I have a question for all of you bloggers that are writing personal blogs in an anonymous or semi-anonymous fashion the way I am. In particular, I want to ask the Beepers (those with Bipolar Disorder) and the Borderlines (those with Borderline Personality Disorder), but really, anyone who just writes about their experiences day in and day out.

Yesterday, after I wrote about my grieving, I began to realize that one of the reasons why I have not shared much of the stories or “misadventures” as well as the adventures in as much detail as I’d like is because I have fear of discovery. Also, there’s just not enough time with all that’s going on with me.

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Fear.

I fear that my family and/or friends or just people I know in my personal life will find this blog and feel insulted that I’ve written about them. Or that they’ll feel like I was distorting the truth. I also fear that those that are only distant friends and aquiantances will eye me differently if they read this. I realize I’m being a little paranoid. But there’s some genuine, founded concern in some of this.

I tried to keep as much of my family out of my earlier posts, as much as possible without being dull, but I realized how futile that was considering the nature of my blog is to: A) crack jokes and make comic-y doodles, B) talk about immigration and how my personal immigration experience has been, C) share my experiences of what it’s like to be mental and D) share my experience as a mental person who also has a physical disability/chronic illness.

Taking all of these factors into account, there’s no way in hell I can just write about my mental problems without writing about my familial problems and some of my fucked-up experiences growing up. There’s no way to separate one from the other. I’m not blaming my parents for how I am, but there are forces at play here beyond me, and we cannot deny how much our environments shape us and break us.

Here’s the thing though, when I wrote yesterday’s post and gave a brief example of what I think some of my invalidation growing up has been, I feel I mirepresented my dad. I also feel I oversimplified the whole “invalidation” thing (which I will get back to sooner or later), but I think you got that being the smart bloggies that you are.

Still, I’m conflicted with the relief writing brings me, the unrestrained flow and the fear that I’m mirepresenting him or anyone, or that someone will misinterpret what I write. I feel like–and I have to use “feel” instead of think in this case–I made it out to seem like my parents never let me cry and that’s not the case at all. One thing about Borderlines is the sensitivity level combined with invalidation or perceived invalidation. It can get quite layered. I just hope that’s not how I made it seem. My mother was very violent though, especially with me, and often ignored our needs (my brother’s and mine) but she came from a far more abusive household, so the cycle was just repeated with me in a lesser extreme. She didn’t know better then.

See, my dad has been a very loving father, generally speaking. He’s actually much more affectionate than my mother is. He’s the “lovey dovey” type that always asks for hugs and gives you kisses and showers you with little sweet surprises on your birthday (even if he has no money) and buys you ice-cream, etc. But I think some of his affection actually stems from his own fear of abandonment. He grew up in Colombia, was born in the 1940s to a single mother. That stigmatized him a lot in a country and at a time in our history when a single mother who’d had her child out of wedlock was akin to being a “whore,” thus making my father–her child–nothing but a “bastard”.

What I’m getting at is, that I have some anger issues about a lot of things still–clearly–and that leads to my mixed feelings about all of this. I want to share the bad because I feel this has been one of the only outlets where I can talk freely about some of my family’s dysfunction without fear of being reprimanded.

Besides, from an early age, from the time I could write I used it as a tool to cope. When I got older, I toyed with the idea of becoming a writer. Yet I fear that I’ll veer too much into the negative with this blog. I want to show the light too. And then, more importantly, I fear they will find this and not like it, not approve.

I say to myself, “Fuck what they like, it’s your blog. It’s not like you’re disclosing their names or anything identifying.”

I’m still hesitant.

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What do you guys think? I mean, have you experienced this ambivalence about writing about your friends, families, etc? I guess the memoirist and non-fiction writer must get some of this inner conflict as well. How do you reconcile the two–the freedom this writing gives you with the fear of reproach, of hurting those you write about? Do you fear reproach?

