i want to be an angel

How did 2 days go by without doing a blog?

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

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

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

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

It's basically right outside my door.

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

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

We all know how much I like to rest.

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

In the house?

I'm some kind of depressed lunatic.

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

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

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

They do that here.

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

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

Assholes.

Do they really want a crazed gringa roaming the streets?

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

The ideation of suicide is coming more frequently.

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

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

I envision myself blowing my head off.

Every night.

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

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

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

Everything seems so difficult to do.

Everything seems like I just want to give up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is not rational.

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

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

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

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

I want to be an angel.

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

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 want to be with the angels

What is it about being an alcoholic?

One week, your mind accepts you're an alcoholic, then a week later it says, "No problems here!  You're not having crisis anymore, so you can have a beer in the pool Papi!"

The last time I found him drunk in the pool, he was passed out and I had to slap his face so many times to wake him up, I thought he was already dead.

But no, he's learned his lesson, he says.

He won't let that happen, he says.

I cried myself to sleep wondering when the next big, near catastrophe experience will come in to play.

"It was only ONE beer!!!"

Yup.

And the next time it will be more.

Then the time after that, a little more.

Then I'll be hauling you, dead, out of the ocean because your sickness said you were invincible enough for a midnight swim.

Hey no problem.

I'll learn how to live alone with my grief.

I've done it enough in my life.

I tried to get some hugs from the dogs while I was in panic attack mode of the flashbacks of him lying dormant in the pool, me slapping his face to try to wake him up, over and over and over ...

The puppies were not into it.

Me lying in fetal position on the floor is only an invitation to lick the tears off my face, while occasionally french kissing me, and jumping all over me.

All I wanted was for someone to hold me while I was having a panic attack.

Instead, I got trampled on, and had to listen to, "I can have a beer every once in a while.  I don't see what the problem is."

Being that I'm a pro at suicidal thoughts, because I literally have them every day of my life, I was speaking to a friend about what suicidal ideation is.  Most of the time, it's really not about the act.

It's just about being so fucking tired and exhausted of crap and bullshit that you can't take it anymore and you ask if you could just be taken away.

Why can't the angels just take me?

Why do I have to have so many fucked up things to deal with in life?

Why can't I have a boring mundane life where everything just goes smoothly in it's monotonous, still waters?

No waves to bob up and down.

More like a lake where the most action you'll get is the woodpecker making a home.

I'm so tired, sick, scared and sad, all the fucking time.

I just need to be granted more than one day at a time of happiness.

Don't get me wrong.

Those days of happiness are amazing and I'm so grateful when they come.

But why just one?

Why can't I just have a stretch?

A dear sweet friend has had nothing but dud after dud when it comes to relationships.  She's probably the biggest heart on the planet, equal to mine, yet time and again, she finds another and he turns out to be the wrong one.

Why?

She's so beautiful and has got so much going for her.  She does everything she can to lead a positive life and say those positive words.  She is deserving of so much more.

I'm deserving of so much more.

Yet here we are, texting each other in tears asking the angels why they can't just take us away.

I want to be with the angels, because I've had enough.

In the meantime, I'll ask them for the strength to get through this life.

i attract only healthy relationships

there's always an opportunity for a new beginning

He already came.

His spirit already appeared to show that he was well and loved us.

He still needs to do a little more cleaning, but give the guy a break!  He's only been able to clean himself for less than 2 days.

Point is, he already came, meowing in full force!!!!!

I went to the garden and placed my hands over his energy.

Then I plucked out all the damn weeds that were invading my happy soil for my veggies!!!!

Today, I will plant more.

Anyway, back to me.

I had a meltdown yesterday, in full force, scale 5, Hurricane Andréa.

It's difficult, because when Papi grieves, he needs to be alone.

When I grieve, I need to be held.

I don't get to have that option.  I have to be alone in my pain, because I don't have friends here I can just call up and say, "Can you come over and just let me lie on your shoulder while I cry?"

Instead, I hold the Jake-a-Like.

True to his doppelganger, The Galloping Gazelle, he is the world's best cuddler.

When I needed him to just let me hold him, he didn't move.  He allowed me to do what I needed.

I was grateful.

I realize that I've fallen.

My depression has left me without seeing anything of worth in my life.

I know this is a lie my mental illness whispers to me.

I know there is so much in life to be grateful for, but when you fall into the Pit of Doom, sometimes, it's really hard to get out.

My Friend of the Angels helped.  She sent energy, and the next day, I had someone who I had been searching for, find me.

I was at the hardware store, like I seem to be every day with one or more of the workers, and he appeared.

He could see the pain in my eyes.

He told me, that living in this country is all about learning, that I'll never stop learning while I'm here, and to be prepared for that work.

