We are not alone.

So, I've had an outpouring of people support me by telling me of the varying diagnoses they've been handed.

That's exactly what I wanted!  I want people to talk about it!

There is nothing to be ashamed of.  We all deal with life's difficulties in different ways.

Every single person out there who has told me their secret can rest assured that I'm not going to judge you.

I praise you!!!!!

The people who wrote in to tell me that they too have been told they have 'this' or 'that' diagnoses have done so bravely, but it also means that they have released a bit of the power that the interpretations of our mental health took from us.

I wasn't really disturbed by the allegations of my 'lack of sanity'.

I don't really care, because I know that I'm happy and my life is good.  That's all that matters.

What I do know, is nobody can say I created these mental glitches on my own.

One of my readers reminded me that it's not my mind that did this, rather the fact that I grew up with difficulty, and this is how my mind reacted.

I grew up with a deadbeat dad/sperm donor/drug dealer who could care less that we existed, unless he had a girlfriend who would convince him we were important, and his phone calls would come in at that point.

Not to mention, we moved around from school to school when we grew up with a single mom.  It was the best she could do, to give us the best home we could have.  She was also very young and really did what she could to take care of two out of control girls.

Still, having to make new friends over and over screwed me up a bit as well.  I'm pretty sure that's where 'performing Andréa' came from.  She needed to put on an act in hopes that people would like her, because she thought the 'real Andréa' wasn't good enough for anyone.

Dealing head on with all of the above, plus a little more I don't feel like blabbing about, made me stronger.

I write this blog without a care that my psycho ex, The Beast, is sitting there, right now, obsessively stalking my every word and literally laughing at my disdain with whichever sick and creepy friend is joining her. 

... hey beast! how's that divorce treating ya? karma's a bitch eh? ...

Now I feel sorry for every person who thinks that this is 'supporting' their 'friend'.

It's not.  I have true support and I know what true friends are.

The Hen Peckers who try to harm me don't even phase me anymore.

I have what is known as unconditional love in my life.

Something I realized the other day, when I looked back at those 2 weeks I gave Papi to clean up his act, was astounding.

Every time I've had to leave the current 'addict' in my life, I had to leave for good.

Time and again, I had to let go of security.

With a new breath, I had to start all over again and begin a new life, searching for new hope.

This time was different.

After the blip, I got to come home to be with my love.

I got to continue with my relationship and didn't have to start over again.

This is a new experience for me.  This is beautiful!

This is, what I call, success.

I don't give a fuck about scrutiny from the bottom feeders who would judge me.

I don't need to avoid life anymore, and I certainly don't need a little doctor's opinion to tell me I dealt with it by way of these mental illnesses.

They weren't there while I struggled through to find happiness on my own.

What I need, is for people to continue talking about mental illness so it loses it's power!

So please everyone.  Keep talking! 

We are not alone.

i rejoice for the success and abundance of others

Papi and His House.

I'm not sure if I told you the Papi and his house story.

Well, my love has never moved.

Ok.  Once.  For a girlfriend.  However, he didn't really move, he just kinda moved in and left everything he owned at this here crib.

Really, that's more like a 6 month sleep over.

Anyway, mi esposo was born in this castle, and every other relationship he's had has moved in here with him, the G'ma & G'pa and the Fuzzy Family.

You see, at the ripe age of the double digit 10, my love's mother passed away from cancer.

It was at that point that G'ma and G'pa took care of the orphan, as Papi's father was not in the picture.

That's a long story that one.  No time to go there.  Having said that, my love is now 'sorta' in contact with his bio-father.

Never-the-less, Papi was an orphan at the age of 10.

That meant he wasn't moving out of this dwelling.  He was now staying put until it was time for him to leave the nest.

Yeah.  He flew for 6 months, then he was back.

It was shortly after that, that his G'pa got sick and Papi was a helper to take care of him.

Once G'pa passed away, he was here to help with G'ma, as G'ma didn't have a license anymore and needed the support.

Here he stayed. 

Then I came.

I said, "Ok.  Listen.  I vowed I would never live in a basement again, so I'm giving G'ma a few years of us taking care of her, then I have to move out of the black hole."

4 years and one Dungeon Syndrome later, here we are.

So, Papi has never moved.

It's pretty funny and a little hard for me to believe.  I've moved more times than I can even count anymore.

I could count them before the motorcycle accident, but now, well, it's sorta a blur of being a transient and considering it 'normal'.

