It rained all day yesterday and much of the day today. I love summer rains!

****

There’s a sun roof just above the tub in my parent’s room. A lot of flowers and leaves from the neighboring tree fall on there.

I had a razor set up by the tub and then I thought, “This is ridiculous P! Go get your camera and shoot these droplets and pretty leaves instead. You’ll go swimming tomorrow and don’t want that arm all cut up.”

Photographing helped snap me out of this strange sensation for a while. I was able to just focus on the patterns the leaves and flower petals made as they fell along with the droplets of water.

****

After shooting these, I was able to settle my mind. Then I was about to get ready to cook something when my serendipitously brother showed up and I spent the night at his house with his girlfriend and her little girl. Then when the little one was asleep, we decided to have an Alien/Aliens mini marathon but the “file” on my brother’s media player was “corrupt”.

I ended up passing out on his couch.

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Oh Dusty, my dear Dusty. My dear, angry Dusty, this is P in hell.

Dear Dusty, I blew you away like dust didn’t I?

Of the few fellas in my life, you’re the one I blew away. But I may not be seeing all the grey and, well, I blew Monkey Man away too. God knows I blew him in more than one way…

But this is about you dear Dusty. You know, I think of you often dear, angry Dusty. I think of your strange, strange quiet ways. I think of the ways I blew you… away. I know you do too. Or at least I sort of hope you do. mmmmhhhhm. No hard, hard, hard feelings right?

Oh in so many places, in so many ways. You remember don’t you? That bathroom stall I nearly conceded to? I’d never been there. I liked it, that Continental Club–very rockabilly, very you. Oh, but I was too worried we’d get caught. Either way, either way, either way, I think I killed you. And I had no right to blow you… away.

Dear angry Dusty, my dear dear angry Dusty. Did you break that window because of me? Or was it her? Right, it was because you couldn’t get your fix wasn’t it? You were back from the mental hospital then, but not because of me. You needed help. But I did too, I just couldn’t see it then. I was in as much denial as you, or maybe I just made myself not care ’cause caring means caring TOO MUCH for me. Oh you see, either way, either way, I would’ve killed you before you’d have the chance to kill me.

Oh Dusty, Dusty, angry Dusty, this isn’t Jezebel, it’s Paz out of hell. Remember that night when we took that bad ecstasy? What horrible thing was it cut with? That’s what happens when you buy cheap X Dusty, if it was MDMA (probably bathroom cleaner). I thought I would die that night, but turns out I just blew you away.

And all you kept saying was, “Are you rollin’ yet?” But no, I wasn’t rollin’ yet. I was having a bad trip when my heart skipped. I thought I was having a heart attack Dusty! I could’ve died dear Dusty and you were so slow, “rolling” and dazed and confused; it took you a whole minute to realize I wasn’t feeling well! Were we both in hell?

“Yes, I think I’m dying! I think I took too much for my size Dusty, or this is cut with bad shit!”

So you finally got me some water and then we both drowned in each other… deeper and deeper, father and farther down… and then, with a bit more alcohol, we completely sank.

Oh, but worse than the ecstasy was that Ashley. Her? Oh dear Dusty, really? She was a pretty black girl, I’ll give her that much. But she messed herself up. I mean come on Dusty, it must’ve been because she got you into that terrible “white” as you called it.

You were so entertaining, even when you didn’t say a word for hours. You’re the first fella that made me feel sexy, beautiful even. But that may not be entirely true. It doesn’t matter now. We’ll go with that because you, you said my surgical scars were sexy. What a thought! Who would say that? Only you dear angry Dusty.

And you came back to me, either way. But then I killed you. I simply blew you… away. And you simply loved the way I’d simply blow you… away. My poems that blew you away, my words that blew you away, my pretty thick latin lips that blew you away.

Oh Dusty, Dusty. My dear angry Dusty, you were always so quiet, so stark, so angry, so sensitive. I had no right to kill you. Sir Jaques Cousteau Escargot, my geeky beau, may have torn my heart in two but I had no right to kill you. I had no right to kill you dear Dusty. And when you asked me to be your girlfriend and I said “no, I just wanna blow you…away,” but not in those words, I hope you know, I simply meant to blow you… away. I never meant to kill you.

Please don’t ever let your happiness go dear angry Dusty. I miss your smile. Don’t let your happiness go. I just couldn’t be wrapped up with another user, self-abuser, self-destructive weapon like me. I simply wanted to blow you… away.

Hello? Dusty? Dusty?

