goodbye

All good things must come to an end.

I believe that time has come for this blog.

It started out I needed it.

I needed 'you', the reader I didn't know.

I needed support from those who have walked the same path as I.

I needed to see my counter go up, up, up, every day from readers I don't know from here to Russia, in hopes that they would show me how to love myself and be proud of who I am.

I needed so much love.

I believe I've found that love, for myself.

I've fought through the tears of those in an entire 'community' who intentionally hurt me.

I've fought through the tears of losing my butch.

I've fought the good fight with anorexia and depression, and I still continue to give my chemical imbalance a work out, only now it's with a machete instead of boxing gloves.

Still, none of that changes the fact that I've needed a life change to change me.

Oh, how I got it.

It's time to move forward.

It's time to finish writing those novels I started.

Maybe on the balcony with my morning coffee as I look out at the white noise.

It's time to get up in the morning and turn on my programs to compose music just like I did before the motorcycle accident.

Which is really why we are here.

To have a life beyond the suffering I was dealt from my bitch of a back.

I'm almost at the 5 year mark of healing from that disaster.

My Living Day Anniversary.

It can't heal my brain injury and subsequent memory fail and loss of balance, but I can strive for the life I once led.

As a different person.

I have changed.

We all change.

We all grow, if we try.

I grew.

It's time to put that growth to music now that I have the ability, with the help of loving tropical heat, to sit to do so.

I'm not saying I won't return.

Of course I need my soapbox every once in a while.

My opinions are strong and I lead them with conviction, regardless of how many people try to silence me.

Perhaps it's time to start a wave here?

Power to women?

Power to those with cancer and chronic pain who are denied the simple, ethical relief from that hell I know so well.

To not give local anesthesia to a child who needs stitches in his head is barbaric.

I've suffered 4 months of pain of a torn ankle ligament without meds.

Perhaps I need to make some pain relief in the form of cookies to help those who need it.

There's a lot in this country that could use a voice.

I may keep my voice for here.

Or, I may just knowingly live with the 'rules', then break them.

I don't know.

What I do know, is it's time to step away from my morning ritual of blogging.

I'm not saying goodbye to 'you'.

I'm just saying it' time to start that New Life List.

i am the only 'sign' i need

only happy when it rains

Everything is in Dominican Time here.

Including my healing.

But my steps are getting stronger, and yesterday, I made my first home cooked meal in 3 months.

Nothing special.

Canned diced tomatoes stewed with onions, garlic and red pepper, over top quinoa.

These past few months of the Papi diet, aka: eating wheat and sugar every day, have taken a toll on Bubble Girl.

My food allergies definitely add to my chemical imbalance.

My obsessing and anxiety are out of control.

Non-stop.

A lovely Blogger Friend, and amazing writer at Lesbians In My Soup!, really got the essence of what I was trying to say yesterday.

I'm only happy when I have something to bitch about.

I bitch about anything.

Everything.

So, when I'm happy about something, you really know it's genuine.

I'm generally a happy person, and on a regular basis, I catch myself off guard thinking to myself, "I really love my life," but I was brought up to bitch and complain.

It's the way I remember my family as a child.

I think the reason the waves have made me crazy, is because I haven't had enough of anything else to focus on.

Lying around like a bloated manatee will do that to me.

I'm not very good at staying still.

I'm also not very sane when you take music away from me.

It's my meditation.

I also need regular exercise to release the endorphins that help me stay on top of my mood swings and eating disorder.

All of a sudden, as I was making healthy food yesterday, followed by playing my piano, I realized I didn't hear those waves all too often.

The white noise disappeared with the crackle of onions and garlic sauteing in my cast iron pan.

The action of cooking drowned out the drone.

Playing my piano, doing my best to memorize lyrics to the 3 Spanish songs I know, really took me away from everything.

Hell, I didn't even hear The 6-pack barking.

And I know THAT never ceases.

So, moral of my story is, this has been a tortuous 3 months with this ankle from hell.

But I'm making healthier meals as of yesterday.

I'm playing my piano as of this week.

I'm taking baby steps without my crutches.

I even started teaching as of Friday that just passed.

No, I am NOT good at sitting still.

This I know.

Maybe now that I'm literally getting back up on my feet and eating healthier I'll stop obsessing as well.

That would be nice.

I can only handle one obsession at a time.

It's time to search for my SuperGirl Panties again.

I know they're in here somewhere.

I suppose I'll have to do the laundry to find them.

I also need a little more music, healthy foods and some gentle, seated yoga.

That should bring me closer to them.

developing healthy eating habits becomes easier every day

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

gravity work your magic.

Oh, the ebb and flow of emotions.

Looks like that wave has crashed into the sand today.

Hurricane Andréa is upon us and she is one massive shitstorm.

I have the feeling I'll be wearing the cast for more than the 3 weeks they told me.

I'm still having a lot of pain.

So, having pain means, I'm trying to rest with my ankle up.

