50 movies of Halloween (3/50) The Meg

50 Movies of Halloween (3/50)

The Meg

Sadly one of the better shark movies lately, +1 Jason Statham -1 Jason Statham (IYKYK) -1 Mediocre plot -1 Focused on China release +1 Sharks -1 Shark continuity (start 5)+1-1-1-1+1-1 = 3 #disasterunicorn #50moh #50moviesofhalloween #sharkmovie #halloween

50 movies of Halloween (1/50) Last of Us S1 (2023)

This first “50 of anything” reviews were poorly thought out ADHD, so you will see format changing over time. Sorry about that

Last of Us Season 1 (2023) – 5 stars!!!!

One of the best shows in the 50, loved the video game, A+++

#disasterunicorn#50moh#50moviesofhalloween#avoid#moviesucks#halloween#randomreview

Can’t Help Falling in Love

I have always had nightmares and trauma dreams, pretty much as far back as I can remember. Sometimes they are filled with with violence, assault, terror and running or fighting. Sometimes there is nothing but a glimpse of something that just makes me sad.

Last night I had one of those dreams that just lasts all night. I woke up briefly but couldn’t get up around midnight, then again at 1am then 2am, finally was able to get up. The same dream the entire time.

START DREAM

STOP DREAM

The dream never ended or changed except for me to occasionally wake up. Probably didn’t help that I got to see the best gay representation episode I ever saw on TV today (episode 3 of Last of Us) after the dream. 

The way the episode ended in their bedroom was probably even rougher than it would have been without the dream. Don’t regret watching the episode, but it means I have been crying on and off all day.

Flashback Friday 07/07/23

I figure I am going to start doing the flashback/throwback stuff here. So you are all stuck 🙂

Flashback Friday
June 2012.

Hubby and I pre-transition out for a meal and then to go see the peacock farm! I really loved going with him to the farm. We should see if they still exist. Hmmm maybe I need to post that gallery if I can find it now that I think about it.

#mtf #ftm #trans #transgender #fbf #throwback #pretransition #flashbackfriday #flashback #predisasterunicorn #disasterunicorn #lgbtqia

Dreams x 2: “Cat Scare” and “I am Sorry”.

Last two nights ended up with the next two mornings from horrendous dreams. I find sometimes I can get rid of the after effect of dreams if I post and talk about it. So I am talking here again. Probably not nearly as in depth as I wanted to write about it this morning, but maybe its good it is partially slipping away.

The first dream from a couple of nights ago was just plain bad. It was a rough 4th of July and our cat was on high alert.So around 3am she crawled up under the blankets with me and I promptly fell asleep.

“The first thing I noticed was the sound of a cat far off making weird strangled cries. I got up, followed out of the kitchen like room I was in and into a long hallway. At the end of the hallway a large black cat was hissing. I tried to give them good words but that wasn’t going well. Then I heard the cat’s tone changed and I immediately turned and went to run.

I got a few feet before claws of fire dug into me and the cat actually began trying to take me down for real. I don’t know if it was rabid or just crazy but I ended up picking it up and throwing it off. It kept launching itself back at me until finally I grabbed him and slammed him into the ground multiple times. All I remember was it kept moving and trying to bite and I couldn’t get away so I kept slamming the cat down.”

I promptly woke up and immediately panicked thinking I grabbed Tally in my sleep and hurt her. I am pretty sure I was sobbing at this point as I pulled the blanket up and there Tally was, fully asleep, and when she noticed the blanket had pulled up she just opened her one eye lovingly, blinked softly, then sighed heavily like I had just interrupted her sleep.

The second dream was last night and is the one I am having a hard time moving past. Because of that you just get a very cut down version because evidently if I think about it I start crying again.

I was sitting next to my wonderful husband gardenrat. He was taking care of a patient much like he did 12+ years ago before either of us transitioned. It was some little hospital like room. The patient had just passed and he was cleaning them up.

