Background - Part Three
Deconstruction of the man I was, so that the woman I am can be freed. Memories.
Seems simple to read, lol.
I know its going to be not precisely that. Because as I sit here and look at those words, the weight of it is hitting me again, and I want to cry.
Supposed to be working. Who the hell can work at a time like this?
Ok, so here we go. Exercise: deconstruct who I am, and bring back out the girl in me, and look openly at who I am now so that I can see what the future holds for me and make the appropriate plans.
Life story time.
I was born in 1965, at 11:33pm.
When I begin my RTE, I will start it on April 1st, and I will schedule my ffs and my RTS as close to that date as is possible.
I want that day to be my birthday. Its not like it will change who I am, lol. Sorry, despite my knowledge and all that, astrology is not a determining factor in who we really are. Nor is numerology. If they were, then I wouldn't be in this boat, would I?, lol.
So, I was born on April 1st, 1965. So let it be written, so let it be done.
My first and last names came from my father. My middle name came from a person who my father worked with or for or something like that.
When I was 5, getting ready for school, my grandfather acted as my mother's lawyer and had my last name changed from D* to W*in order to match my brother and my mother, making life a bit easier for her.
I didn't remember that. At all. In fact, I was like 12 or so when I found out. Probably older, as I think it was 16, but I know I knew before then because I knew before I had to attend that pisshole of a school Poston.
One of the things I remember from my foggy days (6 to 10) is that at one point my brother and I sorta chose our football teams. Boys do that, you know. I chose the Washington Redskins. The reason I chose them is that they were special to my mom. (as an adult, I found out why they were special to her -- and after her death, I found out the depth of that specialness).
One of the most famous Washington Redskin players is a man named Tony Dorsett. The name has *always* stuck in my head. I think I know why now, and I have to both shake my finger at the powers that be with a scowl, and giggle about it.
So, with my new birth, I return to my very roots. I return to my maiden name, which is awesome since I'm finally returning to being a maiden.
E* comes from the me that has been female for the last several years. E* is sorta like my mother, in a lot of ways. And my real mother wouldn't mind, I don't think. Especially since some of my online identity is based on her life.
E*also comes from Lazarus, who is where much of my boymode developed out, as Lazarus Long is a fictional character who influenced -- and who reinforced -- a lot of my inner self. Lazarus Long is a creation of Robert A. Heinlein. Who also wrote I Will Fear No Evil, about a brain transplant (old fart to cute young girl), as well as the seminal Stranger In A Strange Land. When I was 16, I changed my name so that Lazarus was an additional middle name -- that's the impact of this on my life at a critical point.
Interestingly, he's also affected just as deeply my perceptions of what a woman should be like. I'll probably end up an awful lot like Friday. :D OR at least, I hope I do.
So, let's see. What do I know.
I was born April 1st, 1965.
My father was a singer. He was 44 at the time I was born. My mother was 21. In 1965. He traveled the circuit between LA and Chicago and Las Vegas. I don't know how much of the times you know, but these were some pretty heady days.
According to my family, who have always been very cagey and reluctant to talk about this stuff with me, my father was laundering money for the mob. He was discovered to be doing this by the FBI.
He and my mother split up because he fled the country.
My mother, for some reason, had FBI protection for a few years, as there was apparently a fear that I would be "grabbed". Apparently, we moved a bit, but for some time we lived with my grandparents for a short while, finally moving north to Sedona.
And all this shortly after or around the time of my birth. The timeline is compressed -- it has to be. Because there is my brother. (always thought that was sorta, well, cute, lol. He got the girl name, but I'm the girl). Brother was born in 1967. Two years and two days after I was. So we have a nine month period that family stories have given me reason to believe was entirely spent in Sedona with StpDd, so we can probably assume at least a full year (knowing both my mother and StpDd, this isn't unreasonable).
So 1965 was a huge deal for my mother. Based on what I know about StpDd, as well, he was already in Sedona in 1966, working towards his goals. I also know that my mother worked as a waitress in the Sedona tavern, and that she worked as a Hostess for T* (StpDd's brother, deceased -- and openly homosexual) at the predecessor to the O*.