I’d love to read your replies but you don’t have to answer all of the questions or any of them. Feel free to share your experiences/conflicts about blogging however you like, or don’t.  I just thank you for reading. 🙂

I appreciate those who’ve read and those I’ve shared ideas and experiences with in particular. Also, since NO ONE seems to click on my other pages 😉 (e.g. my Disclaimer page), hehe, I figured I’d put it in a post and MAKE YOU READ IT. muahahah.

Much love to you bloggers. Blog on!

addendum: I forgot to mention, I got my 100th follower sometime last week. When I started this blog, I didn’t even know that was possible. And I’m at 3,939 views. Not that that should matter much, but it just shows me what dedicated readers and WordPress addicts you all are!

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The Disclaimer

This blog is not for the faint of heart. Some content may be triggering so if you have a case of the mentals and believe you’re feeling unstable, look away. I joke a lot but I’m not kidding here. I’ve had to back away from other’s triggering posts too and from blogs I generally enjoy reading, so please note this.

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If you are offended by any content here, should you take offense, well then… you’re a big wiener. LIKE THIS WEINER!

In all seriousness, I don’t mean disrespect, but… you’re still a wiener, a flacid one at that.

I appreciate and respect different points of view, but hate talk will be ignored. I admit though, I can also be harsh, vicious eve, especially when it comes to IGRNORAMUSNESS.

A lot of conversations have been translated from Spanish to English so things may be lost in translation.

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Names have been abbreviated or fictionalized for discretion to protect the innocent and the guilty. These stories are not a representation of their person as they are based on my perceptions and/or my distorted memories and tendency toward employing hyperbole for comical effect. (Readers, I don’t underestimate your intelligence so I assume you already know this but I gotta watch my back y’all.)

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I make a LOT of assumptions and statements about psychology, psychiatry, mental disorders and mental health/illness but I am NOT a mental health professional. Sometimes I bash psychiatry, other times I cuddle it. My statements are not empirical. They are merely based on reading from mental health professionals, my own research of other’s research and my personal experience as a mental health patient as well as observing, reading and hearing the anecdotes of other mental health patients. To me, that personal means a lot, however.

By poking fun of mental health issues, I am not trivializing mental disorders. I’ve lived with a number of them most of my life, so I have no wish to trivialize and further stigmatize my own mental struggles as well as those of others. I am making fun of how others trivialize and misinterpret mental health/illness. I’m merely a mental humorist and a poet (aw sheeeit, note what I just did there?). Besides, I just have to laugh a hearty laugh before I finally put the barrel in and pull the trigger.

bukowski crazy

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If you think you know me, you probably don’t. Even if you do, you don’t know a lot about me. So if you do, please don’t mention anything personal about me on here or elsewhere. Please leave that to me, myself and I and yo and je. Oh wait, never mind, I just won’t approve any of your comments if you do!

I don’t wanna take myself or anything too seriously even though sometimes I tend to.

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In commemoration of Monkey Man L. today, I selected Joy Division. He was a huge fan of Joy Division. And I think if he heard this song today, it would remind him of me. ha!

Here’s some irony for you, actually, it’s just more of my contradictions. There’s a part in the lyrics that go like this:

And she’s clinging to the nearest passer by,
She’s lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I’ve lost control again…

So in my previous post “Grieving and the Mentals”, I just mentioned my trouble with expressing my troubles and emotions. I have an extremely difficult time reaching out to people–friends, family, etc.

But OUT OF NOWHERE, I’ll grab someone (the “nearest passerby”) I barely know and spill my guts to them. I’ve found a pattern in this behavior; I tend to do it to men I’m getting to know, flirting with, etc. And I think it has something to do with making them think, “Holy shit, this one’s a mess. I better go”. Maybe I do that so they can leave before I can get attached. OR, in reverse, I may subconsciously think, “Well, this person doesn’t matter to me, so it’s ok if they know my messy secrets since I’ll probably never see them again anyway and their judgement won’t leave a sting and if they do stick around then they’ll matter after all”. Sometimes we find it easier to talk to strangers. Makes sense doesn’t it?

