sakes!  He pissed me off enough to have me lose my sleep last night, and then I get up to more of his antics this morning when he came home.

He's on a rant about what I'm bringing to Casa Paraíso.  He says it's ridiculous.  Let me tell you what ridiculous is.  I couldn't even make my coffee without him trying to tell me how ridiculous my reverse osmosis water system is.

I need to drink water.  I can't drink their water.  Water heals me.  I'm bringing a system so I can drink the water.

So there I was trying to put my coffee into my urn and he was actually body blocking me, as if we were in a basketball game, "I won't let it go until you admit how ridiculous it is to bring this system," while I was grinding beans for my 2nd round of coffee, because he distracted me so bad on the first round, I fucked up the process.

Round 2: Pivot, water.  Pivot, beans.  Pivot, cinnamon.

Yes, he had me cornered in the very small of Our Closet, with his peacock tail fluffed, puffed out chest body, like a fucking dude in a bar showing who's boss.

To appease his nonsense, I tried to test the 'I'll let it go, if you admit how ridiculous this is' theory, so I told him, "OK.  I can admit that it's a bit large."  But do you think that was enough for him to now 'let it go'?

Oh, no.  He moved on to acting like a girl in that bar fight, snapping his fingers with, that 'bitch, I told you' attitude, all the whilst, spilling my coffee as he pranced about with every single thing I want to bring.

What's ridiculous?  Dragging it all out into the living room so that I could put it on my blog, in hopes that everyone would tell me I'm being ridiculous in wanting to bring things I can't buy there along with me.

I honestly can't even convey the act that's going on right now.

I can't even write without the feeling that he IS the Papirazzi.  The camera bulb is flashing, Papi's stomping around like an anger gnome, and the cats are nowhere to be found.  He's one step short of running to the mountain tops to scream out, "This is ridiculous!!!!!" in hopes that his bellowing echo could be heard all the way to the Dominican Republic.

Oh, here's the newest one he's brought out.  He's telling me they're going to think I'm bringing a bomb, which has quickly gone into him telling me it's just going to get wrecked.

THIS?  Is letting it go?

No, like I told him at the very beginning of his rant, "Even if I DO say it's ridiculous, you'll probably go on about it for the rest  of our 56 days."

Don't worry, I have ammo.  I'll just bring up the hissy fit about me wanting me to stop the medicinal cannabis because we're going somewhere they won't accept me using it, but then he goes on taking HIS medicinal cannabis for another fucking 3 weeks!!!

Yup, I'll be hearing about this until my dying day.  There I will be lying in my bed, all wrinkled and old, trying to gasp out my last breaths, with Papi telling me, "I won't let you die until you tell me how ridiculous it was."

Ridiculous is him purposely trying to get me to get pissed off.

He worked his magic of trying to piss me off all night last night and all morning today.  He just can't accept that when he goes into an anger rant, I shut down and don't say much, because I need to keep myself from showing my anger.

However, onward Papi went to test the theory.  Right down to, every time I poured myself a glass of water, he'd drink it.

Well, now I've locked myself in the bedroom to escape his shenanigans and enjoy my cup of coffee without it being spilled all over the floor every time he stomped by, ranting about how ridiculous this all is. 

This was seriously nothing you could ever capture in a few words.  Oh, how I wish I had a video blog up and running.  You'd understand my pain.

Here's his ridiculous photo:

 

You see that pink spot on the very right of this photo?

That was me trying to enjoy my mother fucking coffee.  You don't mess with my mother fucking coffee.

 i drink plenty of water to keep myself healthy

bloody knuckles

With the trickery of salmon, I lured them out of their hiding places.

It was an instant hide-and-go seek game with the cats, just add crates. 

As soon as those metal doors were opened, there were no cats to be found.  Thank god we only live in 454 sq. ft. of Our Closet.  It wasn't too hard to find them.

But the salmon did the trick.  It would do it for me as well.

Once in their miniature jail cells, it was time to bring all 5 of the Fuzzy Family to the vet for their Dominican Republic shots.

