move that body!

Don't know what got me.

Since last Tuesday, I've been rather sick.

Enough so, that I've seen a slight decline in the weight I put on after the 3 months of lying around like a bloated manatee from the whole ankle 'thing'.

Virus?  Food from a foreign country?  Parasite from the water?

The sick part of my brain, that good old Anorexia Monster, is telling me this is great, because I'll get back to feeling my normal weight!

But the healthy person in me would rather eat better and exercise to take it off the right way.

However, up until yesterday, every time I tried to move was an immediate invitation to run as quickly as possible to the bathroom.

My phone has been glued to my hands.  You don't want to be stuck in there for half an hour with no puzzles to play.  Ya know?

Yesterday, I just stared out at our beautiful yard we are fortunate to have and fell into an anxiety attack like I haven't had in a long time.

Looking outside.  Stuck near the washroom.  Feeling so weak.

Frozen, because the anxiety had immobilized me.

Like I said before, I am NOT good at staying dormant.

Today I feel a little more strength.

I feasted on an entire bag of Dorito's throughout the day yesterday, minus the scant amount I shared with Papi.

That and all the lime juice I could drink.

For the tail end of the ankle 'thing', I watched to the end of Breaking Bad.

For this stomach 'thing' that got me, I've started on The Walking Dead.

Never really been a fan of zombies, because they don't scare me.

It's reality that scares me.

Yet, everyone seems to like the show, so I thought I'd give it a whirl.  Love it!

Anyway.

I go back to Dream Project tomorrow.  In the next 2 weeks we'll be driving the children full speed toward a performance at the DR Jazz Festival.

They're pumped!

I'll just fill myself with plenty more Pepto to make it through my 4 hours of teaching.

MusicMan told me that he'd be asking the BigWigs for my gas allowance.

I was so grateful that he said that on his own accord.

I wasn't going to ask anymore, but he brought it up, so I feel a little like he really is happy with me being there helping with the kids.

He got a real kick out of me telling him the story about how I thought he no longer had a job there.

Funny enough that he decided to tell more people the silly story.

Oh, how I make a name for myself everywhere I go.

Now I'll be the silly gringa at the school.

Which is OK.  I know who I am.

I've really have nothing more to prove to anyone.

I'm just spinny Andréa, and it makes me a much more approachable person when people know that, and we all know I just want to be loved.

I remember being the Andréa that had a permanent cloud of doom hanging over my head.

I'm just grateful I can laugh at myself and not take myself too seriously anymore.

I have meds to thank for that.

I'm looking out at the ocean today.

I'm sitting at the table, instead of the La-Z-Boy, my favourite tool of the Pit of Doom.

My ankle doesn't hurt from sitting in an upright chair anymore.

The ocean doesn't sound like white noise when you're actually watching the white caps crash against the shore.

It's beautiful.

I am strong enough to walk to that ocean now.

Perhaps today I'll allow the feeling of that gorgeous salt water to wash me clean of these past 3 months of stagnancy.

Move.

With the waves.

Ebb and flow.

i am willing to change my eating habits and i do so easily

baby, baby, baby, oh!

your sunday sillies youtube show ...

Well, those little pills were sorta working.

The trade off is not worth it though.

I am up until 3 or 4 each night with acid reflux and nausea.

Not into it.

All I need to do is wait for the residency, then I can find some natural methods of getting me past this pain.

I wasn't looking forward to the weight gain either.

I've put on enough from 'resting' that I just don't know how much more the Anorexia Monster can handle before he makes life rough for me.

I have boobs.

That's when I know I've put on weight.

Nice and all, but I'll pass thank you.

Last night, I went against doc's orders and went out for dinner with Papi.

There really is nothing to eat in the house and I really can't cook.  It's too much for me right now.

Anyway, we got to talking to a woman who wished to give us her unborn child, because I can't get pregnant.

Papi got way too excited about it and seemed like he wanted to seal the deal.

He even went so far as to say that he wouldn't be drinking as much if there was a child to take care of.

Last night we had a friend say we weren't ready for taking care of a child because we had started drinking.

I dunno, I have to disagree.

We're not raging alcoholics hanging out down at Main and Hastings looking for a fix.

We're just enjoying ourselves in our new life.

And as for the worry about my mental health, well, I keep things under control with my meds.  Now that I've found the reputable ones, I'll be fine.

I've seen a lot worse with people who are able to have children.

We'd give a child a good home, with healthy food, and loads of love and life experience to teach them.

Fortunately, upon speaking to him this morning, he changed his mind about this particular child.

Phew!  I would love to adopt a child, but this woman had been drinking all night and I'm not into a fetal alcohol baby.

She also wanted to live on our property for 4 months at the end of the term.

Unfortunately, we could have an issue with this.

Within a certain amount of time, if someone is on your property and you're caring for them, you're actually responsible for them for all time to come.

That's a 'rule' here.

I tried to explain both of these points to Papi last night, but he was in a fog of, "I want a baby!!!"

I would love a little tyke to help grow.

But this child is not the right one for us.

Besides, we really don't have the money for an adoption right now.

When we do have the money, we'll find a child who is already born to someone who is too young to care for a child and raise the child for her.

There aren't too many unwanted children here, because the family helps.

It's sorta part of life here.

You get money from the government for helping to raise a child, so people have their children very young and keep them.

There aren't too many women here who don't have a child.

I'm sure there's a little bean out there who's spirit is waiting for us.

The right timing is all we need.

Our time will come, but if it doesn't, that's OK too.

I continue to go with the flow of life.

i answer questions about my dreams without getting defensive

pass the prozac

There is always a new day to look forward to.

Today is so much better than yesterday, which was better than the day before.

I'm grateful the angels have patience for me, never answering my plea to come join them, allowing me grace to fall, followed by the sprinkling of magic pixie dust upon me to help get me back up again.

I'm grateful my true friends have patience for my screwy brain that isn't like 'normal' people, and send me the good energy I need to find my own strength again.

I'm grateful for friends who have been in our position, speaking their words of advice because they know what the fuck it's like to live in a developing country.

I'm grateful I don't have to hear from the sheep who judge us because they're following the crowd, have seen a documentary or read a book.  Yeah, I'm still fucking pissed at you all.  You know who you are.

Anyway.  I feel better today.

Expats on the DR1 Forum, who have been here a long time, have a lot of advice to give.

Some good, and some so horrid, that it's hard to believe the level of people's racism, homophobia and plain old evil ways.

But I digress.

One piece of advice that I may adopt, is something Papi has already put into action.

In this climate, the speed of this life, this culture, you should only choose to do ONE thing a day.

One.

I have to remember I'm not in Canada anymore.

I also have to remember I'm not the person I was before the motorcycle accident, just because I don't need to take pain meds for my bitch of a back.

I've been spending these last 5 years trying to get back to the girl on that motorcycle.  The girl who could do everything in one day.

I still haven't accepted that that fatal day was the day it was time to slow my life down.

I'm going to continue to work with MusicMan and prepare ourselves for a few gigs here and there in a moderate speed, but that's not for a few weeks.