He also told me that I have to keep my heart open, even when the worst is happening.

I told him I understood, and that my philosophy has always been, that when you stop learning, you die.

This morning, I want to live.

I have plans in place today to start finding my strength again.

To try to dig myself out of the Pit of Doom.

To find paradise in my soul.

I stopped working on myself, when friends abandoned me back home, then I became so busy trying to care for all the workers who needed me.

I forgot about me.

I also forgot, that when you have a chemical imbalance, a mental illness, it never rests.

It's never really 'cured'.  It lies waiting.  Every once in a while, it tests the waters to see how much power it can pull from you.

If you have enough in place to fight it, it can't come in.

Let your guard down for a few days, and dammit, but you're fucked.

I'm fucked.

But I am beginning again today.

The visit from my sweet little departed soul to tell me he's happy will help me.

He's an angel now, and he will be my strength for my first steps today.

I'm doing 10 days of hard working gratitude.

I do my gratitude every night, but I need to step up my game.

All day long.

Writing it on the walls.

And here.

Will you join me with writing yours here?

It would really make me happy.

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

GRATITUDE LIST, DAY 1/10
1. I am grateful for this blog to help me work through my emotions.
2. I am grateful for 'you' being here to support me, even when 'you' are anonymous.
3. I am grateful we now have a healthy bed to sleep in.
4. I am grateful for the hard work I did yesterday, washing laundry by hand.  I now have underwear.
5. I am grateful the heat heals my physical pain.
6. I am grateful I have friends who show me how much they love me.
7. I am grateful for friends who remind me, that if I ever left this planet, they'd be hurt.  I stay for their hearts sometimes.
8. I am grateful for people who stick with me, even when I'm at my worst.
9. I am grateful the angels brought me messages that all will be ok and that they are here.
10. I am grateful that the puppies make me laugh, to counter-balance when I want to kill them for destroying my underwear.

The Vacation - Part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I couldn't.  I didn't.

Until we actually hit the city.

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

That was of course, until we hit Santo Domingo.

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

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

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

So, no, I would drive.

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

I cut off people without a care in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is when the adventure really began.

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

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

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

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

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

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

i love and honour myself

a VERY unwanted visitor

How do you say, "eating disorder" in Spanish?

I don't think they really get it here.  Mental illness is not on the docket.  It's not spoken of.

Oh, you can go into Google Translate and find the direct translation, 'trastornos de la alimentación', but it doesn't mean they're going to 'get' it.

Why would anyone who's starving from lack of money have a 1st World problem so silly as to cry about not being perfect?

I've been stress/depression/anxiety eating.  Corn chips.  Chocolate.  Pasta.  Gads of rice with butter and bacon bits.  All things I would normally eat sparingly as a treat, I've been gorging on, with the back of my mind begging to stop the madness.

When I eat like this, it's like I'm on autopilot and my hand won't stop going to my mouth.  I haven't even swallowed the last bite and I'm stuffing more in my yak with fervor.

I barely taste the food, other than 'salty', or 'sweet'.

Well, the other day, I went to put on a pair of my cozy pants, and dammit they were uncomfortable.  That evening, I was almost in tears, because it was confirmed that I had put on weight.

Papi knows better than to be honest with me if I have put on weight, "I don't notice anything.  You still look good to me," is his usual response.  Sweet of him, but I can't trust those words, just like I can't trust anyone else who tells me I'm thin.

I don't use the mirror to tell me, because no matter what size I am, that reflective demon always tells me I look bad.

But my pants?  Yup.  Direct indication.

I had troubles sleeping because I was obsessing about the fact that I can't stop eating and I'm putting on weight.

Then probably the worst thing possible could have happened yesterday morning.

Let me just set this up by telling you that the first week we were here, Our Translater told me what a beautiful body I had and that she really likes it.

It was a very sweet compliment.  It gave me confidence and was nice to hear, even though it was hard to believe.

Well, yesterday morning she said, "You look like you have more fat."  When my face turned into something akin to the devil, she added, "It looks good."

Good?!?!?!  Really?!?!?  This is my own personal hell!!!!

Oh, but it definitely was worse when the Housemaid chimed in, "You were much more fat in November when you were here."

Good fucking g*d people!!!!!  Have you memorized my every curve?!?!?!

Can I tell you what that has done to me?

I immediately started obsessing about limiting my food, putting on clothes that would hide my body and last night it was very difficult to get to sleep without feeling like I would go into a crying fit.

I kept venting to Papi about it and his response?  "You're obsessing about this!!"

My response to my sweet esposo who worked with mental illness as his career in Vancouver?  "You do know what an eating disorder is, right?"