Prior to this crash pad, the longest stability I ever had was from kindergarten to grade 5.

I'm a professional mover.

Nothing really stresses me out about moving, and I feel like this is my department.

My poor Papi has no idea what to do first.

Not to mention, he doesn't get the concept of a small space, because he's lived in quite the amazingly generous abode for his whole life.

He really believes that our full length leather couch is going to fit into Our Closet (aka temporary home #3) of 454 sq. ft.

He also believes that both his gargantuan televisions are going to fit.

Yeah, maybe in the tub!

One thing he hopped to quickly was getting our TV and internet set up in the new address PRONTO!!!!!!

He knew to do that.

But seriously.  He's never moved.

Have you ever heard of anything such as this?

Is it just me who thinks it's the craziest story I've ever heard?  Is it just because I moved SO MUCH that MY reality is all relative and I think it's nuts?

Maybe my life is the one that's a bit like a feral gypsy, but I can't help but think it's so bizarre that this is Papi's first move.

Yesterday, I just taught him about a change of address.

He thought it was a great idea, until he found out how much it costs.

Oh, it's a brave new world my love!

i have inner resources

what's mine is mine.

Oh, what The Great DR Purge is bringing up.

As we go through our things and decide what goes and what stays, it brings out a lot of memories to relive.

Good, bad and ugly.

... i will have to scan and post my 80's hair for ya!!! ...

One such memory, is a picture of being reunited with my dad in '99.

It saddens me that I have a deadbeat dad who is a manchild.

Since that reconciliation, I've tried to have a relationship with him, but it's not possible with someone who doesn't know how to do it, or give back.

Having said that, I understand a little bit more about him.

He got a girl pregnant at 15, and I can envision how sad my dad must have been to always know there's a child of his out there that was taken from him at such a young age.

I sympathize with the feeling of grief.

I more than perceive the feeling of guilt.

I can picture how it stumped his emotional development, and even when I popped up as a mistake only two years after he let go of his first child, he didn't take that as an opportunity to work on himself.

Instead, he threw himself further into the abyss of drugs.

When I saw that picture last night, it flattened out my heart.  I had to put it down to remember why it is I can't have a relationship with him.

If you want a friend/family, you have to be a friend/family.

It's so hard to know I can never expect a birthday call from him, or for that matter, a belated congratulations on my wedding.

He can't be there for anything in my life that has importance to me.

There's nothing to share with him, because he's an empty shell.

Seeing it in that picture crushed me.

I could see the wanting of a father in my little girl in my face.  I was hunched over, shoulders turned inwards and was as small as I could possibly be, with the greatest smile I could ever muster.

He was my dad for that small girl who didn't have him to grow up with, if only for that moment.

I have a visual to remember that.

Having lived a life of a fair amount of loss, this photograph is another example of why I am responsible to fill myself up, because I could never count on anyone else to do it.

Certainly, he can't, won't and never will.

He abandoned me when I needed him most, which has made it very difficult to trust anyone as I grew to a woman.

Well, I have a brother out there who probably grew up in a wonderful 2 parent home, with so much love that he may never have had to feel this loss.

I found out his birth mother's name.

My aunt was gracious enough to give a phone call to my sperm donor to find out her name so that my baby sister and I can start on the journey of finding our big brother.

I've known of his presence from a young age, even if nobody believed me all these years.

I feel like he may be searching for us as well.

He's out there.

That little missing piece of our family.

I wonder what he's like.

Healthy?  Happy?  Successful?  Perhaps, none of the above?

It doesn't matter to me, because all I need to do is find him for whatever reason, because I've been psychically connected to him since I was a young girl.

As for dear ol' dad, I have so much love for you, but it's sad to say, love just isn't enough.

we have to accept that some things may never be ours, and learn to appreciate the things that are only ours and ours alone.

I'm Sorry.

My weekend didn't really end after being so pumped with Broken Cat Dream and their fucking amazing performance.  I only got 3 hours sleep from all the excitement!!!!!!!

Wow!

Learn an instrument Friday night and perform an original song they've written 2 days later.

How many of us would do that?  Insanely brave.

I know Papi wouldn't do it.

He says that's his worst nightmare, and occasionally, he actually has that nightmare.

He'll dream that I can't perform and he has to take over for me.

To my love, this is fear.

To me, fear is confronting my mistakes and fixing them, with the impending doom that hovers over me.

I'm always too afraid to tell people how much they've hurt me, because I didn't have that opportunity to practise as a child.