I was just told by an orthopaedic surgeon that I'm not allowed to do ANYTHING until further notice.

Bed ... fucking ... ridden.

Good thing I found the good Prozac at the hospital.

Always, when you know what the problem is, you can immediately feel a little lighter.

Knowledge is always the first step.

It's no secret that I have a chemical imbalance.  I've been a 'special' person since I was 11 when the hormones kicked in and my battle with the eating disorder ensued.

I need medication to survive, and now that I'm forced to rest again, I damn well need the good stuff.

These fuckers and their phony pills are fucking around with peoples' well being.

No, we're not in Canada anymore.

Not too much is akin here.

Not me.

Not Papi.

Not even the dogs.

But what is the same, is the fact that the only thing that matters is happiness.

What is the same, is there are beautiful people with huge loving hearts that I am finding an abundance of.

They deserve happy Andréa just as much as my friends who love me do.

Just as much as I do.

Pass the prozac and nobody gets hurt.

Including me.

i am in control of my thoughts

i want to be an angel

How did 2 days go by without doing a blog?

For that matter, how did a week go by without being able to get to editing my Sunday Sillies?

It's Sunday, and there won't be any YouTube show sillies today.

I'll be working on them, but I think that with the amount of insanity this household and life brings, I will be publishing every 2 weeks now.

Really, right now, I'm supposed to be at a birthday party.

It's basically right outside my door.

But Papi said I'm not allowed to go, because I've been treating my ankle too horribly.

He says that most people with this injury are laid up for at least 3 months, that I have to rest more and do less.

We all know how much I like to rest.

I'm a work-a-holic outside of the house.

In the house?

I'm some kind of depressed lunatic.

I don't know what it is, but as soon as I'm out of the house, my depression lifts.  Yet I can't relax in my yard, or I'll have every child in the neighbourhood screaming for me through the fence.  Relentlessly.

It doesn't help that I'm bitchy from pain.

I also have a sneaky suspicion that I got fake Prozac.

They do that here.

They make fake pills and it's Russian Roulette as to whether or not you're going to get the real thing.

Don't they know better than to fuck around with Prozac?!?!

Assholes.

Do they really want a crazed gringa roaming the streets?

I've been extremely agitated these past few weeks and I could blame it on the chronic pain, but there's something more.

The ideation of suicide is coming more frequently.

Normally, it's a fleeting moment before I go to sleep at night.

I've had it every night, for longer than I can remember.

I envision myself blowing my head off.

Every night.

I don't know why, but it just is, and there's not much I can do to stop the vision.

However, through the years, I've just learned to live with the vision and shake it off with a 'what the fuck??!?  Must we do this every night?!?!?'

These past few weeks though, they've been coming throughout the day.

Everything seems so difficult to do.

Everything seems like I just want to give up.

I'm still doing my gratitude list every day with my newest Gratitude Buddy.  I still know that EVERY DAY there is something to be grateful for.

But still, as I go on through my day, I can't help but feel the aftershock of all the hurt I've received over these past 9 months of living in what we thought would be 'paradise' and who we thought were 'friends'.

I feel exhausted from fighting to stay out of the Pit of Doom.

Everything feels like a battle, and both Papi and I had the thought at the same time last night, "This life here is not what I expected."

The vision I see in the mirror is disturbing as well.  The Anorexia Monster is in full force and the weight I see in the mirror is the weight that presses on my mind.

I'm having anxiety for no apparent reason at all.  I just feel terror and I don't know why.

This is not rational.

This is the underlying depression eating away at my heart, and I'm a fucking bitch when I'm depressed.

I'm having a really hard time hiding it from everyone around me, and I'm wondering if it's because I haven't been getting enough medication in to my system, having been sold fake pills.

I feel the pull of demons can't find my strength from the angels.

Instead, yesterday, I begged the angels to take me with them.

I want to be an angel.

it is always too early to give up, so let me give it some more

here comes the fight ...

Bed.

All day yesterday, all day today.

Shots of pain in my foot and leg, and it didn't help that The Donkey did her best to knock me over again today, and I tried to save myself by using my ripped ankle to get her off.

Furthermore, I suppose going out Saturday night wasn't the BEST thing for me.

Housemaid looked at me like I was a wimp and kinda laughed at me when I said I just couldn't come by for the invite for a Sunday party in the village.

Yeah, well, my body isn't quite as strong as it used to be.  I gave up being strong after the motorcycle accident.

I accept these shots of pain as a warning.  I allow them to tell me I've done 'enough'.

I had told her I wanted to lie down for a few days until Papi got here, and I should have followed my intuition instead of allowing for someone to persuade me otherwise.

I feel so bad for the dogs.

I hear them acting out.

I read the sadness in their eyes that they can't be near me.

I sense the confusion.

"Why are these other people feeding me, but we're in the same house?"

It's OK my little loves.

Papi comes home in ONE MORE SLEEP and you'll feel things are back to normal.

I'LL feel things are back to normal.

The cats will be miserable again, because the dogs will be in the room.

That's OK.  They had a lovely week with some isolated time with me.

The inverter went out last night.

It wasn't the best sleep, listening to the white noise of the fan to try to keep me cool.

It was pretty hot, but Papi comes home in ONE MORE SLEEP to fix everything.

Papi's coming home tomorrow!!!!!  TOMORROW!!!!!!

At least I'll have my love to take care of me.

I'm staying in bed another day.

I think it finally hit me, after I realized that I truly have a nasty injury last night.

I can't just up and run about with a cast on my leg.

Housemaid will just have to find someone else to party with.

I know that she enjoys my time, as does Our Fave's Mom, as she called me a total of 16 times yesterday.

I understand, she's back in town and would love me to see Little Angel, but when you're tired and hurting, you kinda just want some quiet time.

I'm just too exhausted to even try to speak Spanish, so I studied it instead.

I spent the entire day filling out flashcards in the awesome new flashcard program I found: StudyBlue.

When I switched from iPhone to Galaxy, I had to make a whole new batch, and that's still considered studying.

An entire Sunday, filling in flashcards, instead of talking.

I'm tired.

I hurt.

I have a lot of healing to do.

I didn't even go downstairs for a healthy dinner.

Chocolate was on the menu, as I didn't have to get out of bed for that.

The novelty of my first cast has worn off and now I'm into the injury depression.

Chronic pain will do that.

I anticipated it, but hoped I could stay busy enough for it not to hit me.

No matter how much Housemaid tried to entertain me, there's just no escaping the injury depression.  It really is unavoidable.

It has arrived and Hurricane Andréa is just around the corner.

Time to mope in my bed, just in time for Papi to return.

You poor soul, Papi.

I am grateful for prozac.

Oh, but I'll fight that bitch tooth and nail, all the way down to the Pit of Doom.

i have the ability to choose happiness

are we musicians born crazy?

I had a brief conversation with a wonderful G+ Friend who is a VERY creative and talented animator.

Check out his web page.

Yesterday, he touched on a subject that I've always thought about.