********

So um, I don’t know what came over me. Or rather I do, but I don’t want to say. The night that I drank and cut, the night we celebrated my mom’s birthday, I made some rash moves, obviously. Well, one of them was that I contacted Dusty on Facebook. We hadn’t talked in over a year. I was afraid he might be dead like Monkey Man L. But nope, he’s still alive. Problem is, I’m trying not to be impulsive and I’m on a path to better myself, whatever that entails. I just don’t know if Dusty is done with a lot of that mess. And I sure as hell don’t want to get back into that mess.

Doesn’t that suck?

(Yep this is the one I was embarrassed about publishing. It’s a bit self-indulgent, revealing and quirky.)

***************************************************************************************************************************

DISCLAIMER: I’m using the “borderline girl” phrase as sort of a mocking/sarcastic term. There’s no such thing as a stereotypical “borderline girl”. You can have a condition, but you are NOT the condition and these songs aren’t necessarily written by or about borderline “girls”; they merely reflect certain parts of my life as I see fit. This is what they mean to me, someone who has been diagnosed as having BPD and is only beginning to work with herself and her deadly emotions.

Whiskers and Lashes

June 26, 2012

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I thought about writing another one of my Good Lists today (I swam 14 laps today), but I found the slideshow option instead! So… here’s little Luna, yet again! (I know. I know. But she looks so calm, quiet, assertive and pensive in these.)

I’m also too tired to actually write any of the ideas that keep milling around my head. If I could just catch one and sit down with it!

Hypomania has been knocking on my door even though I put the Pretty Little Demons (PLD’s) to bed on Friday. Many of them slept all night and all through the weekend. Most of them behaved all weekend, which is incredible; it was the most stable weekend I’ve had in… I don’t know, but it was nice!

And today I want to live! hahah. Isn’t that great?!

Fuckin’ A. It’s amazing! Yes, it’s amazing to want to live! It’s amazing to not have urges to kill yourself creep up and tear at you every ten minutes.

Better knock on wood now.

********

Then today, for the third time in the last two weeks, my dad tells me that I am a different person: “You’re still P, but you’re a different person. You’re more understanding, not as angry, more affectionate…” and he went on.

Hmmm? I think that means therapy had been helping, no? The meds? (meh) Oh, the swimming!?

I have many thoughts on this but I’ll leave it there for now.

********

Oh, speaking of therapy, yesterday was my first day back in therapy at the university, but I didn’t even get to have a session.

I had planned  a trip with the MetroLift and the MetroLift mini-bus was late (yet again), only this time it was hella late. I had scheduled my appointment with the New NEW therapist at 7:00 in the evening because she will be at a seminar deal all of this week and, in an effort to get together ASAP, I’d settled for seven on Monday. Well, MetroLift got me there at 7:45 instead. I only had time to meet her and reschedule.

I had gotten myself so pumped, I mean mentally pumped for that session and it all crumbled like burning paper in my hands.

I may write about it if I get the time tomorrow or sometime this week, but I don’t know. I’ll see. One of the reasons I want to is because there are some DBT skills I want to share in regards to that ordeal–basically, I want to share how I kept myself relatively cool, or in other words, how I kept myself from falling completely apart again. It involves little Luna, her little whiskers and swimming.

********

I do have a Borderline Girl Song post I wrote last week but was too embarrassed to publish it. Shit, I better post it now since I mentioned it.

It’s about a fella named Dusty.

*photos are © 2012 PAZ/MMM*

I jump into the cold water and shiver.

“Ay ma’ hoy si que esta fría,” I comb my hair back with both hands and I give my mother my black Speedo swimming cap for her to help me with.

Once it’s on, she gets up and says she’ll be back in thirty minutes. She didn’t want to go to the gym today. We’ll be picking up Isa, Elosie’s sister from her dance program for the weekend and my mom went out drinking for my bro’s birthday party last night. She’s tired. But I want to swim, so she decides to go begrudgingly and I’m grateful. I haven’t had a chance to swim since Wednesday.

I adjust my goggles and plunge in for a first lap.

****

I’ve just finished my forth lap and am at the edge of the lane heaving. A young man gets in the lane next to mine. The first thing I notice is he has a beard and big blue eyes. Hey, he’s kind of cute. I pretend not to notice but it’s too late.

“The water’s cold isn’t it,” he does a little jerk with his head.

“Yeah,” I nod, “it’s pretty cold, especially today. But once you get in all the way, you’re good.”

“Yeah–” he adjusts his goggles and just stands there looking at me with a big ‘ole pretty smile. I mean he has teeth and everything!