I'm afraid that people won't care if I tell them how I feel, and they'll just tell me to fuck off, because to me, when they hurt me, it's because I'm just not good enough to be in their life.

Speaking of which, I apologized to my mother yesterday.

We spoke about the fact that if she's not honest with me, then I can't be honest with her.

I told her every single little feeling I had.

From feeling that she's never been proud of me, to feeling that she won't see me because Mr. Homophobia tells her not to.

Feelings that she doesn't call because she doesn't really like me all that much, and that it hurts that she calls my sister every day.

These are the thoughts that come into my head when I am not honest about my feelings.

That's really all thanks to my 'father' who really is a glorified sperm donor.  Goddam, he really fucked me up good from ditching his family for drugs.  I'm seeing this now.

My mother has never been able to be open about her feelings and I told her I need that if I'm going to have a relationship with her.

So.

I gave her an apology card.  On the front it had a cute cartoon bunny that had her head hanging in shame.

The caption read, "I fucked up."

My mom laughed and opened her eyes really wide when she said, "YES!  You DID!"

I smiled, knowing that such is my life.  I screw up all over the fucking place, because I didn't have the opportunity to learn from parents.

My mother was a child when she got pregnant with me.  My mother, my baby sister and I, we all grew up together.  Three kids in one house.

There was no room for my mom to learn communication, because her mom didn't communicate either.  Her mother emotionally ditched her when she got pregnant with me.

I've decided, that I will be my mother's surrogate big sister.

She really needs that.  Well, actually, we both need that.

I'm going to be honest about my feelings from now on, and then that way, my side of the street is cleaned up.

Papi asked me if perhaps, this will open the door for me to tell the 'mean girls' how much they hurt me, and in turn they can tell me why they did what they did.

Not bloody likely.

I have other messes to clean up.

I'll stick to cleaning up my side of the street.  There's enough to do here.

for the most part, it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks.  follow your own truth.

Oh, Brother. Where art thou?

So, I may have the strangest family ever.

I just found out that I have a half brother floating out there somewhere that nobody thought was information that I should know about.

I've always known there was a brother out there.

I've mentioned it to people quite frequently through my life.

... i'm sure there may be more halves out there as well ...

However, I may never get to find him.  Nobody knows the name of the girl my sperm donor knocked up when they were only 15.

Well, I'm excluding my father of course.  He might.

However, I'm not into being falsely friendly, just to get information out of him.

If I can't honestly call him just because I want to, I don't want to call him because I want something.

That's his job.

But the excitement is overwhelming, even if I will probably never get to meet him.

I learned more about my Jewish lineage as well.

Another well kept secret in my family.

Secrets.

What the fuck is everyone so fucking afraid of?

No wonder I have self-esteem issues.  I have a family who is embarrassed of themselves.

Growing up like that is sure to create a few issues.

I have felt like I don't fit in with the family all my life.

As I go along I find out why.

Having a division of information that each pod has is bound to keep people at arms length with one another.

Anyway, I have a half brother.

I sure wish I had a big brother growing up.

It would have been nice to have some guidance.

But I had some from my aunts.  They were good for that.

Aunts are awesome.

So was my late uncle.  Until he left us.

And the poor soul who overdosed on heroin and is now living back in her young lady years.  She's kinda stuck there forever.

That aunt's not doing so awesome.

She could have used some guidance as well.

I feel like we should have had a reality show follow us around.  It would have been a fucking block buster with all the drama.

I don't have time to tell you all about the drama, because I have to get ready for my day.

My wonderful, beautiful day, with My Gratitude Buddy and then!!!! ...

... wait for it folks ...

... The Annual Sexy Sauna Party!!!!

Yes, it's that time of year again to get naked with a bunch of people in the 'community'.

I'm heading into the lions den tonight, but I'm also heading into a lot of love.

A lot more love than dislike that's for sure.

So, I must run and get all pretty like!

you cannot change what you refuse to confront

You got shit? We all got shit.

I tend to be normal and dwell on things that really don't matter in the big scheme of life.

I've received so much love from others who either a) have had similar experiences, b) could never in a million years imagine having a mother who would choose a man over her child, or c) don't have parents either.

I also got to thinking about the fact that Papi and I are in a similar situation, only different.

My love lost his mother at the teeny, tiny age of 10.

Papi never got to grow up with his mom, however, she was a loving one while she was here.

Only problem was, there was no dad in the picture.