Click on the “Read the rest of this entry” button to see Lyrics to She’s Lost Control :

Read the rest of this entry »

*minor trigger warning. mention of the death of sometimes-lover/mostly best friend aka Monkey Man L, other general depressive shit and brief mention of self-harm*

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Dear Dotty’s Words of Wisdom: Grieving for the Mentals Can Be Worse  

Dear Dotty was right. There’s something I knew but hadn’t been giving much attention to, not enough attention to at least. A trigger. A trigger beyond triggers, a stressor beyond stressors has set all of me bouncing more and more off the walls, down the corridor, down he street, like a rubber ball down a seemingly endless cobbled stone road. It’s the loss of Monkey Man L.

Yes Dear Dotty, thank you dear. Much of what I’m going through is grief. But how much of it adds to the mental mix dear lovely lady? That’s what I wanna know.

Today marks the second month of his death. JUST TWO MONTHS AGO! ONLY two months ago! Actually, we don’t even know if he died that day or two days before. It doesn’t fuckin’ matter. All I know is that on March 22, I got the horrible call.  What is up with people dying at twenty-seven? Fuck, I’m about to be twenty-seven.

Sigh. I don’t even know if he died by his own hands or if his body just gave out from the combination of his past self-abuses and his present condition as well as the Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI). His spine was compressing his chest, he’d become a chain smoker, etc.

All I know is that I’d seen him a week before. And a few days after, when I saw the Rapper K, I talked to him on the phone. And that was the last conversation we had. He didn’t pick up my other calls that weekend. I only got a measly text message in reply, saying, “I just want to be left alone right now sweety”. So that’s what I did. I left him alone. And that was the last time I talked to him. The day I’d seen him that week before, he looked terrible.

In the post I wrote about him after the funeral, I mentioned doing my best not to let myself fall into guilt. Well, sometimes that guilt tries to come up and take over.

He was found in his apartment sitting on the couch as if he were watching T.V. That’s all I know. And I keep thinking I could’ve been there; I SHOULD’VE been there. And I know this has me bouncing more that I would have been.

Then there’s the added factor that I was ALREADY falling, spiraling into a deep depression–I don’t even like using that word, “depression”–but that’s what we’ll call it and that’s how I was before his death. Depressed. And now what?

February was hell, then March came with the news. “He’s gone”.

This. THIS is one reason why I’ve been so much more mental than my usual mental. That, and in terms of this week, it could be the hormones added to the mix. I think this week I’m having the PMSS. That extra S was put there on purpose. It’s what I call the Premenstrual Suicidal Syndrome. It’s when my suicidals get more intense just before the cycle. I know the APA has a name for it, it’s premenstrual dysphoric disorder but fuck their labels and their making everything a disorder.

I’m just bouncing too much. Off the charts…

Looking back on that trigger my brother’s girlfriend set off when she innocently mentioned Vicodin, I realize it was actually a double trigger, no a triple trigger. One, it reminded me of what I’d done to myself the Sunday before last–or was it Monday?–anyhow, it reminded me of the incident. Two, it reminded me of my own problems with painkillers in the past. Three, it reminded me of Monkey Man L and his addiction. And that, THAT was the ultimate trigger because I was fucked for the rest of the night (it wasn’t the good fucked, nope).

No one prepares you for what you’ll feel when you loose someone you cared for so much. No one. We were co-dependent. We had an intense, tumultuous relationship. No one prepares you for grief just like no one prepares you for the feeling you’ll get when you become a parent. Sure there are books out there on parenting and on grief (what a lovely combo no?) but they don’t actually TEACH you how to FEEL about being a parent or how to FEEL  about a LOVED ONE when that loved one is no longer there to say anything back.

This was not my idea of “(mis)adventures of a mentally unstable” mouse. When I started this blog, I had meant to write about my past misadventures not my present ones. But life has a funny way of throwing more at you. They say things come in threes and they did. First, my face and the Bell’s Palsy; then, my arm, and lastly, my L.

Threes. One. Two. THREE. I wonder if there’s some sort of cosmic thing in that or if we’re just trying to make sense of what seems so incomprehensible.

Then after Dear Dotty reminded me, I began to think about mental illness and grief–there’s another set of words I don’t like to use “mental illness”. I think my dislike for the term has something to do with my Christian Science upbringing, though I suspect it’s much more complex than that.