We got a sneak preview of what the hell will be like on the moving day.

From the pure terror these little buggers experienced, within the moments of us putting them in, there was piss and shit in one of the cages.

We'll have to bring along a lot of borax.  Or maybe a million towels that we can just lay down and throw away once the panic has set in for ~ ahem ~ certain cats.  I won't name the offender, so that this fluff ball won't be embarrassed by having their name spread in the interwebs for life.

There seemed to be a well choreographed, "I'll take this, you take that," and "I'll get the doors, and you take this."

Sometimes, Papi and I have communication troubles, but not yesterday.  We were totally in synch.

And today I am totally in pain.  I kinda knew my bitch of a back would give me grief after everything I did to it yesterday.

Oh, it wasn't just the animal kingdom we had to deal with.

I've never had so many things on a to-do list in my life.

Then came the Halloween fireworks.  The Golden was under the bed when I first woke up today.

Well, 'woke up' is not quite right.  I do say 'first' woke up because there are 3 layers to my 'wake up'.

1. Move my body from the bed to upright position, and follow my feet through to feeding the Fuzzy Family to shut those cats up before there is a murder.

2. Shove my body into whatever is handy and brave the piss pouring rain with the dogs so they can have their comfort before I do.

3. Drink my mother fucking coffee.

I am still nursing my coffee, begging it to bring me to life.

The new pills are kicking me in the ass.  There will be no more appointments made before 1 p.m. if I can help it.

Anyway, I'm scattered, tired, aching and really am just putting one foot down after another.

Well, there was one thing we did that wasn't on the to-do list.

Remember how Papi is a bull in a china shop?  He found a shop en route that would take him in on a whim, and he now has knuckle tattoos.

This is going to narrow down the job search options.

 

He likes to think it makes him look like he's been boxing.

Of course, I reminded Papi that if he gets tattoos, then so do I,  Hence, there will be another appointment added to the list for me.

i deserve health, energy and calmness

check mate, papi!

"Why would you do this to me?!?!"

"Because you wave your penis at me all the time."

Papi just doesn't understand the depth of my P.T.S.D.

It may look like I am laughing when he leaves that plastic one eyed monster lurking beneath items, but it's a laugh of fear.

I am one of 'those' who laughs nervously.

If I'm laughing too much, chances are I'm on edge.

When I first meet people they just think I'm always happy.

Nope.

I'm scared shitless of strangers.

People are capable of a lot of damage to one another.

They scare me.

As people get to know me, they see that I'm really quite mellow and shy.  I just overcompensate amongst newbies.

So, yeah, when those Plastic Penes are coming at me, mi esposo just doesn't understand that I'm actually quivering from flashbacks of past predators.

My way of making light and protecting myself is to make it seem like it's funny.

I deal with a lot of life's challenges through humour.

If I don't laugh, I'll cry.

If I cry, I have snot running down my face and my eyes swell, making it look like I've been in the ring with Mike Tyson for a moment.

That's just not sexy.

So, the torment I endure from my love's penis antics is less than pleasing, even if I do trust him.

I'm constantly saying, "Why do you do this to me?!?!"

Yesterday was Papi's turn to shudder in terror.

We all have our fears.  Anyone who says they don't is lying.

Papi has severe social anxiety, whereas I'm perfectly comfortable in the limelight.

One of my journey's of late has been to explore my Jewish heritage and Judaism.  I feel that my family keeping it a secret for so long is not honouring my ancestors struggles when they escaped the holocaust and fled to Canada.

I have had a great instinctual pull toward Judaism my whole life, but I didn't know why.

When I learned the reason for this connection, I searched for my people and I've been welcomed by an extremely positive Reformed Judaism community.

In fact, they're so inclusive, that even though I've only been attending the Sabbath every Saturday since this past spring, they've decided to give me a Farewell Blessing Ceremony.

It blows my mind that I could be included into this kind of love.

