This too is how I feel when I muse to that ineffable something I don't really believe exists. It's a physiological reaction of a human being seeking a palliative consolation. There are no gods, and no survival of personal identity after death. Whatever energies, forces, or ``mysteries'' are involved in the life process, they are active only while we live, not after we're dead. Of course, should I be wrong, I'll discover it after I die. In the meantime I lose nothing of this life by living as if death is the oblivion I consider it to be.

With that said, reluctantly, I confess to an ``impetus'' toward a certain amount of mystery in the world; a certain amount of magic. My life certainly would seem to have been touched with an abundance of both. What this ``magic'' is, I can only guess. Perhaps, an expression of my hypothalamus, my monkey brain. Whatever it is, I know what it isn't. It isn't a deity. It doesn't call for worship, it doesn't command any particular belief, and it operates from a foundation within us, not through some esoteric philosophy.

Indulge me! I celebrate the magic and mystery of life, but I don't do worship. On occasion, nonetheless, I whisper into the wind as if there is something there to hear. From time to time, I make requests, offer deals, and at other times I make demands. Do I talk to something real, tangible, a physical presence in the universe? I suspect not! However, if nothing else, it is a form of self-expression bringing my focus to a sharper edge. It allows me, a primitive animal after all, to create a psychodrama, a mythological pathway to express my emotional depths and needs. In this then I am Wiccan and yet I remain an Atheist. I am an Atheist Wiccan celebrating the joy in the mystery of life.

All belief is superstition, but it satisfies some primal need deep in my psyche and it allows me some connection with other people. I am neither a believer, nor strictly a non-believer. I'd be a hypocrite to place myself in either camp to the exclusion of the other. I'm an honest person who admits to irrational inclinations and doesn't claim to know all there is to know about the universe.

During the difficult month of December Julia kept in close contact through letters and long phone calls. Her support was to become increasingly important as my ordeal increased in intensity. I was about to embark on an Odyssey of the spirit that would leave me vulnerable, frightened, and out of control. I would become totally dependent on other people, the people who loved me. And in the end I would discover my life was in safe hands.

A few days before Joan was to go on a weekend choir retreat, a few weeks after my NDE, I began experiencing a feeling of inexplicable agitation. I couldn't determine why I felt anxious, but it seemed to be getting steadily worse. The night before Joan was to leave my hands were trembling. Waves of fear, panic, and anxiety swept over me. Joan held me through the night and I managed a fitful sleep.

A fellow choir member was picking Joan up at 5, so we got up a little earlier, around 4:30. Joan dressed and, unbeknownst to her, whenever she wasn't looking I paced the floor holding my head in agony. I tried to hide my pain and disguise my trembling because I didn't want to spoil her retreat. Despite my efforts she knew something was wrong and asked, ``Do you feel better this morning?'' I answered honestly, ``Honey, if I felt any worse, I'd be on my knees begging you to stay home. But I want you to go and enjoy yourself. I'll be okay.''

My mind was raging, screaming at me to beg her not to go, to tell her that I needed her. I knew if it didn't let up soon I'd have to go to the hospital. I had never experienced such devastating sensations.

Joan's ride arrived and after Joan left I began rapidly pacing back and forth across the living room. The pain in my head brought tears to my eyes. Pacing only relieved it a little. When I tried to sit still, to relax, the pain became unendurable. I managed to sustain it for an hour, and then I couldn't take anymore. Waking Anton, I had him drive me to the Emergency Room of St. Mary's hospital. It was frightening to realize that this condition, whatever it was, was so disabling that I couldn't even drive. Just sitting in the car until we arrived was an ordeal. I twisted in my seat, scowling, gyrating, and contorting. It seemed an impossibly long time to travel less than five miles.

We were at the ER three hours and the only result was a social worker was called, and all she did was set up an appointment with a counselor at Jorgenson Clinic for later in the week. It was only with a difficulty that I convinced her that whatever was wrong with me, it wasn't psychological. At first she wanted to explore for problems in my home and problems arising from my transsexuality. I explained I didn't know what was wrong with me, but whatever it was, it was physical. I asked if there was some kind of medicine I could take to relieve my symptoms and was informed that such medications were highly addictive and had to be prescribed by a doctor. I would have to wait until I saw the doctor at Jorgenson's. Afterward, Anton took me home.