I kept asking when he shift was over and he shrugged me off and grunted. I couldn’t get his focus off of the patient and on to me. I felt al little bad in the dream, but I was even more annoyed. “You know there is a reason you quit this job the first time right? Can we please go to dinner soon? The next shift can clean up the person.”

Even in the dream I knew that was a shitty thing to say so I was quiet and just sat FOREVER… Eventually I was super annoyed and I kept tapping him and he kept grumbling. I finally stood up and started yelling at him when I looked over and saw the person on the bed. It was me.

The only thing I felt right then was sad. Not scared, no screaming, not angry.

I turned to the hubby and all I could say was “I am so sorry I left you, I love you so much. I am so sorry.”

I wasn’t scared or worried about me, but I was screamingly terrified of what would happen with gardenrat and if he would be ok.

I woke up and laid on top of the covers and found I was crying. The hubby got up beside me in the dark and wandered out to use the bathroom, which enabled me to pull my shit together and get up for the morning. It put me into a weird headspace this morning. Not worried about myself, but. worried how the hubby was going to be (if it works out, some other boy/girl/them shows up and takes care of him, but even joking I get waves of worry for him, and it makes me sad.

Dreams: Locked Lunchroom

It has been awhile since I had such a vivid dream, but it left me fairly upset for no reason. Lots of pictures in this post, click on them for regular size gallery images.

I was going to a new school, I couldn’t really tell if it was high school or college, but it was definitely me old enough to think like an adult. The details now are slipping past me except that I wasn’t allowed to eat lunch with everyone, there was some sort of mixup in me being able to use the building my classes were in as a lunchroom even though part of it was and people were eating there.

I also would wander around and find some of the rooms had equipment I couldn’t reach, of for whatever reason I didn’t bring the equipment I was supposed to at home. It was a constant attempt at finding access to a computer I could use and even times when I kept losing my clothes so I couldn’t sit in the same room as people.

I met a few people I sort of liked, and one person that I believe was my husband GardenRat and we were pretty much thick as thieves. The math class was hard, I never had the right book and was always tired. I did get through though and by the end of the quarter or semester (whatever my dream was keeping score of end of school length) I was told that I wouldn’t be allowed in for classes the next cycle, and the doors would be locked.

That bothered me, but only a little. I asked if I could at least come use the lunchroom, and the sad teacher shook her head and said no, I wouldn’t ever be able to come back into this class area and I would have to go down much further on the campus (at this point it felt like a campus like Western Washington University) and find a new set of classes. She said the doors would be locked and I couldn’t ever come back in.

I was incredibly sad and spent the last day in classes trying to figure out how I could sneak past the locks, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. The anxiety made me feel I had done this before too many times.

I woke up fairly upset for no reason I understood. I haven’t had to go to any classes for 15 years, at least since I graduated college finally at the age of 37 in 2007, and while I talk about going back to get a master’s, the odds are it won’t happen until I retire and I can do it to take some extra side classes (or maybe do that even before retirement).

Then I realized this is probably a directly related dream to my growing up and going to five different high schools.

I grew up super poor, the alcoholism had caught up with my parents, and the older couple that had hired my parents as assistant managers and worked with my dad’s PTSD/mental health issues for years had been able to work it out that my dad could still work even with his mental health issues. It was the only stable time in my life until I got married at the age of 21.

It was one of the two jobs my dad had after Vietnam that worked with his mental health, resulting in what both employers called their best employee, but that is because he was super loyal and would work far harder than anyone else, when he could (and he was almost always far better than the next worker). By the time I was in 8th grade (last year in middle school) that both spouses that worked with him as his bosses,

had passed away. The new manager was “corporate” (even though this was a HUD/Section 8 set of apartments) resulting in my dad not being able to stay at the job. After that is when the alcohol kicked fully with no support network and within months we were being evicted.

So by then we had already moved to two new places within 6 months by the time I had entered high school as a freshman at Everett High School. A poor high school, but had some really cool classes and I started taking drafting class and a class about World War I and II and I realized I liked taking history classes and learning how to draft.