I won't go into their details, but mi esposo's dad is only starting to be a part of Papi's life in the past couple of years.

I tried that with my sperm donor too, but it just wasn't the relationship I had hoped for.

I needed a father, and I can't get that from my sperm donor.

Papi wants a dad, but who knows if that relationship will ever come to fruition.  It will take both of them to get it down.

Then there's my mom, who really doesn't have a maternal bone in her cancer free body.

But damn is she a good cook!!!

Anyway, we're both a bit in the same boat.

We managed without, and we are who we are because of it.

I don't think that it's bad that I became such a strong person because of it.

Or so I'm told.

Sometimes, I just feel so weak and debilitated from my emotions around the lack of parental guidance in my life.

However, I have surrogates.

I have my wonderful friends, some groovy aunts, a lovely baby sister, a couple of cool cousins and my family I'm now married into.

One of my sweet cousins lost both of her parents.  She had a rough go.  She was a miracle baby!  She had to fight from the moment she left the womb!

I also have an incredibly strong, amazing friend who's mother committed suicide when she was a child.

She was the one who witnessed it.

Imagine?

And she's one of the strongest women I know.  She also lost one of her children not too long ago.

Even still, she smiles the most gorgeous smile every time I see her.

She still carries on with her beautiful life, and life is being good to her in the current moment.

Anyway, my point is, we all have shit.  Just some of us more than others.

It's all about how we look at it, what we learn from it and how we grow from it.

I am so sure, that if I continue on my path of positive thinking and gratitude every day that I will work this through in counselling, amongst my other 'issues' I have to deal with.

If I dwell on the fact that I've never had a mom or dad to be close to, I'll be putting blinders on and the tunnel will become quite suffocating.

There is so much love to be had.

It doesn't have to come from the people I was born to.

It comes from those who choose to be a part of my chosen family, and the people in my family who choose to love me.

I have all of them.

These are the ones I will focus on today, one minute at a time, one thought at a time.

I am loved.

life consists of what a person is thinking about all day

~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

Crying Sucks.

Sometimes, it really hurts.

Basically, my mother has chosen her husband over her daughter.

Can't blame her.

She's had such a rough upbringing being beaten by nuns and living with certain dysfunctional family members could really screw someone up.

Then being knocked up by my deadbeat dad would've given her more issues.

So, she met Mr. Homophobia and they're living happily ever after.

She's not even so much as allowed to speak her dirty disgusting dyke daughter's name, or the man of the house who rules the roost will start a fight with her.

She can only see me when she has managed to get out of the house without him knowing she's coming to see me.

So, I don't really have a relationship with my mother.

But it still really hurts when I see my baby sister talking about going to her house for dinner tonight.

I should know better than to be hurt by it.

If I allow this to affect me each and every time, I'll only be harming myself.

I get to go to Swiss Chalet with the most wonderful spouse there ever was, and a crazy old bird who will make it quite interesting.

Why the hell would I even want to be over there with Mr. Homophobia?!?!?!

My love doesn't hold grudges like I do.

... yup. another one of my shortcomings that i have to deal with ...

However, my love would never disown his own daughter because his spouse told him to.

Good god!

It just happens everywhere to me!

In my 'community', within my friends, in my family life and even strangers who believe the lies all of the above say about me.

I'm lovely goddamit!

Why do I get ousted all over the fucking place!!!!!!!

No fucking wonder I want to run off to some 3rd world country and start new.

I would rather be with goats.

Knowing my luck I'll get the only fucking goats that know how to judge me as well.

So, while I sip my coffee, hoping that my artificial happiness will stop my tears from burning my skin, I have to remember that my life is what it is.

Never ending extremism.

Either really, really good, or really really painful.

It's been like this since I was a kid.  I should be used to it by now!!!!!

But I'm not.

My sperm donor left me with abandonment issues that are still harming me today.

I see that this pattern of being banished from various groups and people really needs to be looked at.

In life, when we have something to work on, life passes it to us non-stop until we learn how to deal with it.

Any fucking suggestions on how to deal with constantly and consistently being ostracized and banished?

I have started my Victim Support Counselling.  I hope that in the 6 months they allow me my counsellor, that I can deal with as much as possible.

However, I'm really only supposed to be dealing specifically on the sexual abuse of the hands of bio-males.

Does abandonment fit in there?

I fucking hope so.

Because this hurts.

Someone told me crying is good for you.

Fuck you.

i am attracted only to those people and situations that support and nourish me

Rolling up my sleeves.