Pure obsession.  100% demented thinking about nothing but food and my body.

Our Translator and the Housemaid have thrown me into a tailspin.

This is not good.  The whole day all I did was think about what I would eat next that would help me lose weight.

All I did was think about how much I would exercise to fight off the Anorexia Monster.

Going to the bathroom was torture, because I had to see the horrible image in the mirror that seemed even more distressing than it was the day before.

It's hell, and all because I got so over-stressed that I ate non-stop to deal with my emotions.

But the most horrendous part of this experience, is that now I KNOW people actually pay attention to my figure.

This will have me paranoid every second of every day as to what they're thinking about me.

It's ridiculous, because I shouldn't care, but an eating disorder is an eating disorder.

A fucking disorder of thinking.  I'm not in control of my mind.

I CAN be in control of what I put in my mouth, and yesterday I didn't harm myself, but ate as close to my food plan as possible, only a little more limiting.

How do you explain an eating disorder to people who don't really have this absurd dilemma of mind fuckery?

My only mission today is to continue to eat so as to not harm my body, and get some exercise.  Now there are no more strange men in our space today, because everything is done.

Yoga, fruit, vegetables, water, and loving, gentle talk to myself with as few tears as possible.

i see myself at a healthy weight and i achieve it

self-loathing.

Sometimes, my emotions get too difficult to bear.

Sometimes, I can't handle it.

Sometimes, I really don't like myself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I feel stupid and worthless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My alone place.

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

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

Alone I cried self-loathing tears.

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

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

I'm hurting from people attacking us online.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

i am intelligent

and the phoenix has risen!

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

Here were my opening words:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

With a little hint of gratitude.

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

Good fucking g*d I got off track.

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

I wanted to share about 'what really matters'.

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

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

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

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

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

And that!!  Is all that matters.

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

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

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

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

Hey.

At least we share.

i am valuable

Here's to you, Chaz Bono!

So, yesterday, I was pissed about the she/he comments on a Facebook photo of Chaz Bono.

It had actually started out that people were saying horrible things about his weight.  He has been verbal about asking for help with his weight loss, so somehow, this give people the green light to say hurtful things.

However, it went even further.  On this one post, he has been harassed about his weight, then disrespected with his gender, and now, called disgusting by some cretin.

On all three accounts, I got my nips in a knot.

But really?  Disgusting?

His exact words: "She was disgusting as a women and is disgusting as a man, give us a break."  It hasn't stopped there.  He's still going on about it, yet he's only 1 person.  There are more on others pages in others worlds.

This is how our children learn how to bully.

This is the evil people ape, spreading the virus of hate to another sheep soul who can't think for themselves yet.  This is a disease that gets passed from one to another.

I've never been a fan of Chaz as in, "Ooooh, he's my idol!!!" but I am a fan of his wife.  Understandably, I relate to her in a very deep way.

However, I do see Chaz as a human being who is being exceedingly judged by the public.

For that, I see him as damn brave, and I'm finding great respect for his difficult journey.

He put himself out there as a mainstream trans person, to blaze a trail for more people to have a safer place in this world.

Of course he's going to attract people who will mock him and say horrible things, because he's the first celebrity to make the word 'transgender' more common.

We are slowly seeing the world accept gays, lesbians, bisexuals, ad infinitum 'labels' we could think of being accepted country by country, person by person.

We are also seeing more countries in the headlines, jailing people for loving someone of the same sex.  People are being told it's 'illegal' in some countries to have love for another person.

Even still, something's happening.  The world is finally waking up and we, of our lifetime, get to see it with our own eyes.

It's an amazing time for people to start thinking differently.

I know that I have.  I started out with fears and quite a bit of ignorance.  Papi taught me how to live life of higher esteem.  He has given me the grace to go through all the feelings, until I finally made it to this place of seeing who and what a transgender person deserves.

A transgender person is a human being that is worthy of respect and dignity.

That's all we need to do is treat each other with courtesy.

No matter how big someone is.

No matter what someone's sexuality or gender is.

No matter how mentally ill someone is.

No matter what colour someone is.

No matter what heritage someone comes from.

We are all human beings and we are all sharing this planet.

Nobody is disgusting.  Perhaps, their actions are.  Perhaps their words can be.  

As are my rotting dishes in the sink.

... my g*d ... where's the dish fairy when someone has the flu, bitches?!?! ...

Anyway, I'm having a lot of, "You really piss me off!" moments over these last few days and what I can say is, it's because I'm paying too much attention.

When I think too much, I get angry.

I like my bubble.

I like to think that the world is full of positivity and love.

I hate it when someone bursts my little happy place.