My theory has always been, that musicians are born with a certain amount of insanity, and are given the gift of music to deal with it.

It's the only way I can come close to meditation.

When I play, nothing else exists, except for the harmonics of music that fill the air.

I breathe in the notes, as they wipe my mind clear of all trouble.

There is no pain.

There is no strife.

No laundry, dishes, debt or fear.

There is only music.

I remember when I had the big ending, of hopefully my last and final nervous breakdown, when chemical imbalance really took me down, urging me to finally got on medication I so badly needed.

I was crying incessantly, and there was nothing that could stop me.

Except my cello.

I would play and the tears would stop, however, there was those 3 seconds that I had to stop to turn the page.

I would cry as I turned each page, then stop again as I played the song.

Crazy, huh?

Well, last night, I started to wonder about the brain and how it's wired.

Is it possible, that maybe we are born just fine, but when we play music, we establish contact with a different part of the brain that most don't use?

That angle where the key to unlocking it is made only through the connection of music and other arts.

A hidden passage that only artistic people haunt.

The dark side.

But then, what about people who have a chemical imbalance and have never had the chance to discover their craft?

How do they cope?

I have a friend, who just this week, began suffering greatly at the hands of fallen love.

It's the first time she's been 'in love'.

She is in so much pain from the jerk-oid who dumped her.

It's easy enough for me to say she shouldn't be, because she's the most lovely person and deserves so much goodness in her life.

Alas, tell that to her ailing mind that spits out the feelings of rejection and loss.

How does one cope without artistry to get them through?

I've never known the answer to that, because I've always had my creativity.

Even after the motorcycle accident, when my brain was rebooting from the crash, I turned to writing here.

I turned to writing my story, which lead to writing other stories.

It was my means of escape when I didn't have the ability to play my music.

Everyone needs escape.

People knit, craw, make gifs, paint, write, play music, or even cook.

Creativity is so important to getting through pain.

But which of my theories is correct?

Are we born crazy and art is given to help us cope?

Or are we born sane and art opens Pandora's Box?

Either way, creative or not, I'd love to hear what you think about this.

I'd also love to hear how you cope if you haven't found your artistic inspiration yet.

In the meantime, I'll be looking forward to my new keyboard on Monday, and a new opportunity to play with the MusicMan.

My escape from insanity.

i am my own unique self - special, creative and wonderful

rooster.

So early!

I think that people here don't have alarm clocks and they get up when the roosters sing.

I am so not used to this.

When we first got here, I had to be up early for the workers.

Now that I'm teaching music, the classes are early as well, but I'm going to have to be up early to accomplish everything that I've set out to do in a day anyway.

I am busy, and yesterday, Papi and I brought in the Pathetic Puppy to talk about getting her fixed.

While I was there, I asked about getting the AAAS to come to my village and sterilize the dogs here, and when the Canine Quarterback found out where I lived, she responded, "You're in the heartworm capital!!"

She ran back in and grabbed medication for all the dogs she could and came out saying, "You are now the outreach person for Las Canas."

Ok then!  I suppose I am!

It looks like I have another volunteering position.

Oh, I wanted to help here.

I got what I wanted.

Village dogs health.

Village children's choir.

Dream Project, where I have an 8 a.m. start.

Seriously.

That means I have to leave the house at 7:30, but have to get up at 6:45.

This may not mean a lot to you morning people who have been doing this for years, but I am not a morning person and haven't gotten up this early for any reason in a long time.

Even before the motorcycle accident, I worked a day job that ended at midnight.

So, this is hard!

But here's the good part: both times I've gone to work with the music teacher, he's been late.

I sit patiently with all the kids and wait.

We are all there.

Teacher is not.

But nobody is going to fire him, because it's just the way it is here in the Dominican Republic.

Dominican Time.

It's crazy!

To my advantage, when I was trying to get there to see the people, we had no power for 4.5 days, and I didn't get messages that asked me to be there for a certain day.

Then I didn't get phone calls, because the power outage killed my phone.

In Canada, I wouldn't have been considered for this position, because there is no way someone would want a tardy worker, or someone they couldn't contact.

But there I was, both days on time like the good Canadian I am, waiting for the person who's actually getting paid to show up.

Anyway, I had a great day teaching today.  I'm responsible for teaching 2 tiny girls piano.

Then when I was finished teaching today, the MusicMan wanted to play some music with me!

He is a great guitar player.

He would play guitar, I would sing; Police, Bob Marley, Beatles and more, then I played the jazz song on piano that he had given me to learn for the kids, while he would solo.

We played while the children would watch and move to the beat.

It was so much fun!  I have something to add to the New Life List.  Sit around and play music with my new friend.

He has all the contacts I need to start playing with others and for a music studio, albeit it's in the capitol.

I'll have to save that for when I'm ready to record, and for sure, I have enough to do for now.

I will have to get up early to get it all done.

Looks like I need a rooster.

i attract, welcome and accept talented and successful people to my team

1st world problems in a 3rd world country

Did'ja miss me?

Or were you relieved my cheeky ass was gone from cyberspace?

Well, love me or hate me, I'm baaaa-aaaack.

We had a NASTY 5 days with no power.

No power means no water.

But more importantly, no internet and no contact with family and my dwindling list of friends that is now down to about the 5 people who care to stay in touch that I am grateful for.

Truly, quality NOT quantity.  The rest of them, well, buh-bye.  My Trust List has almost been abolished.

Each day that passed I became more depressed, thinking that this was it.  We will never have clean dishes or clean bodies again.

My hair looks like a fire hazard.

I'm supposed to look all purrrrrty today for Our Fave's Mom's baby shower.

Oh well.

I can do some kinda up-do-ish thing and give it a wrap to hide the frazzled ends that are, by now, turning into dreadlocks.

There's really no time today to try to wash that bitch out.  I'll need a weed eater to get through the mats.

The cockroaches are having a fucking fiesta with all the dirty dishes.

I managed to get one load cleaned while they thought they had the power going.

Then it was gone again and the rest of the dishes sat as a jungle gym for bugs.

The street power isn't working.  Our generators are not working.  And as soon as dusk hits, this house is blacker than black.

Kinda terrifying actually.

5 days.

We have our lanterns we walk around with, in hopes that we'll see the dog lounging on the floor BEFORE we kick the poor li'l critter.

Our guns are secured in the back of our undies when the night comes.

We're not taking any chances.

The bathroom water still isn't at full bore, but at least I can have a wench's bath; wet sponge, and applied to areas that could offend the general public.

I have layers of dirt on my dirt.

When I clean one layer off, then towel dry, the towel shows me that there is yet another layer that is in need of attention as the dirt rolls into tiny little balls on my skin.

How the hell could I ever be this dirty?!?!?!

I have what looks like permanent stains of dirt on my stomach.

No matter how hard I scrub, it just turns my skin red.

No, the dirt doesn't leave.  I think I need a power washer for that bitch.

Well, I woke to power in the house this morning, and the thrill of all thrills that I was able to talk to 'you'.