Based on later developments in StpDds life (notably S*), and knowledge of my mother's high school days and StpDd's high school days, and all that, I can say that I know my mother had a crush on StpDd in high school that she never acted on, that she was very familiar with Sedona, that StpDd used T*'s successful business and their relationship to scope the girls that worked for T*, and that StpDd is a horn dog of the biggest sort. I also know, from personal experience and one of my earliest memories which is literally nothing more than a picture, that StpDd is well hung.
Actually, my Dad is really cute. *blush*
Anyway, so in constructing the events around my life prior to 1971, I feel fairly accurate in setting up a time table something like this:
January - March, 1965: Happiness for my mom with Dad, going back two years.
March - June, 1965: Something happens. The FBI is involved. Dad leaves the US in a hurry. My mother is suddenly left very much alone, at 22, in the mid 60's, and in probably one of the most conservative climate's in the country, after having already shocked the establishment by marrying a singer with a past history of failed marriages (My mother's research turned up a sister in California somewhere, but I never had a chance to learn more).
July - October, 1965: My mother lives in pretty constant fear, weighing options, staying with her folks.
Late 1965: My mother moves to Sedona, which at that time was a tiny town so out of the way that no one knew about it. A good place to go and hide and start again. And there was that cute QB from high school, too.
1966: StpDd and my mother get together, and StpDd begins opening the bars and getting his real estate stuff going.
1967: Brother comes along. StpDd isn't ready to be a father, has some issues himself, causing friction, and there are money troubles.
1968: Further degradation of the family thing. I believe that the divorce occurs during this period, in part because StpDd doesn't acknowledge Brother as his son, and well, I'm apparently cute as a button but too damned weird. There is a birthday picture of me that was one of my Grandmother's favorite photos. I do not look like a boy in that picture to me, and every time I saw that smiling baby, I always felt cold inside. Thinking about it now, I can feel the old anger there a little, so there's something odd about that time period.
1969: My mother moves back to Phoenix. She now has two children to support, and is getting no help from StpDd that I'm aware of. She danced as a go go dancer at a popular night spot, went to college, got a minor bookkeeping structure, but wasn't able to go for the full accounting deal she wanted. She also continued to work in the law offices of my grandfather and great grandfather.
1970: My mother was continuing to do stuff to live. I was caring for my brother at this time while she was asleep (morning) or working (night). Apparently I could make cinnamon toast and make cereal and actually cleaned. I loved to read, and I would spend hours and hours playing with all my stuffed animals and toys, having long drawn out conversations with them. All of which is second hand information. I am ready for school, however, and so in December of this year, my grandfather does my name change to match my mother and brother so that life for all of us would be easier (blend or suffer).
1971: S*and I begin seeing StpDd during the summertime, after a court fight between he and my mother. StpDd has a previous child, named LT* (after StpDd's brother), who is a year older than I am, and He has never seen nor acknowledged LT*. He doesn't, until 1976, when L* (Little T*'s mom) sues StpDd the same way my mother does and forces him to do the same deal as my mother did.
(StpDd eventually ends up as a parent of 4 boys by three women, then me, and then the step father to two girls).
Pushing hard, I remember that this year and/or 1972, StpDd lived in a "bachelor pad" that was two different apartments. He repeated one of the locations later on, after the divorce from StpMm or AMm, and I recall the general look of the place (very late 60's/early 70's style) and sleeping on the couch and having ice cream at the parlor and spending time in the Bookworm. (Sedona was a huge playground to me as a child). I remember the fourth of July by reference.
In 1973, S* and I went to visit him, and he lived in the house at the top of the hill. We flew in a small plane to get there. We met StpMm, whose influence on me is pretty deep, and who I have deep affection for and considerable resentment towards. Good fourth of July. Lots of confusion.
Interesting. I have a split memory. I have two different memory trails to travel here. The easy one is the Sedona path. The hard one is the phoenix path.
Phoenix about this time. I remember Piaute Elementary school. I remember I had three friends who were boys. I remember I was bumped up a grade because of reading skills. I remember walking to the day care center after school.
I remember being left alone on the first day of school for what seemed like hours. I was scared and sad and I don't know why, but it was terrible and I was so mad. My mother didn't recall it any of the times I made reference to it around her, but its a powerful memory. I can see the fencing and the brick wall I walked or sat or waited by. I remember being cold.
The daycare was someplace I hated. I remember the smell and the mats and the TV's mounted on the walls and the Huge playground that I would spend hours in. This has to be 72, lol. I remember wondering what it would be like to vote when I was 18, and I remember the chant song the girls would sing about McGovern kicking Nixon in the can. I remember singing it myself.