Resting too much means my bitch of a back acts up, because it does NOT like to be lying down with all my organs pressing on it for too long.

Fuck you back.  Like I need your fucking bullshit right now.

Then there's the meals I'm being fed, which are increasing the weight of fat pushing against my back as well.

Papi isn't much on cooking healthy food, so whatever is easiest for him is my meal; hot dogs, pasta, cornchips, chocolate.

I'm rolling around like a bloated manatee and having a major issue with my chemical imbalance.  Wheat makes me a little freaky.

Fuck you food allergy crazy brain.  How about we lay off the fucking wheat spaz-out, OK!?!?

Then, add in the fact that my cycle is a week and a half late.

I'm NEVER late.

I highly doubt Papi got me pregnant.

But I'll tell you, this is the PMS people use as an excuse in murder trials.

Perhaps it's due to stress?

Or, perhaps, all that sweating I'm doing has nothing to do with the crutches and the exertion it takes to get around.

Maybe I'm just going to stop that monthly womanly hell all together now and I'm having hot flashes sent directly from hell itself.

I'm old enough to be freed from my womanly duties.

You know what I don't understand?  If my fucking uterus won't give me a fucking baby, then why the fuck do I have to suffer through womanly hell every fucking 3 weeks?!?!?!

Huh?!?!?!  A big fuck you to my uterus.  If I could, I'd rip you out myself you fuckwad!

Not to mention, when I don't exercise, my brain gets a wee bit off kilter.

Anyway.

Put it all together, and I'm a fucking mess today.

I got up and cursed Papi's name a few times when I saw my bread wasn't put back in the freezer.

I'm glad he wasn't up, because after that, I really lost it.

I found our new cutlery in the cutlery drawer on top of all the old cutlery in a colossal clusterfuck of silver.

Swearing his name, I ranted, "What!?!?  Am I living with a fucking child?!?!?  And those fucking dishes!!!  I'm wobbling around in pain and you can't help with the fucking dishes?!?!?!"

When I finally had my coffee I calmed down a little, and remembered that there are many factors adding to my bad attitude today.

That it's not the cutlery or the bread.

I'm not myself today.

I started feeling messy yesterday when I couldn't get the mother fucking free video website to work so I could watch a fucking show and take my mind off the fact that I'm not able to play my fucking piano and ease this fucking insanity.

... excuse the run on sentence ... just felt right ...

I signed up for a free month of Netflix to watch Breaking Bad.

It was a good distraction to watch violence and anger played out by someone else, instead of spewing pea soup with my head rotating a few times.

I'm fucking sick of this.

And like I said, I'm pretty sure this fucking cast is staying on for longer.

I'm not impressed and I'm losing it.

However, what goes down, most definitely comes back up again.

Today's mission is working on patience.

everything happens for a reason

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

i can do this.

OK.

So I'm a sick puppy.

I never said I wasn't.

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

Hey!

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

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

Still, this is a substantial start.

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

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

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

They're dealing with the same pain.

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

I am not ashamed of my lunacy.

It is who I am.

I was born this way.

Trust me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know WHO I am.

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

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

I will trust his 'normal drinking' for now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Many people have sent me their angels.

Thank you.

They have been received.

I am out of the Pit of Doom today.

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

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

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

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

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

I know he loves me.

That's all I need to get through this.

For now.

i release any desperation and allow love to find me

i need help.

Your Sunday Sillies YouTube show:

I wish life were as silly as it seems on these videos.

I tend not to tape a lot of the real deal for these videos, but I will start to.  No point in calling it the live version of the blog if it doesn't reflect it, no?

If you're a Facebook friend, I'm stepping away from the toxicity for a week or so, but I'll be back to post next weeks YouTube show.  I need to only speak to close friends right now while I try to get better.

If you're an avid blog reader, you know I can't stay away from getting my emotions out here, so I'll be writing, but there won't be any posting to Facebook for the time being.  You can add me on G+ or Twitter if you want reminders, or feel free to come back on your own accord with your own memory of me here.

... i want to fade away ...

I have great gratitude for my texting system on this computer to get a hold of my baby sister and my Eternal Friend, and I'm adding a few more who have iPhones so that I can have someone to contact when I feel I'm falling again, or when I need to be honest about the thermonuclear meltdown that is Hurricane Andréa.

Fitting, that there is an actual Hurricane Andréa as we speak.

When I have bad energy going on, the whole world gets to experience it.  Sorry about that folks.  I have SOME power, don't I?

Yesterday was the most difficult as I was in panic attack mode for about 6 hours straight.  Hyperventilating, I couldn't walk very far, because my lack of breath stole my strength.

But that didn't stop me from getting to the kitchen.

The day before, cutting my arm stopped my tears.

It didn't work yesterday.  I tried on my leg, but to no avail.

I even went as far as using a serrated knife in hopes that it would go deeper and I would bleed out the pain of tears.