I don't know how long this will last.

However, there is one thing that I'm grateful for.

A gas range.

You don't need power to cook.

We also have bottled water, so I was able to drink water while I made sure I took my Prozac, to be sure I didn't have a nervous breakdown.

I also chased it down with a happy little clonazepam pill.

That kept me from climbing the walls and possibly going down to the electricity company and opening fire.

It also had me sleep all the way through workers working, and the Housemaid cleaning all around me.

Here in the Dominican Republic, they have a T-Shirt.

I really need it for when I realize that we're not in Kansas anymore.

It reads, "Remember Where You Are."

It's really hard for an East Van Princess.

Prince Papi seems to be handling it just fine.

Oh, but don't you worry, he will have his time where I'll be picking him up off the floor from something that has him in fetal position.

We take turns.

i have lots of friends

i was his hero.

It's that busy time of year, where people aren't relaxed enough to be civil.

While everyone is out freaking about the 'best' gift to buy their child to prove to the kid they're loved, Papi and I have other plans.

The Countdown.  27 days.

Personally, I'm doing a little bit of research to try to find musicians and film companies, but Papi?  He's making plans for his pool.

People say, "Why do you need a pool when you're on the ocean?!?"  Well, Papi wants a nice cool place to jump in without the hassle of seaweed and salty skin.

So, he contacted a company and they say they can have that thing built in 2 weeks!!!  2 weeks man!!!

I guess this means that when we get there, within 2 weeks we'll have a super duper splendid poolside relaxing area.

I don't mind the fact that my love wants to build me a hot tub as well.

That will shut my bitch of a back up in a hurry!  Pain be gone, or at least lessened.

It really is paradise found, and we are so, so grateful that we can have this little haven of a better life, unlike here in the city.

27 more days of living in Our Closet and noisy neighbours, cranky stress-mobiles and drunken knobs strolling the streets yelling.

Last night, as Papi and I were trying to relax and have a quiet hang out, the floor was shaking from music.  It was the same noise that woke me the night before at 3:30 a.m.

We were trying to find out where it was coming from, but couldn't pinpoint it.  It was more than a little nerve racking.

Papi was wandering around outside like a madman, and I was strolling the halls.

Initially, we thought it was a band in the house behind us.  I've been invited to their 'kegger' before.

Yeah.  Thanks, but no thanks.  I'm still enjoying my sobriety, and the hangovers I get from the pills are enough.  I don't need to add alcohol to the mix.

Anyway, we couldn't find the source.  Anywhere.

Until I realized that meant it was coming from beneath us.

We deduced that our sweet neighbours must have received a new stereo system.

Papi was my hero in the past, and now he asked me to be his, or he'd start popping the clonazepam because he couldn't handle the thumping anymore.  He was going to pop.

Down I went in my very fancy winter pj's, with nasty tacky slippers to hit home that I was definitely in for the night and ready to sleep.

I knocked.

No answer.

I knocked again.

My sweet neighbour answered and when she opened the door, it really didn't sound like the noise could be coming from her suite!!

I asked, "Hey, SO sorry to bother you," big smile, trying to seem as nice as possible, "but did you happen to get a new stereo system?" as meekly as possible not to seem like the worst bad neighbour ever.

"Um, yeah," she said as her face looked like she was not going to enjoy what I said next.

"Ah, well, it's sorta making our floor shake, the bass is a little loud."

"Oh, ok, I'll turn off the sub-woofer."

I was so grateful they were respectful, yet felt so bad for ruining their fun.

But seriously.  A sub-woofer in an apartment suite?  What's the fucking point?  You could never have that baby up loud enough to enjoy it's full potential!!

Dudes, you need to go get your own Casa Paraíso.  You can turn it up real loud there.

Your neighbours will not be disturbed.

They're going to be too busy listening to the sound of the waves.

27 more days of inter-city dwelling.

i am surrounded by good, respectful, loving people

The Happy Papi Dance

Last night, while I was writing the Pet PDF for My Boifriend to come tend to the Fuzzy Family, it occurred to me, we leave Monday.

We go to find our long-term home together.

We're bringing a lot of stuff with us on this trek, then leaving it in storage if we can't put it into the home we choose to spend a great portion of our life together in.

One of my sweet friends told me that her dad had a saying, "My dad calls it 'throwing your hat over' (as in, before you climb the fence to get to the other side you toss your hat over so you can't not do it or else you've lost your hat)."

Makes sense!  If you're going to get cold feet, leave some stuff there so you must return to claim it!  I loved that! 

My point is, as I was prepping, the thought developed that we're actually going.

It's happening.

Is it real?

It is!

It's not a dream, but sometimes, it seems that way.

People don't just up and change their lives all that often.

For the longest time, I've felt we weren't really going until we had that plane ticket booked.

About 10 minutes after I had these manic thoughts, I flipped on to Facebook and damn if mi esposo hadn't just posted the same damn thing.

He wrote, "Is this actually happening? Or am I dreaming? Happy Dance again :-) T- 6 days :->"

The thought of my love doing The Happy Papi Dance filled me with so much joy.

We're still bickering about absolutely inane, idiotic instances.

I'm still being passive aggressive to get my point across in those ridiculous fucking snits we get into, but something changed when I saw that Facebook status.

All my fears went away the moment I envisioned him doing The Happy Papi Dance.

He heals me just by being his silly self, and he doesn't even do it intentionally. 

That was the moment my apology to myself for acting like such a buffoon was accepted, and I pulled up my socks and got happy and excited.

This is the roller coaster.

I'm being told left, right and center that it's normal.

One friend explained, that as a child, her family was moving to another country and her parents were extremely stressed.

For a child to remember this, it must have made a big impact, which means this really is a big deal and it's normal for me to be such a fucking lunatic.

I just hate that it has brought out the worst in me.  The worst that Papi has never experienced.  He said, "You're acting really weird."

Understatement.

Yesterday, my behaviour had me thinking that maybe my doses of anti-depressants were off and I needed to go up a few milligrams.

The logical side of my brain presented itself, and I gave myself the option of going to paradise for two weeks and seeing how I felt and make a decision about dosage then.

Something tells me I won't be an orangutan once my skin breathes in the heat as I step off that plane.

Something tells me the moment my injured muscles allow the ocean to hold their struggling weight, my fears will be washed away with every wave, taken to the vast sea, where I won't have access to them anymore.

Something tells me that the joy of Papi and I starting our lives together by looking for homes will be the change I need to send Hurricane Andréa packing, not to return with our gargantuan, ugly suitcases.

Monday, this journey takes the next step.

This is not a test.  This is the real thing.

i dissolve all obstacles to having complete self-confidence

Me? Crazy? Never.

I've never been so dissected in my life.  I have to go to evaluations for my legal trial.  They range from physical to vocational to psychological.

The psychological one is the most fun.  Oh yeah, the good times.

I get to read varying reports on just how mentally ill I am now.

I can get the anxiety one.  100%.  P.T.S.D.?  Who wouldn't?!?!  And depression from chemical imbalance?  Check!