Chaz, I'm proud of you.  For all you are enduring, you are becoming my hero.

i am grateful for my teachers

yeah! so fucking what!

Let's talk about offense.

Or rather, let me vent about it while you read and chuckle at the way I deal with my mental illness.

In the beginning of the creation of this blog, I had something to say that I felt I couldn't say to the world, lest I be judged harshly and made to be a part of The Pariah Club.

I did it anyway.

I gained so much from being an outcast.  I found people who also felt the same.  I found my strength from people who allowed me to speak my mind, but not diss me for it.  Instead, they allowed me my freedom of speech until I could heal from my pain.

I also found, I had said enough that I got the shit out of my head, through my mouth and therefore, out of my soul.

I grew.

I found that I didn't need to say much more, because I had the majority of my own shit worked out.

Now I have another level of my shit pile to work on, but this one, I'm tending to be very careful with my words, lest I 'offend' someone.

Then I read an awesome quote that was floating around Facebook.

Meet Stephen Fry, if you already haven't.

I immediately felt connection to this person.

I immediately shouted from my proverbial rooftop, "YES!!!!!!  Exactly!! So fucking what!!!!!!"

Some are offended by what I say, yet I, being part of The Pariah Club (not to mention the minority in my minority of a community), were to say what I really feel, I'd have even fewer friends.

I get offended by things people I love post, however, I don't berate them.  Rather, I allow them their freedom of speech and deal with my own shit.

All I do is I graze past their pics and statuses, so that I can move on to more non-offensive pics.

Like LOLCats.

I mean seriously.  I have fucking issues.

I have such horrid issues, that I bravely called a psychologist today, to plead for help with my P.T.S.D. from past abuses.

I see things that people comment on with ease, that put me into a tailspin, and give me the most fucked up dreams.

Like the dream the other day: the punishment for everyone else in my dream was to be pelted by volleyballs, yet MY punishment for the same error was to have to watch my love pretend to piss out of a hotdog held in his 'man zone'.

Sound fucked up enough?  Yup.

All because I saw a picture of a jello mold in the shape of a penis and balls with great hairy bits dangling from it.

Sound harmless enough?  Sure!  For everyone else, except this wacky brain that jumps into places that no cranium should go.  From a fucking jello mold people!!

Me?  I had 'offense', but it wasn't attached to my Great Non-Judgmental Friend, but by what my brain did when I saw it.

And that's MY shit, nobody elses shit.

So do I say I'm 'offended' by that?  Nope.  I just write a blog about how I need to get this fucking P.T.S.D. out of my life.

I hope my friends can keep getting much more enjoyment out of their happy, healthy brains.  I'll just keep grazing past it, and go to therapy.

Are you offended?  So fucking what.

i see each part of my life as a lesson

killed that dummy dead.

Oooooooh!  That was so much fun last night and I did good.

Of course, my 'rough around the edges friend' that joined me was REALLY good because of the shooting she did previously in the wilderness.

So there we were, 2 members of The Pariah Club, having the best time ever.

I did good for only my 2nd time ever shooting a gun.

Check it out:

I really need to give you a close up though to really see that only 3 shots went out of the lines!!!

 

At first, I used a .22 pistol to get my bearings on the zombie, but that blue, decaying wrongdoer was no good for my target practise.  His different tints all over the place made it too hard to see where I hit.

When the shooting ranger pulled the blue offender closer to take a look at my work, he giggled when he saw that I was aiming for the zombie's 'man zone'.

I just shrugged and said, "Well, yeah ... ya know."  We didn't need to talk about it.  I have the feeling I'm not the first girl who was aiming for zombie junk.

I then moved on to the 9mm for the target you see up above.

I can only get better!  My intention is NOT to hit someone, and only give warnings.

If I need to use to stop someone, I want to be able to aim for a leg, so that I don't kill a culprit, but only to maim them to keep them from doing anything to me.

I don't think I need anything more than a .22, but I want to practise with more so that I'm able to use a .22 properly.

I do the same thing with my practise bass guitar.  It has the highest gauge strings there is, so that when I play my performing bass, which have a lighter gauge, my fingers last for the full show with full power.

Now I can't wait to go gun shopping when we get to Casa Paraíso.  I kinda want to go window gun shopping here, just to look at those beauties.

I remember my grandfather had a collection of rifles.  They were kept in the attic in their very safe chest, but I was able to look at them all the time, which I did.  I can still see the brass engraving on their hilts in my mind.  They were so beautiful and I felt I could touch them with my eyes.

Papi and I realized that there is a possibility that I won't even be able to have a license, because of all the labels of mental illness that have been placed upon me by the ICBC case.