I had lost contact with all my friends I had up until 8th grade because of the evictions (we were all “projects” kids so when I was no longer in the projects, I didn’t see them), but being back at Everett High School I had started to reintegrate with them, of course also with all the hormonal changes as well the interrelations were different so it was a slow but steady process. At the time my best friend then was a girl who I had always had a crush on and when I saw her again she had definitely stepped into womanhood. I realize now that it was a mix of her being my best friend, of me wanting her to be interested in me, and me wanting to be her (or at least me wanting to be a girl)… strange how that repeated itself but just much stronger by the end of my childhood story with Garden Rat

Then they inherited money from my original namesake grandfather passing away and invested it in the drug trade making us move after the first semester (not even full fall semester) of high school. Resulting in us having some money, but having to move from Everett to a trailer in Lake Stevens.

Then the whole “incident” went down, and an ex-friend of my dad’s thought it would be better to put a contract on our family then try and repay my dad, so put an actual contract out on my parents. This resulted in us having to quickly sell off what stuff we did have (my parents invested most of the inheritance in the drug business, but had bought a mobile home and a small plot of land) and we ended up living in a car for about a year with small bits in emergency housing when my parents were sober enough to deal with the requirements of that housing.

During these months I never went to school, we were living out of rest stops on the freeway and state parks. I guess that means I got to see a lot of stuff kids my age couldn’t, or at least not in the manner I was. With this whole situation happening my parents went into full alcoholism mode, and from halfway through my 14th year in 1986 until I graduated in 1989, we never lived at the same place for longer than 6 months, and usually it was 3-4 months was higher end of our stay.

By spring of 1986 we ended up in Lake Tahoe Nevada, I registered for my third school at the end of Spring Semester and ended up going a few days until school wrapped up for summer break. I was excited to be going to school there in the fall. In addition we got to visit places like Reno, Carson City and the Bucket of Blood and even Heavenly Valley and the Donner’s Pass. It was a beautiful area and my parents started cutting back on the drinking.

Well… that never fully happened and by the time fall came around we had already moved out from the hotel we were living in (did I forget to mention were were living at a state park in Lake Tahoe when I wrapped up spring semester, but had moved into the Tahoe Mountain Lodge (maybe it was just Tahoe Lodge…) and were living in the hotel as we entered summer. Like I said though, by the end of summer we were already homeless again and back in Washington State, this time we ended up in Birch Bay.

We finally found a mobile home to rent in Birch Bay and within a couple of weeks Fall semester had started and I was going to Blaine High School (Birch Bay is too small to have a high school and their population is geared for summer tourists so it was dead there in winter).

I went to Blaine High School (my 4th high school) and attended it for Fall Semester and then into Spring Semester. I had finally made friends again with some of the local Lummi tribal kids we lived next too. It is also the first time I noticed a girl interested in me back, Morgan and she was from Montana (and had stark white hair). She would lay her head on my lap daily in our shared bus seat for the longest bus ride ever from Birch bay to Blaine. I had a crush but of course I figured she was just wanting to be friends… this is a repeat that happens a lot in my life. I evidently cannot read the room with someone that may have a romantic or at least physical interest in me.

Unfortunately by Spring of 1987 we were homeless again and moved 30 miles south to Bellingham and once again I had to register for Bellingham High School as my 5th high school I had attended in the last 2.5 years.

Bellingham High School was probably the most barebones school, steam heating cracks in walls, incredibly limited choice of classes. By this time however I had been to so many high schools that I didn’t do much but hang out with the stoners and punks between the various evictions my family went through in Bellingham. I did go to school every day though, because they offered free lunch and it is the only time I knew I would be fed, I especially love those industrial cinnamon rolls for breakfast.

By the time I was in Bellingham High School I was. hitting 16 years old and I was working full time around high school and giving my paychecks directly to my parents. I wouldn’t learn until I moved out with my hubby a couple years later that if I kept the paychecks but then paid the bills myself my parents wouldn’t get evicted. Weirdly enough I noticed this was the time I had the least pictures of myself, like 4 photos plus Camp Horizon in the 1.5 years I went to Bellingham High.