We make our own choices when we decide if we're going to be happy or not.

It may sound like a tall order, but it's imperative that we know this.

Nobody can help us out of our Pit of Doom.  It's up to each of us as individuals to do this.  It's difficult, but it's our own responsibility.

It also seems unfair, that we have a debilitating mental illness when we live with depression, but we're also under obligation to fix it on our own.

Life isn't fair, but it can be beautiful if we look for the good.

I was lucky enough to have an impromptu visit by two of my very sweet friends yesterday.  It was fantastic on so many levels!

I was so happy to find out that my friend wasn't the recipient of a horrible disease.  They don't know what he's got, but at least it's not MS.

Yet here he was, with his beautiful wife, bringing joy to my day, even though they were out to deal with a stress in their lives.

Well, it wasn't only joy they brought me.

It was the reminder that I need to put down all the 'I can't right now' thoughts and get back to what makes me happy.

Or rather, less stressed and whole.

Only two days before their arrival, I was lying in a sugar hangover from another sweet couple's wedding.

I lied down for the whole day, and noticed that all the things on my ToDo list have been creeping up my back.

Actually, they're not really all ToDo.  The majority of them are the things I need to do to remain happy.

I have to remind myself to do these things, or I'll find myself wandering around the house, being distracted by either shiny, or pretty things.

One of those things I need to do to be happy and stress free, is to practise.

Obviously, that should be my first priority, as it has been that way for my entire life up until the accident.

However, now, I have to remind myself that these are the things that keep me whole.

As I lay, shaking off the wheat free, dairy free, sugar loaded wedding cake attack, I looked at my piano.

It's lying beneath more ToDo items, a laundry basket, and two boxes of shame, meant to be taken from the vicinity.

Yet, all I could do was look at it.

This is the way it's been since the accident.  I stare at my instruments and berate myself for not playing them.

Well, my dear friend who visited yesterday has decided to take up guitar.

I was so thrilled for him and thought I'd give him a few pointers about strengthening and positioning on the fret board.  In order to do that, I had to pick up my bass.

I picked her up and the love I felt was like electricity.

Love!

Happiness!

Energy!!

All of this comes when I play my bass, piano or sing, and since the withdrawal of pain meds and the jaw surgery following in it's wake, I haven't touched my instruments.

It's a little hard to do when your face is in a toilet heaving out all the poisons from your body.

Not to mention I couldn't really move much after my surgery.

So there lies my piano under rubble, and my bass hidden by more ToDo items.

Until yesterday.

I picked up my leading lady and played, sang a song, and strengthened my weak fingers while she held the rhythm.

This was all because my sweet friends arrived and I wanted to help them.

My friends have absolutely no idea how much they helped me.

All we have to do is pick up the things that make us happy.  That's really all we have to do.

Every day.

i choose to be happy

mommy dearest.

I said it wrong.  Sometimes, my brain can't catch up with my words.

Oh, how it's a common occurrence.

"I wish my mom loved me."

Papi knew it wasn't quite right, and supported, "She does love you.  She just doesn't understand you."

Sometimes though, I wonder if it's really love?  Is it love, or is it warped human nature of a mother who has birthed children?  Is it some strange pull that connects two beings whether they like it or not?  Is it some product of my mother's religious upbringing that tells her she better stay in contact or the devil will get her soul?

What I really meant was, I will never make my mom proud.

I was a 'surprise' to my then teen mom and dad.  They did pretty good for a while, but unfortunately, my dad started dealing drugs, and the undesirables were hanging around her two babies.

... were you the ghosts who did this to me? ...

My mom did the best she could, dumped him to the curb and set him free to spend endless years enjoying his true love; drugs.

She had to raise two utterly out of control girls on her own, ...

... one a little more so than the other ... i'll let you guess who ...

... with no support from the father of her kids.

She had to work a full time job, then come home and work there too.

I basically had to raise my baby sister for a good portion of every day, so, there was perpetual mayhem.

My mom was so young, but don't you worry, she had a good time.

I remember one of these crazy times, with the lovely hippies and yahoos in our lives, my mom drag raced up Cambie Street.

I think on that same eve I remember her puking out the car window from too much drinking.  She got right back up again and kept going.

Trooper!  I learned from the best!

Anyway, I can see how getting knocked up and getting a dud for a dude would have her feel a little resentment toward me.

It was I who changed her life at the age of 18.  It's not my fault, but I do represent the loss of her youth.