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But is it really much more difficult for a mental? This grief thing. I mean, can it send an already distraught person over the edge? Of course it can! If it can send a non-mental over the edge, then fuck… Then again, I think what makes the most difference in grief is the nature of the loss. I had such a turbulent relationship with him and I know this will make my grief more complicated. Also, the the fact that he died so tragically at such a young age complicates the grieving process further. The nature of this grief is inherently complicated.

After the incident last week or the week before last or god knows when (I forget), I talked to the New Male Therapist-Who-Is-Really-a-She and told her what had happened, the freaky dream about him, the thoughts, the pills, more or less descriptively than here. I find it easier to write feelings out than to talk about them. My writing is stronger than my verbal communication. Maybe that’s what makes me a “poet”, ha, then again, maybe that’s just what makes me become more mental. Anyway, I told her, strangely enough, that the week before last, I’d began obssessing about my hearing loss again–something I hadn’t done in months.

“Could it be I’m combining my griefs?” I asked her.

“Yeah, possibly,” she replied.

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Stages of Grief

According to the Kübler-Ross model, there are five stages to grief . They are:

  1. Denial (a funny one that denial)
  2. Anger (my best friend who’s no good for me… Actually, that’s not entirely true. In small doses, anger is motivating. Anger is part of our innate autonomic response to danger. It tells us a lot about our experience.)
  3. Bargaining
  4. Depression (oh look another friend)
  5. Acceptance (when? six months from now? a year? years? a lifetime?)
Yesterday, after a family friend was over, I found myself crying in the bathtub again. Why does washing dishes and showering go so well with crying? Anyway, I found myself BARGAINING. Of all the stages, that’s the one I said I wouldn’t get into. Silly me, saying what my brain will or won’t do. It wills itself sometimes.

I was there crying, “Dear god, I’ll take his place. No, wait, I’ll take the six fractures he had after that accident last year. I’ll take more. Fuck, fractures are nothing, I’ll take as many as it takes. Just bring him back!”

These stages aren’t quite lined out in chronological order. I mean, mainly they are, but you can experience them simultenously or even switch from one to another and then back again. I found I’ve just gone all over the place. It’s my style of doing things.

But I’m too lazy to go all out and write about these stages. Besides, this post is getting long and I’m opting for non-monumentally long posts at the moment.

So here’s a great little post by Sailor Carrie titled “The Five Stages of Grief”.

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Emotional Instability, Repression and Acceptance in the “Borderline” Mind

Another dear fellow blogger’s recent comment brought something else to mind. Well, two things: 1. I have no close friends or FEEL like I have no close friends and, 2. I don’t know how to open up to people which is why I feel like I don’t have close friends.

Isn’t it funny that I find it easier to run a knife down my thigh than to tell my dad “I’m upset”? Or that I find it easier to pop a dozen pills than to call a friend and say, “I need someone to talk to”?

Yeah, quite funny P.

The support network we mentals generally need but often neglect or just plain don’t have, that’s what came to mind. We often lack support strategies or non-destructive exit-strategies, coping mechanisms, distress tolerance, or call it what you will.

If I didn’t have maladaptive coping mechanisms and maladaptive friendship patterns, I wouldn’t have been in therapy in the first place. That’s what the therapist was for–for DBT, CBT and retraining on how I can reach out to people more effectively.

In responce to said fellow blogger’s comment, I said, ” I have trouble with communication”. I was a communications major; another funny thing P. But that’s what’s at the core here. Fellow blogger suggested friends, which is great, but I have trouble with friends. Aren’t people too busy to talk to nowadays anyway?

Getting myself to actually TALK to friends was something I was working out in therapy before Young Therapist had to leave. See, I said in my comment, “a ‘healthy’ coping mechanism someone without a dysfunction might have is to run to a friend in time of deep distress. I do the opposite. I run into a hole and throw on a cover and don’t let anyone in, which only makes it worse in the end. Despite knowing this, I find it EXTREMELY DIFFICULT to just reach out and say ‘I’m desperate…'”

A therapist can do something a friend can’t but a friend can do something a therapist can never do–be a fountain of mutual support. That is, if you have a good friend and therapist to begin with.