Anyway, my point is, they created this opportunity to send us off, and asked if I wanted to invite friends to be there to add to the awesome positive energy that will be bestowed upon us.

I didn't really tell Papi about it, because I know him too well.

If I had've told him, he would have put on his big boy whitey tighties and said, "Oh, HELL NO!!!!!"

Hence, I went ahead and did it anyway.

Now he's going to have attention.

Hehehehehe.

Sometimes, our marriage seems a bit like a back and forth game of 'got'cha!'

Your move, Papi.

And now, I'm off to go snorkeling to go find The Hotel Shark.

i enjoy my affluence and share it appropriately

psycho kitty.

Phew!  That feels a little better.

We got to talk about a little more of how each of us are feeling, plus got to have a less stressful day.

Much better.  Back on track.

I suppose it was just the finality of everything getting settled, meaning it's time to prepare for the next step, which is really quite scary.

The fear won't stop us from following our dream we've been preparing for for years, we just need to communicate more.

I've never had such great communication in my life that is outlined by the worst communication.  I don't know how to explain it, but it's odd.

We both take our turns at being the loon in the house.

Problem is, since the beginning of The Great DR Purge, the sale of the house, g'ma being put into the home, The Uncle helping us out, moving to Our Closet and preparing for our trial, we both took our turns at being the crazy one at the same time.

That's no good.

We usually swap, therefore, the one is able to calm the other down.

But when we're BOTH wacked?  No good.

Anyway, speaking of wacked, I've been trying to give the cats less and less Rescue Remedy in hopes that maybe they'll just be sane.

Wrong.  The Tom Cat Operetta is back in full swing.

I contacted a TV show, where they come in to see your psycho kitty and try to get them to be calm and stable.

It's appropriately called Psycho Kitty.

They loved the idea of filming our demented fuzzballs.  Who wouldn't?

A close loss of an eye, screaming cats and great wads of fur being torn from their bodies makes for good drama. 

Especially when they're trapped in Our Closet of 454 sq. ft.

She said of all the applicants who wrote in, we were the first they called, because it sounded 'so funny'.

I sent them pics of all of us, including me holding my gun to show how desperate I am for harmony in the home.

The good part about the show is the free cat behaviourist who comes to help you and your critters.

It's kinda like The Dog Whisperer, only it's for psycho kitties.

When the Rescue Remedy worked, it was great, but I think leaving them on so much medicine for so long is not good for their tiny fuzzy bodies.

Mind you, that's better than blood and guts flying everywhere.

This kitty filming adventure will be a month after we've actually bought a home in the Dominican Republic!!!

We were instructed to go on line and choose a few to see, so we gave her our top 10, then gave her another 25 that we were interested in.

She said, "Well, that's quite a few.  Perhaps you could choose only 3 for the first day."

I think we need a reality show to follow us around there too.

Mind you, we won't need the publicity, considering the cats are going to make us super duper famous!  Don't you think?

People will swarm us and ask for autographs saying, "Hey!  You're the people who have psycho kitties!!"

We'll be more famous than The Beibs!

The whole, entire world will know us for our psychotic cats, screaming femme armed with water bottles, and a tranny with the Rescue Remedy chasing them around to get the goods in their ears.

Ok.  Maybe that's just a bit silly.

I can't even imagine how many people would tune in to a show called Psycho Kitty.

Well, I know I would, but I'm crazy that way.

everything is going to be alright

By the light of the moon ...

There's a very good reason for why I don't celebrate my birthday.

It's not because I've kept the secret of my age for so long and I'm afraid to admit I have a few crow's feet.

they're starting to look a little more like eagle claws with all the stress goin' on over here!!!! 

I don't celebrate my birthday, because there are so many expectations attached to the day.

It must be a fun day.

It must be filled with friends who adore me.

It must be a massive, positive celebration of how wonderful life is.

However, every birthday would come and all my expectations would be blown to bits, and I'd wind up crying in my beer.

That was, of course, in between chain smoking joints, and the beer could be exchanged with any other alcoholic beverage I could get my hands on, because it was my birthday dammit!  And I was going to be half lit so I couldn't remember any of it.