It didn't work.  All it left me with are a bunch of painful cuts and welts.

Papi got a little angry when he saw them.  He hadn't seen the first ones because I wouldn't really let him get close enough to me to see them.

But he grabbed my arm in anger of the realization that I'm a hell of a lot sicker than he thought.

Well Papi, if I have to watch you harm yourself, then you get to watch me harm myself too.

I took more of Papi's clonazepam to stop what felt like lung convulsions, because I came to the conclusion that hurting myself isn't helping matters.

I'll try not to hurt myself anymore.  I just need some peace.

Today, I thought I would water my fruit trees and garden at 8 a.m. without any chance of kids finding me, but Our Favourite was at the gate.

I was able to hide behind the new casita until he got bored and left.  I made the house look like we were not up, but that the dogs were in the yard without us.  Yes, once again I am held hostage in my prison away from the beauty of the outside world.

Even in my tears yesterday he wouldn't leave.  I was crying so hard and he just tugged at my arm wanting my attention.  I said, "No friends today!!!  Today is a very bad day!!"  Which is an understatement.  I am in full throws of the Pit of Doom.

Children don't get it, but at least he didn't see me while I hid behind the casita today.

Papi said he was moving into the casita, then changed his mind.  "Why should I have to?  This is my house too."

Then I found his stash of alcohol he had hidden.  I threw it on the bed and asked for a divorce.

Later, I asked him if he was drinking and using pills because he WANTS me to leave.  "Do YOU want a divorce?"

No he didn't.  So I told him that I would suffer through his drinking, but there were going to have to be some 'rules' in place.

You drink?  You do it outside, never around me.  You are alone or you can knock yourself out with the other alcoholic, Mr. Gummy, in the village.

You are drunk?  Do not bring your stench of musty, rotting, repugnant, day-old alcohol smell into the bed.  It's enough to make me puke.  Sleep elsewhere when you are offensive and fetidly rancid.

You pass out in the pool?  I'll still drag you out, because I love you too much to lose you to death.

You kill yourself from drinking?  I'll pull your dried, brittle bones from the ground and lie in them every night so that I'm never away from you.

I look at the dried blood on my cuts and wish that it were simple enough to bleed out the tears that feel like they flow through my veins.

All I'm left with are welts and scabs.  No relief.  I need some peace in my heart.

I've begged the angels to help me with this, but I'm not feeling like they're responding.  So, could someone please send me yours?

I really need help right now.

i forgive myself for any and all past mistakes

and down i go ...

How do we wake up with faith and hope, then slide into despair and the Pit of Doom by the end of the day?

Or rather, how does my chemical imbalance continue to pillage my mind, stealing my light?

I don't know about you, but my emotions can change for the worst with one phone call.

That's what happened yesterday when that one phone call represented loss.

It has nothing to do with Mr. Lumpy, because of course, true to Dominican Time, the week wait has come and gone and there's no word.

In Canada, if it was serious, they would have called right away, but I have to remember where we live, and their idea of 'prompt'.

No, this phone call was a long awaited one that I didn't want to make, but bit the bullet and did it anyway.

It's my former recording studio/engineer mentor.   He had given me books to use for studying, and during the sewage flood in 2011, they were destroyed.

I suppose he has another person to mentor, as he had called 4 days into us moving here asking for them back.

I had tried to call him when the disaster hit and we had word about the loss of his books, but he's not too good at returning phone calls.

So, I left it, a few years past by and here he is calling me looking for them.

Well, we chatted yesterday.  I finally put some money into Skype and use that as my phone to talk to people back home, and called him.

But there was so much strain in hearing his voice and the reminder of all that is withdrawn from my life now.

The pain of knowing that the motorcycle accident took away so many possibilities, is sometimes too immense for my weak spirit.

He said, "You sound scared," but I couldn't tell him why, I just replied, "I am."  I flippantly blamed it on how hard things are here in this new world.

He didn't need to know I'm fretting over Mr. Lumpy, nor that I was on the verge of tears for having to hear the voice that helped me so much that I had to let go after my accident.

Letting go.  Asking my angels for more support.

My angels were so abundant in the morning, and by the evening, I was asking them to take me with them.

"Why can't you just take me now?  Why can't I go to a new life and try again, because seriously, what the fuck am I here for anyway?  Can't you just take me?  I want to be with my Fuzzy Family that are so lucky to have moved on to a new hemisphere."

When my emotions were submerging me under that colossal blanket of agony, I stared at the gun that lies on my bedside table for a little while.

I touched it with curiosity, thinking about how easy it would be to make it my last and final friend.

I won't do it, not because it's cheating myself of a life I was handed, but because I know how much pain I would bring to those who love me.  I would never intentionally harm anybody who loves me.

I need them too much.

To put them through that pain would be the worst act I could ever inflict upon another.

Instead, I cried until I couldn't breathe, then asked Papi for one of his magic 'put me to sleep' pills.