Mother and Glen were supposed to come down that morning, as was Felicia. It was a Sunday and there was the Tohono O'Odham rodeo on the Indian reservation. Anton had suggested the rodeo earlier in the month and we all had decided to go together. With hindsight I should have called off our plans, but I had expected more help from the hospital. By the time I left the hospital, without any relief, everyone was already on their way down from Phoenix. I couldn't call it off after allowing them to make a two hour drive.

However, I couldn't hide my distress, so I told them I was having a tough time. They asked if I was okay to go to the rodeo. I told them, I thought so, that I couldn't be any sicker there than at home.

I was wrong.

Glen drove, mother beside him. I sat in the back on the left, Anton in the middle, and Felicia on the right. All the way out Ajo, an hour drive, I was silent. I heard everyone talking, joking, laughing, and having a good time. I couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. It was a bizarre experience to hear the words and not be able to respond appropriately. Of course, I pretended. I smiled weakly at the right places, but I wasn't understanding much of what was being said. Minute by minute the pain seemed to increase in intensity. I was listless and had lost any ability to concentrate. I felt detached, isolated, and distant. Inside my mind, I was resenting this frightful illness. I had been looking forward to the rodeo for a month, even now I wanted to see it, to enjoy it. `What's happening to me?' I thought, `Am I going crazy? I'm happy, and have a wonderful life. How can I feel so miserable?' But even those thoughts weren't something I could hold on to for long.

Arriving at the rodeo Anton and I wandered away from the others. Whispering, I informed him that I couldn't stand still. Mom, in her seventies, crippled with arthritis, couldn't get around with any degree of alacrity. Glen, in many ways a grouchy old curmudgeon, was gentle with her and helped her walk.

After walking around a short time Anton and I gravitated toward the bleachers to wait for the beginning of the rodeo. Nothing I did alleviated the fearsome pain in my head, but I could ease it by hanging my head between my legs. Even when the others arrived, I sat there with my head hanging down between my knees, occasionally looking up a few seconds at a time to see the preparations for the rodeo. I was determined to endure the agony and not spoil the rodeo for the others.

Glen, having never seen me in such a condition, suggested they should take me home. At first I protested, but my heart wasn't in it. It took little effort to get me to admit I'd be more comfortable at home. For one thing, I'd be out of the hot Arizona sun and, perhaps, I could find some way to kill the pain.

The trip home was interminable. Eventually, however, we arrived and I went inside and sat on the sofa, again bending over with my head in my hands. The pain was bringing tears to my eyes and I didn't want anyone to see. Glen, in an attempt to distract me, began to rattle on about his new computer program. He wanted to power up my computer and show me his new developments. I told him I didn't want to hear about it just then, that I couldn't concentrate. He insisted and I refused. He admonished me that listening to him would get my mind off my difficulties.

In our living room was a magnificent old coffee table cut from a slice of tree trunk. It was varnished, sturdy, and one of our nicer pieces of furniture. In frustration and rage I smashed my fists down on the surface of the table and screamed, ``I can't! I can't! I can't!'' Blind fury possessed me and I struck repeatedly. The louder I screamed, the harder I struck. The harder I struck the louder I screamed, ``I CAN'T! I CAN'T! I CAN'T!'' Then, as quickly and as violently as the rage had came over me, it left. Glen, upset, went outside for a smoke.

Felicia, observing Glen's distress, followed him to calm him down. In a short while they came back in. Felicia pointed at the coffee table where the force of my blows had left a large crack in the five inch thick slab. I was only dimly aware of their conversation, but managed to see and regret the destruction I had wrought. The coffee table was ruined beyond repair. It had been a gift from the mother of one of our dear friends.

Mom and Glen wanted to find Joan and bring her back from her choir retreat. They thought I might feel better if Joan were home. I agreed! I explained that Joan hadn't known how much misery I was in and that I had insisted she go on with her plans. I had wanted Joan to know I supported her singing in the Desert Voices, a gay choir, and that I was proud of her.