Why do I have such a terrible difficulty reaching out to people? Why can’t I express negative emotions besides anger?

Here I am, deeply in need, needing to confide in a friend all the while feeling completely unable to. Sadly, I can’t think of but one friend I’m comfortable talking about this “suicidal” stuff with and she’s pretty mental, so I can only let her have so much. She’s the BPD friend I mentioned in earlier posts, the one who I keep at close distance. Besides her, there was L and well, fuck, he’s gone! ha. He’s the reason I started this post.

Not being able to talk to people about my emotions, or just not reaching out and having enough social interaction to begin with is what the Young Therapist was trying to get me through; it’s what we were working on, finding solutions for. Sure, I can talk to people at parties or in social situations. I seem “normal” (whatever that’s supposed to mean) but really, I’m not. I’m constantly thinking, “Oh my god, I wanna get out of here, I wanna get out of here,” and if I’m not thinking that, I’m thinking something else that’s pretty similar to that.

I just can’t think of a friend I can confide in and that just made me very sad to think about, realizing how lonely I’ve let myself become. I’m glad I live with my parents and little Luna is the best, but I’m becoming uh oh, here it goes, “empty”?

B., a friend from college came by last week. I wasn’t able to make it to his graduation so he stopped by. How nice of him, right?  And I wasn’t able to tell him about L because he came by with his mother who just came in from AUSTRALIA(!) and well, I was being a good host. I was meeting his mother for the first time so telling him was out of the question.

Eloise, who lives in Florida, was the only person I’d told but well, she lives in Florida. She called me last week and I haven’t been able to muster the courage to call her back. Yes, it actually takes some courage from me to call people! Even the close friends like Eloise (oh wait, I do have a close friend)! Because calling people gives me anxiety!

Maribel also knows. I told her only because she’d called me to tell me her mom died and she needed someone to talk to. Funny, I can be the support but not reach out and ask for it.

It would be nice if L and I had mutual friends because then I’d be able to call them up and say, “Hey man, yeah, you miss him too?” But we didn’t have any mutual friends. Not one.

Only A.F., his stepsister, but she lives all the way up in New York City and even so, she hasn’t called me again after I called her and we had our last talk a month ago. She’s probably really busy with her little three-year-old and the baby.

I can’t even talk to my brother about most of this. I mean, sure my brother’s been kinder to me. He’s a sweetheart. But we are just beginning to rebuild the bridge I’d burned between us last year. See, six months ago, my brother and I were not in speaking terms.

“I’m not talking to your fuckin’ crazy ass again! Don’t contact me, just don’t!” he’d said.

Yeah. I’d pushed him away again.

I know telling him some of this might even make our rekindling stronger, but then I get discouraged. Every time I try to bring up the BPD diagnosis, he seems a bit aloof like he’s not really listening (of course, that could just be my misinterpretation). I haven’t even been able to muster the guts to show him that Five Faces of Borderline video I posted, which I think he’d find funny. I just, ugggh. I mean, I listened to him rant about his OCD. Why is it so difficult for me to simply do this?

Emotional Acceptance

I started looking up information about BPD and the inability to express certain emotions. I found these really good, really simple and straightforward  links:

How Accepting Emotions Can Improve Your Emotional Health (from about.com)

Defining Invalidation as a risk factor for developing BPD 

Post Traumatic Stress, BPD and Suppressing Emotions (from about.com)

A common string I’ve found connecting a lot of this BPD literature is the notion of invalidation. Invalidating environments is a hallmark for BPD.

See, I always assumed invalidation equated to neglect. But “I WAS NEVER NEGLECTED” I’d say to myself. Yet I realize invalidation can come in so many flavors. For L, it WAS CLASSICAL neglect. His mother would get high and leave him on the toilet for hours. She’d forget to feed him. Yeah. My parents ALWAYS made sure to feed me. When my mother couldn’t, my grandmother would. Even at our hardest times, when my dad was getting bread baskets from a local church, I WAS ALWAYS fed. Well fed!