Even as I make Bellingham High (my 5th high school) sound like the worst school, it is at this time I met my best friend Garden Rat, who became my husband (although he had already left Bellingham and went to Sehome High School, and eventually dropped out of there) so I never got to actually take classes with him until we went to college decades later.

That was a long winded way of saying I am fairly sure the dream was frustrations (or maybe just processing) of the fact I didn’t have a normal(ish) childhood. I am sure part of this is sparked by therapy, and part of it is we have been watching a lot of anime that takes place with characters in school that knew each other for long periods.

In contrast I was never allowed to have a group of friends to go to school with and grow up with regularly from end of middle school on. I wasn’t allowed to take the same teachers or even see the same classrooms more than once or twice and never had most of those “high school” experiences everyone talks about.

My experiences in high school were not a continuum, but discrete vignettes that never repeated themselves. It results in a huge amount of stories I can tell, and I think I am reaching that place in my mental health that I probably will share them, but it isn’t a continuous life experience with the same group of friends, teachers and locations, but a sporadic show about survival in my home life punctuated by scenes in new classrooms and new people that never come back to the show…

For some reason last night my brain had to process a little of it, but it always leaves me a little disorientated the next morning, and a little sad.

Living

I am finally feeling on par after the surgery, and I am incredibly happy with the results so far.

I hadn’t realized how much I must have been dreading this surgery, even if it’s one of the most minor surgeries I have gotten, it deals with some of the most dysphoric things about me. Even the surgery coming next February which is 10x harder and in the same area of the body doesn’t bother me nearly as much.

I feel pretty good though, I have had a wonderful supporting husband/best friend who has watched out for me, and who has been buying me things. I even got flowers from my work, that was pretty unexpected and was incredibly nice of them. Unfortunately I was pretty stoned on drugs that my pic wasn’t from the right angle and now that I am back to mostly normal the flowers are no longer in such a new state.

Thank you so much gang!

I told you about my husband getting me some items as well. We both may or may not have been stoned last weekend but it was an awesome weekend (and definitely prefer a little 420 over any sort of pain meds). There was lots of anime and hanging out running RPGs for him. It was great.

Fast forward to Tuesday I believe it was, and my hubby gets a package. He looks over at me and all of a sudden he gets sheepish, with a tiny bit of worry. That got my full attention. That is when he started opening it and was apologizing at the same time. He got me something, he thought it was both funny and true, but was worried it might bother me. He then presented me with some custom soap he had bought for me.

It says “Nice Dick”

I was actually thrilled by it. I have a post coming about my surgery, and about my choice on what I am doing with my penis, so I wan’t belabor it here. Suffice to say I reassured him I was pleased that he found it funny and got it for me, and that he thinks I have a nice dick (I do).

The even better thing he got me was a PJ onesie. I had never really looked at onesies before I transitioned, mostly I was shut down and hoping to die. However last October we bought me a skeleton onesie and I fucking love it. it is my favorite pajamas to wear. The hubby knows this, and knows I am going to be getting a lot more (when I remember, that is the hard thing).

That being said, we were watching the anime “The Iceblade Sorcerer Shall Rule the World” and one of the side characters wears a dragon onesie. I thought it was cute as hell (and I still think so, even without pot in me). Next thing I know, another package rolls up and the hubby presents me with a red dragon onesie and I fucking love it.

Now, I look like a weird person, and to he honest right now still not liking how I look in any pictures, but I am going to share what he got me, because it is that fucking awesome.

So there it is, the three gifts I have gotten in the last week, the last two from my hubby who is so damn awesome!

Happy Birthday Dad, We miss you

Yesterday would have been my dad’s 75th birthday, easily within a normal lifespan. However a life of abuse, lifestyle of a biker, Agent Orange, smoking, chemical exposure and incarceration, and mental health ended that abruptly before his 68th birthday.