Still, I wish she could find an ounce of pride in me. 

I know others out there who do.  I appreciate your pride.

The last phone call I gave her a week ago has brutishly affected me for days.  I missed her and wanted to say hi.  We hadn't spoken since I called her on X-Mas day to thank her for her generous gift.

I called expecting to have something that she would find fantastic about my life, considering I find my life something to be proud of.

I didn't get her pride.  I never have, and never will.  So, why is it I went back to that place of repeating the same expectations?

Those expectations have to change.  If I know that when I call, she's not going to find anything positive about my life, then I can expect that.

If I can expect that, there won't be any surprises.

So then, why bother calling at all?

Maybe I'll send her cards.

Oh!  Postcards!

I'll get a bunch of postcards and when I'm thinking of her I'll just send her one so she knows I love her and neither of us has to go through the destructive dynamic that has been our relationship.

Or, I'll just wait another month and get my emotional beating.

I'll do one of the two.

That is of course when I have time. 

Right now, I'm pretty busy with my exciting, beautiful, positive, wonderful life.

the valleys in my life help me appreciate the good times

You have homework.

Phew!  I'm glad that day's over.

One thing I can always count on, is after a sleep, the next day has promise.  Well, most of the time that is.

Anyway, we have kitty food cash.

We also have amazing friends who asked if they could help, however, my dear Papi is too proud, and gets terribly mad at me when I share about financial problems.

i can already hear the pending, 'HONEY!!' as i write this ...

I suppose growing up on the West Side of Vancouver, and having everything you ever needed would create this attitude.

Yet, I grew up with a single mom of 2 girls.  There were many a time, when my mom would be crying because she didn't have enough money.

Well, this also had me reflecting on my years' past 'special seasons' and how I didn't deal with them very well.

When I was a kid, my mom booted out my drug dealing sperm donor, because he brought around all kinds of undesireables.

were they the ones who assaulted me?

This made for difficult times, especially at Xmas, because they'd fight whenever the children exchange would happen.

Not that my father asked to see us much.  He was pretty vacant.  Literally.

But every year, and every Xmas, there would be harsh words and terrifying fights between just about every family member.

This was followed by me 'disappearing' from it all.  I would remain silent and invisible, hoping I could just fade away.  I believe this is part of the reason for my anorexia every Xmas.

Every single year, whenever those little mandarin oranges would arrive, I would exist only on the aforementioned.

I would whittle away, try desperately to vanish, or die like Karen Carpenter did.  In a sick way, she was my hero.  She made it out of this life, and she wasn't forced to see my extended family, stress, fighting and tears.

Oh, we'd all behave while G'pa was cutting the turkey, ham or roast, but after dinner, the alcohol would kick in and the fur would start flying.

Even when I got older, the anorexia still came a knockin' at Xmas, but it was coupled with an attempt to evade these Xmas dinners from hell.

As a young adult, I would lie to my family and tell them I'd gone out of town for the season.  I'm sure they wouldn't believe me, but I did my best to make it seem true.

PTSD.

I didn't know I had it all those years until I was diagnosed with it after my motorcycle accident.

I'm a walking vessel of anxiety.  It's just the way my brain was woven.

So, when the shit hit the fan yesterday, my PTSD kicked in and worst case scenario was my obsession.

Deep down, I know that everything will work out, because it always does.

So, 'you', my imaginary friend will have to deal with my gratitude list of positive thinking for the next 2 weeks.

If you're having a hard time, would you join me?  Would you write your gratitude in my comments box?  It will do us a whackload of good.

I'll start.

I'm grateful that I have enough food to last a good few weeks.

I'm grateful that I have a loving home to live in.

I'm grateful that I have a devoted spouse who allows me my feelings.

I'm grateful for the world's most loving, amazing friends.

I'm grateful for my musical talent.

I'm grateful for the pain killers that helped me clean my house, and now are helping me live through the pain of cleaning my house.

I'm grateful that I can walk.

Your turn:

Sperm.

They really shouldn't allow 2 brain injured people who get confused to lead each other around, or they will simply go in circles like a dog chasing it's tail.

Like yesterday.

I drove downtown to meet My Boifriend, who happens to be gay, but has now found a femme love interest, which I suppose would now make him bi-curious?

Anyway, like the classy lady I am, I pulled up to the curb and had him throw his house, or rather stuffed duffel bag, and even more stuffed computer case into the backseat of our vehicle.  The entertaining part was when he bellowed, "You're making me hold up a bus!" with a panicked bark.

of course my dear, that's the way i roll... i like pissing people off ...