I stopped celebrating my birthday somewhere before I got clean and sober, and when that day would come along, I would silently tell myself how good my life is at that very moment in time.

Yeah, it hurt when nobody gave me a surprise party, but you know, nobody can give me a surprise party if they don't know when my birthday is.

See where I'm going with this?

Well, I'm shown again, that it's not ideal to place expectations on any day here on planet earth.  Life makes it's own decisions on how our day goes, and we have absolutely no control over it.

I was an utter emotional wreck, feeling like everything my love said was proposed in an angry manner.  The P.T.S.D. that I worked so hard to bridle was in full swing, and panic attacks were in abundance while being on the road, coupled with Papi telling me he had issues about this date as well.

This date represents so much for both of us, and I forgot that the other half of this relationship had to live through the motorcycle accident as well.

You'd think I would consider this, seeing as how I'm always fighting to be the other half that is respected in Papi's male transformation.

I mean really!  My love had to take care of me for a long time, from November 22, 2008 forward.  It's not that he is resentful for the time I had to be coddled, it's just that our life as we knew it changed on this day.

Mi esposo had a much different partner before this Living Day, as I was very strong emotionally and physically when Papi and I started dating.

On top of all of the above, this day is also the exact date that Papi started taking hormones, and I suppose I was too narcissistic about my Living Day, that I didn't pay attention to what was going on.

Consequently, I found out about the testosterone a few days later, and a psycho spouse was born, blubbering and catatonic in the La-Z-Boy, complete with drool and tears that could be confused for the epic snot from crying so much.

Not to mention the swollen eyes I'd wake to every day.

So, this is what this day brings for us.

My love and I don't ever fight, because we tend work things out with communication and humour.

However, on this day, Papi and I had the worst communication fail possible.  I wound up in tears and my love wound up feeling like he had to walk on egg shells, between saying the words I took as anger.

We had a ridiculous fights about nothing what-so-ever, really.

My day of gratitude ended when I swept The Golden's hair off the floor, and the rest of the day was a write-off.

Yet, it was still better than where I was 3 years ago.

And this, is the reason why I should probably take the same attitude with my Living Day that I take with my birthday: No expectations.

But hey, the evening got better, and I was also privileged to witness the full moon of the Tranny Terrorist.

That was Papi's way of making me laugh, and it worked.

Sorry I don't have pictures.

Roar.

Well, I can't seem to stay out of trouble.

Am I evil?

Nah.

I just know that not speaking our truth is what will kills us.

We need to get things out of our head and through our mouths before it will leave our souls.  At the same time, we need to find friends that can understand us, and in turn help us learn new ways of thinking.

We all don't fit in together which is what makes this life so beautifully fucked.

I love my life with my perfect soul mate.

except for when my bitch of a back wakes up or when papi eats mcdonald's ...

This soul mate that I saw as perfect before, is slowly, day by day becoming even more perfect.

The scars are easing like the fear I had of losing those soft pillows I loved so much.  The changes that I had hoped to come in my thinking are surfacing, and this amazing soul I'm married to is the same sweet soul on the inside.

It occurred to me when I read yesterday's comments that I was defending Papi and Papi was defending me.

I remember when this all started out, that my biggest fear was those with voices louder than mine.  I feared they would squash me like a bug for having feelings.

I felt I was the only one that felt the way I did, because all those who were vocally, supportively and visibly part of pushing this trans movement forward were the only voices my community wanted to hear.

So I wrote to an imaginary friend who wouldn't judge me.

that's right! don't double cross me bitches ... i'm craaaaaaaazy !!!

I felt I couldn't defend Papi if I wasn't strong enough to defend myself.  This is not a feeling of being whole.  I was grieving and needed to find my strength.

I have.

I'm good with how I handled some of it with imagery that helped me cope.  I like humour to heal.  I envisioned all of those who could 'potentially hate' my feelings as cheerleaders of gender transformation on the sidelines, who could shout louder and kick their legs higher than mine.