We had to move. I remember that. One of my friends from Piute, many, many years later, I would meet again. That's was E*. On the same day that we explored our sexuality, we also learned we had known each other, and E* actually had a picture of me. That was when I realized I had almost no memories of my childhood for the first time.
Pueblo was the next school. Third grade was when things started to pop for me, and I have many memories from then on. But still a notable separation in the two threads of my life.
And now I remember noting that when I was in high school -- I was a different person in Sedona than I was in Phoenix. I was happier in Sedona. I felt more accepted, and there were fewer people, and I was alone a lot, and StpMm was awesome, and the vacations were killer.
LOL!!
StpMm was very much a woman. And she loved, or seemed to love, being a woman. And she accepted all my oddnesses and was incredibly encouraging. Hence the affection. Also, she was always there.
I'm having a hell of a moment here as I see all this. Wow.
In Sedona I was free. No wonder my fondest wish is to be a little lady in my own cabin in the country with a gorgeous garden and no neighbors, lol. I was much more effeminate in Sedona. T* was always great to me (big T*). I was always a little put off by him, lol.
Wow.
So many little things.
There was the really cool old guy I would go and visit. He wasn't really old. Prolly late forties, fifties. He was a carver or artist of some sort. Would show me his tools and answered all my questions. He was a stranger, though, lol.
Wow.
Back to phoenix. Pueblo. 3rd grade, Mrs. Keller. The testing I had to go through. Getting sick in music class. The medical tests, the fact something was wrong, but no one would tell me what. Probably my own spin on things -- I went through test after test after test. I hated the barium enema. I've been hugely protective of myself since then, and have disliked tests. No one told me anything. The family doctor (I wish I remembered his name) with his really, really deep voice (started smoking to make mine deeper -- worked too well :(). His attention to my genitals and how that annoyed me (nothing bad -- and my mother was always present, just that I always remember things around that).
Later the worry about my body size and mass. I wasn't "growing". The damn protein powders and weight gain crap.
God I hated that. I can see it now, too.
Oh jesus. I wasn't developing like a boy.
Last night I spent four hours talking to my neighbor. I came out to her last night. The euphoria I was feeling, it just bubbled out, couldn't stop it. She was ever so cool. I actually made a friend last night, and she's the first new friend I've truly made in years. And she's a GG, and we talked girl stuff last night, and we were talking about what was going to happen to me (she was curious), and I was talking to her and slowly realizing once again just how much in denial I still was about my body. I was talking about what I hoped the HRT would do for me.
I have tiny wrists. Small feet for a boy. Very, very little body hair. Good cheekbones. My brow ridges aren't markedly developed.
OMG, I can see it now. Add in my mother's intense dislike for homosexuals. The fact that, ultimately, the boys I did get to know the best were all homosexual, lol, but how I'm not -- safe boys. Kids are always incredibly sensitive to things we often lose as adults.
I didn't like it when StpDd would tease me. He didn't much. But occasionally he would. He tried, though. He made me incredibly happy when I was just getting in to mesa -- he bought me what I wanted for my christmas/birthday present, and I hadn't expected anything, or yet another in his line of sports stuff. lol. I wanted pillows. Tons and tons of pillows. For my own room (which I'd never had until then).
Damn. Even my stepdad sorta knew. The pillows were all pastels. My mom was not happy, lol. I was overjoyed.
Sheesh. I'm starting to see some things here.
I suffer from a disorder called IBP or something like that. Stress related, it is almost entirely associated with women. Intestinal tract stuff, lol. They now have a medicine for it -- and it is advertised widely for women.
Men, however, apparently can't be prescribed it. They don't get it, apparently. I can't talk about it, lol, because its a girl sickness.
I'm wondering.
I'm wondering a LOT.
Why don't I remember stuff from prior to school?
Why did my grandparents have such a hard time financially during that period?
Why was my father reportedly overly concerned with my body?
Why did my mother work so damned hard during that time and get no where until after 72?
Why was it that there was always so much concern when I was young about my "development"?
Why is it that even now, after all the people who were intimately involved are dead, all my aunts and uncles refuse to talk about that time period to me?
gah.
So many questions, and now I'll never have answers. All the keepers of them are dead.