“What’s your name?”

“Paz. Yours?”

“K, nice to meet you,” he reaches out to shake my hand. I grab it. He’s shivering.

“Thank you… I mean, nice to… meet you… too,” What the hell did I just say? Thank you? P, you are silly.

“Just dive in real quick,” I tell him. This boy here is stalling. “Going in real’ quick is best way. I’m telling you. It’s so much worse when you nudge yourself in slowly. Come on,” I smile back. I’m still hanging on to the ledge. I’m so small that I can’t even touch the floor on a four-foot deep pool. I’m constantly having to tread water. By now my breath is at a normal pace and I’m noticing how anxious I start to feel. Damn it dude, quit taunting me with your beard and just get in so I can swim. This is ruining my flow! I’m getting nervous having you just smiling at me like that! Shit, I’d already managed to lower my anxiety on the third lap and now it’s back up agai…

“–but I’m a wuss.”

“It’s the only way man. One, two, three! Come on!” I call out. He calls out the numbers after me and finally goes in.

Aaaah. I can relax now.

Damn those beards always get to me.

****

I love beards!

I can’t help it. I love ’em on men. I’m not so sure I’d love ’em on women, but hell, I love ’em so much I may as well love ’em on women!

And this white boy here has a nicely trimmed golden beard!

****

I’m swimming and swimming. I do my fifth lap or is it my sixth? Damn, is that bearded fella still next to my lane? Oh yep, I can feel the water being pushed. He’s there for sure.

I’m swimming and swimming some more. I’m trying to focus on my stroke patterns, my breathing, my heartbeat, how the water feels when I do my pushes and pulls, my body’s level–all mindfulness. All of this is such good exercise on mindfulness practice from dialectical behavioral therapy.

But I’m not always so mindful.

Remember to do the S. curve in your pull like that olympic swimmer did in that YouTube video. Michael Phelps does a gorgeous dolphin kick. I wonder what he’s like in bed. Ian Thorpe’s dolphin kick is also lovely. Wonder how’s he’s in bed too. No, I think I’d go with Michael, then again… Shit, is this my eight or ninth lap? I’m getting worn. No, I gotta keep it up. Is that guy still there? Damn, I love Saturdays ’cause NO ONE’S HERE on Saturdays. But that guy’s still there! Yep, I’m feeling his waves. One, two, three, breath. One, two, three, breath. Remember your S curve on the stroke. Your arms are paddles! Even your crooked T-Rex arm! One, two, three, breath. Ohhh, wall is coming up… One…two…three…four…five…hold breath, turn, flip, push-dolphin kick–paddle, ooout. Uggggh. P, that was a horrible flip! At least you made it though; you made it. Good. Good. You made it. You’ll do better on the next run… Is that dude still there? Quit thinking about the bearded boy dammit! And damn you L! You should be here. You should be swimming! Oh, wall…

I keep swimming until my ninth or tenth lap. I’m not sure by this point. I’m worried that when I stop, the guy will be there and sure enough he is, but so is my mom.

“Mamita! Hey!” I look startled.

She looks down at me and shows me her gloves, “Se me olvido esto. Me faltan tres sets.” She’d come back for her gloves. She takes a few steps back and closes my bag which is dangling on the back of my wheelchair.

“Ok ma, entonces que, veinte minutos mas?”

“Si,” she blows a kiss and I blow one back.

Oh yeah, the dude. Yep, he’s still there. Fuck it, I’m going for another lap.

****

I think I just did my eleventh lap, but I’m not sure since I lost track on my sixth, or was it my eight? It was somewhere around there. I usually loose track on the eighth but today a bearded boy is swimming next to me.

I’m hanging on the ledge. I’m panting out of breath. He arrives shortly after, also panting. I’m panting harder. He’s panting harder and heavier still. I think I let out a little moan, but it may have been a cough. And I can’t help thinking how sexual all this heavy breathing seems.

“Don’t make me look bad P.”

“Oh,” I chuckle, “How? Was I going quick?”

“Yeah,” He nods vigorously, “I was noticing that you even do the flip turns!”

“Oh,” I chuckle again, “Yeah, I’ve just started learning how to do those. I tend to do them lop-sided though, but oh well, I get it done somehow.” I think it’s because of my scoliosis.

“Well, you still make me look bad. I wouldn’t know about the turns.”

“Aren’t you a swimmer?” Stupid question P, of course he’s not a swimmer! Look at him!

“No, I try to be,” he laughs.