It's much nicer than the scary monster that kept me oppressed.

We're all different on the inside, and man, sometimes our insides are nasty bitches!

I'm not sure where all this is leading, but I'm going to tell you something, I like the dialogue.

I LIKE that people are talking and getting it all out.

Talk!

But try to put humanitarianism before politics, and know that we can't all live to better suit anyone else's ideals.

they tried to do that to me with religion.

No thanx.

I'm not sure who the language police are, but they haven't strapped me with a fine for using the word tranny yet, so, I will continue to label my spouse as such.

Papi is a tranny.

I'm married to Papi.

I have had to take a year to transition along with my spouse, and you can't tell me how it is I'm supposed to do it is wrong, or right.

I may have offended those with penes, by saying that I don't like them, but which part of lesbian don't you understand?

I am attracted to trans people, and this is the realization that I've come out of this whole thing with.

I love trannies.

I never knew I did, but now that I'm out of denial, I know this as my truth.

I also know that once you try to silence me, I yell a little louder.

So, go ahead.  Leave me comments telling me I'm not allowed to do something.

Ask my mother how well that went.

Thinking ...

Our day was good.

After the appointment in bum-fuck-nowhere that is.

You know when you know someone so well that there are things about them you learn that nobody else would understand?

One of those things I'm still trying to get wired into my brain.

When my love is anxious, it's hard for him to emotionally deal with anything else.

"Can we have a drive without any talking?" mi esposo asked me, as we were heading for our one and half hour drive.

omg ... no speaking for an hour and a half?!?

That's not so easy for me at the best of time, but when I've had pain killers, I get a little chatty.

to say the least ...

I also like to sing along with the radio on full tilt.  This was not going to work for someone who has cranky pants, so I asked, "Umm, is it ok if I hum?"

I was granted a nod of yes and that kept me happy.

My love is also sick with a flu.  That's not good for the mood either, but after the appointment everything was sunshine and rainbows again.

It took me that long to figure out that Papi was uptight about the surgery.

In the past, mi esposo had a secret stint with my codeine, and that made Papi an asshole.

I didn't figure out that he was dipping into my stash until our conversations turned into processing the bearish attitude that was raging in Papi.

However, there are no more of those horrid pills in the house, so when Papi's bad-humoured, it's for another reason.

I mean really, I should know what it's about.  I should know that I haven't done anything to make the crabby come out.  I get the same way just before a gig.

When I was a kid, you couldn't even be around me for a week prior to a piano recital.

sorry mom 'n sis ...

Anyway, after the appointment my love was happy again, and I realized that it had nothing to do with me.

I then had permission to be loose-lipped and sing along with the radio, which also came with apologies from Papi, who also figured out why he was so miserable.

One thing I do have to say about the hospital out there, is the people in Vancouver hospitals could use a bit of 'customer service' training from these folks.

The nurses were so nice there that I was shocked.  We don't get that kind of treatment here in the big city.

I suppose it's that laid back mentality of being in the sticks.

Whatever it was, I was impressed.

They treated Papi with respect and had absolutely no transphobic indications.  They asked curious questions which helped them learn more about transgender people.

There wasn't a creepy person in sight in the hospital, and Dr. Scissorhands was no where to be found.

The whole day went well, and I got to thinking about my own reproductive health.

Now normally, I would never let anyone near my uterus.  I've finally made friend's with that body part, even though it can't bear children.

However, I got to thinking about the risk of cancer in my family, and specifically that my mother and grandmother both had ovarian cancer.

Then I switched to thinking about the bloating and cramps that I could bid adieu if they snagged my uterus out of me.

Putting together the risk of cancer, cramps and inability to bear children got me thinking about whipping that organ out.

Thinking.

That's all.

I am feeling very positive about Papi's hysterectomy now.

It's a far cry from where I was 11 months ago.

I assume that once I see how much pain mi esposo will be in after surgery will stop my thinking about my own uterus.