I've just finished crying as I think about all of this. I've been crying a lot. Its all guy crying -- I allow myself a moment of sobbing, and then pull it together just before the tears come. Its happening a lot.
I haven't cried with tears in a long time. The last time was when it finally hit me how much I'll miss my mother. Before that, it was the birth of my son, and, now I can openly, over my incredible sadness that I wasn't his mommy. I still want to hear that word said to me. Probably always will. And it won't happen in this lifetime.
One thing, though. Its easier for me to allow myself to cry. Because that's what it is. Allowing myself that freedom.
Such a strange life. multiple mothers, one half absent father, siblings I saw only rarely.
I was 12 when my brother J1* was born. And as I typed that I started crying again, and I'm gonna let the tears for him come.
J1* was a star. When I saw him, I was twelve. He was a beautiful baby. He was a wonderful baby. And StpMm, his mother, was so glowing.
I cared for him in the summers. By then I was babysitting kids for lots of families in Sedona. I enjoyed it. And everyone always remarked how wonderful a babysitter I was. And there was always that damnable "for a boy" phrase, but never said to me, at least.
I had a huge attachment to J1. When they moved out of state, and I ended up embarking on my first dark time in the last couple years of high school and into the army (times when I didn't go to Sedona, which I now regret, seeing now how critical they were for me), I lost touch with him.
J1 did well. StpMm is a great mom. His younger brother J2 also did well, and I strongly believe that he did better because he was outside the influence of StpDd, despite his yearning -- just like my brother's -- for that acceptance on the part of StpDd.
J1, though, fell into drugs for a while as a young adult, had problems. He pulled through, and Just as I was getting to a point where I was trying to integrate that side of my family into my extended family cycle with Wife and Son, he was taken from us.
J1 was killed in a moment of happiness gone wrong. He was in Colorado, had recently become very successful selling timeshares, was partying, drove his jeep home. Missed a turn on the wild country roads, went off the edge, out of the jeep.
He struck a fence post. Even though they did a good job, he was only barely recognizable as my brother, whom I had last seen only a year before.
By that time, StpMm had changed. She was no longer the warm and welcoming woman I had loved as my second mother. She had become icy and distant. We had drifted apart. StpDd was still StpDd.
At the funeral, she snubbed me. It killed the last of it. I know why she did. Its ok. But it still hurt, and before I knew it, she was gone from in me. Although a huge part of who I am will always be due to her. and I will always think of her as my second mom -- the cool one, LOL.
StpDd was utterly distraught. I did and said what I could, and I was there.
With the loss of my relationship with my brother Brother, however, I've lost my relationship with them. Unlike myself, he had been much more active with them. And they were more accepting of his wife -- lol, he was very much his father then and in his choice, lol. I love my brother, but when my mother died, that killed what has long been a sort of iffy relationship anyway.
I doubt he'll ever turn to his sister for help. He's never been a particularly accepting sort. If he does, though, I'll be there for him. He is my brother.
And the same will apply to my whole family. Although I know which ones will be able to deal with it and which ones won't, I'm not going to shove this on them. I have pretty much no contact now, although once I've started RTE I'm certain I will have an overpowering urge to finally be free, lol
So I have two tracks of memories.
I have Sedona, and I have Phoenix (which was actually Scottsdale and Mesa).
1972/73 is when memory starts to return for both areas. Splotchy, indistinct, unclear, but that's normal, I would suspect, for most people. I retain the highlights. Some examples of acting out, a couple of minor victories, an embarrassment, little stuff.
Up until 75, its mixed. No time sense then -- nothing that really standsout. Still working on developing a sense of identity, I assume, and I feel, and the whole period is filled in my head with a lot of fantasy and time alone.
A lot of time alone. Couple friends, some slumber parties.
76 was the bicentennial. My mom ordered the encyclopedias, I got the movie camera, I broke the kitchen table, Disneyland, The ranch, the terrible thing about airplanes.
Ranch and planes might have been later. The timing is off to me in my head.
Distractions, side thoughts, things that I need to reminisce about -- they've paused this reflection and deconstruction. I'm going to continue it, but now, for my purposes, I'm going to set them up as breaks in the flow, because there is sooo much that I need to do right now.
Not the least of which is survive long enough to see this dream of mine come true.
Monday, 6:01am (10-16)
Wow.