I guess, when I asked my angels to help me 'let go', they gave me a doozy.

I don't know why yesterday was the day I decided to call him, it just kinda happened.

Letting go of loss, people who have moved on, my prior life.

I had moments yesterday morning where I felt that I was really here for something, that I was here for benefit to this world in some way.

Then the night came and with the darkness brought the shadow in my heart that tells me there's no goal in my life.

Papi woke up late in the day, and told me all the things I'd done wrong while he slept to add to my already shattered state.

He even got mad at me for crying.

The way he speaks to me right now is unbearable, but he says the same about me.

Maybe he's really serious about trying to cut down on the pop and his withdrawal is making him mean, or maybe it's because he's in pain from falling off the ladder and has no more pain killers.  This also means he cut them cold turkey.

Maybe it's many things that I don't know about, but his tone made it all the worse.

I need love and trust from myself and from him if I'm going to make it through this life.

all my relationships are loving and harmonious 

help me help

My heart was reduced to shattered debris.

I was in the kitchen, getting ready to make a meal after running around all day, when Our Favourite appeared at the door.

"My mom wants you to come."

Oh, but I'm hungry.

You don't want me to visit when I'm hungry.

I was a little perturbed.

As I get when I'm hungry.

But I went anyway, because you never know what kind of help Our Fave's Mom might need.  She's really trying to do a lot of this on her own with our godson, as her husband is working a lot.

I've told her to always come when she needs something.  Anything.

She tends not to take me up on that, and has told me in the past she likes to be alone.  I don't want to be in her face all the time, as I know I would with that Little Angel in this world.

I followed Our Favourite and his mini-me sister.

When I got to their house, I felt rude just walking in to her private space, but she wasn't coming out.  I suppose I had to go against those feelings of awkwardness to see what she needed.

I pushed back the curtain to her tiny room, and saw that they were using the carriage we gave them as a crib.

Yay!  It makes me so happy when people use what I give them.

But as I looked at her, underneath the veil of a mosquito net, I knew there was a heaviness I hadn't seen in her before.

At first, it could be confused with exhaustion.

I sat down and asked her how she is doing.

"I'm sad," she said, as I finally saw the tears rolling down her face.  "I'm alone."

She is alone.

I get it.

I have felt it.

I know that emotion all too well, but I haven't had the double whammy of postpartum depression to go along with it.

Her body is reeling in chemical imbalance as it gets used to no longer being a host.

I touched her leg and said, "I am very, very sorry.  I understand.  I don't visit your house every day because I think you want to have your space."

I told her to come to my house ANY time she feels she needs a friend.  That she can watch me run around like a lunatic as I'm being called one way to the next from workers.

I said I would come by more often to see her if she'd like that.  She said she would.

I told her that we could go for a walk.  She needs to get out of the house.  Being in a house alone just makes it worse, you need fresh air and change of scenery.

I asked her if she likes to exercise.  She does, so in 3 months, when her body is healed from the invasive surgery of giving birth without going through the natural canal, we could do some yoga.

I told her how it helps my brain, my heart and that exercise is good for depression.

In my limited Spanish, I did my very best to explain that I have depression, so when she needs to talk or cry, it's not hard for me to see, because I understand.

Papi came after a while to see if everything was OK.

I had been there for quite some time consoling her, consoling the Little Angel from gas, and consoling the little sister who was being berated by Our Favourite every minute or so.

Papi was worried that something was terribly wrong.  He showed up with pistol in hand.  Well, in underwear.

Yes.  Something is wrong, but not gun worthy.

Our Fave's Mom needs a friend to help her through postpartum depression right now.

I could use a physical friend too.  I am grateful to my friends who give love virtually, but there's something about a physical hug that makes me stronger.

I asked my angels to help me do everything in my power to be as selfless as possible, in hopes that I could help her through this.

It's hard enough when I'm depressed, but when I see someone else depressed, it's as if the pain goes through me, because I can't handle to see people suffer.

Like Papi is suffering right now.

I know how it feels, and I am dying watching him be in the pain he is experiencing.

Help me to help them both.

i see myself as the gift i am to people, community and nation

Paradise is NOT a 'place'.

The party.

Unlike any baby shower you'll find in Canada.

Canada?  Ladies only for the most part.

Silly games to keep us entertained, refreshments with a few tame drinks.

Music on, really only for ambiance.

Baby shower in Dominican Republic?

Co-ed, rum being chugged before it's poured into the glass.

Music so loud, there's no point having a conversation.

I filmed people dancing instead.

Our Fave's Mom looked so damn beautiful.

I've never seen her look so good, because the poor thing is so damn pregnant, she doesn't have the energy to fancy herself up.

Damn she's beautiful with her hair down and those massive breasts spilling out of her Spanish style top.

I actually didn't recognize her at first!

I had a tour of their fruit trees, pigs and chickens.

We're talking at least 20 fuzzy, baby chicks too.