That's ok.  I don't need my own license, because I can still practise.  Having 'no license' doesn't mean that I'm not going to protect myself.

I found out from the pretty li'l gun toter behind the counter that at this particular range, Friday nights is Ladies Night!!  All I pay for is ammo!

So, you now know where I'll be every Friday night.

Don't bother stalking me.  I'll have guns.

success comes effortlessly in my direction

I'm baaa-aaack!

There they were, with my entire blog printed out.

... hey ... thanks for the page hits ... you just helped me move up the google-sphere ...

I wasn't about to print it out.  That's too much waste on printer ink and trees.  However, I did go through and jot down notes.

After they brought out the MASSIVE binder with all my blogs highlighted, we took a break, and my lawyer discretely asked me, "Do you really enjoy writing your blog?"

I told him, "What I get out of it is that every time I write, I find someone who has felt the same.  It makes me feel less alone in the world, especially because I have readers from here to Russia."

His response was accompanied by shaking of his head, "Putting all that stuff out there about yourself.  I just couldn't do it."

No, but you're not me.  I am a different bird from a different cookie cutter.

Anyway, it's all over.

No more people following me with cameras down the corridor of the SeaBus, or slow moving cars stalking me with their silly tinted windows.

... you weren't very covert ... but did you like my fancy outfit i was wearing?  i looked pretty while i limped down the street ...

No more fucking appointments with people who hurt me by poking and prodding.

No more psych evaluations telling me I'm nuts.  I already know.  I don't need confirmation.

No more forms to fill out, which consequently means no more family doctor swearing at me.

Oh, wait, that's wrong.  I still need to fill forms out for disability.  I'll bring my doc flowers for the past and bring her more when the rest is done.

Anyway, it's wonderful that that part of my journey is done and we settled in enough comfort that we don't have to go to trial.

Instead of trial, we're getting ready to get the hell out of this city, which grows colder every day, causing my bitch of a back to seize all the more.

We're now on the 2nd phase of The Great DR Purge.

We almost have all our finances in order, so the next steps are waiting to see if The Golden is going to make it.

He's on some good drugs now!  I think we may be able to bring him!!

We also have to wait for my braces to get off.  That's another couple of months.  Ugh.  Let's go teeth!  Paradise awaits!

Then there's the 97 year old G'ma.  We're not quite ready to leave her yet.

So, the steps are in place and once they're all walked through, we go.

The relief of knowing there's a light at the end of the tunnel is amazingly revitalizing.

The thought that I'll be in the warm, where I feel less pain is exhilarating.

That brilliant glowing light burns brighter and brighter with every day that passes.

Soon, very soon, I will be in less pain and I will begin my life the way it is intended.

I will do more than lie around on pain killers waiting for the ouch to leave.

I will take this bitch of a back to the ocean and heal it.

Every day, floating on the salt water that heals my afflictions.

Every day, walking in the sun, for more than the 4 blocks I can do here in the city of brrrrrrr.

Every day, eating fresh foods that we grow on our own, straight from the veggie garden.

Every beautiful, gorgeous, living day.

And now, I have to go move my poor piano into storage.  She has to sit there until my baby sister comes back in a year to rescue her.

My gorgeous piano.  It will be one of the things I miss about being here in the cold and pain.

And my friends.  I'm starting to feel the sadness there already.

Oh man!  I still want to be able to find my brother before I go too!

So much to do.

every day is a new day to start fresh

these are the people in your neighbourhood ...

Poor Papi.  He had his first bad experience living in an crowded city apartment block.

There are so many good people here.  This area is full of people who would actually wait a half an hour with my keys outside my car, hoping that I would return, so that nobody would steal it.

They returned my keys the next day with one request, "Do you have 10 bux you could spare?  I'm a little broke and need some food."

We gladly gave him two fivers, but if we had more, we'd give it to him as well, knowing the money ain't going to the food.  None-the-less, dude didn't steal anything from our car and he returned our keys.  Next time I see him, I may bring him out for lunch to get that meal.

Anyway, last night's experience wasn't as neighbourly.

My love is mostly the one to bring the dogs outside, as I can't carry The Golden up our flight of stairs.  He's being stubborn and refusing to get into the apartment, because it's not his home.  So, Papi has to carry him.

Obviously I can't, but I usually go for the walk with them and hold doors open while my love carries the flailing four legs to our floor.

Last night, my bitch of a back told me to stay put, so out went Papi on his own to explore his new area.

In this hood, there are a lot of people with addiction problems.  It's just been the way of this district for years.  It's much better now, but there's still some issues.

Sir Bark-A-Lot remembers when mi esposo was a big ol' drunk and subsequently, does NOT like drunks.