Here is a picture of him just turning 17 on his way to Cam Ranh Bay in 1966. Having just gotten through Great Lakes training and a few months on the USS Mars he was “volunteered” to serve in the Brown Water Navy aboard Patrol Boat River and Patrol Boat Fast craft.

I have attached a few pictures of what are called Patrol Boat River (PBRs) probably most famous because of the movie Apocalypse Now. Specifically I tried to get pictures that had the 50 caliber gun pit he served in, none of the boat pics are him sadly. He wasn’t able to keep any of his pictures when he was in country.

This originally was just a happy birthday post, but below you will find evidently I needed to talk about it, and I think this is the first time I have ever written publicly. This got long, so please don’t read more if you don’t want to hear long drawn out story that I may update and streamline or expand. I don’t know why now I need to share, but I think my therapist would tell me it is part of my processing of my own trauma, PTSD, C-PTSD, and abuse by my own past demons.

I know so many small stories of the time dad was in Vietnam, that sometimes I can dream it. Sadly though it was a horrific time for a seventeen year old who didn’t want to be there, but because he grew up abused by his uncle Rush, physically, mentally and sexually, he had a hard start. Sadly uncle Rush wasn’t the one who raised him, it as his grandfather and grandmother who had raised him and they tried hard but they were both in their 70-80s.

His grandfather died a few months after his grandmother and they both had just passed away the year when he was 16. He spun out of control, alcohol and trouble making in the small town of Oso and then in the “big” town of Everett (not really that big). His friends and him made a bad decision to break into a convenience store and steal alcohol. At some point a they got in a fight with some others and some people ended up pretty badly hurt (also something he regretted participating in his entire life).

He was brought into court, never had a problem in the past (hell until his grandparents died and he lost weight living on his own, he was known as “Fat Jack” and if he had been born thirty years later would probably be a gamer). However, the judge didn’t believe in chances, and he received no leniency from the court, the only option he got was to go to Vietnam, or serve a 5+ year prison sentence at the age of 17 at the Monroe State Prison.

I hope that judge rots in hell for that.

My dad hoped to avoid killing anyone so he joined the U.S. Navy. Maybe this would have been a good ending if he stayed in the “real navy”, but that isn’t what happened. After being on the U.S.S. Mars for a few months, they had a quota they had to fill of navy personnel to go over to the new river navy in Vietnam to assist the soldiers who had arrived there not long before.

He got “volunteered” for this duty.

He was a 17 year old white boy, the only white boy on his boat. He told me when he arrived and went on board the river craft, he was sure his crew would hate him because they were all black and angry. Turned out though that they loved him and he loved them. I cannot tell you the amount of times I would sit with him in the dark as his alcoholic run was wrapping up and he would just cry because he missed them, especially Steve, the man that died saving his life at the end and who my brother’s middle name is for.

He told me a lot of those stories as a kid (as did a lot of the other vets we grew up with), maybe I can tell their small vignettes in the future.

What I do know is that a river boat crew of black men had adopted my teenage father’s white country/farm ass and because of them my dad was able to come home.

The general gist of this post though is that he was the last survivor of his boat that spent most of its time on the northern part of the Mekong, I can’t remember the official designation, but they were called the “Skating Gators” and their symbol was Wally the Gator with dual 50 calibers machine guns in its arms while using roller-skates, or at least that is mostly what I remember as a young child when I saw the patch).

Their job was , to go rescue pilots, deliver packages (eg people) into Northern Vietnam and Cambodia, and to perform harassment and interdiction of the North Vietnamese use of the Mekong (this is before the North had really implemented the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

I have only this picture and one other of when he was in country but not of him, of his friends instead (I need to find it and scan it). His personal stuff was not sent home with him as he was medically transported out.

After nine months, most of the original crew for the entire flotilla were dead or so injured they were transferred out. He was counting down his last three months to go home and get out of the military and out of trouble when he was injured gravely (even put in the pile of “dead” and was only found later when they realized he was breathing, that is another story).