“My best friend [Eloise] was a competitive swimmer in college and she taught me a few things. When you do the backstroke like I was doing, you’re supposed to do a front flip and then kick back just before you hit the wall. That way you get more momentum on your dolphin kick. And that’s how you get the best push offs, but I can’t seem to get it right half the time,” I gesture with my hand. “Oh here, I’ll show you.”

What the fuck P? Why are you going to show him? Are you trying to show off?  You’re gonna look stupid! Aarggggh. 

I plunge myself back and start talking about how you’re supposed to measure how many strokes you do before you hit the wall but since there are no flags in this natatorium here to signal the wall, “I have to guesstimate” I gurgle a little as I talk. “So when I guesstimate about right here–maybe five strokes or so–I flip…”

I’m underwater thinking what a fuckin’ idiot I am. He didn’t ask me to show him. What the fuck are you doing P, seriously? Your flips are terrible! If you’re trying to flirt, this is NOT PRETTY!

“Yeah, that was a pretty bad flip,” I say as soon as I resurface. I’m trying not to cough, so I laugh instead. I’m trying not to laugh so I cough. I feel like such a child.

“It’s hard to do.”

“So you been coming here a while?” I think of the word cum. heheh. I also start to have sexual images in my head.

“No, I just started. I used to go the University _______ pool at the Rec Center but it was even colder there since the swimmers train,” he starts leaning on to his side to face me directly.

“Oh, yeah?! I went there! Yeah, it’s funny ’cause I always told myself I’d go swimming but I never did. Then when I graduated, I actually did finally go thinking I’d have alumni privileges and they said–”

“–you have to pay,” he interjects.

“Yeah, exactly, you have to pay. That sucks. So what’d you take at Uni… I mean what’d you major in?”

“Mechanical engineering,” he replies. Yep, he’s got the nerdy look alright. Definitely a nerdy white boy. A cute, nerdy white boy with a beard! “What about you?”

“Media production,” I reply a little too quick.

“Oh yeah?! My friend did that. He’s teaching music now.”

He tells me more about his musician friend and I tell him that I don’t think I ever knew or met his friend. It’s such a big campus, even if we were in the same program, chances are we never met. And then I tell him that I play the piano, that I had done a two-year audio recording/engineering and music program before going to the University ______.

“But I haven’t played the piano in about three years. I’ve picked up the ukulele though, recently. Since I’m so small, it seems perfect for me.”

By now, this boy’s eyes are lighting up. I can tell. But then again, I’m unsure. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I want them to light up. And then one of the critical Pretty Little Demons starts buggin’: What in the hell do you think you’re doing? Monkey Man just died! You’re fuckin’ awful! Good for nothin’! Are you trying to flirt? hahah. You don’t even know how to flirt! Look at you! Look at you! You’re pathetic. You and your flips. Showing off? HA. You and your crooked arm and your crooked smile. Don’t let him see those scars on your arms, yeah, the fresh ones from last Saturday.

But, but… Monkey Man L and I weren’t together for the last six months before his death… We were in another one of our separation phases, sort of… But I wasn’t with Monkey Man at the time, and, why do… I don’t wanna… Ugh… I’m not trying to… I want to bang my head against the wall! I want to die!

“Yeah, you should definitely get back to playing ukulele. That would be awesome!” he smiles again. I want to touch his beard.

“Yeah. I will. I mean, I plan to, well, I’m a go to the hot tub, I’m kinda… as you can see, I’m… freezing now… Um, good luck on your job applications and congrats on graduating. Was really nice meeting you,” I head for the stairs.

When I’m on the stairs stretching or trying to or pretending to, he says “You forgot your goggles.” Great. He crosses over to the lane I was just in and gets them for me.

“Thank you,” I smile. I’m glad I can smile again literally–after the bell’s palsy– and metaphorically after so many tears.”These are getting on my nerves anyway. Water keeps getting in. Thank you.”

“It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” I reply… Only I think I say something else because I was nervous, cold and shivering.

“I’m going to do two more laps and I’ll say by on my way out.”

“Ok, sounds good,” I get up and get on my chair. I stroll myself on over to the hot tub area. I get in. Aaaaah, warmness. About eight or ten minutes later, he calls out and says bye. I want to tell him I’m hard of hearing but I don’t.

“Alright, bye! Nice meeting you! Take care!” I wave.

Well, I kinda rushed that didn’t I?