After Mom and Glen left to find and retrieve Joan, I knew I couldn't take much more. I had to do something to relieve my distress. I called Ellen and she prescribed Temazepam, a benzodiazepine derivative, a powerful tranquilizer and sleeping pill. I had no idea what anguish this medicine would bring into my life over the next few months. Yet, even had I known, I doubt that I would have refused to take it. Such was the intensity of my torment.

To shorten the details permit me to relate that Dr. Burr, a psychiatrist at Jorgenson Clinic, diagnosed my condition as a physical malady of unknown origin. I was experiencing intense head pain, trembling, in extreme panic, and when Dr. Burr asked me what was making me unhappy and afraid, I replied, ``I don't know! I have a wonderful life. I'm happy and enjoy life, but something is causing me to feel scared and miserable. I'm in severe pain and have suicidal fantasies even though I don't want to commit suicide.''

Dr. Burr prescribed Prozac and Lorazepam, another benzodiazepine drug, the latter in high dosage. Lorazepam was supposed to control my panic until the Prozac took effect. Unfortunately, the Lorazepam stole all sense of incentive and motivation, all desire and zest for life. At the same time the Prozac caused my panic to worsen. We switched to Wellbutrin, but Wellbutrin is slow to take effect and wouldn't give any relief for two or three months.

In the meantime Lorazepam was turning me into a pill popping zombie. I needed a pill every four hours. If I passed the four hour mark the symptoms returned with a vengeance. According to Dr. Burr, all I had to do was take the pills. Right? Wrong! The pills took away all interest in life; eating, making computer programs, writing, playing computer games, bicycling, even television, nothing held any interest. Dr. Burr informed me that most people enjoy the feeling induced by Lorazepam. I informed him that I was distressed, depressed, and despised the feeling induced by the drug.

I tried to explain that my mind had always been everything to me, it was me, and that not being able to use it, to think, to create, to focus, was destroying my will to live. It made me an emotional basket case; crying, screaming, yearning to summon forth the power of my mind. But, I wasn't able to do so. This began a series of experiments to adjust my medication to a dosage I could tolerate. It wasn't a very effective search. Dosages which gave me back some sense of myself allowed the anguish to return with full force. Dosages which eliminated the anguish made me a zombie.

As my condition worsened I grew more and more agitated. Still walking with a cane because of my twisted knee and bruised abdomen, my mind filled with immense agitation and confusion, my heartbeat irregular, I was convinced my life was nearly over. I fretted over this because, while life had been good, our finances were such that my death would be a hardship on Joan.

This is the state I was in when I negotiated yet another deal with the mystery. I acknowledged that everything I had ever wanted to accomplish, everything I ever wanted to have, all the deals I had negotiated for in the past, had been accomplished. I was grateful, life had been good. Circumspectly, I acknowledged that I was mortal, that I had no knowledge that there was anything or anyone listening to my requests, and that if there was, as it sometimes seemed, I didn't have the slightest inkling of what it might be. I also mused that it must rather favor me. Perhaps because, with complete candor, I didn't claim to know anything about it. I spoke of the excitement, laughter, and adventures I had experienced, and expressed the thought that I must have provided a great deal of, amusement if there was something there to be amused.

After all these qualifying thoughts, hesitations, justifications, and apologies, I finally offered my deal, ``I know I asked for one last great adventure. I acknowledge that pain and suffering are part of that adventure, but I need help to provide for Joan if I don't survive.

``You owe me nothing. Life has been sweet, even with the anguish that now threatens to consume me. I reverence the joyous mystery, the magical beauty of my life. To that end, should I recover my vitality and my vigor, and be provided with the means and time to provide for Joan, I vow to bring forth a spiritual gathering celebrating the great mystery of life.

``In that I am skeptical of Goddesses and Gods, skeptical that there is anything to hear appeals such as this, I offer honesty. The practice I propose will celebrate, not worship, the mystery of life, not presuming knowledge we don't possess. We will make a clan of gender variants, offering our services to those in need.

``Now,'' I called out into the unknown, ``do we have a deal?'' Feeling a little foolish, sheepishly I relaxed from my dickering and then added, ``Sure, I doubt there is anything to hear me, but one thing sure, when I make a promise, even if it's nothing more than the wind, I intend to keep it. Whether there is something, real or illusion, I've given my word and I'll keep it.''