However, the newest report is that I'm borderline personality disorder.

Nice.  Papi liked this one.  It made him giggle with anticipation of telling everyone his wife is full fledged nuts.

In all honesty, it's a lot more entertaining than the one that says I'm bipolar.

Listen here fuckwads, I'm just a human fucking being who reacts to what life has to offer.  I express myself honestly, but somehow, that makes me berserk?

As far as I've seen, the more you keep in all the shit that you're experiencing, feeling, thinking, the more deranged you grow.

We're all fucking nuts in one way or another, and once we start talking about it, we find that we're not so alone, and the 'nuts' part loses it's power.

I like how the cleanest of cleanest tidy people are praised, when possibly they could have O.C.D.

I see people who cry at the drop of a hat.  They're demented too?  Nope.  They just have big emotions.  I'd rather have that than not be able to cry because I've shut down.

These professionals can go on and on about how I'm defective, but reality is, if I'm talking about it, and I'm recognizing and working on my faults, then I'm not so fucking maniacal, am I?

If I get the crap out of my head, through this here tippity-tappity of my laptop blog entry, I feel better.  If I talk to someone about my problems, I feel better.

Most people don't do these things, because they don't want to be labeled as bonkers.  No, they hold it in until they pop, and perhaps go pick up a few guns and shoot a theatre full of people.

Hell.  I know I'm a nutbar, but I am not afraid to say what's going on in my mind at the risk of someone labeling me a whack job.

Just because I'm a little narcissistic ...

... hehehe ... a little ...

... doesn't mean I'm borderline.  It means I've had to find my own way to find self esteem, because I didn't have it growing up.

Just because I get a 'little emotional' doesn't mean I'm bipolar.  I'm emotional because life is hard.  Hurricane Andréa doesn't blow in for no reason at all.

Futhermore, what is so wrong with being utterly happy about the good things in life?  These pros think that being ecstatic is a sickness!

I wasn't suicidal when I was younger for nothing.  There were reasons I was not interested in living through what life has to offer.  I was too young and didn't have the experience to know that everything will get better.

I still have suicidal thoughts when life gets too difficult, but I don't act on it, because I've learned how to deal with the shit life hands out.

I challenge any 'normal' person to try and tackle what I've dealt with since a young age.  I dare them to try!

No, I'm not psycho.

Life is.

If we don't express ourselves, because we're afraid of being labeled, then I believe that's a debilitating way to live.

Label me.  Call me what you want.

But I'll tell you this, I know the key to happiness, and my past secrets aren't going to cause me cancer, because not only have I let them go, I've also found I'm not alone in this fucked up world.

This is because I talk about it.

And by the way, just because you've labeled me with some new diagnosis, doesn't mean I'm going to be hopping on your fucking designer drugs that will give you points to win you your golfing trip to Ireland, and at the same time make me so lethargic that I don't speak about life anymore.

Now, excuse me while I go count my deck of cards.  I guarantee there will be 52.

i possess complete ability to articulate my thoughts and feelings to everyone, and i express myself wisely.

Well, at least we're still alive.

Sometimes, I really do wish there was a 'god' to believe in.  If there was, I would have prayed yesterday.

Papi woke me up wayyyyyyyy before my time, excitedly chanting, "Baby!  Get up!  We're going to Seattle Pride!!"

I thought, perhaps this was a joke, but my love knows better than to wake me up for mischief.

My love prepped my coffee ...

... that was where the trouble started ...

and I did my best to get to 'pretty femme' in 20 minutes.

Needless to say, it was a hat day and I wore the clothes from the birthday party the night before.  It was reminiscent of my drinking days where I'd be strolling around in yesterday's party dress, complete with skanky, buffalo breath and day old panties.

This time my teeth were brushed and I wore clean underwear.

Anyway, we fought on the way down, partially because my coffee wasn't doing it's job, my bitch of a back was screaming at me for sitting in a car first thing in the morning and my love hadn't slept from his graveyard shift.

No, it was not our finest moment, and we very rarely fight.  Very, very rarely, which already made it an odd start to our day.

Eventually, the pain killers kicked in, the coffee did it's job and Papi took a clonazepam.  Then we thought the fun would start.

We got to the parade and had the absolute best spot.

That was, of course, until the religious zealots came with their horrid signs and stood where we could see them.  I couldn't handle it.  It made me crazy that some dude thinks it's ok to spread hate, with a sign that has a picture of jesus skinned alive on a cross, in lifesize form.

That just doesn't say, 'come join our loving family' to me.  However, that wasn't even the worst of it.

The worst of it was afterward, while we were enjoying our people watching at the festivities end, a man sat beside us and abused his dog.

Not being the type of folks to sit back and stay silent, we tried to tell him there were better ways to train your dog other than kicking and abusing it.

I tried to connect with the dog, but he wouldn't allow me to show it love.  He pulled it away from me, however, I still had a moment to notice blood on it's left eyebrow.

I was almost sick.

We stood our ground while he threatened us for speaking out about his abuse, but were grateful when it seemed like he had left.

Wrong!  Mentally ill abusers don't leave without the fight they came for.

He returned and got in Papi's face violently, and when I stood to put my body between him and my love, the women all around me shook their heads to say, "Please, don't engage.  Please, don't do anything.  Please, stay safe."

Fortunately, he exited again before I got pummeled, but he also left us with his energy.  It took me so many breaths to calm from his abuse toward the dog and us.

I wanted so badly to save the dog, but also I wanted so badly to shove the tip of my boot into his groin, give a palm thrust to his chin and stab his eyes with my fingers.

We didn't have any positive experiences after that, especially when he wound up in our vicinity once more where we thought we'd be safe from him.

Both mi esposo and I were so scared for our lives that we had a tandem panic attack.  We were also scared for the dog's life, but there was not much more we could do safely.

We left Seattle, silently.

We drove back to our home and since that moment, I've wished that there was a 'god' who would actually listen and help heal our damaged people and animals.

It's making me really feel that this world is no longer a place I want to be.

It's making me yearn for a planet where I can give love to animals, to people who need it and to have peace.

All I want is peace.

This agnostic, who verges on atheist, wishes there really was a 'god' to bring that, but alas, that 'god' still hasn't called on the phone to talk about all this.

I'm still waiting.

i will never stay silent.  i will always stand up for those in need.

Pronoun Hell. It awaits me.

Well, I can't deny it anymore.

More and more strangers out there are starting to see my love as a male being.

I don't know when the big switcheroo came, because like I've said before, I'm much too close to Papi to see drastic changes.  The changes all come too slow in this male transformation.

Well, except for The Great Breast Disappearance in Florida

That was a bit too fast for my liking.

Anyway, this story is set when mi esposo went to visit someone in the psych ward.

Now, before you start thinking those thoughts about people in psych wards, I do want to tell you, that you never know who's been there.

It's not all drooling lunatics on anti-psychotic meds.

Sometimes, it's people who just can't swallow the meals life is putting on their plates.  There are a lot of people suffering in this life, and some get to a breaking point where their mind wants to quit.