Hence, he did what he does best and tried to terrorize the guy by the nipping at his heels and yapping.  My love hasn't mastered the art of 'Alpha', and the little fucker of a dog behaves horribly when he's with Papi.

Our ghetto drunk was not impressed, and back and forth went the argument between the two.  However, the only thing I heard from the window was an angry, "Try going to an AA meeting!"

I called my love to tell him that everything he says is heard loud and clear up in our suite, which means that everyone else can hear it too.

That was when I got the full story.  This nutbar of a drunk waited for my love to return, because he knew our car, since Papi had put something in there while he was waiting for the one eyed big man to do his doggy biz.

As soon as the drunk saw Papi come back up the sidewalk, he had his revenge by approaching Papi, stating very loudly, "Next time I see your dog I'm going to kill him."

Papi retorted, "Next time I see your face I'll be calling the cops."  Instead, mi esposo came up and told me the story and called the cops then and there. 

While my love and I stood outside waiting for the police, this dude was doing his best to intimidate us from his apartment window, because his apartment is next door to us.

Now we have a neighbour who is threatening to kill our dog.  Not the nicest welcome to the hood we just moved into 5 days ago.

Not to mention, my love has come from spacious plots of land where nobody sees each other and nobody talks, never mind threaten death.

Papi was genuinely terrified, as this guy knows where we live and what our vehicle looks like.  It's hard not to spot our fucking vehicle with all the stickers on it.

Oh, dude also has our phone number, because that too is plastered on the side of our car for my love's pet care business.

Well, cops showed up, and after speaking to the sloppy drunk, he told us that we should just ignore him.  Seriously.  Anyone who would threaten to kill a 'chihuahua', stating 'it's owner sicked it on him' has to be a little off kilter.

"Do your best to keep your distance from him," was the end result, with the tag, "If anything else happens, call us."

Then through my love speaking to the cop, he informed him that we just moved from the West Side, where he's lived all his life, and having this experience really scared him.

Cop stopped for a second and tried his best to understand, "Why on earth did you move HERE?!?!?"  There's always a punch line.  Even from a cop.

I explained to my love that this is what it's like living in this 'community'.  There are wonderful people, but that also means there are sick people.

Just so happens, the sick one knows where we live, what our car looks like and wants to kill our dog.

Having said that, he probably won't remember a thing today and may even tip his hat all neighbourly like the next time he sees Sir Bark-A-Lot.

It's just the law of the big city.

i feel completely at ease, and comfortable with all types of people

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

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.

don't blame the guns. please.

This whole bullshit about 'guns' being the problem in this world is ridiculous and it fucking pisses me off.

Yes.

It's horrible that people were killed in Colorado.

Yes.

It's horrible that gang violence kills the innocent.

Fortunately, in the case of gangs, they also kill each other off, which is a positive.

But 'guns' being banned is not the solution.

Do you really think for a fucking second that violent people who blow others' heads off will obey a fucking LAW that says they can't carry them?

No, only law abiders will follow that rule.

It's not the fucking guns.

It's the fact that the world is going insane.

Look at the Dominican Republic.

Jesus!

They don't need guns.  A dude was decapitated by a machete shortly before our trip there, because he and another guy were fighting over a girl.

That guy didn't die from a gun, he died from a sick human being.

Well, I wouldn't actually call him 'human'.

Here in planet earth, our inhabitants are going crazy.

It's hard not to with the pain and suffering life hands us.

I honestly believe that every person on this tiny planet is suffering in some way, shape, or form.

We all have troubles, but the problem is, there's not enough help for people in crisis, and not enough people to recognize those who may go off.

We've got kids in homes being harmed by the hand of their own parents in the most horrifying ways you could ever imagine, creating the cycle of abuse.

Those assholes don't need guns to fuck people up.

How about we put down those bastards like the rabid dogs they are?

How about the people being killed by cars every day?

Not a hope in hell that our countries are going to ban cars.  Those are lethal weapons that people take for granted while they speed down our streets after the driver has had a few to drink.

Or for that matter, make an illegal U-Turn without looking and hitting this femme on her motorcycle.

Don't get me started on the brainwashing of religious zealots and their self righteous attitude about how they think it's OK to kill.

We're all losing it, and we feel have no control in this life.

People actually believe the right religion or politician will fix things.

Really mother fuckers?!?

The anger I feel for our current Prime Minister, and how one by one, he's taking away all options for help with mental health in our country, sickens me.

Of course, not enough to go nuts and go into a movie theatre to shoot people, but I understand the emotion of not feeling like there's anything I can do about watching our future world go down in flames.

There are too many tragedies right now in this world to start pinpointing 'guns' as the problem.

Guns don't go off by themselves.

