Is Belize Putting Arsenic In My Coffee?

I often think of Belize as a beautiful, exotic woman, one who I admired long before I got to know her well. Belize’s history is mysterious, her culture is fascinating and amazing, and her terrain is filled with a wide array of beauty and environmental riches. And she graciously welcomed us into her community and has allowed dear hubby and I to live a lifestyle we could only have hoped for prior to our move here.

She has been especially good to dear hubby, allowing the business he started here to grow by leaps and bounds, along with his favorable reputation in the village as a “plumbing angel.” She also helped him lose nearly 50 pounds easily, while I’ve continued to struggle losing 15 or 20, or even remain healthy at all.

But sometimes I get a nagging suspicion that Belize has been so kind and generous to dear hubby, and not so much to me, because she would like to force me out of the way and have him all to herself. Matter of fact, I think maybe she’s been quietly trying to get rid of me by sneaking arsenic in my coffee for the last 18 months.

 Okay, I know it’s weird to think of your newly adopted country as a beautiful but sinfully devious woman who’s slowly trying to kill you, or at least send you running back home, just to “steal” your dear hubby like a mistress might do to a wife. It’s awkward and ridiculous to even put into words, but nevertheless, it’s the way I’ve started to feel.

It was only a little more than a month after our move to Placencia that I got the first faint taste of her arsenic. I was awakened about 5 a.m. by a fast, sharp pain in my chest, and a distinct burning sensation. My tongue and face went numb, and my body ached. Oh DEAR GOD-I’d been stung by a scorpion. I was safe in bed, sleeping with dear hubby and two tiny, helpless dogs--but Belize’s pet scorpion chose me as its victim. I was only sick for a day or so, but the sting will haunt my nights forever. And I’m sure Belize was hiding under the bed, silently laughing with that scorpion for days.

Only a month or two later, Belize slipped her poison to me in a different manner through an unseen cohort. What originally appeared as a minor bug bite turned into a huge, oozing, decaying crater. Turns out it was a spider-bite of the poisonous variety, most likely of the brown-recluse family. Luckily there was a salve that stopped the necrotizing and saved my wrist after weeks of searing pain, but the scars are deep and ugly and I keep them covered in public to this day. I imagine Belize snickering in the shadows each day as I put on the decorative, finely woven bracelet I had crafted by a local artisan to cover the evidence of her wicked prank.

A few months after that, Belize injected her poison directly into my bloodstream via tiny insects, which attacked me so viciously I developed a serious infection and a major allergy to their bites. My face, arms, and legs began to look like I had leprosy. Turns out it was their poison and infection trying to fight it’s way out of my body. Of course, her delivery was so sly and sneaky, it took us months and several doctor visits to figure out what was going on. I often thought I tasted the poison in the back of my mouth during those months as I shifted lazily from bed to couch and bed again, I just didn’t recognize the flavor. I can only imagine Belize’s hidden delight as she watched those invisible insects gnaw at my tender flesh while I slept.

Her latest attempt to force me to run was delivered most recently via another malicious insect. This winged predator must be named after the person you’ll want to see when it bites you: a “Doctor” fly. Generous soul that she is, Belize sent three of them to me the first time. One bite is enough to send some people into allergic overload, as it did for me, but a fourth bite a few days later almost sent me to the hospital. After days in bed unable to move because every joint in my body was screaming with pain, and a round of the strongest antibiotics I’ve taken to date, the giant lumps of infection started to subside. My joints were released from their agony but in my drug-induced haze, I’m pretty sure I saw Belize hiding in the corner of my bedroom, chuckling at her ingenuity.

I didn’t taste the toxin in the beginning because it was disguised by her beautiful presentation and the sweetness of her brew. Over time, however, the tainted nature of her beverage has become more apparent. And sometimes when the house is dark and the night is silent, I fear that if I ever return to my motherland, it may only be to die a painful, poisoned death. Lady Liberty will only be able to hold me stiffly in her stony arms as I draw my last anguished breath, crying out, “Why did Belize try to kill me? I was the one who loved her first! He only loved her because of the simple and HEALTHY lifestyle we thought she would provide for ME!  But I loved her MOST!!!”

My suspicion of Belize’s intentions for me is growing. She is still beautiful, and I think I still love her, but I have caught glimpses of the ugliness underneath her veil. I once thought Belize and I were allies, finding common ground in our love for dear hubby and our wish for a simple, healthy life, but now I’m beginning to think she’s the worst kind of friend, a traitor and a backstabber. Don’t get me wrong, I still love Belize, and I know there is goodness in her soul somewhere. But right now, I still have the coppery taste of her poison in the back of my throat.