I know what it's like.

I should have been in the psych ward a few times from various break downs I've had from life's peddlings.

You never know if the sweet person you work with, who has that heart that everyone wants to warm up to, has been there.

We are all sensitive people and some of us reach meltdown faster than others.

Ok.

So now that I've gotten my mental health advocacy out of the way, I'll get back to my love's story.

Actually, the story happens after Papi left the ward.

The woman that my love had gone to visit told Papi that she had a thing for one of the other clients there.

After my love left, this woman wanted to talk to the hunk of burnin' love about perhaps a phone number exchange and a date outside of the ward.

The man was horrified!

He thought that this woman's boyfriend had just left and already she's going on about dating someone else.

This guy thought Papi was her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend!!

Male.

Boy.

I dunno.

I just don't see it.  But will I ever?  Or will I continue to see my love as my love?  Or will I eventually see him as a male?

Here's a funny one for ya.

So, there I was spending so much time, trying desperately to get the pronouns down and guess what's happened?

To me now, everyone has the male pronoun.

I'm not kidding.

I now slip up with women and call them he, him, his or whatever male pronoun seems to fit the sentence.

How fucked up is that?!?!

My pendulum has swung to the other side and you're all male.

Every last one of ya.

This is a bit ridiculous, but hey, I've got it down now, don't I?

i have compassion for myself and the way my life has developed

Am I Evil?

There's a lot of death talk around me.

I haven't experienced grief the way others have, and I wonder if I'm a callous person, because I haven't cried for anyone who has died.

When a friend in high school died, I didn't cry, I just felt sad for the way he died.

One of my closest friends lost her son, and I cried for her pain.

I can't handle seeing people who are living in pain.  It's almost like I feel their pain myself.

If you're around me long enough, you'll see that I want to heal everybody.

I can't help anyone who isn't ready to help themselves, but I'll try to steer people the right way so they can find the path on their own.

Anyway, back to death.

I haven't grieved over anyone, except my Dearly Departed Gypsy.

My fuzzy, four legged baby leaving me was enough to put me into the full throws of a nervous breakdown.

It was at that point that I finally got on anti-depressants.  Gypsy was really the only thing I felt I had left to live for, and when she was gone, I thought I'd leave too.

Well, I was saved and here I am, and I can now see that I have so much to live for, that I don't want to leave this life.

I have grieved over an ex who was addicted to heroin, and I had to watch her slowly die in front of me.  Then when I left, I grieved for 2 years over the loss of my relationship.

I spent a year grieving over the loss of my 'wife' to a male being that Papi felt he always was.

But still, I've never grieved over the death of a human.  I'm so disconnected from people because of my fear of them, that I tend not to let them in completely.

You would never know it by reading my blog, however.

Thing is, here, when I'm writing to 'you', my imaginary friend, I can talk about anything.  But getting these words out of my mouth is another story.

Unless I'm in therapy, then you can't shut me up.

I've learned that once that door closes, the stage is mine and I'm safe to let it all out.

Yet, I've never talked about death.

I honestly believe that the only people I would ever cry with grief over, would be my baby sister and Papi.

When I console the living people who are left behind, I feel so hypocritical.

When friends have a loss of a parent, and they talk about how much it hurts and that they miss them nonstop, I tend to shy away from them, because I just don't understand how anyone could be so close to a parent.

I just don't know what to say.  I've never experienced that relationship.

Now, Papi and another friend are going to grief therapy and I just don't understand why it's so hard.

Is there something wrong with me?!?!?!

If my father died, I wouldn't grieve, I would feel guilt.

... that's another blob/blab novel ...

If my mother died, I'd feel sad for my baby sister grieving, but I wouldn't experience the same feelings.

Who knows, I'd probably feel guilt there too.

I know it's not my fault.  I was brought up catholic and I feel guilt just for being on this planet for fucks sakes!!!  Ah those catholics.  So positive and uplifting sometimes.

... end sarcasm here ...

Anyway, this is something that bothers me; I have a disconnect from actually allowing people into my heart, to the point that I don't even cry over the loss.

It's so fucked up.

Am I evil?!?

I sure feel like I am.

perception is reality

dying.

I'm pretty sure I'm on my death bed!

I haven't been able to keep a meal down for 5 days.

For the past 2 nights, I've only had 2 hours sleep each.  The two nights before that, only 4 hours each.

Medication withdrawal is seriously killing me.

So.

I haven't eaten or slept, can't keep food or water down.

How the hell am I still breathing?!?!?

I had to go to another assessment for my bitch of a back today.

He took my blood pressure and couldn't find my pulse.

Again.

I'm pretty sure I'm dead.

I'll let you know tomorrow if I've confirmed this.  I'm still collecting data on the subject.

In the meantime, here's your daily mantra if you're joining along with me.

happiness is not something ready made.  it comes from your own actions ~ Dalai Lama

Peacefully Drowning

It's been a few months since I've needed the non-judgement of 'you', my imaginary friend.  I'm embarrassed and need to work this through in truth.

I had a moment of Hurricane Andréa last night, but you know what?  It was for good.

I didn't have the fist on the ground pounding, fetal position insanity, but I did realize that I'm not being honest about my struggles with the Anorexia Monster.

Well, I have to say it out loud now.  I've told Papi and now I have to be honest with myself.  For the past 2 days, I limited my food to 'feel' thin.

I have had an excruciatingly hard time seeing how I could keep from feeling 'not good enough', when I saw that person in the mirror.

I broke through a major layer last night.

People have seen as me as being very hard on myself all my life.  I realized that this is not my intention.

I now see that I'm frustrated at what I see in the mirror and need help, because she just won't let up.

I tried to appease her, but then I remembered that it is not such a great idea.  There's no winning with this bitch, because the less I eat, the worse she shows me in that reflective devil.

So, I'll just shut off her heat valve and cover the mirror.

Bitch.

Also, I think another part of the problem is, the nerve medication I take to help me sleep through pain is giving me that good ol' pharmaceutical puff.

This is my next venture.  Get off these disgusting pills that are puffing me up like that Orange Angry Bird.

The whole idea of thinking positively and chanting positive mantras is so that I can get past the things that hold me in fear.

Well, now that I'm getting to the nitty gritty, I had an awful flashback.

Because there were tears about my Anorexia Monster overstaying her visit last night, my nose got stuffed.

yeah yeah yeah ... i'm one of those messy cryers ... snotty and all consuming ...

Once I'd spat her foul, abscessed venom out of my mouth, I was trying to drink loving water to cleanse my tongue from her poison.

Well, because I was all snotty, my nose couldn't get air to swallow, and the water felt suspended in my throat.

In less than a second, I was transported to when I was a kid and was drowning.

I was trying to show my mom and dad how I could do a back float, but they didn't watch, ...

... smoke another one pops ... thanks for caring ...

... and I floated toward the sea.

It took longer than usual to hit the sandy shore, so I tried to stand, but there were no little pebbles to greet my feet.