During this period of time, from the last of January to the first of February, Julia sent frequent letters and made more than a few phone calls. We were rapidly growing closer, even through the fog of my medications. Felicia too, made regular visits from Phoenix, often staying two or three days at a time. Her company helped me through the tedious weekends. Anton was still staying with us and helped with advice, comfort, and love. Joan had choir practice once a week. All alone, depressed, feeling suicidal, and scared, I sometimes I called Mary. Talking to her, remembering our good times, helped me through the long dark hours of Monday nights when Joan was away. Mom and Glen were supportive too and visited as often as they were able and, Catherine, my dearest friend in Tucson, was there for me. Of course, one other person was instrumental in helping me deal with the vicious malady that had come upon me, Joan. In the evenings, on the weekends, each time when we were alone, she had to face the demons I was facing. She had to outlast my anguish, my screaming, and weeping, all the while giving me loving support.

Joan experienced all of it. Screaming, crying, fear, suicidal depressions, my confusion over having such feelings while knowing, deep down, underneath the layers of refuse, I was happy, thoroughly happy. Everything that was happening to me was chemical, physical, and yet it was a powerful force screwing with my mind. Through it all Joan was there, as were all the people who loved me.

Consequently, not all my tears were from misery, sometimes they were from gratitude. I had always been strong, the advisor, the counselor, the problem solver, the teacher. I depended on no one. My control over my life had been as absolute as humanly possible. And now, when I needed them, my loved ones were not found wanting. Their advice, their knowledge, their counsel, their support and love, were essential to maintain my will to recover.

My medical team was at a loss. At the beginning I turned to them once or twice a week. We just couldn't discover a comfortable balance between the sheer panic attacks when I lowered my medications and the lethargy, depression, and suicidal inclinations when my medications were high. Neither was tolerable! Lowering the dosages was met with uncontrollable panic, sweating, rapid irregular heartbeats, and violent shaking. It was life threatening considering my cardiac history. On the other hand, raising the dosages to eliminate those symptoms created a zombie, a zombie with suicidal impulses. I honestly couldn't tolerate not having any initiative, motivation, creativity, or ability to focus. It is inconceivable to me that anyone could enjoy such a state of being, but my doctors assured me that most people found it pleasurable. To me, it was mind wrenching.

Only one physical therapy saved my sanity and, with a certain pride, I came up with it myself. Fighting off the murkiness in my mind, I sought for something to do that would require only a little concentration, for that was all the medications left. Yet, it had to be complex enough to give me a sense of accomplishment. Finally, I found it, coloring pictures. Not just any pictures, these were the huge, intricately detailed pictures available at most Walgreen's drugstores. The pictures came with a few colored felt pens, but I bought extras to allow greater variety. Whenever I was alone, I laid them out on a card-table and worked on them. They required almost no concentration, consumed what little was left of my mind, but, most of all, they passed the time.

I was so proud of myself for coming up with this therapy that for one whole day I felt almost normal. It was effective too. Each day, while Joan was at work, I'd work on the current picture and on Monday nights after Mary and I had finished talking.

There were times I literally rushed to the closet where I kept them, grabbed them up in a panic, and threw them across the table, and colored furiously. Using this activity I managed to blot out the gathering clouds of darkness looming over me, threatening to consume me.

After I finished a couple of the pictures, Joan liked them so much we bought some for her to color. Many was the night, after she returned from work and after I had served dinner (I forced myself to do my homemaking chores to maintain what little sense of normalcy was left to me), we would sit and color until bedtime. We commented and advised each other on color selection, praised each other when intricate details were accomplished and took mutual joy in each other's sense of achievement when a picture was finished. It didn't make the trials we were going through joyous, but it was a time of personal triumph. Together, we battled, we survived, and eventually we overcame my encounter with hellfire.

However, it was February and there wasn't any promise that I would ever recover. One of my concerns was that Joan would be alone and I wouldn't be able to comfort her, let alone take care of her. I knew too that Julia was alone and needed someone to love. Hoping to prepare Joan for my death I told her that I thought Julia and she could make a wonderful life together. Joan had always been attracted to the mystery of having a transsexual lover and, outside of myself, Julia was the most suited to Joan's requirements.