So although I’ll still be friendly, wave to her in the neighborhood, and even talk to her on the street, I think I’m going to stop inviting Belize over for coffee, at least for a while. I’ve found I don’t like the taste of arsenic.

Dealing With My "It"

I know some of you might not understand this, and that's okay. But I feel the need to share something that's happened recently.

I've lost my words. They are gone, slipped away like a thief in the night, deviously slinking off under cover of darkness. It's a writer’s worst fear.

Yes, I have no words.

For the last three weeks, the tools of my trade have chosen to remain locked up deep inside my head. This happens occasionally, but their absence frustrates me immensely. I’m angry with them for hiding from me, and I hope that by sharing this, it will help them return. Because no matter how much effort I expend, no matter how desperately I try to liberate them, I cannot convince them it is safe to come out. They choose to remain behind the cold, steel bars of my mind. Even though I have swung the gates to their prison wide open and the padlocks hang limply by their hasps, my frightened words refuse take advantage of their independence.

It makes me angry as hell that my words choose safety and confinement over freedom and adventure. They have been my own personal chain-gang for most of my life, even though I only recently started sharing them openly. But I treated them well. I guarded them lovingly and only used them wisely, like a good steward, even as I gently bound them to the core of my being. If I could just visit them in their jail cells and show them the ugliness of their apathy, I could convince them to break free of their self-imposed confinement. But today, as with yesterday and the day before, I am denied. No visitor's pass for me. They have rejected my presence and retreated to the farthest corners of my mind, burrowing deeper in the chambers of my subconscious.

It’s not the first time my words have hidden from me. I also know it won’t be the last. It’s a difficulty I have had to wrestle with since the day my brain aneurysm exploded. Luckily, this inability to liberate my words is usually short-lived. And it is the only deficit I was left with after the neurosurgeons repaired the raging tornado, a burst blood vessel, in my brain.

Only a few months after repairing the destruction, the surgical team excitedly released me from their care. They rejoiced, declaring me fully recovered and "functionally normal." They instructed me to live my life exactly as I did before, or exactly as I wished. To live as if “it” never happened. But for me and my words, “it” did happen, we have the scars to remind us of it, and we have never been exactly the same. And now, together, my words and I seem to suffer from some type of occasional, imaginary, if not neurological, post-traumatic stress disorder, and we retreat to safety when overwhelmed by the outside world.

When "it" happened, when that hateful aneurysm exploded, I fought hard for control of the epicenter where my words reside, the center of my brain. In the end, I won the battle. But "it" --that vile anarchist -- left behind a few hidden land mines filled with the poison of disorder and disarray. Occasionally I step on one and it causes my thought processes to stumble. Then fall. And that's when my vocabulary and my communication skills get scared and run for cover. I cannot describe how much I HATE that "it" still has negative effects on the clarity of my thinking. And I DESPISE that “it” still has the power to periodically imprison my words and disrupt my ability to fully express myself.

Luckily, each time I have lost my words, I have found my way back to them fairly quickly. As my words begin to peek out from hiding, I soothe them and gently caress their scars. Soon, they begin to recover, just as we did four years ago, bound together in the unimaginable pain. But even though my words will eventually reemerge, they will avoid venturing too far from their safe haven. These days, they clump together near the entrance, timid and awkward, eyeing each other nervously. They desperately yearn to escape and scamper about, joyously and unrestricted, as they did before "it" happened. But they are not quite daring enough. At least, not yet.


Even though the ability to make my words work for me has never been exactly the same, I have found ways to work around "it." I watch closely for the land mines and I force myself to explore the landscape anyway. I forge on, unwavering in the quest to find my words and force them back into the daylight to use them for self-expression. Although it is hard work, I remain determined to find my words each time, and once again bend them to my will.

So for now, I shall keep hunting for my beloved words until I succeed, and coax them outside again.  I know that with a little luck, my words and I will soon be reunited. And together, we will once again thrive. Freely. Joyously. Boldly.

I have vowed to myself, and to my words, that I will not let “it” change or define us. And I will not allow “it” to EVER rule the ability to use my words. I will not let "it" hurt us easily, and I will fight "it" forever. I will NEVER let "it" win.

There is no moral to my story today, no lesson to be learned from my lament. I have nothing to offer you in conclusion, because I have no more words--this essay includes every word I have been able to hijack. All I have to leave you with is this weak and wordy dissertation, the byproduct of my anger and frustration in the absence of my words. I hope it is enough.

As for me, I am going back to work. I have some word-hunting to do. Wish me luck.