Over the drop off I went.

Water forced it's way down to my lungs, because in panic, I tried to breathe in.  At the same time, my other life support, my sinus cavity, was already filled with water.

Nothing was going in or out and I became one and the same with water.

I watched the line of air above me float further away, and I calmly gazed at the boy who was standing near me, frozen in fear, do nothing to help.

However, It was tranquil.

I felt I could give up, and I would really be ok.

I had peace.

Part of healing our lives, so we may live without our demons, is getting things out of our mind and through our mouths so it can let our souls be free.

Still, these are the things that scare me.

These are also the times I think, who the fuck keeps trying to kill me?!?!

Well, 'they' just keep trying, whomever 'they' are, but somehow, I manage to stay one step ahead of 'them'.

I sleep with one eye open.



even when the road is rough, steep and slippery, I can keep moving forward.

Pain Med Party!!!!!!

Hurts to yawn, sneeze, laugh, roll over in bed, get out of bed, lift my coffee cup to have a sip of black goodness, or go over bumps in the car.

Never mind about driving the car.

When my back is at a 9/10 pain level, I can't even press in the clutch.  It's about the only time in life that I wish for an automatic vehicle.

Anyway, I was too busy having a pain med party yesterday to write to 'you', my imaginary friend.

I'm getting a head start into my writing before I slip off into la-la-land with my new best friend, "Whoop Ass Butter".

It's the perfect medicine for intensely acute days.

Sometimes it's difficult to find the silver lining in nasty times, but I now have one when my back is bitter and biting.

Pain Med Party!!!!!!!!!

Hey, I'm taking them responsibly and only when needed, but as a former wake 'n bake femme, I do have to say, I'm starting to feel a lot less guilty about enjoying my 'down time'.

Yup.  It's definitely a silver lining.

Now when my back goes out, I'm not frustrated about what I can and cannot do.  I just smile and do what I can with a little help from my MC Guru and the pain relief I deserve after almost 3 years.

And now with my most recent flare up, Jon Stewart, Stephen Colbert, Roseanne's Nuts are the perfect companions.  I save them up for these days and have a marathon of smiles.

Even if it does hurt to laugh, it's better than hurting from crying.  It's a much better reaction.

Music sounds a little better.  Playing my piano or my bass is possible and for this I am the most grateful.

On codeine, percocet, or morphine, I would look at my piano or bass and think, "I should go play that," then I continue to stare at it for a little while and realize that hurting for the sake of filling my musical heart is not a benefit.

Well, now it is.

I guess doing the video was what put me in to this predicament.  Well, not so much just the video, but perhaps the fact that I think I have superpowers when the pain killers kick in and I washed the tub.

Boy, did I ever get the reprimand riot act from my lawyer's paralegal.  "What were you thinking?!?  I see you hunched over and in pain every time I see you and you washed your tub?!?  Your health is much more important than a clean tub."

Touché madam, how right you are.

But dammit!  The Yank, our honorary room mate, is coming this weekend, and I'm pretty sure the tub hasn't been washed since the last time she was here.

Housekeeping is reserved for 'good' days, and cleaning that damn tub puts me into a seized state every time.

in·san·i·ty

 [in-san-i-tee]

noun, plural in·san·i·ties.

1. the condition of being insane;  a derangement of the mind. Synonyms: dementia, lunacy, madness, craziness, mania, aberration.

2. Law . such unsoundness of mind as frees one from legal responsibility, as for committing a crime, or as signals one's lack of legal capacity, as for entering into a contractual agreement.

3. Psychiatry . (formerly) psychosis.

4. a. extreme foolishness; folly; senselessness; foolhardiness: Trying to drive through that traffic would be pure insanity.

b. a foolish or senseless action, policy, statement, etc.: We've heard decades of insanities in our political discourse.

There's a saying in those anonymous rooms for drunks: "The definition of insanity is repeating the same action, over and over again, expecting different results."

I'm definitely one of 'those', and I'm not so good at acceptance.

have you figured that out already?!

I refuse to acknowledge the fact that I'm permanently screwed up from the motorcycle accident.

I have had such high hopes that I'll be back to the body I had before.  My 'normal'.

It's time to start accepting that this is my new 'normal', and it's time to hire someone to wash the tub.

Papi won't do it.  It's not in his repetoire.

My love's strong suit is DIY projects, cleaning the kitty litter, and doing all the laundry, so that there's piles of it for me to fold.

I'm staring at it right now.

It is sprawled along the ottoman as if the laundry basket just puked up a big hairball.

I think I'll wait for the pain killers to kick in before I attempt folding, or perhaps I'll actually take care of my back today and do fuck all.

That sounds good to me.

Gratitude comes in strange packages.

Lordy when life hits ya, it hits ya good I'll tell ya.

My brain is being pushed to the limits right now.

I haven't had a penny come in for over 6 weeks now, and I don't qualify for anything.

I just called to request an advocate for People With Disabilities.

I can't fight alone anymore, and one of Papi's friends at work recommended one of the best, so we'll see how this turns out.

I don't qualify for Employment Insurance, because I'm short 20 hours.

I don't qualify for Social Assistance, because I'm living with a spouse and have assets.

which i've already put into lists of what will be sold first to get food.

I don't qualify for Long Term Disability, because I used it all up trying to get back to work.

I am slipping through the cracks of some strange system and dammit, I'm fucking scared.

When I called, I did get 2 suggestions that should help matters.

I was recommended to go to the Food Bank instead of using my credit cards for groceries.

Perfect timing, because the credit cards are maxed and I have no wiggle room there.  However, I have to admit, it feels a little humiliating.

ok murphy, don't be throwing us anything that we can't handle financially right now please.  we've got enough.

It was also recommended that I start going to a support group for people with Brain Injury, because I'm so frustrated about the fact that I can't process what to do next.

Yeah.

I'm scared.

So, at this point in time, I'm pretty fucking grateful.

I'm grateful that I don't have to deal with pain on top of it all.  I am so damn happy with the results of the Medicinal Cannabis I can't even tell you.

Yesterday was a particularly painful day, and I still managed to get shit done with the help of the new pain meds.

I'm grateful that I have Papi's male transformation to think about instead of money.

My love always gives me something to think about rather than fret over the fact that I'm now eating the reserves in my kitchen.

Take yesterday as an example.

I was sitting on the loo with one less Bathroom Buddy ... 

The World's Loudest Snorer went home ... i may just go kidnap her back ...

... and it hit me!

I'm changing my behaviour around female stuff in the house.

I'm actually feeling self-conscious about tampons hanging about the bathroom.

I don't know why, but it's actually starting to feel like a male is in the house.

I think I'm beginning to see that stranger I was so afraid to see.  I'm seeing the person I didn't know would be in my life.

You know?  The horrible vision I saw of the person that was replacing 'my butch'?

Well, Papi is not the scary monster my mind told me he would be.

I still have the person I married, but it's just different.

For example, the feeling that there is now a male in my life.

It's weird, wacky and way out there!