Holding them to give me so much love that I need right now.

They chirped in my ear, "I love you, it's really good to be alive!"

Yeah, you're not old enough to know how bad life really gets.

Oh, but you won't be saying that when it's YOUR turn to be in the pot of food they were cooking for the party last night.

I was also the tester of the food to see if it was good.

Good?!?!

Oh I can't even tell you the flavours they use here.

I was grateful to be the tester.

Papi kept disappearing.  Understandable.  His social anxiety is worse than mine.

He was supposed to be behind the camera to keep himself busy so he didn't feel uncomfortable, but people were shy in front of him.

He handed it back to me.

The 2nd time he disappeared, I went to the house to get the flash for the camera.

I saw it.

A pint of beer poured.

My heart stopped, my stomach erupted through my head and the tears were being held back with all my force.

I was supposed to go back and take pics of Our Fave's Mom opening her gifts.

No time to cry.

As soon as I was done however, I went home to find that Papi didn't drink the beer.

Not because he came to his senses, but because he was caught in the act.

His way of dealing is to relapse.

My way to deal with depression is to get so angry that my yelling actually scares away all the animals, for fear that they will be pulled into the eye of Hurricane Andréa.

Normally, they see me as all love.

I'm hurting and scared and feel so isolated, so when there were no friends to speak to by way of internet, well, I lost it.

Papi's grieving.

Today we put down Psycho Kitty.

Poor little critter has had enough.  I keep begging him to go to the angels on his own, but he's just too much of a fighter.

I've had enough of watching him suffer, not being able to even open his mouth enough to eat.

Papi's had enough of watching his little love slowly die before him.

Beyond the dying cat, there is so much exhaustion and trouble to deal with that we're at the point where we half heartedly spoke about the convenience of there being two guns for a double suicide.

This is not paradise.

Paradise is not a place.

Paradise is in your heart.

A beautiful view of the ocean does not cure a mental chemical imbalance.

i offer a sincere apology to those affected by my anger

accept it. this hurts.

My g*d I hate this time of year.

The Xmas Meltdown is nipping at my heels and I'm not even celebrating it this year!!!

I'm just grateful I haven't fallen into the processed sugar pit.

At least that way I'm not taking up residence in the Pit of Doom.

Without putting that nasty, white death into my system, all I do is periodically go have a seat in the La-Z-Boy I've set up there.

It's much better than living there, but it still hurts.

I have to admit, I'm having so many unresolved feelings come up that obviously need to be taken care of.

One thing I'm learning, is Facebook is really not a great place for me this time of year.

I'm also learning that I need to be true to myself.

I have so much difficulty being in gatherings, because I'm always afraid of not being accepted, so I tend not to go because of my social anxiety.

But here's where the irony comes in; then I sit and look at all the people who have pictures of their gatherings on Facebook and feel so unloved, because they didn't think to invite me.

It hurts to feel uninvited, but sometimes people don't invite me because I don't fit in.  Not to mention, because of my anxiety, I don't accept the invitation that often, so they don't bother anymore.

I know that in small settings, like one on one, most of the people in those pictures would love to see me, they just don't invite me to bigger groups.

Hey, you never know who is on the hate train with the Hector-Browns either.  Best to be safe and leave those two at home.

I am learning that I don't fit in with cliques.

OK.  Wait.

If I'm being honest, I haven't fit in with cliques since I was a child.  I'm not just learning that.  I'm just coming to terms with that.

I'm a good person.  I'm just not someone who follows the herd.

I say what I want to say, never intending on hurting someone, yet it always seems I've offended.

I do what I want to do, and sometimes, people don't agree with my actions.

I do things to keep ME happy, but that doesn't make everyone happy.

So, here I sit for another hollow day season and hurt.

All I've ever wanted was to be accepted.

It's time to start learning that acceptance of myself is all I've ever needed.

I need to accept that I'm a loner, not a person who follows the herd.

I need to accept that I'm never going to be that popular girl that everyone flocks to.  I'm a victim of polarity, love me or hate me.

I need to accept that I'm loved only by those who matter.

I need to accept that this time of year, my head gets filled with all kinds of bad thoughts that aren't always true.

I need to accept that even though I'm home with only Papi, and our Chanukah lights are only being lit by the two of us, that it's ok that we don't have family or friends to show us what to do.

We're making our own ritual.

We sing 'Happy Hanukkah' to the tune of 'Happy Birthday' and do our silly Chanukah dance that we somehow made up on the spot.

Not to be confused with The Happy Papi Dance.

It's nowhere near what we're 'supposed' to do.

But then that's our journey together.

We never do what we're 'supposed' to do.

I suppose that's going to have to be OK.

i accept myself completely

Ah! The Joys of S.A.D.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm staying off the processed sugar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's starts now.

i choose to exercise regularly

how dare i?!?!

I got kicked out of a store.  It's hard to believe.