Let's help our peoples' mental health.

That will stop the guns from going off.

In the meantime, don't mind me while I run away from the terror of this world and hang out with chickens, goats and donkeys.

i appreciate positive people

Pronoun Hell. It awaits me.

Well, I can't deny it anymore.

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

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

Well, except for The Great Breast Disappearance in Florida

That was a bit too fast for my liking.

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

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

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

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

I know what it's like.

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

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

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

Ok.

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

Actually, the story happens after Papi left the ward.

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

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

The man was horrified!

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

This guy thought Papi was her boyfriend.

Her boyfriend!!

Male.

Boy.

I dunno.

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

Here's a funny one for ya.

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

To me now, everyone has the male pronoun.

I'm not kidding.

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

How fucked up is that?!?!

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

Every last one of ya.

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

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

Fasting?

So, my sugar fast is going quite well.

... end sarcasm here ...

I've had a few litres of coconut ice cream, a couple bags of wheat free, choco-chip, oatmeal cookies and another  couple of chocolate bars since finishing off the vat of chocolate my fancy Easter Bunny brought me.

I still have 1 more bucket of the coconut ice cream treat left.  I'll have to eat it to get it off my mind.

This is a fast?

Very fast!  I eat these treats like nobody else.

Gorge?  Why yes I am, thank you very much.

I was starving for so fucking long that I just don't give a shit what I'm putting in my body, I suppose.

I wanted that last bucket of sweet, creamy heaven last night, and had to stop myself from getting it by eating a bag of popcorn and a wheat free bagel with peanut butter.

Then I went to bed and obsessed about my peanut butter swirled, chocolate, coconut ice cream some more.

Seems that this morning, I'm still obsessing about it.

Anyway, I think that once I get that last bad boy out of my freezer and into my belly, I'll be well on my way to eating my normal diet of absolutely no sugar.

It's making me a bit crazy.

The sugar that is.

Like I said, if you want a Hurricane Andréa sighting, just add sugar.

Not to mention, I'm on the verge of a candida eruption!

I was not feeling so fresh last night I'll tell ya.

But today, I go see my baby sister, and I'm sure there will be much more sugar to be had.

Normal people can eat sugar all day, every day without it being an issue.

... or so they think ... right papi?! ...

I'm the odd woman out with my healthy diet of whole, organic foods and no processed crap.

I have to work double time to keep my brain thinking of the positive when there's sugar running rampantly through my blood.

I'm one step ahead of the evil demons who plant horrid thoughts in my head.

I was actually paranoid that my baby sister was influenced by Mommy Dearest and her evil sidekick, Mr. Homophobia, and didn't want to talk to me anymore.

Seriously?!?!?

I know my baby sister loves me oodles and I love her even more than that!

Yet, there I was, writing an email asking if she was mad at me, because she didn't get back to me as quickly as she usually does.

Of course she wrote back to explain how busy she was.  She has a family that's more than busy.  It happens all the time that she can't get back to me.

However, because this happened after the dinner I wasn't invited to, my sugar filled blood whispered sweet nothings to my brain, leaving me hypnotized by my demons.

Blammo!

Instant: 'nobody loves me'!

So strange, isn't it?  How can I be so messed up, just from eating too much sugar?

Oh yeah right.  I'm 'special'.  I have the world's most sensitive body.  You can call me bubble girl.

If you want to know if something is bad for you, feed it to me.  My body will let you know in an instant.

But then, you'll probably just keep eating all those delicious yummies even if they do turn me into a monster, right?

I'm so envious.

i love and respect my body

Dream a Little Dream With Me.

Well, I did pretty good until last night.

I've been eating healthy, exercising and trying to be nice to myself.

That doesn't stop what I see in the mirror, but I feel better, so if nothing happens to get me into that dress, at least I'm feeling healthy.

However, even though I can talk to myself about being healthy, the Anorexia Monster is nipping at my heels, very much in the same manner as Sir Bark-a-Lot when we have company.

Alas, the Anorexia Monster entered my dreams last night.

I dreamed I was at least 50 pounds heavier than I really am, and when we did the video shoot, the Grand Poohbah ...

aka the big boss lin ...

... stopped shooting and said, "Hold on, hold on!  We have a bit of a problem here!"

She showed me the problem.

Yup.

Great gobs of fat hanging from my stomach.

We had to cancel the video shoot and I had to go lose weight.

Jeeeeeeeezus Christ on a stick!

First of all, even if I was as heavy as the Andréa in the dream, we'd still be doing a video, because this video is not about perfect bodies who have suffered to be this way.

This video is about my craft, my art and my talent, not my fucking ass and stomach.