I can't even begin to tell you when the switch came, but there was a slow gradual creeping of it and has left me wondering a few things.

Is Papi an illusionist and that's why I'm seeing my love differently?  Or perhaps I've actually lost my mind from being on pharmaceuticals for three years?  Or maybe I'm just on some strange trip from pain killers and I don't even know it.

Ya?

No.

All that's going on here is I'm sensing a shift in the house and it's pretty fucking bizarre.

See!

I've stopped worrying about money!

How lucky am I?

But I also know that everything works out.

Everything.

I've made it this far in life and I'm not going to be left behind now.

And a Bow-chica-bow to you too.

Another good side effect of the Medicinal Cannabis is an increased sex drive.

As I'm sure some of you who have the need for anti-depressants know, they can kinda mess with your libido.

Yeah.  True in my case.

However, when my MC Guru first started to help me out on this pain killer path, she didn't go into the horrible side effects, because there really aren't any when taken properly.  She spoke of all the added bonuses you get on top of the pain relief, "You'll be a bit happier and your libido will increase!"

I said, "Hell ya!  I want sum-a-dat!"

'Happier' came within the first day, when the Gma's nagging really didn't affect me at all.  I wasn't muttering under my breath, "Yes, your Highness," then giving a secret one finger salute as I passed the wall.

Then came my libido.

That actually increased after the third day of this new miracle pain killer.

I crawled up on to my love's chest, ever so carefully, so as not to hurt Papi's still healing wounds and just laid there for a moment.

I felt a surging need for a little Papi action, but the bad news was my love had to leave for work.

The next day however, mi esposo woke up earlier from the Graveyard Coma, and after a brief visit with me, toddled off to the bedroom for the usual masturbation session before work.

hey ... our one eyed golden retriever humps his bed after dinner ... papi masturbates before work.  enter here where my love screams from the other room while reading my blog, 'honey!!!!  i can't believe you wrote that for everyone to see!'  but hey papi, you're the reason i have this blog in the first place.  love you ;P

As my love wandered into the room, I was hit with a moment of ardor and wanted to follow Papi into the room.

This is when I heard, "Honey?  Would you like to join me for a quickie?"

hell ya i would!

I ran in nervously, thinking about the 5 Foot Clitoris, wondering if it's odour had changed since the last time we tried to share our love, and crawled upon Papi's chest again.

careful ... careful ... 

From that point onward, I had my love back.  All those feelings of, 'how do I work with this new toy?' left me.

My love took control and gave me what I've been waiting for.  I wasn't afraid of the new scent, and mi esposo wasn't afraid of the, "What if Andréa doesn't find me attractive?" moments.

It was just us again ...

i made sure of it ... the four legged fuzzy family was banished from the room ...

... and we were feeling the passion like it had always been prior to the bomb dropping, and then some.

I didn't want the moment to stop.  I instructed my love on exactly how fast and deep to go.

Now I was finding that devotion to ecstasy I always had, with no boundaries.

We switched over to a vibrator for a little more fun, and I had the best time I've had in a long, 10 month stint.

Only there was one problem.  Papi said, "Ok, so now I need to use it.  Every time you hop on it, you seem to take it over."

i don't like to share ...

But it was beautiful now.  My love instructed me on what to do.  I found it soft and alluring.  The 5 Foot Clitoris was no longer a threat.

I made a new friend.

I would like to visit a little more often now that I have an option for pain killers that won't turn me into a slug, with no interest for anything in life.

However, there is still one barrier between Papi and I that I know will take a long time to overcome.

Brace Face.

Between the two of us, one of us winds up hurting the others tongue or lips, on top of clashing of brace on brace.

Yeah.

That one is going to take a while.  No passionate kisses till those puppies bid adieu.

Gimpy giggles.

Papi and I are really meant to be.

I was terrified that the hormones were going to create a monster of a spouse.

I've been proven wrong.  People will get extra boisterous because of the testosterone factor, but there really has to be an already existing anger management issue.

Papi and I laugh our way through most of the 'issues' people have in relationships, and I didn't want that to change.

The 'angry' person has never arrived, other than the fact that my love is a little more aggressive in terms of road rage, but mi esposo has promised to work on this.

At the same time, I have to work on believing Papi's truths vs. myths.  I'm slowly letting go of my own crazy ideas that pop into this overly creative brain.

I'm not so worried about the anger issue coming up anymore.  My love has proven to me that I still get my silly spouse, even if he is growing man hair.

Now to Papi's side of the fence.

My love abhors pot heads.  This is why mi esposo would rather have me taking the pharmaceutical companies drugs instead of nature's offering for pain.

Well, if I'm going to be stuck with this pain for the rest of my life, then I really need to look at long term pain management, and pills that would rot my liver are not really a great option in my books.

So, I got approved for medicinal marijuana and took a trip to the The Medicinal Cannabis Dispensary here in Vancouver.

They don't really know what kind of dose I need to get past the point of pain, so they gave me a bit of a starter kit.

They gave me an infused iced tea and a 'Budder' bar, where the infused honey is what's holding this delicious looking edible together.

I was also recommended being given Snake Bite Oil for the nerve issue specifically.

Sounds gross, tastes gross, and at first made me a little nauseas.

However, all it took were two little drops per hourly dose of this magical serum, and I actually felt like I could cook a dinner for myself.

I've been snacking for the past couple of weeks.  Really not eating healthy, just trying to get the most nutrients I can without moving too much.

So, to be able to cook was great joy for me.  Getting those lush, organic greens into my body instantly gave me more energy, and I had more mobility to use it.

Ok.  No problem, until the 3rd dose.  I had a moment of pot head snickers and Papi was not impressed.

The giggle attack.

My love doesn't want to see the giggle attack, because then I'm a full fledged pot head.

I removed myself from the room to try to contain my giggles, but inevitably I would snort out a chuff.

Then I heard it, "Andréa?  What are you doing?" in such a tone that it felt like I was a bad little girl who got caught sneaking cookies before my dinner.

I couldn't hold it in any longer and the bursts of laughter came out.  Papi wasn't happy, "See!  This is what I didn't want!  I don't want a pot head for a wife!  I hate pot heads!"

Well, that just made me laugh all the harder, because whether you're on something or not, when you're not supposed to laugh, it makes you laugh all the more.

I needed a time out.

I had to sit and get serious, or my love will not be impressed.

way to harsh my mellow dude ...

Eventually, the giggles calmed down and Papi said, "Well, I guess the non-stop giggles are better than the non-stop whining."

irk! i prefer to call it wincing in pain, not whining.  this femme doesn't whine!

Exactly my dear.

And you know what?

If this femme's perfect butch is replaced with a Tranny with man hair for a spouse, then Papi can deal with a gimpy, limpy, pot head for a wife.

Tou-fucking-ché and somewhere, we'll meet in the middle.

My love soon realized where the issue with pot heads came from, and we had a long txt chat about it.

It's my love's turn to work on this fear, just like I had to work on the hormones fear.

We were really meant to be here for each other to help each other over our 'issues' aren't we?