After we laughed about the lack of comfort we just encountered, we decided to find somewhere to have our hang out.

Well, here's where it got fun.

We spoke about where we should go before he had to meet up with the next friend.  I'm sure it will be like that for him the entire weekend.  You know how it is.  Too many people who love him and too little time to spread it around.

We decided on coffee and I started driving to my favourite, ethical coffee joint, JJ Bean.  I then realized I'm a little hungry and perhaps he was too, as it was dinner time.  So we aborted the coffee trek and headed to find something wheat and dairy free for my finicky body.

Sounds pretty normal, right?

Well, with 2 brain injured people trying to make choices, we wound up exactly where we started from.

Yup.

One big 360 degree circle of driving.

Next was the decision of which million dollar parking lot to park in.  In downtown Vancouver, a buck will get you a cool 10 minutes.

Anyway, I had decided on a falafel plate for my sinful meal, but when we parked I changed my mind.

such is the life of a brain injured person ... please don't give me options ...

This was fine with My Boifriend.  He's pretty easy.  Well, when it comes to food that is.  I wouldn't know about anything else, considering he's my platonic boifriend.

Mind you, I did have a dream that Papi and him were making out.  Is that weird or what?

Usually I dream about Papi having sex with me, but somehow my mind said it was ok for them to have a go.

Good thing it was a dream.  Wouldn't know how I'd feel about my monogamous soul mate sleeping with my gay, and/or bi-curious-ish, FTM boifriend.

Oh, there I go off topic.  Again.

Topic: food.

We ...

or rather i ...

... did manage to make a decision on Mexican.  We went to Mucho Burrito, where My Boifriend treated me to an evil meal of wheat and dairy free, sodium exaggerated junk food.  It was deliciously bad for me.

The sad part is, this restaurant is on the outer edge of the Davie Village, so the gays, trannies, dykes, and all the other people who will be going to hell with us, tend not to make it into this restaurant.

too bad for you guys! cross the burrard boundary and give it a go! i recommend it!

We had a little extra time before his next social gathering, so we went for a walk in the cool autumn, verging on winter, air.

it was about at this time that i was truly grateful that i had indeed taken 'too much' crack butter.

We went somewhere that I haven't seen yet.  The Vancouver Convention Center at the Burrard Inlet.

And here's what we found:

A big blue sperm.

I'm pretty sure that if Papi and I used this bugger ...

... we would have gotten pregnant and stayed that way!

Anyway, I guess we didn't do too badly for two brain injured people.

We ate, got to where we were going on time, and then I got to come home to Papi, who said more than one word!  It was almost like normal!

It's an improvement.

heal papi heal ... i miss your silliness ...

The time is right.

About two years ago, Papi and I were trying to get pregnant.  I haven't spoken to 'you', my imaginary friend about it, because it was quite a sore subject.  However, I feel this is the right time to do so.

We were so thrilled when the first time we tried to conceive, I managed to actually get pregnant!

Bingo!  Blammo!  There ya go!

Yeah.  Unfortunately, it ended with a big bang as well.  When we went for our first ultrasound, we were overjoyed, glowing parents, excitedly waiting for our turn in the waiting room.  We were completely unaware that the Pit of Doom was going to drag us to darkness that day.

As I lied there with my feet in stirrups, we eagerly waited to hear the first sound of our baby's heartbeat.  Only, the nurse told us it wasn't there.

We didn't really know what that meant.  We both had thoughts stirring in our mind about why there wasn't a heartbeat.

Maybe the sound for the machine was broken?

Maybe the baby was situated in such away that made it hard to make out?

Our minds swirled with irrational ideas to keep us safe and happy.

However, there was no denying it when she showed us that we should be able to actually see the heart as well.

We were devastated.  Papi was thoroughly distraught and the only word that would come out of my love's mouth for the next few moments was, "No!"

From there, we needed to make an appointment to have the deceased baby removed from my body.  It was a horrible time where the first DNC didn't work.  This was followed by being in and out of emergency a few times from an excruciating miscarriage that wasn't supposed to be happening.  Finally, the 2nd DNC completed the job.

echos ... 'you're starting to show' ... still intruding my fragile mind 

After all the trauma, I didn't think that I would want to try again, but you know me.  Nothing stops me when I have my mind made up.