Buried memory surfaced a little while ago. I was reflecting on it and decided to go to bed, but I don't want this one to fade away again -- it has bearing.
I was young. Very young.
We lived in the townhouse, so it was between 72 and 77 -- not later, because I was still wearing jammies. I used to drive my mom nuts cause I was always playing with my peepee.
Series of memories, disjointed, visual, POV.
I would sit in the bathroom and fold my peepee up, get rid of it. I would always nose around in my moms stuff (the upstairs bathroom was shared by all of us). I loved the feel of this one canister of face powder she had. I was a cardboard canister, flowers on it, the powder smelled good and the puff for it tickled my nose.
Bam, another memory/thought about naming my peepee, lol.
I had to be careful -- this was something I would get in trouble for. I had to be sneaky.
I would play with the cosmetics on her nightstand too. I would make myself pretty, like she did. She always got so mad when I did.
The big memory. The one that stopped me from doing it ever again. The one that set the stage for me always being torn and difficult about going into the cosmetics area with Wife, decades later, lol.
I had a nightmare.
It was terrifying. I had snuck into her room to play with her stuff, and it came to life and tried to eat me. The hairspray was the meanest one, sharp teeth and evil eyes. The compact tried to bite my fingers and my nose. I was chased by the stool. I ran screaming from the nightmare things, a world of cosmetics coming to eat me, swallow me.
I never touched them again after that. Even when I thought about dressing up as a woman for halloween (I never did it) I never considered makeup. I have a fear reaction to the thought of "painting my face".
That phrase, in fact -- something about it triggers a fear reaction in me. Even as I'm writing it.
Establishes that I did indeed use my mother's stuff when young, and she knew about it.
Its still later than my memory void, though -- its in the blurry part.
I had suppressed it until I was reading the makeup sections.
This one is going to be difficult. I'm getting an anxiety attack from the thought of the makeover I want to do after Halloween. I can't chicken out. I may go ahead and shave and see.
That damn gargantuan space between my lip and nose, though...
:(
The memory talking about my peepee: I have no name for my member there.
Every boy I've ever known has a name for it. The closest I can come is "PeePee" -- infantile expression for it still.
I knew what a girl looked like down there when I was young. I kept trying to tuck mine so it was like hers.
The other night, My neighbor's son was naked (he's such a handful) and for the first time ever I actually *looked* at a developing penis on a boy.
Mine did not look like that.
I've never really paid attention to Son's, for that matter, lol. He has one, but I just "overlook" it. I know its there, I'm superficially aware of it, but I can't picture it in my head.
strange.
When Wife and I were first going out, she asked me what mine was named. I made up something on the spot. No clue what. She probably remembers.
Side note regarding the blurry years.
My temper was incredibly uncontained at this time. My mother had an impossible time keeping babysitters for Brother and I, mostly because of me. I was wild, mean, spiteful, nasty, and physically wicked.
She kept one babysitter for a long time. I think her name was Pam. Dark hair, glasses, drove a mail truck that she bought at a government auction from the money she earned babysitting me, lol.
My mother paid for her hospital bills. She was hurt by me in a fight when I pushed her until she fell down some stairs. Happy to be left alone, I stayed in my bedroom.
Only two people could ever "control" me, or calm me down. My Mother and my Grandmother.
I do have one memory that is unimaginably old that I am recalling right now.
It is the only memory I have of my grandfather, who committed suicide in 1973 after decades of struggle with TB. I have been told it is false, but I don't believe so.
He was sitting at the little table that there once was in my grandmother's tiny kitchen before he passed. He read the paper there every morning. I know this. He was reading it and I came around the corner from the living room and toddled up to him. We were the only two there.
I wasn't scared. But I'm not sure I liked him. The emotional feel of the moment is too vague, and the memory is too distant. I remember looking up at him, him looking at me, sad, sad eyes behind glasses. He said something that made me feel happy.
That's all there is, and its very slippery, that one.
I don't hate my thing. I don't like it, though. Its uncomfortable and it gets in my way.
I haven't thought about those two memories in ages. They are like movies in mind.
I remember when I finally got my anger under control for the first time. 8th or 9th grade -- I can't remember which it was as I can't recall the location of the lockers.