Julia appeared then, as she does now, to be the most feminine individual I had ever met. She is sweet natured, vulnerable, and genuinely compassionate. Her keen intellect and dry wit spontaneously produce the most wonderful puns, interspersed with more than a few terrible groaners. Her soft hands, softer than any I had ever held, her perky smile, and her gentle demeanor immediately endeared her to me. I felt as if ... as if I had known her in some past life. Which is a rather odd, although pleasant, sensation since I don't believe in reincarnation.

With my obvious feelings for Julia, Joan's interest in her redoubled. With my encouragement she began writing to Julia more earnestly. Her letters were chatty and informative, friendly, and they prepared the way for a deepening of the relationship. The three of us were drawing closer together with each passing day. My time of trial was the test of our character and of our developing love for one another.

To some the notion of preparing a new love to replace oneself after death might seem a little bizarre. For me, it celebrates life, expressing my desire for life to go on with as little anguish as possible. It does me no honor for anyone to wail and cry when I'm dead. I've dearly loved life. I have lived it with passion, milking every sweet drop of honey from it that I might. When I'm gone, I want those who love me, those I've loved, to continue with that same kind of passion. That will honor me far more than grief or mourning.

Still, it wasn't for Joan alone that I sought to bring Julia closer. Unrealized at the time, I had fallen deeply in love with Julia and was concerned over the quality of life looming before her. It seemed to me, in my weakened and fragile condition, that destiny was providing the means for me to make my departure less devastating for both these wonderful women. Thus it was, through the anguish of my illness and the murkiness induced by the drugs I was taking, I still believed in happiness, in life, and in love. With hindsight, I look back on those days and must admit to a certain pride, along with immense gratitude, to all the people who were there helping me through.

Sometime in February Julia, from a generous heart, sent us enough money to pay off our car, $4,000. That was in addition to $1,000 she had sent earlier to help us with our bills. Her intent was to relieve some of my concern over the financial difficulty facing Joan should I fail to survive. When the envelope arrived I opened it, took out the check, and simply sat down and cried. My tears weren't because of the money, rather because Julia's touching gift demonstrated the depths of her love and trust. Knowing that Julia was there for me, and would be there for Joan if I died, lifted a great burden from my shoulders. It also deepened my love and appreciation of her.

Late in March, the 25th to be precise, Julia came for her second visit. This was during a period when, without much cooperation from my doctors, I was trying desperately to get off Tranxene. I was alone when I went to greet Julia at the airport. Joan had to work. This simple act was unnerving. My mind under assault by withdrawal on the one hand and by a kind of physical disintegration on the other, made my head feel like a leaden weight.

At the airport I found myself trembling all over. Panic played a rhapsody on my spine from the base of my head to my tailbone. Furiously I paced the breadth and the length of the concourse. Irrational thoughts of running wildly, like a frightened animal, popped into my mind. I shook my head to dismiss them ... the knot in my stomach, however, remained.

Clenching my jaws tightly, grimly determined, I endured the hellish manifestations. Knowing that Julia was arriving mitigated some of my misery. I had grown to love her deeply and was anxious for her to appear.

Finally her plane landed. I watched for her to come down the off ramp. At last, I saw her. I waved enthusiastically and she waved back in kind. Suddenly she was in my arms and I in hers. For a moment my torment lifted and with a lighter heart, after gathering her luggage, we started home. The rest of the day, until time for Joan to return from work, went remarkably well. My distress was almost forgotten, a nagging presence kept at bay by the joy of Julia's presence.

After picking Joan up we had dinner and that night the three of us slept together in the same bed. It was a twin size bed and a bit awkward, but we managed. Before falling asleep we were a bit amorous, gently fondling and stroking each other, becoming familiar with each other's bodies.

My misery began to emerge from hiding, but, not wanting to spoil the moment, I kept it hidden. Finally, however, as the intensity increased, I couldn't handle anymore. I informed my lovers I was feeling poorly and asked if we could go to sleep. They agreed and presently we were all slumbering.