We tried again 3 months later, after many anti-depressant pills, and a uterus that seemed to be working fine again.  Only this time we had a local friend/pornographer document the procedure.

Yes.

You heard me right.

Pornographer.

Well, the entire thing was caught on film, including the sex that is important to making a baby, because your body is more open to the turkey baster method when you're doing the deed.

This brings us to last night.  We went to see the short film of our baby making escapade on the big screen, along with a theatre where every seat was filled.

It was nerve wracking, and my love and I slumped in our seats trying to disappear.  I was shrinking because people were going to see my vagina up close and personal, never mind the fact that they'll also see what my face looks like during sex.

Papi, was slithering down his seat because my love can't stand to hear his own voice on film.  My love could care less about people seeing mi esposo's sex act.

The film was very well done.  It had a split screen, where the left side was the evolution of getting the donor's sperm, the process to prepare it, and the verbal account of our journey.  The right side was for the voyeurs who wanted watch the down 'n dirty show.

I really only watched the left side.  I've seen myself having sex before, so it didn't really interest me.  I was enthralled by the fact that this was a time prior to my love telling me there would be a male transformation in my life.

I hypnotically watched my love's breasts.  They were so beautiful.  A vision of my butch confined to film.  If I ever wanted to see the person I married before top surgery, I now have the opportunity to do so.

Then there was also a scene of me walking with a cane.  I had a weak stagger from brain injury, still not having rewired my brain, and was unable to walk in a stable manner.

The whole thing was surreal.

Breasts, a cane, a baby making session.

Well, we didn't get pregnant on this next try.  I'm pretty sure it was because I needed to be on anti-depressants, lest I commit suicide from my chemical imbalance whispering seductive words about how living is the true hell the zealots speak of.  Studies show that anti-depressants make it harder to conceive.

My love and I accepted this fact eventually, and decided that when we move to the Dominican Republic, there will be many children who really need a home, and we will try to adopt there.

I don't really need a mini-me running around.  It would have been cute to see a blonde, curly headed, tiny version of myself.  However, I'd love another little being that needed me and called me 'mom' just as much.

Anyway, I've been meaning to tell 'you', my imaginary friend about this difficult time in my life, and now was the right time.

I was grateful to have seen where my love and I have come from and where we are now.  It made me love Papi all the more.

It was such a beautiful night filled with loving friends, talented film makers, and memories to remember.

Oh.

And porn.

Wrath of the Tranny

"I don't know why you even expected a phone call from him on your birthday anyway.  How many times has he called you since we've been together?"

I didn't have to think about it very hard, "Once."

I just received a phone call from my sister who got the worst treatment from our sperm donor.  She gets depressed and anxious every father's day.  So we chatted and what did I have to say to her?  "You don't owe him a thing.  There's nothing he did for you in your life.  Please don't feel guilty."

He never calls my sister because she won't pay for his living.

kinda like how you gave us fuck all growing up?

So, in honour of my sister, I will do my best not to feel guilty.

good fucking luck.

Good thing I have the Tranny Terrorist to keep me entertained.

Papi was thrilled, "Look at my nipples!  They're looking so much better!"

My love then proceeded to walk them straight into my face, "Lick the nips!!"

I was cringing in a corner screaming for Papi to stop.

All mi esposo did was laugh.

Yup.

This is my love.

Then I had to help Papi with the dressings, and there was a pseudo compliment, "You did good this time and you're not having a panic attack!"

Not too long after this, my love says, "I have another birthday gift for you!  Guess what day it is?!"

oh for fucks sakes.

Yup.

It's hormones day.

I hid in the bedroom sifting through Facebook friends to keep me occupied while Papi just chatted away, injecting poison into that ass.

Later on, I'm lying in bed with my love ...

feeling extremely bloated and wiped from the horrid food i ate for my birthday

... and there's this fondling of my breast going on.

No, it wasn't sexy time.  It was more like groping and mushing my breast this way and that.

"What the hell are you doing?!  You keep fucking around with my breasts!"

"I don't have mine any more so I get to play with yours."

Oh really?!

This is the new rule?

Papi also said, "You should post the gross picture for your readers to see."

ummm ... why would i want to torture you?

Ok, I suppose if I have to suffer then 'you', my imaginary friend get to see what mi esposo puts me through.  I guess you have to pay something for reading my train wreck every day.

Here ya go:

Yes.

The Tranny Terrorist was in full force for my birthday.

Happy birthday to me.

Oh, and to my dear sperm donor, enjoy your day alone.