He waves and walks out. I crouch back in the hot tub and wait for my mom to return.

fuck buddy

This one made me laugh. Terrible. I was thinking about this yesterday after the fam ate dinner for my bro’s birthday and his girlfriend celebrated decided to celebrate at this place called “Drink Houston”. Yeah, I went to the dinner but not to Drink Houston. Avoiding the loud, alcoholic places right now. But I wondered if I missed out on meeting anyone there, ahem, read the caption. Well, I guess I did meet someone today. And I didn’t have to get wasted to act a fool. Nope, not at the gym’s pool!

****

Today has been good thus far. Anxiety’s the same but at least I haven’t had mad-major mood shifts.

Lost Ant II

June 22, 2012

Lost Ant II (c) paz

Click the photo to enlarge.

*********

Lost Ant

June 21, 2012

Lost Ant (c) 2012 paz

Click the photo to enlarge and read the poem, unless you have amazing, super-zoom eyesight.

*********

I wrote a quick and silly small-stone poem today.

The photos are from several weeks ago when our spring “bug invasion” was ending. It hasn’t completely ended, neither has this card-making. My dad’s having me do two alternate versions (according to his taste). I’ll appease him.

****

An astonishing thing happened today, he said, “You and your mother have changed so much. You are a different person!” He meant it in a good way. But then he added, “It’s a good thing God gave me patience [insert: to deal with you]… It’s a good thing I haven’t had to change much.”

What’s that supposed to mean? My dad is funny, and I mean this in… I don’t know how I mean it.

“We can all improve and change,” I said.

I know I’ve been a difficult person most of my life. But was I that terrible before? And how am I now? It’s funny, even when I get complimented by him, I don’t feel validated. I feel so small, so easily confused –lost and desolate like the ant. I can’t show him how much I’m hurting, how much I feel like I’m about to drown.

I’m left baffled.

Wednesday

June 20, 2012

TODAY has been a good day. I woke up feeling like death, like my blood pressure was low and I would faint and vomit, but all went well at the end of the day. I haven’t been bombarded by suicidal thoughts, I went swimming for an hour, AND I designed a “50th Wedding Anniversary” invitation card for one of my dad’s clients!

I don’t like making invitation cards for his clients. They always want to muddy up the card by adding all their kids’ names (and they’re hispanic guys, so you know that’s usually a lot) and fifty Hail Mary’s and Thanks-Be-To-Jesus prayers on there. Seriously, just invite people! It’s an invitation card! Give them the time, place and date and maybe throw in a “thank you” or “thanks to our kids for putting up with us” or “thank god we’re still married after fifty years; it’s a miracle”. That’s it! I’m proud of being Latina, but damn some of these old-school Catholic country-latino folks’ ways get on my nerves!

It’s tacky and embarrassing guys! You’re messing up my design with all this other mess! But we need the money to pay the light bill, so I did it. I just did it and if felt good just getting it done despite the anxiety. I did it in just three hours too! That’s a feat for me. I’m all “spaced-out” half the time.

****

Perfectionism and the Anxious Neurotic

One thing I had to learn from my Ex-Young Therapist is that I need to just get things done without obssessing, especially when the time calls for it! I’m a perfectionist, and despite what I was told about employers loving it when you say you’re a perfectionist, I can tell you perfectionism–I mean hardcore perfectionism–is torture! It is self-sabotage and self-harm at its finest!

A perfectionist mentality maximizes your anxiety, and if you’re mental like me, that’s a lot of anxiety, which leads to less productivity because you end up lying in the ground all catatonic-like thinking you’re having a heart attack or an aneurysm, which makes you not want to do anything anymore. “I can’t do anything right because I can’t do anything perfect!” Mouse says. Well, no shit Mouse.

So today, I set aside my perfectionism, and instead of  trying to make the card look really good, I just tried to make it “somewhat good”. And I got it done! It’s not for me anyway! It’s not my pet project, my baby, my ultimate design. It’s a damn invitation card for country folks!

****

Drugs Once Again

I took this picture bellow. It’s a picture of my current “meds” , which reminds me of the argument I had with Mr. Mackey last night. He kept telling me to remember about the drugs and alcohol and I said, “I got it, geez. Am I boozin’ right now? NO! There are wine, vodka and whiskey bottles in the kitchen and I’m not even touching any of it. You don’t have to keep telling me!”

Then I got angry.