So what flavors did my invalidation come in then? I wonder. My parents never outright said, “Don’t express yourself P! Don’t talk about your emotions P! We don’t wanna hear you crying P! None of that in this house P.” No, not at all.

Then I begin to think, of course! My invalidation is definitely there. I can see it. I can see it in my Christian Science years. I can see it in my mom running away when I screamed in agony in the hospital beds. I can see it before then. I can see it in a very subtle way. Invalidation for me was not overt.

I’ll give you an example. By the time I became a toddler, I stopped crying when I’d break a bone. I mean shit, after you’ve had your fiftieth fracture well before your fifth birthday, you just don’t cry about that shit anymore–unless it’s a femur, because femur fractures FUCKIN HURT LIKE HELL!

So my parents interpreted my not crying about fractures as: “This here is a brave one! Much braver than her wimpy brother! She doesn’t cry about ANYTHING.”

And I interpreted that as: “I have to be the brave one. Be BRAVE P! BEING BRAVE IS ALL YOU CAN BE. Braver than my cry-baby hermanito! I cannot let people discover that I DO cry. I cannot let people see me cry or else they’ll see I’m a faker! And no one likes a faker! I’m a mean challenger!” I think that’s more or less how I started to develop my calloused sense of self.

Then there was my mom’s bullying. “And blah blah blah smack, blah blah, BLAH BLAH BLAH, smack smack SMACK, SMAAAACK.” You just can’t let a bully see you cry. That would only give them power over you and you wouldn’t want that.

Just yesterday my dad asked me, “Have you been crying?”

“Yes, but sometimes I cry you know,” I replied trying to be assertive of my discovery.

And he replied with something about him not being able to withstand my crying because it tore him up inside.He didn’t say this in a way to hurt me. He said this as his way of expressing his OWN hurt, sure and his love. It was a bit selfish though. It’s maladaptive but he doesn’t know better. It works for him. He was hurting when he saw my swollen eyes.

I realize that now. He just doesn’t know how or understand how someone like me can twist those words up; how someone like me can distort them so. He doesn’t know how to effectively express his hurt while acknowledging and validating my hurt and my need to let it out.

That’s my flavor of invalidation. The child me, years back, would’ve seen this as, “Oh no! I must NEVER ever let him see me upset again or cry in front of him because it will DESTROY him! TEAR HIM UP INSIDE! And I don’t want to destroy dear daddy. No, I cannot kill my papi.”

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I’ve been thinking about texting Warrior D. She’s a friend who also just graduated. Just got her masters in Social Work. She’s someone I’ve been getting kinda close to in the last year or so. Oh yeah, she’s the other person I told. She’s great at listening. Trouble is, I tried to get her to meet up with me after L’s death and she got back to me but didn’t follow through with plans. I understand she was in the middle of her end of semester mayhem but it hurt me to wait, expecting to talk and go for tea and then not. So now I’m hesitant. This is why I feel I do need therapy still. Young Therapist would help me find ways to deal with this situation and call Warrior D. Truth is, I said in my last post that I’ve gotten along all these years before without a therapist. But come to think of it, I JUST BARELY got by.

I might’ve/might end up like L if I would’ve kept getting by the way I was.

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addendum: I went swimming yesterday evening at my mom’s friend’s gym and it was awesome! Took pictures of the cold, cold water.

A Small Rant

May 21, 2012

This looking for a new sliding scale therapist thing is sucking old man hairy balls (yeah, I got a searcher on that one too, could you believe it? “old hairy balls” Yeah, I attract the funniest searchers. No offense guys.).

Just called three different places. Catholic Charities didn’t even pick up. Then I called my Ex-Young Therapist and asked if she’d been able to find someone for me. She said, “I thought you were going to look at the guide and then call me?”

Oops.

I told her I’d had a crisis situation last week and that I’d done some harm to myself and that I have been calling places. She sounded irritated. I hope she doesn’t think I’m having trouble with attachment with her. UGhhh.

