Our finances make things like movies impossible, too, except the ones we watch on TV. If it wasn’t for the library, my brain would be mush by now. I’ve tried to make friends with the neighbor ladies, but theirs is a tight-knit sorority. Seems they’re not looking for new members.
I wish I could visit Tati, but I don’t have access to a car and even if I did, I don’t have a driver’s license. I’m going to get one, though. I’ve been practicing. Jason won’t let me drive, but when Tati visits—she’s been out here five times—she puts me behind the wheel of her Malibu, with her standing joke. “Let’s go cruising for soldiers.”
They’re not hard to find. But we’re not really looking. Even if I wanted to cheat on Jason, what man in his right mind would want to have sex with me? It would kind of be like having sex with the baby, too. The idea is cringe-worthy.
Truthfully, I have zero desire to even look at a penis, let alone touch one. But Jason insists. “I’m your husband, aren’t I? What good is a wife who won’t please her man? The least you can do is jack me off.”
Actually, it’s the most I can do.
Especially considering how hard it’s been to get Jason to cooperate with me. It’s not like I ask for much, but one thing I insisted on was him taking natural childbirth classes with me. I practically had to beg him to be my coach.
“Coach? What does that mean? Feed you plays?”
“Sort of, I guess. You stay by my side. Encourage me. Remind me to breathe, that sort of thing.”
He laughed. “How could you forget to breathe?”
“Not regular breathing,” I huffed. “There are techniques to help me relax through the contractions.”
“I’ve got a better idea. It’s called medication.”
“If I’m on drugs, the baby is, too. I don’t want Casey to arrive all doped up. She won’t nurse right.”
I’ve done tons of research, obviously. Jason couldn’t care less, though. “Nurse? You want to breast-feed and wreck those pretty titties?”
“Jason, it’s not like this is the first time I’ve discussed this with you.”
“Guess I wasn’t listening.”
I had to work hard to quell the anger rising up inside of me. I already had the arguments in place, however. “First of all, it might be the only time I ever have big breasts. You’ll enjoy them. And second, formula is expensive. Breast milk is free, not to mention healthier for the baby. It will also help me lose weight more quickly.”
“Well, aren’t we just the expert?” He popped a beer, slurping it loudly for effect.
I chose to lower my voice, and my blood pressure. “I’m no expert, Jason. That’s why I’m asking for your help. You’re all I have here at Fort Hood, and you know that. Please promise you’ll be there for me.”
He got drunk and passed out without promising, but he did go to a couple of Lamaze classes. Together we learned the stages of labor. Practiced relaxed breathing techniques: in through the nose, out through the mouth, pretending to sink into beach sand beneath a blanket of September sunshine. Deeper. Deeper. Relax. Relax. The more you tense, fighting the cramping of contractions, the harder they’ll fight back.
After three sessions, Jason claimed he’d learned all he needed to know. But he never even heard about transition, let alone how to help me push when the doctor tells me it’s time. That’s okay. I’ve managed to make it this far mostly on my own.
Why change anything up now?
Except . . .
What I’m determined to change is family dynamics, at least where my child is concerned. Though I lived in my mother’s house until recently, she’s been missing from my life for years.
I’m not sure what kind of mother I can be, but I swear I’ll never desert my baby, or keep secrets from her.
I bought a new journal today, and I’ll write this one for Casey, so she’ll always know her mommy has nothing to hide.
Ariel
Altered
Changed.
Different.
Transformed.
Irrevocably.
Irreversibly.
Permanently.
Forever.
Trinity.
Troika.
Triad.
Trio.
Triangle.
Monica.
Gabe.
Me.
I’m Desperately Trying
To maneuver this territory— the landscape of three.
But it doesn’t show up
on a GPS, and there are no maps, no guidebooks.
Not only that, but the terrain is uneven, the trail unbroken.
The travel might be smooth for a while, but eventually I’ll trip on a half-buried rock or step in a pothole, and once in a while a veritable sinkhole opens up and it’s all I can do not to get swallowed. The weird thing is, the longer I journey, the less important right or left seems. And that’s what confuses me. Shouldn’t one path make more sense than the other?
If I keep walking in separate directions, won’t I split in two?
It’s not that I can’t accept the fact that I’m bi. I can. The problem I keep returning to is commitment.
Shouldn’t that be part of my identity?
Until Recently
Identity wasn’t something
I thought much about, at least not anything beyond the concept of a name. I mean, I always felt like a girl, and not just because Dad was very clear that’s what I was.
(And not a dyke, like my mother.) When I was little, he wanted me to wear dresses, and keep
my hair long, though I hated
brushing through it every