I actually went in with the intention of asking if she'd be interested in wares from the Dominican Republic from the women in Haitian villages.

I want to help the people there so much, and I had a brilliant idea that I would have their wares sent to Vancouver to help them support their people.  I found one village that is making such items, so I thought I would check out the store I hadn't been in for quite a long time.

Not to mention, I always liked this woman's store, even if she had a reputation in our 'community' of not being the nicest to her customers.  Still, she was always nice to me.

I knew she wouldn't recognize me.  I do look a lot different than when I had the short cropped black hair.

Still, in I went to look at all the hippy dippy items I could, and enjoy that store for what I didn't know was the last time.

The moment I strolled in, I heard, "Hi there, let me know if there's anything I can help you find," in a rather monotone, 'I've been doing this way too long' sorta manner.

I replied, "I will.  I've just come in to admire the beauty of your store once more!"

She didn't like that.  I received a sarcastic rebuttal, "Well, try not to buy anything while you're here."

I was about to launch into my Dominican Republic story to ask about the wares of the Haitian women, but I suppose I started it off the wrong way.

"Well, I can't actually buy anything today, because we're going to the Dominican Republic and ..."  That was when I was cut short.  "Well, then we're just closing now.  Buh-Bye!"

She actually started herding me out with the items she was carrying.  I was so shocked I didn't even respond, but merely went along with the wave she created.

I thought to myself, "After all the money I spent in your store all those years?!?!"

I caught up to my Gratitude Buddy and told her the story, adding in that I'd love to go back and tell her how much money I've spent there in the past.

My Gratitude Buddy asked me if that would make me feel better.  I thought about it, then said, "No, not really.  I'll just let her rot in her stink of karma then blog about it."

I've stuck up for the owner in the past, with an understanding about chemical imbalance and how it can make people miserable.  A lot of people in the 'community' boycotted her because she's been labeled as brash and rude.

I honestly don't know how on earth she stays in business!!!  Her store is called Beckwoman's, and it's on Commercial Drive.  Personally, she is on my boycott list now.

There's another store that I'll go talk to about the Haitian Village wares: Ten Thousand Villages.  They definitely know what customer service is and they definitely have social responsibility.  In their own backyard!!

Meanwhile, Papi is leaving me all alone today to go down to Lucky Devil Tattoo to get some of The Golden's ashes put into his remembrance tattoo, and probably have a nice visit with The Yank.

The Golden will be right there with 'G'pa' and 'mom'.

Jason, the artist, teased me on the phone when I called to book for Papi, "What?!?  You're not coming down too!  That means she gets a tattoo and you don't!"

I pouted, "I know!!!  Fuck!!" but I didn't correct him on the 'she' part.  He hasn't seen Papi since The Great Breast Disappearance, not to mention, there was no face fuzz the last he saw Papi, either.

My love said "He's going to think it's really strange."

I reminded him, "We like Jason because he's easy going and a good soul.  Just tell him straight out.  He won't have any problem with it.  He adores you."

Such is the life of someone in transition.  Always explaining and always wondering who will understand and who won't.

In the meantime, while I'm stuck up here, maybe I'll go try to get in trouble somewhere today to make up for not getting a tattoo.

Perhaps I can find another store to get kicked out of?

people respect me

on track.

She sent me home with a care package containing leftovers from the scrumptious meal she prepared for our get together.

It was a short and very sweet visit with my Eternal Friend, accompanied by the animated presence of Java the Mutt.

I'm so very grateful we're living close to transit, so that I can see her more often.

What was really important for me about our visit, was that she understands my current flux of emotions.

She moved to Guatemala from our hometown, then back again.  It was with this life experience that she was able to tell me I'm right on track.

The tremendous anger I felt by coming home to hearing about bullies, abundant violence and criminal activity was just a typical state of beginning to detach from something I love.

We actually all do it a lot in our lives.  For example, when we know we're leaving a job, we start finding everything we hate about it, so that it's easier to leave.

The other area I'm on track with, is the pull of family and friends.

I'm feeling extremely needy about the fact that I'm leaving people I love.

My mother and I have had a terribly tumultuous relationship since she became a single mother.  We've struggled right into this past year when I felt the sting of not being included in a family dinner.

I was about 10 when she was tossed into a laborious life with 2 broken children, weakened by the split of an emotionally sick family, and no support from a deadbeat dad.

The lawyer she hired to fight him told her, "You'll spend way too much money trying to get anything out of this guy.  You'd be better off using that money to support your children.  You'll never get any support from him.  He's a deadbeat."

And so the walk on our path began.

Here we are, two adults doing our very best to be friends, because we both realize how much we love one another, regardless of the differences and difficulties we have.

Yesterday, I showed her my exercise regime, because there's a gym in her new condo.

I instructed her to lie on her back, so I could teach her how to initiate her core muscles.

There was this woman that had the same body as me, albeit a little softer with an extra layer.

Here was this woman who had the same eyes as me.