She said she’d closed out my file and that unfortunately, if I wanted to go back and see someone at the university, I’d have to go in on the waiting list again like I did two years ago when I started with her.

“I’m sorry P. But if you feel you’re in danger, you can always go to the ER.”

I don’t wanna go inpatient. I’m sorry I didn’t quite get what you’d said at first.

The new Male-Therapist-Who-Is-Really-a-She is good. I liked her. But every 4 to 6 weeks isn’t going to cut it and that’s all she can offer at the community hospital’s outpatient clinic. I may as well fight it out on my own like I have many years back.

FUCK.

I feel like quitting. This choosing to live thing has proven easier in theory than in practice. Maybe that’s not true though. I tend to have a skewed perspective when I’m like this…

Ugh… I’ll go through “the guide”.

I’ll will myself through this shit though I’m kinda not wanting to do the therapy thing anymore.

Time to make me some coffee and print this guide out ’cause the screen is making my head feel funnier.

Head Like a Bead

May 21, 2012

Dive,
blue ocean.

Sapphire falls from
her string.

Bounce
sapphire.

“Where is your
head girl?” he rings.
“I’ve been calling!”

She turns,
a dead bead
from her string.

© paz

I like nonsense, it wakes up the brain cells. Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope. Which is what I do, and that enables you to laugh at life’s realities. ~ Dr. Seuss

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To me, living is pure nonsense. With that, I’m not saying life is meaningless. It’s full of meaning! Exploding with meaning! We find our own meanings to life. It’s just that when shit gets so heavy, I kick off my shoes, fall out of my chair onto the ground and laugh hysterically. Of course, after laughter always comes tears. I guess that’s the “maniacal” part of the mostly melancholic Mouse.

Oh sheeit. Did Mouse just get a little philosophical here?

Gracias por este refran del Dr. Seuss querida Zen from Zen and the Art of Borderline Maintenance.

Free Hugs Time!

May 20, 2012

CopyRight Bouncer Bear

CopyRight Bouncer Bear, best listen.

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Another sneak peak of my search term hits. Today thus far, I’ve gotten:

hulk the avengers 2012 2
putas.perras 2
hulk 2012 1
borderline hulk 1
the avengers hulk’s hairy chest 1
putas perras 1
hearing loss and psychiatric drugs

Yesterday I got two for “Hulk’s hairy chest”. More Hulk hairy chest searchers? Really? What the fuck? You pervs! I’m getting a wee tired of these Avengers searchers.

Oh and Mr. CopyRight bear doesn’t know what he’s talking about half the time. He’s lived in the confines of my room most of his life. It’s only recently that he’s been released into the wilderness of blogland. So he made a mistake. His HORNS are NOT plastic. They are soft, squishy even: 60% nylon and 40% polyester. (His insides are 100% cotton!)

The bear also seems to have caught on strongly to the thick southern accent I tend to have when alone in my room.

…so I can’t stop changing all the time” ~ Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine

I’ll try and make this one a quicky because the one below this is a bit long. It was my first attempt at “scheduling a post” heheh. I had forgotten all about it until I saw a “like”.

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Anyway, I’ve been feeling ambivalent about blogging lately. VERY ambivalent. And the last few days I became painfully aware of how much of myself I’ve put out there. If it weren’t for my semi-anonymous voice, I don’t think I could’ve ever expressed some of this. And even so, I’m holding back on what I call some of the “darker stuff,” most of what the Pretty Little Demons feed me. A fellow blogger, well two actually, recently wrote about such conflicts when it comes to writing a personal or somewhat personal blog.

I submitted the photo and felt ecstatic at the reply I got from Broken Light , but I also felt very self critical.

“What are you doing? You only set up the first shot, even then it was a mutual take. You’re not even a photographer. You’re an amateur, a whanabe. What are you anyway? What are you doing exposing yourself like this? Do you want pity?”

No, I’ve always hated the pity people have showered down on me! This is fucking expression of art; it’s NOT a pity party! Besides, it’s cathartic, therapeutic even and what if I inspire someone? Quit being so overcritical P!