“Hold up Mr. Mackey, just hold up a second. If drugs are so bad, why do these licensed doctors give me so many?! I know Mr. Mackey. I know they’re the tested and approved drugs and all that, but why did the psychiatrist want to ADD Risperdal to the mix when I told her about the weeks after the overdose? I mean on top of everything Mr. Mackey?! Hmmm? I said no to her Mr. Mackey. I said no. I mean, I was barely getting off the Wellbutrin then and I know, I should’ve told her, but you can’t even contact her! You have to ‘go to the emergency room’ if you think one of these drugs is killing you or if you think you’re gonna kill yourself. And that emergency room is filled with like a hundred and fifty people despite the maximum capacity being a hundred. And some of those hundred and fifty are wounded with blood and guts and whatnot! But anyway, I said, ‘I just… I think I need to go to the hospital, but maybe not right now. Uhhh, no, no. I’m not right now. I’m not going to overdose again. I’m not sure. I mean, yes right now I’m ok. I’m sure I’m not going to try right now, this very minute, but I’ve been flipping so much. I just don’t want another drug is what I mean.’ So that’s what I said to her Mr. Mackey. I was being my own advocate, I think. Is that decision mmmmmmmkay? Is my decision to stay on what I’m on mmmmmkay? I don’t know. I really don’t Mr. Mackey. Mmmmmmkay, now what do you think?”

Mr. Mackey left, didn’t even answer, just blinked with dumbfounded eyes and floated off. Poof. Flew out of my bedroom window, high above my roof with his big balloon head.

“Mr. Mackey?”

********

Sometimes I do think that since I started the Fluoxetin/Prozac–became a part of Prozac nation a month and a half ago–the “depressive symptoms” have improved, well some of them. I don’t even know what I mean by that. That’s how ambiguous these things are. I mean, I have more energy overall, I think. I can get out of bed much easier, but that’s still not easy you still wake up feeling hopeless, having panic attacks and feeling nauseated.

The Wellbutrin could’ve been doing a better job. Doesn’t that name sound funny, like it’ll make you “well”. Then again, I’ve just been bat-shit-crazy  bouncing off the walls going from the depths of hell to the highs of heaven in ways I can’t even describe. I have energy like I’m on crack! I hardly have an appetite. And I’m not sure I like that saying “bat-shit-crazy”. Bats aren’t shitty and they’re not crazy because don’t have such a complex psyche as we do, unless there’s something we don’t know about them and they’re secretly plotting to take us down.

But anyway, how would I be able to measure the efficacy of the “meds” since I don’t get to talk to the psychiatrist until the end of July? And besides, she never does any proper evaluations or anything. Plus, summer has come along! And my body almost always reacts kindly to the Sun or vise versa. And my mom got a janitorial job at a local gym, so I’ve been able to swim more regularly there. Here’s the thing, I was bouncing off the walls five-six-seven weeks ago to the point where I was going to put myself inpatient at one of those horrid state hospital wards. I’ve made it thus far though. The ride’s been bumpy, Himalayas bumpy, but I’m here.

I’m still feeling generally unstable though, so I don’t know. I’m scared.

Shit, considering how this year’s been thus far, considering I still don’t know how Monkey Man L–one of the closest persons to me ever–died and I haven’t been able to let that go, considering the increment of my feelings of worthlessness, considering the immigra–well you get it–considering all that and more, I think I’ve gotten a handle on it as much as I can. And though my anxiety is still sky-high most of the day everyday (hell, it seems to be worse), I think I’m alright today guys!

I’m chip-chip-chip-chipper! haha.

I currently weight 46 pounds, that’s roughly 21 kilos. Here’s a list of the drugs I’m on:

  1. 40mg Fluoxetine/Prozac – A fairly potent Selective Serotonin Re-uptake Inhibitor. Those are the white caps with the little dashed lines. The reason why I have two different kind is because one is a 10mg (I was initially on 20mg, then the psych decided to up it to 40, so I now have the 20mg. It all adds up).
  2. 400mg Carbamazepine/Tegretol – These are the little round yellowish-beige colored pills with the orange circle in the middle. They were initially for the neurological pain I started experiencing two years ago after I got the Bell’s Palsy for the second time and for he third time in January of this year. Oh, snapples! I never got to writing my Bell’s Palsy Part II did I? Hell, I think I’ve promised too many “Part II’s”. I need to stop doing that. Oh get this though. Carbamazepine is an anti-convulsant, so it helps reduce epileptic seizures, yet it’s used for neuropathic pain which is what I have on my face, BUT… BUT… get this: It’s also used as a mood stabilizer! So, it’s of label use is for bipolar disorder. Am I getting a “two for one deal” here. It doesn’t seem so. It seems like this shit my be making my moods flail around and flagellate my soul more?!  (You can read Bell’s Palsy: Don’t Fight It, Just Be Part 1 here)
  3. Drisderol LF 50MU – That’s the green one. This one is actually for the Osteogenesis Imperfecta-OI (aka Brittle Bone Disease, er, Condition). It’s actually a new drug that doctors are trying on patients with Osteoperosis, which I also have due to the OI, but they said it should help. It’s essentially just high absorption vitamin D.The genetecist and the orthopedic doctors discovered that my bone density has gotten even lower since I broke my arm in February. Got, it’s been five months already! We’re already halfway through the year. Anyway, Drisderol is what I take only on Wednesdays: “One capsule by mouth once weekly for three months, then twice a month for three more months.” Wednesdays are the days I designated for the Drisderol.
  4. I ran out of Caltrate and fish-oils but I’m still taking B-12.
Meds