Here was this woman who I immediately felt a connection with and found instant forgiveness for anything she put me through.

In that moment, I was forced to remember that I put her through a lot as well.

Imagine living with a child who kept trying to kill herself?  I honestly can't picture myself in her position.

Yet I put her through this, not to mention, the horrendous mood swings that came for a child ruled by an eating disorder and chemical imbalance, further exacerbated when drugs and alcohol were introduced into her blood stream and mind.

Regardless, there she was lying beneath me, as I squeezed her lax muscles and showed her how to hold them tight.

It put her in a place of trusting her child.

I, above her.

It didn't matter that Mr. Homophobia was standing right behind us.  He can't allow my Mother to be alone with anyone, as he needs to control everything my Mother does.

However, yesterday she was all mine, regardless of the black cloud that loomed above us.

I connected with my Mother.

I'm connecting with the spirit of my Great Grandmother.

I'm connecting with family and friends, while at the same time, I feel I'm repelling my city.

My Eternal Friend tells me I'm right on track and that these high and low emotions I'm feeling are typical.

And this, is the journey.

i am loving and accepting of myself for who i am becoming

anger management

I think I really do need anger management.  They say that depression is only anger turned inward.

That would make sense in this case.

The foreshadowing of the next three months here in the frigid, teeming weather in Vancouver hit me when my back went into spasm upon leaving the Dominican Republic.  Unfortunately, carrying my bag definitely wasn't a smart idea.

The anger hit when I realized that can no longer use my medicinal cannabis once we got home.

To us, in this hemisphere of the orb for we, who have 1st world knowledge, this will sound crazy, but I have to get back on pills, or the Dominican Republic won't let me live in their country.

They'd prefer I take morphine for the pain.  Seriously!!

I can't have the natural pain killers in my blood stream, as they will test my blood upon entry as a landed immigrant, so it's back to mother fucking pills.

Once more, they'll destroy my stomach and rob me of energy and happiness.  Hence, I got a little bit pissy in anticipation of taking them.

So much so, that as we were leaving the Dominican Republic, I had to relieve the angst by joking with the custom's officer about my bitchy attitude, and matching malicious face.

In Spanish, I told him I'm tired, hot, and added in, "La perra," the bitch.

He smirked, then looked at Papi as if to say, "Oh, you poor, poor soul."

However, to be honest, it was not just because my bitch of a back was biting at me, it was also because I didn't want to go home to deal with people who trigger my social anxiety, preventing me from leaving my home.

This one moment of returning home was just an appetizer of what's to come for the next three months.

There I went, the Limping Lesbian, to the washroom.  I sat on a toilet and sobbed, hoping nobody would come in to hear me.

I especially didn't want anyone to come in because I started talking to myself, begging to nobody in particular, "Please!  I don't want to go home!"

After a while, my ass got a little numb sitting there, so I decided to return to Papi.

Upon leaving the washroom, I saw the rows of Dominican rum that whispered very seductively to me, "You could have some pain and stress relief, right over here!"

Oh, sure I could, but then I'd be dealing with pain of another level, so I cried some more.

There I was, amongst all the happy travelers, in tears.

I pouted and gave people the stink eye when they'd stare at my state, and for a moment, was grateful that I actually had those miserable pills in our bags.  I took those, plus the anti-anxiety pills Papi stuffed down my yack.

I know I'm not alone in these feelings.  Vancouver is heading into it's depressive state, where a lot of us tend to be affected by it.  S.A.D. is real, and in Vancouver, it's in abundance.

My challenge for the next 3 months will be to stay positive while having horrid chemicals roaming through my blood, poisoning my mind and destroying my stomach.

Positive.  Stay positive.  Don't fall into the Pit of Doom, please!  Let's not have any Hurricane Andréa sightings, for the love of god!!!

I'm pretty sure right now would be a really good time to get on to my food plan 100%.

I brought Dominican chocolate home, but perhaps, this is going to be for giving away.  It's necessary to keep my body physically well, to keep my mind emotionally stable.

I really need to do this, because unlike some fortunate others who don't have a chemical imbalance, I need to work very hard to be happy.

I'm going to put a massive calendar on the wall to cross off the days until we leave, and know that eating very well every day is for a specific reason, not just a flippant 'diet'.

I need to get serious about my physical and mental health.

Not to mention, there's a third part of this equation; spiritual.  I'm pretty sure that thinking about stuffing my gun down potential predators' throats is not spiritual.

I could have better thoughts roaming through my brain.

i choose nourishing and healthy foods

gun therapy. oh yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wrong mother fucker.

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

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

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

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

So, this weekend, I start target practise.

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

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

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

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

Just add alcohol and a gun.

i have deep faith and belief in myself

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.

i'm dying inside.

Remember all those mornings I would wake up with swollen eyes?

They would look like they were used as a punching bag while I was too busy crying to notice anyone beating the shit out of them.