“Ok, ok. I’ll stop being so critical, so harsh. But really, are you this narcissistic? You need to tone it down! What if you embarrass your family!? hmmm? They don’t even know about your little drug adventures anyway, not most of them at least.”

Ugh. If embarrassment is the case, I’ve done that already and the only one I’ll really be embarrassing is myself. That’s been done too. I’m used to being uncomfortable, remember?

Here’s where I realize that the other voice is just my punitive parent trying to punish me for expressing myself (and hell even indulging myself), much like the guy in the video I shared in my Five Faces of Borderline post.

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Then today, something odd happened. I was feeling alright, well, let me go back a little…

Last night I hung out with my brother, my brother’s girlfriend, his girlfriend’s little daughter and a new co-worker he’s been showing around (he just got here from Britain and is originally from Iran). We went to a park in downtown called Discovery Green. They play movies on certain weekends. We packed up fruits, pita chips and other snacks. It was a beautiful starless night. The weather was gorgeous, slightly windy, slightly cool and NOT HUMID–so unlike Houston. And despite my worry about the Bell’s Palsy returning (yeah, my lips ain’t right) I had a great time.

Oh, we watched ET on a big projector they set up on the park hill!

On the way home, I sat in his girlfriend’s car while my brother rode with his Iranian/British co-worker in his co-workers rental. And for the first time, I warmed up to her. We ended up having a great chat on the way to my house. She seemed to have warmed up to me too, telling me about her difficulty with trying to stay in nursing school while having C, her little girl, and having to drop out in the end. We talked about our mothers and all sorts of fun nonsense.

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Then this afternoon, my brother stopped by again with his girlfriend and her little girl. He’d brought fish tacos for me and some other food for us to eat.

Well, we were having a good ole time, a good ole talk when all of a sudden, they started joking about drugs. I don’t know what prompted this. But it made me very anxious. See, my brother has never been a drug user or abuser like me. He’s very nervous about putting things in his body for fear of contamination. The only thing I think he’s done is weed and alcohol and alcohol is probably one of the worst drugs ever in my opinion, but anyway… weed, eh, I don’t really see it as much of a drug, though it is a substance and here I go contradicting myself. So yeah, I’m kind of the black sheep of the family in that aspect.

Then, out of nowhere, my brother’s girlfriend started saying, “I just don’t like to be out of control. I don’t like not being in control of my thoughts or my body. I even freaked out when I had to take a Vicodin after I had C. [her little girl].” She started to giggle but I didn’t. I couldn’t even FAKE a smile. It was a trigger.

Holy shit, it was a HUGE trigger. I began to panic. The mere words, “I took Vicodin…freaked…took Vicodin…freaked…took Vicodin,” sent my head spinning.

After what happened when I wrote the “Voluntary Hospitalization Post” I’ve been so wary of talking about anything related to painkillers, especially VICODIN. Of all things, why did she… of all things? (Vicodin is the same thing as Hydrocodone by the way)

So I quietly removed myself. I pretended I was too busy clearing the dishes to hear her. And once they were in the living room watching TV, I was washing the dishes, bawling my eyes out. I ended up having flashes of L and I downing painkillers. And after I was done with the dishes I went to my room to cry some more. I hope they didn’t notice but then again, I feel like running and telling my brother, “I don’t know what to do anymore”.

Good thing is I managed to cry just enough and re-enter the living room looking calm and collected. To a certain extent I was. I was being mindful of my thoughts and feelings–of everything around me. I was changing.

“I’m used to being uncomfortable so I can’t stop changing all the time”

This, my friends, is what it’s like to live with BPD. Any little thing can trigger you.

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Oh and I know I haven’t been coming up with anything funny as of late. Sorry. I think the recent overdosing/relapsing incident drained all the funny juice, well not all, MOST of the funny juice out of me, but I know I’ll refill soon and be a little funnier and less depressing with these posts.

p.s. FREE HUGS FROM COPYRIGHT BOUNCER BEAR Y’ALL! COME AND GET’EM! SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY ONLY!

HEY HEY! NO SHOVIN’ NOW. EVERYONE WILL GET THEIR TURN!