Wednesday’s drugs, mmmkay.

addendum: Oh at the pool today, two old ladies asked my mom how old I am. I was in front of her. Really? I know I’m tiny and use a wheelchair, but I’m not mentally retarded or deaf, well, I’ slightly deaf and mental, but still, ASK ME, DIRECTLY! I used to get really upset when this happened but now I only get mildly upset. Sigh. Ignorance is everywhere.

addendum 2: Speaking of Bell’s Palsy, I got the strangest search term today — “Fiona Apple Bell’s Palsy”. Weird. I don’t think she’s ever had Bell’s Palsy but then I wouldn’t know, would I? Oh well, at least I didn’t get anything about a “hairy Hulk” or “girly Avengers”!

Much love from me and the Mouse, or just twice the love from me, a much more chipper Mouse!

A flicker of hope burned within me last night. It swiftly swayed, but all too quick like the wings of a hummingbird. It was small as it fluttered in there, in that barrel chest of mine. It burned ultra-violeT. It was unseen by the naked eye. No difference could be seen in the color of my flesh, but I felt it there hot inside my breast, then cool around my cheeks.

What was this hope you may ask? Oh, it was a bursting urge! A bursting urge to live wholeheartedly.

********

Then today, I woke up crying. I hadn’t cried like this in a few days.

It was the complete opposite of how I woke up yesterday–with boundless energy and an urge to cry but something keeping me from doing so, almost like constipation but worse. Far, far worse.

The showers had subsided and I was relieved. But honestly, I don’t know what’s worse not being able to cry or not being able to stop crying. It’s all too tiring. Too, too tiring.

I keep telling myself, “Things are looking up kid! Just hold on. Look up.” I don’t believe myself when I say this but I know I will hang on.

I just don’t get it.

****

I went swimming yesterday, the first time I got to go since Thursday and I think that may have been what helped light the flickering hope. But that’s the thing with me these days–most days–most of my life I have to keep fueling that damn flicker. It’s like when you’re trying to light a cigarette on a windy day and you only have on small, very small hand to keep the wind from the flames.

I’m always fanning the flames.

****

I had another weekend breakdown. It seems my “rhythm” for the last two weeks has been one okay day followed by two awful days . The “okay” day just means I haven’t had extremely dramatic mood swings or panic inducing anxiety.

Saturday my dad decided to throw a party for my mom’s 50th birthday. Eloise’s sister Isabella, the beautiful ballet dancer, also arrived on Saturday. So it was a chaotic day and needless to say, I couldn’t go swimming.

Swimming has become my new addiction. I noticed myself getting withdrawals all weekend. I’m even having swimming dreams! I had a really bizarre underwater dream several nights ago, where I had to find my way out of  a sewer, only it was endless and I was in scuba diving gear. That faded into another one of my zombie apocalypse dreams. Only this one was very Tim Burtinesque. It was a musical zombie apocalypse with singing zombie-robots that shot human zombies! At that point, I knew I was in a dream so I stopped being scared of the zombies; I started killing those snail-paced fuckers whilst singing along with the robots! (I have a lot of lucid dreams. More on that later.)

****

Alright, I’m not to proud of my journaling style of blogging lately, but I can’t seem to let the blog go completely either. I have been more reserved in what I say as oppose to what I want to say. This blogging thing has become a push and pull with me. And I’ve come to the realization that maybe my funny juices have completely run out. I can’t do a humor blog. I have all of these ideas but my hand just won’t keep still to draw them out. I’ll give it some more time, but I’m just not feeling them squish inside, they vanish tooquickly-the funny juices that is, not the PLD’s–so I’m down to just doing the “dear diary” thing.

****

Oh yeah Saturday.