I'm pretty sure about that one.

Lessons in transgender language.

There was a tense moment last night, when one of my blogger friends referred to Papi as my wife/hubby.

Apparently, my love dislikes the word 'wife' more than the pronoun 'she'.

oh how we learn something new every day ...

I've actually never called my love a wife, so I didn't know how much it bothered Papi.  We adopted the term 'husbutch' from someone in our community.

It worked for my masculine spouse.

When Papi wanted to change his given name, we searched for a long time to find one that would suit mi esposo.

I found it while I was playing a brain injury game to get my noodle rewired.  It was a game of serving people in a cafeteria, and I had to remember their order, plus their name.

One of the customers had the perfect name, and mi esposo's name change began.

It was easy for me to switch to Papi's new name, because of three reasons;

1) I was the one to find it,

2) I, too, didn't feel mi esposo suited the girly one he was born with, and

3) I didn't know the name would attached to a male transformation.

I mean really, my love is not a 'wife' in any way shape or form.

Ok.  Papi has one feminine attribute.  Have you ever heard a masculine person scream while killing a spider?  You would have to experience it to really know the full affect of it all!

Anyway, back on track!

So, now that I'm venturing back into the closet, mi esposo will be deemed my 'husband'.

I don't like it.  It makes me crawl out of my skin.

A lot of the time, when I have to refer to Papi in conversation, I use 'my spouse'.

I don't like that either, but it's the easiest way to get around it.  From the moment I call Papi 'my spouse' people automatically refer to my love as 'he'.

the invisible femme ...

I flail about with my pronouns and proper labels, while I skirt around the issue of it all, letting people figure it out on their own.

Papi doesn't really want any attention brought to the topic when we're out and about, but in the privacy of our own home, my love is stringent about training me with pronouns and labels that my love wishes to be addressed as.

I'm still not able to say 'he' out loud.  Somehow, writing it here is the only place I don't cringe.

Well, maybe that's not entirely true.  I do flinch when writing it here and I still try very hard to walk around the topic, using labels such as 'Papi', 'my love' and 'mi esposo'.

Something very interesting is happening, however.

Now that I'm hyper aware of pronouns and labels that people like or dislike, I've started becoming free of pronouns all together, even when it comes to strangers.

That's the time when I can use 'they'.  I refused to use that word not too long ago because it is grammatically wrong, but I have started to use it when I'm stuttering about labeling and pronouns.

It's like I have pronoun PTSD, and I don't use any for fear that I will insult someone.

In the queer community, people have become extremely sensitive about labels and pronouns, and some of us are having a hard time catching up.

I'm not a political person.  I'm just a creative person who loves people for their hearts, not their politics or gender.

I really do my best to conform with pronouns/labels in the way people prefer, but I'm human, and sometimes I screw up.

At the same time, I suppose it's my job to pass it on to the next person who's learning about transgender people as well.

My hope is that before I die, I get it flowing comfortably.  Guess we'll just have to wait and see.

I mean really, I have a lot of time to get it down before I expire.  People keep trying to kill me while I'm on the road, but somehow, I keep bouncing back.

Love Letter

I felt even more love for Papi yesterday.

My love apologized for making light of my phobia.

Mi esposo likes to rib me.  We have one of those relationships where one person does things to shock the other for fun.

Our life is full of laughs and 'stop its' and 'omg you're such a twit'.

Mainly coming from me.

I remember when I was a kid, my grandfather used to tease the hell out of me.  It hurt because I was so sensitive, but my family would say the same thing every time; "If he didn't tease you, then it would mean he doesn't like you."

I get that.

I also see that Papi's G'pa used to tease the hell out of G'ma, and in turn, my love teases G'ma and myself.

It's just a dynamic.

Some people don't like it, others, well, we enjoy the attention.

Like me.

I am a true attention whore and I'll take attention in any way shape or form.

insecure and needing validation much ?!?!

However, when Papi thought that teasing me with penes would be another way to get a rise out of me and a chuckle, my love didn't realize that it would do more damage than good.