When morning came I arose and prepared breakfast. That night, March 26, Joan was singing with her choir, The Desert Voices, at Pima Community College. There would be a full moon to grace the occasion and Felicia, arriving early that morning, was coming down to attend the concert with us.

Unfortunately I was having ever-worsening symptoms. In the afternoon, while Joan was working, not able to stand any more suffering, I informed Julia and Felicia I needed to see a doctor. They both offered to drive, but I insisted. Driving, I knew, would help keep my mind off my difficulties.

In the waiting room my physical symptoms quickened. Shaking visibly, my heart began to beat rapidly, my head throbbed, and my arms and legs twitched involuntarily. The medical technicians found it difficult to get an EKG because my body was twitching and jerking. Finally, however, everything was accomplished and a doctor came to talk to me.

I informed him that I was attempting to withdraw from six Tranxene a day. I also told him my primary doctor was on vacation and out of touch. Instructing me that it was a mistake attempting to withdraw ``cold turkey''from extended usage of Tranxene at the dosage I had been taking, he suggested I resume taking it and talk to my doctor when she returned.

His manner was abrupt and irritating, brusque and his personal disdain for transsexuals was only slightly concealed. Compelled to treat me, he didn't have to like me, and he wasn't required to be anything more than civil. I was in such distress, I honestly didn't care.

After the doctor left the room, my hands still trembling violently, I managed to take one of the Tranxene he had provided. Dressing myself, I went out to Julia and Felicia. Tears were running down my face because I had so hoped to shed myself of the medication that was dominating and controlling my mind. They comforted me and helped me pass the long hours until time to pick Joan up for work.

Later, arriving at the concert an hour early because Joan had dress rehearsal, the rest of us, Felicia, Julia, and I, had to wait in the lobby outside the concert hall. Unbeknownst to Joan the single Tranxene had not been sufficient to temper my withdrawal symptoms. At first, I asked Julia and Felicia to take me home and told them to attend the concert without me. Felicia pointed out that Joan would be deeply hurt if I wasn't there. Knowing she was right I decided, although I despised my weakness, to take a second Tranxene in the hope it would settle my nerves. It was three hours too soon, but there wasn't anything else I could do, not if I was to get through the evening.

When we took our seats the manifestations had still not abated. In the gloom, as the beautiful voices lifted in song, I watched Joan with tears of pride in my eyes. She stood tall, proud, singing her heart out. I imagined I could pick her voice out of the throng. For brief moments my anguish would pass, but always it would return.

At my worst, I laid my head on Julia's shoulder and she held me tenderly. Her tenderness, her warmth, infused me and I drew strength from her presence. We were together and as time passed, I faded in and out of misery. When Joan wasn't on stage I lay up against Julia, slipping into fitful moments of sleep, her love sustaining and comforting. When Joan was on stage I roused myself enough to open my eyes and my heart glowed with her joyful singing.

Months later I would refer back to this night as the worst and the best night of my life. Strangely, it was precisely that. I had never felt worse and yet, pride in Joan's performance, warmed by Julia's arms, moved by Felicia's support, and proud of myself for my firmness of mind when my mind was anything but firm, the moment was epic. Magnificent to recall, it was anything but magnificent at the time.

Had I entertained any doubt, that night convinced me that Julia was the perfect woman for Joan. Not as a replacement for me, but as a wonderful, tender-hearted, gentle lover in her own right. It was that night realization dawned ... I was in love with Julia and had been since the first moment we met. I knew too that she and Joan loved each other as well. The thought of her being alone and lonely until I died, was disquieting. Besides, what if I didn't die? A seed was germinating in what was left of my mind, later it would sprout and grow into a beautiful flower.

Julia stayed until April 3rd, during which period the three of us made mad passionate love, growing ever closer. As a distraction, during the daytime Julia and I played Scrabble. Although it took a great mental effort for me to concentrate through my drugged state, I managed to win my share of games. It helped me believe that there was light at the end of the tunnel, that at some future time I might yet find my way out of the dark, dank, dingy, corridors of my stupefaction. Perhaps I had some modicum of intellect left after all.