Second of all, I can get another dress that will flatter my curvacious body and I will still feel sexy, because sex appeal comes from within.

So, I woke up, and what do you think is the first thing I did?!?

If you guessed run to the mirror and lift my t-shirt up to reveal the stomach that doesn't look like the one in my dream, then you'd be correct.

It was actually good for me.

For a moment, I saw that I'm smaller than the person in the dream, even if it did switch very quickly into wayyyyyy too much heftiness on my hips.

That's when I stopped looking.

I'm eating my normal breakfast, and will eat my healthy food through the day, coupled with a gym/physio workout and nice words to myself.

Even if I can't get into that dress tomorrow, I'm trying to remind myself that this was a gown worn in my teens.

I have to remember that I'm a woman, not a young girl.

I have to remember that one of the sexiest women known, was a vivacious size 10, which in today's sizes bring Marilyn Monroe's size closer to a 16.

I have to remember that the fashion industry has started to make clothing smaller, so that we women have even more grief about our healthy bodies.

Fuck them and their fucking ridiculous sizes that make us, with eating disorders, cringe every time we need to buy a new pair of jeans. 

Fuck them and their fucking air brushing to make an aging woman feel older than the stars we see in magazines.

Fuck them and their fucking rants about who's too fat or who's too thin.

Fuck them and their glorifying of mentally ill models, who are starving themselves for designers from hell.

I have had crying sessions in change rooms, where I've had to leave all the clothes I've tried on in a crumpled mess, that which reflects my mind.

Well, today I will be good to myself, even if I do see the dream Andréa in the mirror.

The mirror lies.

I have to remember that the only reason I have a mirror is to see if my outfits are not looking like a tossed salad with way too many clashing veggies.

Anyway, all I really want to say is, even if I can't fit into that dress tomorrow that I wore just 5 months ago, then fuck it.

I'm healthy, and there's another dress out there just waiting for me to slide my sexy booty into.

Anger is better than tears.

"Honey, you made my toast too light.  It's just heated bread."

My god, I have the pickiest spouse on the planet.

I like my toast toasted.  So, naturally I would assume this would be good for Papi, as well.

Nope.

"Honey, you made my toast too dark.  I can't eat it."

Really?

I remember when I heard these words and I asked, "So, really you just want heated bread, right?"

"Yes!"

I thought I had it down.

But now it's too light.

Our toaster oven doesn't really have a number setting, it just has a pic of the dark toast and a pic of the light toast.

But honestly, there's no pleasing Papi when it comes to food.

I tried to make something healthy for him so that his infection riddled body would start to heal.

I made the trashiest healthy stir-fry I could muster.

However, all I have to work with is wheat free, dairy free and sugar free foods.

Broccoli, hamburger meat and quinoa were the main ingredients, along with some sesame oil and Bragg's 'soy sauce'.

Well, Papi ate half of the meal.  That's pretty good I'd say, considering today's toast went straight into the bin because it wasn't quite right.

Helloooooooo Goldilocks!  You're missing a few blond curls!

Anyway, Papi is starting to feel better, but the nausea is impeding my love's strength.

My dearest love is losing a lot of weight and it scares me.

When I lose weight, my mind says it's good, even if it's not.

Yet, when someone I love loses weight unintentionally, I get scared.

Probably because the rational part of my brain equates it with my own mental anguish of the eating disorder.

I'm starting to feel better with this whole Xmas Meltdown.  I should!  It comes every year and every year I get better at fighting it off, depending on what's going on at the time.

I decided to be proactive, yet again, in finding cash that we're owed.  I went directly into the office of the person who has been evading our phone calls and not sending our cheque.

The flood was a year ago.  Give us our fucking insurance money already!

He wasn't impressed that I strong armed him into saying out loud, in front of the receptionist who witnessed it, "Yes, I can guarantee your money will be ready by the end of the week."

I may be a short 'woman' to this gargantuan, walking slime ball, who wouldn't look me in the eyes, but I'm a lot tougher than I look.

If this prick doesn't have our money when he says he will, I'll be taking a walk over to our local cable company's 'news dept' and have a chat with them about Wawanesa's less than proper ethics.

I'm getting angry now, which is much better than crying.

Here's today's gratitude for an even better new year to come:

I'm grateful that I have enough spunk to carry through with fighting for my rights.

I'm grateful for the world's greatest baby sister who adamantly said she'd send us money in this difficult time, and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.

I'm grateful to be married into a family that are supportive, making me feel like I have a surrogate 'dad' to tell me it's all going to be ok.

I'm grateful that Psycho Kitty hasn't dismembered my cats yet, and is starting to come down to our basement area in peace.

I'm grateful that mi esposo is now holding conversations and behaving like the brat I love.