Something had peeved me, set me off, I was roiling, ready to explode and knew it, knew that I would cause harm to someone. Marched into the classroom -- 8th grade. Pruitt's classroom. Went around the wall to where my locker was, and beat my hands bloody against he locker door while screaming.
No broken hands. Only minor cuts. I destroyed the locker door, though. Completely. They had to cut it out to replace it.
I was sent home with a note. I never gave it to my mom.
The worst time with my anger was in 4th grade. The year before I had become "known", and during this year I developed the core of the friendships I had at Pueblo until we left -- especially Kristina, who was my constant companion.
I was the leader of the "funny" kids -- the ones who were not accepted.
We wanted to play in the "ship" (a huge sandbox). The bullies challenged me to a monkey bar fight. I was good on them. I used to climb and hang and try to do the flips.
He called me names of some sort, I think, or something, I don't know what, but When we both came down off the overhead railings and hit the sand, he hit me, and I lost it or something. I remember losing all sense of everything, a vast and impossible darkness that wiped out all thought from my head for a few moments. And then I came back to myself, able to see, to hear, to feel and people were screaming at me and hitting me on the back to let go.
He had already passed out from the chokehold. It scared me.
It still scares me. Had it lasted a few more minutes, at that young age I would have been a murderer.
And I understood the meaning of that concept. Quite well. It boosted my stature immeasurably -- although I still ran from The Duck and his cronies Brad and Chris. (Chris later died of leukemia -- and had become a friend by then. Brad became a friend in 7th grade. Brad W*, I think it was, lol. Donald and I more or less made a truce in 8th grade).
Dr. Jacobs was my doctor's name. The one with the deep deep voice. His office was near the place where the baseball team practiced in scottsdale.
Wow. The memories are there to some extent. They become sharpest around 7th grade, but I can follow tendrils of some of those backwards (angela, who I had my first date with, who said yes when I asked her out after having spent three weeks building up courage and rehearsing it) and some of the early ones from 3rd and 4th forward (the great Rockfight -- we won!).
Very little emotional content though. very little "exciting". Kristen, the short dark haired girl who was often my mental opponent (and angela's little sister -- angela was a year older than me, LOL). Teasing me. Calling me monkey man, and me taking it and turning it back on her, acting like a monkey and making that god awful gap even bigger.
Asking my mother about race and my dad -- the first talk about my dad. I might be black, I might be anything. We think I'm Sioux, but nobody knows. 6th grade tendril follow shows testing again -- the intro to Mrs Gates, my worries about being in the "gifted" program, the first series of crap about my "growth" that was always quietly whispered.
Stepping out...
Starting about half way through the 4th grade, my grades plummeted from straight A's to lucky to pass -- although everyone said I knew the work. I simply never did homework. I resisted any attempt to make me do so. My grades never got better, unless I liked the subject (spelling in 7th, science in 8th).
LOL!!!
I just remembered how much I hated shop. I could have gone to home ec, and I would always look in to see what was going on, dying of curiosity. I remember seeing the girls doing something with dress on those mannequins and being jealous but having to hide it. Wasn't "cool" for a boy to be interested in Home Ec.
PE sucked. Only decent time I remember was the big team sport segments. I used to wish we'd play soccer, cause I could stand at one end of the field all by myself and think evil thoughts (Damien lives! lol) at the boys who tormented me.
I was alone, though. I never dressed out. I liked tetherball. I couldn't play it because it was a sissy thing.
I had no clue what sissy meant. I remember that, lol. I remember someone saying that and my going "oh, yeah, sissy" and looking all tough and thinking "what does sissy mean? Does it mean me? Does it mean like a girl?"
LOL -- more!! I started watching that one show with Mr French and "cissy". I was watching to see what a cissy was. LOL
Oh lord, I was so naive. Yeah, Emotionally not ready. I can see how they thought that. I was two to three grades ahead intellectually, but a grade or two behind otherwise. Living in my mind.
This is a great time for me to do this. I am very tired, and my brain is ready to sleep, so I can see more, dig deeper. But my spelling is terrible.
I'm worried about telling Wife. Although I know how she will react and feel, my stress now is on how I tell her. I'm already rehearsing speeches.
I can't tell her now, though. Her mother is dying in the hospital, her father has cancer, she's not doing too hot herself. Better I be here for her until its too late and too obvious. But she'll ask about it. I told her I was in therapy. She was happy.
She will not like the result, though. :(
Off to bed.
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