I have them today.

Right now, my demons have a hold of me and are eagerly dragging me further into the rancid Pit of Doom.

I was supposed to be home, not in the Pit of Doom, but there's a small problem.

I won't go into massive details right now, but let's just say I won't live with drama that I never asked for.

I'm sleeping in someone else's bed, when I should have been sleeping in my own with my loving spouse while we celebrate the sale of the home, and our next adventure.

I thought I lost my phone, but at least, the very least, I found it in my friend's car as I did my usual, "Hey!  Why don't we leave it on the front seat?" game, and it wasn't stolen!

I guess I can say I'm grateful for that.

However, I excitedly looked to see a message from Papi, but there was nothing.

I left a message saying how much I love him, but that would not make sense to someone when at the same time, I left my home.

It's not really my home anyway.

I came home to The Yank having lived in our room for a few days, and it no longer looked like our room.

I came home to a 'Sold!' sign on our front lawn.

I came home to my spouse relapsing.

Besides, it's no longer my home anyway, and when Papi and I have a chance to deal with the current stressful situation, it still won't be my home.

So, I'm just getting a head start on not having a home, by sleeping in my friend's bed until the drama has ceased.

I don't ask for drama.

I ask for peace.

I ask for love.

I ask for the best life possible.

I ask for happiness.

I ask for gratitude.

Crying alone in fear for my spouse's safety is not the best life possible, is not happy times, is not something I'm grateful for, nor is it peaceful.

At least there is still love.

And yet, here I sit, crying so violently, that I can only wish each tear was one step closer to death.

If tears could kill, today I would wish for them to do so.

I suppose that Beatles song is right.  Love is all you need.

I'm being ripped and torn inside because I love so much.

I'm on an endless loop of tear after tear because my love for Papi is so deep, I could feel our connecting dissipate while I was away for the weekend.

I didn't get my usual texts of love, because Papi had a distraction.

A down and dirty, nasty distraction that will stray even the most loving hearts away.

I was chosen second over this demonic liquid.

This evil poison that will whisper in his ear, "You can drink socially!  You're fine now!"

From the phone messages I received last night, he is not a social drinker.

Every sip he poured into his mouth is a tear that is rolling down my face today.

I'm broken.

There are no kings men or horses to put me back together again.

There is only one person who can do that.

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

Speaking of asses ...

Today I let some stranger get down into my meaty cheeks.

I'm a little uncomfortable with that, considering we have a friend ...

... and i'm sure some of you out there do as well ...

... who has been sexually assaulted by their massage therapist.

However, he does a method called myofascial release.

I'll try anything!

But I'm still a little uncomfortable with some dude gettin' down in there.

Ok, I'm a lot uncomfortable with it, but I'm desperate.

It reminds me of the hospital visit for my motorcycle accident, where I had an even more invasive treatment.

They rolled me on my side, then the younger than me doctor approached me and said, "I will need to place my finger in your anus to check your spine."

He hadn't yet experienced all the joking I was doing, and was a little shocked when I responded, "God, don't tell my girlfriend, she'll be jealous!!"

He didn't laugh, but the rest of the nurses did.

A lot of time, I use humour to defuse my fears.

It's a great system that I learned from one of my greatest counsellors I had.  She was around for a good 10 years of my lessons in life.

I had to let her go after that accident, for legal reasons, but she taught me more than anyone to date.

Like dealing with life's challenges with humour.

If you can't laugh, you're not doing it right.

I'm not saying it's easy to laugh while we're hurting, but damn, when the hurt is done, if you can't laugh at yourself, life is only going to beat you down over and over, and you'll get deeper and deeper into that dark place that holds you by your every cell.

I truly believe that the only thing that is important in this life is happiness.

I've been to third world countries, and seen that those with the least of anybody on this planet know how to find happiness.

We, in our first world lives, really need to learn from this.

I need to learn from this.

Happiness.  It has been my only mission in life since I first started having struggles with my chemical imbalance.

I knew that living with such deep sadness and pain wasn't the way to live, even at the young age of 11.

From that point forward, life has handed me lesson after lesson to practise my happiness with.

I'm still learning, but something I do have to say is, I'm getting out of the sad so much faster now.

What I experience now is healthy, situational sadness.

We have to allow those moments to be felt, because they are true to our feelings.  Yet when it swirls around and brings us further and further into the Pit of Doom, that's a problem, and we are under obligation to work on that.

Life is not, and will never be, fair.  It's how we deal with it that gives us our good life.

Like I've always said, we are responsible for our own happiness.  It's up to me to do what I can to turn around my thinking.

Like today.

The fear of having some stranger gettin' all up into my butt really scares me, but it's possible that he could help me.

I am willing to try.

I am willing to trust that he's a good person.

Fucker better not break that trust or there will be more than just another Hurricane Andréa sighting.

Goddammit!  My ass gets a lot of action!

i fill my mind with positive and nourishing thoughts