Yet, the person that I love looked back at his actions and apologized, "I owe you an apology.  I have been insensitive about your issues."

My love admitted that it was just for fun, but didn't realize how it would make me upset.

While we were talking about it, I became that insecure little girl again.

I felt as though my words were a mere 'squeak' when they left my lips.

My shoulders rounded in to hide my body.

My head lowered and I looked up at Papi like I was infantile and repenting for being bad.

My hands were sheltered by the inside of my thighs.

I tried to disappear.

I shrank.

I squeaked.

It was so difficult to talk about it, hence I've kept it quiet for years.  I also kept the denial surrounding my fears down in the Pit of Doom.

I keep it there because I don't want to see it every day.

I saved it for when I felt strong, and I suppose that time is now.

I have the fortune of having a life partner who understands that he will never understand, but will try hard to be sympathetic.

I am not alone on this path.  There are many just like me who have been hit with the realization that it's time to deal.

This is why I have to wait 6 months to speak to someone about it.

We all have our own 'timing' when it comes to dealing with our 'stuff'.  It doesn't even matter what the 'stuff' is.

It's just 'stuff' and we've all got it.  You really can't get through this life without it.

We're all just guinea pigs on our own paths, and we don't know what each step will bring us.

I really feel my path is paved with love and good intentions.  My love has evened out the trail so that I don't have troubles walking on uneven ground.

Papi has also widened it so that I don't walk alone, but rather, mi esposo can hold my hand as we travel.

I fell a little bit more in love with Papi yesterday.

The apology gave me so much strength, and it wasn't even necessary.

I know my love's intention is never to hurt me, but we're human and we err.  Admitting our errs is what makes us a better friend, lover or partner.

I am safe.

Ghosts ... they're pretty scary.

"C'mere, open up."

It was meant to create a laugh, and I do laugh when I'm scared.

Ghosts.

They come back.  Every once in a while they get a heap full of advanced life support.

and hoooo ... it's a nasty visit this time round.

There are foods I won't eat because they make me gag.

bananas.  milk.  yogurt.

It also happens when I brush my teeth.

My body remembers physically what my denial won't allow me to think about.

I only have memories of the inflicted violations that I can handle.  Yet still, my ghosts make sure I know there is something I haven't seen.

Heart pounding, I finally opened up to Papi about my past.

Tears fell.

Frantically, I shared honestly about why there's some foods I can't eat and why my gag reflexes are so sensitive that when anything/anyone comes near my mouth, I salivate.  My mouth is making an effort to be a self cleaning oven.

or why i think my mouth won't open enough to even fit food in ...

Malevolence.  Malignity.  Malice.

Their need for power has slain so many of our spirits.

I just never thought I would have to look at my ghosts again.

They hover, just waiting for the right time to become translucent, then opaque. Today they're pretty solid and I'm scared.

My love resurrected the packing penises.  They make his transgender body feel more complete in it's surroundings.

Papi came at me in a moment of Tranny Terrorism.  His phallic weapon was poised to maim, and I laughed.

I gave in to fright.

My love didn't know that I had more issues to work on, because I didn't know myself, until today.

I had accepted the packing before the bomb dropped.  I thought, "If that's what someone needs to do to feel good, then they should do it.  Isn't hurting anybody."

I felt this sense of acceptance as to who my love is. 

and i didn't see papi was trans? that should be a pretty clear sign that my soon to be spouse was transgender. i'm pretty sure if they could bottle my depth of denial, it could be used as a bio-weapon ...

Since the procedure started, there hasn't been a need for my love to employ his silicone right hand man.

Until yesterday.

It may not have affected me before, because I was in denial about Papi ever going any further in the male process.

Now it's attached to a transgender male body.

everything happens for a reason ... it echoes ... we are where we're supposed to be, even in fear.

I am attracted to masculine women, because honestly, they have the best of both worlds; strong sense of dyke energy that allows me to be vulnerable enough to let down my guard.