What was the source of all my pain and suffering? Why was there nothing to relieve it? Eventually I would discover that during my angioplasty my heart had stopped on the table for several minutes before BQ managed to bring me back. My subsequent illness, I was apprised, could have been the result of damage to my brain. Everything about my illness, Dr. Burr informed me, points to such a conclusion. We also discussed transsexuality and Burr made a confession I hadn't expected. ``Transsexuals are not structured like males or females, particularly the brain. We have too little information on how you react to medications, treatment, or incapacity. To be truthful, we don't know what's causing your problems, nor why you have such severe reactions to medications.'' This explained why, earlier in my treatment, Dr. Burr, throwing up his hands in frustration, had given me my own private pharmacology of drugs and suggested I experiment with them.

My doctors weren't much help getting me off Tranxene or Wellbutrin. Dr. Burr insinuated it wouldn't hurt anything if I never got off the meds. I objected! I wanted my mind back, all of my mind, not just part of it. He wasn't able to understand my complaint, they were, after all, ``happy pills.'' So, I had to initiate my own program of withdrawal.

When I started I was taking six Tranxene a day and three Wellbutrin. That's considered high dosages. I decided to tackle the Tranxene first. I cut one pill out of my daily schedule and maintained the new dosage for a week. The first week was difficult. Joan and Julia cuddled me in our bed through some desperately long trying nights. The second week I cut another pill. It seemed a little easier that week. Cutting a third pill, the third week it became intensely difficult again. The fourth and fifth week, however, were each a little easier. Cutting the sixth pill on the sixth week was an almost negligible amount of difficulty.

Next I worked on the Welbutrin, cutting one pill at a time in three successive months. The difficulty level was substantially less than quitting Tranxene, but the long lasting nature of Wellbutrin made it necessary to extend the withdrawal period. After five long months, I was finally free of all mind- altering substances. I felt shaky, uncertain, but I knew I had beaten the medications.

As each pill was cut from my schedule I was motivated by an ever-increasing return of incentive, creativity, and the ability to concentrate. To be sure, after cutting all dosages and with the passage of a year, I still have occasional flare ups of varying strength. I get scared and sometimes feel shaky, but we have a safe word, ``Mayday.'' I use it when I am experiencing frightening symptoms. My lovers rush to support me during these times of imbroglio.

My mother discovered a book, Dr. Dean Ornish's Program for Reversing Heart Disease, and passed information from it on to me. It concerned eating low fat and exercise to clean out clogged arteries. Exercise wasn't my problem, but I did need to lower my fat intake. Since I wasn't eating all that much because of my mental malady, it wasn't hard. I restructured my eating habits to a regime of less than 10% fat and I ate small portions. Weight poured off of me and slowly I began to improve, eventually to recover some of my former strength and health.

Eventually Julia and I purchased Ornish's book at Bookman's, a well-known bookstore in Tucson. The message in the book and the recovery it brought about in me encouraged Joan and Julia. We have all cut immense quantities of fat from our diet and our general health, as well as my specific cardio-vascular problems is much improved.

During the many months of my recovery Felicia, Joan, and I were occasionally circling together and exchanging views on the mystery of life and the form our own spirituality should take. We also made inroads into the Wiccan community and made ourselves available to help those who asked. Julia, who I would soon make high priestess of our coven, made her observances from Baltimore.

At first I thought Julia might come to live with Felicia. For a time, they wrote to each other, but while they both care deeply for each other the magic wasn't there. I was beside myself with worry. Sure, thanks to Julia's generosity, the car was paid off and the bills were such that Joan could manage them, but emotionally, if I died, Joan would take it hard. She needed someone in the wings, but it wasn't fair to have Julia waiting for an event we all hoped might be long in coming.

It was then I came up with the conception that Julia, Joan, and I, should live together. We all loved each other ... why not? I mentioned the idea to Joan and, deeply infatuated with Julia, she thought it would be grand. Together we set ourselves to seducing Julia. We wrote love letters and Julia wrote love letters in return. We called her, often, and she called us. Within a short time we proposed Julia come join Joan and I, to be with us forever. Julia, was having thoughts along the same line, and readily agreed. The seduction of Julia had been a mutual seduction by each of us.