When he was transported home after nine months in country he would be disharged with full honorable medical discharge after he saw the judge and the judge approved his tour in the military. He was rolled into the same judge’s courtroom with his head wrapped, both legs shot/shattered. The judge asked if he served his full year, and my dad’s public defender showed his service record and that he was about to be medically discharged due to combat injuries.

The judge did something that most people wouldn’t expect, but I have seen enough with our judicial system now that it doesn’t surprise me in retrospect. The judge believed because my dad didn’t serve a full year in Vietnam, that he hadn’t met his end of the sentence. The judge said because he didn’t finish his one year tour in Vietnam, that he was going to send him to prison anyways. My grandmother (his mother) who had gotten out of prison while he was gone had confirmed this. Everyone in the court was evidently shocked.

This situation was bad because he was still technically in the navy and because the judge changed the judgment and instead of releasing him like you would anyone who was gravely injured fighting for his country because my dad was too injured to fight, the navy discharged him as dishonorable because of the sentence he was forced to go to even though he had fought.

The injuries both mental and physical were only the start of a poor 18 year old who then had to go to prison for four years as an 18/19 year old and this would result in the life of the John J Bradley I knew, and as a result would direct my siblings and I’s lives as well.

That being said, he did everything he could for his family, and I miss him horribly and would give almost anything to just sit with him for an hour.

I guess this was an awkward way to say Happy Birthday dad, I love you and miss you.

Institutional microaggressions

Yesterday the hubby and I were both excited. For the last couple of years we have been changing our name and gender markers in all our official documentation. We have successfully changed even our birth certificates (including the hubby’s from Arizona). The last two steps are my passport (my federal information is already changed, just need to update that) and our marriage license.

We were married in 1992, and we both knew that in the state files our original names were used along with our genders. So we called around to the various county auditors we lived in and they finally directed us to the state. After setting up an appointment for yesterday six months ago (that is how long the wait was) we headed down to Olympia after my medical appointments to change our marriage license.

We arrived and waited until half an hour past our appointment. The employee was a nice guy when we did meet him, evidently he was on lunch and didn’t notice we had arrived… even though we had an appointment. He took our information, headed over the the archives to make the change while we paid for new copies.

He came back with a partial success, and a truly horrific change. Our names were changed with no problems, we are listed with our current names and that is all good. That being said he told us he had some bad news, for whatever reason (insert blah blah blah) he couldn’t change our genders.

Adoption and Microaggressions | AdoptiveBlackMom

To be honest this doesn’t make sense to me, they can change my actual birth certificate to list me as female, but can’t update my marriage license. What happens if a county auditor records the name of the spouses in the wrong box, are they telling me a cisgender woman will be listed as the male, and it can’t be changed. That cannot be right. Although it sounds like that isn’t a problem anymore because since gay marriage became legal in 2012 or so they don’t list genders, just spouse 1 and spouse 2 on licenses after that.

The worst part about this, the new marriage license/certificate they gave us lists me as the groom and my husband as the bride. In spite of the fact our original never listed the bride/groom at all on the original certificate in our old names. So now, not only couldn’t they change it, our marriage license outs us clearly, instead of only being somewhere deep in the computer system.

Don’t get me wrong, I am obviously trans so while it does misgender me, it won’t be surprise to anyone. However, it outs my hubby who passes 100% as a cisgender guy when no one knows, and lists him as my bride.

I didn’t expect dysphoria to hit so hard when that happened and I realized what our new licenses listed. I am angry, crushed and just livid that now my wedding license/certificate is even worse than before. Name is correct but now it states clearly the wrong gender. All of this. after 2+ hours of commute, waiting, etc and paying $70.

Next week I am going to call and find out if the guy just was an idiot, or if that is actually the case. If it is the case we are already looking at lawyering up to change it. That is complete and utter nonsense that they can’t change it. You know for a fact that if a cisgender male/female names got mixed up they would find a way to do it.

I do hope to find when I call next week that the guy was just an idiot and they can fix it, but not expecting that at all.