Soft stoutness that exudes peacefulness, and it will always keep me safe.

Here I am.

The person I trust more than anyone in the world is taking away my safety net.

I trust that this is where I am supposed to be right now, in the same way I understand why mi esposo trusted me to be the one not to leave because of a changing exterior.

Papi knew I would stay, because of who is on the inside.

It's meant to heal me, in the same way that I am like a muscle; torn for strength.

I suppose it's time to deal with ghosts.

They're pretty scary.

Stale Mate.

i thought i'd let you know that a blog has allowed me a guest blog on their site.  I hope you can make it over to check it out :) ... and now, on with the show.

Some people have opinions.

I say some, because that is with the exception of people who only think what they're told to think, and consequently, follow the herd.

None-the-less, it's important for people to think freely and question what they hear.

My love and I have had a lot of opinions thrown our way, and some really hurt.

Then there's others that really hit a place that makes us think about our own actions and opinions.  Some have really swayed my thinking to see another side, and I like that.  It means I'm growing.

I shared some of these opinions that my friends have shared with me, and sometimes it hurts Papi.

Sometimes, my friends feel the need to be the sentinel.  I really appreciate this support.  It means a lot to me that someone would protect me.  It proves I'm loved, even though I know it already.

Anyway, when I shared one with my love this time around, it really made an impact on mi esposo, who felt very defensive.

That's when this conversation came up.

My love says, "Do they ever think about how I've supported you in your difficulty with this?  They don't know how I feel.  I feel like ever since this whole thing started, it's been all about you."

excuse me? gimme a moment to pick up my jaw ...

Papi and I went back and forth: "You just started hormones without my knowledge!"  Volley:  "You cried for weeks on end and it hurt to see you that way!"  Counter: "You started the procedure before I'd even had time to process it!" etc. etc. etc.

i don't need to tell 'you', my imaginary friend ... you've been here the whole time listening.

Well, we really don't have many things that we actually 'argue' about, but this became one of a few disagreements that I can count on one hand.

There was finger pointing from my love, there was 'talk to the hand' from me, and there was absolutely no way either of us was going to back down on this one.

We finally agreed to disagree and take 50/50 on the whole thing.  It showed just how far we've both come in this.

When I say both, I really mean it.

This is not a venture for one person when you're a partnership.  This truly is about two people in a marriage.

Some of the passionately political people would never ever look at my side and see that I have any say in the matter what-so-ever. 

as if i really don't matter? oh i matter bitches!

Others in my camp feel that my love should never have gone through with this procedure, stripping me of my gay title after marrying a 'woman'!

This is where the **ahem** 'conversation' turned to the topic of support.

I confirmed, "When this all first started out, you had all the Rah-Rah-Tranny people shouting 'Good on ya!' and what did I have?  Squat.  I had to fight to find people to talk to, but you had happiness right from the beginning."

My love and I spoke about this, and I realized that we have actually met in the middle when Papi said, "Well, all the people who used to comment on Facebook have sorta vanished."

Where I have had to add one heart at a time to my list of support, Papi lost one person at a time, because my love is free thinking and doesn't do what anyone else says he should do.

My love started out strong, and myself?  I was weak.

I'm gaining strength, while Papi is having rude awakenings of false friendships, which is promoting an air of discord in my love.

In the beginning, I would never have imagined a middle ground between us.  At the time, I felt like there was a fence dividing us as we walked our path.

Well, the fence is gone and we have both looked on each others side.

But I still had one more thing to say, "Ok ... so maybe it's been both of us that it's been about, but I think it's a little more like 50.5 on your part."

Oh it all started again where the bartering came and my love said it was more like 60/40 on my part.

It was sorta funny by this point.  Our laughs began and the silliness had reached a stale mate.

We truly are both in this together.  It is 50/50.

Then as Papi was starting his shift, I received a text: "I feel like I need to start a blog!!"

Oh boy.

And you think I air my laundry a bit too much?  You'd really get to see what TMI means if this ever happened.