Saturday, all was flowing well. My brother dropped off Isabella at one of the local universities which will be housing her for her summer dance program. Yeah, I thought she was going to be staying with us, but that was just me jumping to conclusions. We still do plan to take her out and visit and whatnot. But I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get to go to the airport since my mom and dad were running around with all of birthday preparations. And that’s what I really meant to write about.

As I’ve mentioned before, I “quit drinking,” relatively speaking. I say relatively because I have had a few drinks here and there on social occasions. The last time was on Mansie’s birthday. That night I ended up crying in B’s car.

After that I said, “No P, you shouldn’t drink, especially now that you’re mourning L’s loss”. But guess what I did Saturday? Yep. Yep. I drank. I got wasted.

Let me explain.

While everyone was eating the ribs my dad had made, I was munching away at my Spanish rice. And then ny brother shows up with his girlfriend with three  delicious glasses of expensive wine (my brother is the money-maker of my little family of four).

But… but… it’s expensive wine and he’s handing me a glass. One sip won’t hurt. Ooooh god, that’s delicious! I never get to have wine this good. Oh, yes, ok. I’ll have just ONE glass.

Well folks, one glass turned into three glasses and three glasses turned into an additional two bottles of Corona Light.

But hey, hey! Looky looky! I don’t feel teary-eyed and all depressed and shit like I normally do when I drink. No, this Corona Light has me feeling alright.

Then, I see my brother being all smochie noochies with his new girlfriend. And don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy for him. We all know this one is a much more positive influence than the last one. In fact, she’s growing on me. But that’s not the point! No! I started thinking about Monkey Man L dammit! I started thinking about how fucked-up our relationship was sometimes. I started thinking about how I’d never really had a formal “boyfriend” and don’t even care to know what that means. But do I? Am I just bitter? Am i just fooling myself?

I laughed. We took pictures. Just about everyone was tipsie and I thought, God I gotta get outta here!

I noticed I was drunker than I thought. I no longer have the tolerance I used to. I went into my dad’s office which used to be my room when my brother still lived with us last year. I’ve been using his computer in that office since my laptop’s been shutting off on me again. Here, there are various types of photographic and printing studio equipment–four printers (one large-scale printer), a scanner, some card-making paper, ink-needles, an easel, paintbrushes, oils and an exact-o knife.

Wait, where’d the exact-o knife go? It was here all week? It was here a minute ago. Oh no, well shit, I better wait for everyone to leave.

Now guys, here’s where I should stand up and do my AA introduction, I suppose:

“My name is P, this here is Mouse who lives inside me and we/I am an alcoholic.”

****

While the party dwindled down to just two guests (by then even my brother and his girlfriend had left), I started reading blogs. I’m sure I left some of you drunken messages and or comments with loads of absurdities. I apologize. I know I left THAM an annoying comment about Luna and I do not care to look at it. I also professed my love to Totsymae. Lady, I don’t regret professing my love to you though!

What I do regret is what follows. And I do say regret is a silly thing but let’s roll with it until I flush it out.

I searched for that exact-0-knife and I started listening to my dear Fiona which was probably a poor move because although I love her voice, I was not in a good mindset. It only amplified my woe. And, I just did the slicing with my nails. Not much, but I did. I tore at myself and nails are too blunt, not sharp and fine like exact-o knives. It was ridiculous.

Eventually, everyone was gone and I took a painkiller from the few I had left. Once again, I went on looking for that exact-o-knife. I really had an urge that wouldn’t quiet then. And that’s the thing about alcohol. It completely lowers my ability to resist this type of self-harm. With me, drinking and cutting have always come together. I can’t seem to separate the two. I hate to admit this. I need to get it through my thick skull if I’m going to tame this beast: You, P, cannot drink! Simple.

I eventually gave up on the exact-o-knife search. Maybe the heavens were looking out for me. Maybe Monkey Man L was looking out for me. I don’t know. All I know is it wasn’t here and it wasn’t in the other office. It had been here in this office all week and I’d been resisting it. Then comes Saturday and it’s missing. And since alcohol lowers inhibitions, all resisting from me was down to almost zero.  In spite of not finding the knife, I did some other kind of injury instead. I’m not proud of it.

I was crying in that office like a battered child–only I’d battered myself–calling out to L repeatedly. All I remember is mumbling some nonsense about how hard it’s been to live without him.

Not so simple is it?

****

I need to find a way to tell my family that I cannot be around alcohol as much as I’ve been. I mean, they’ve practically been waving it under my nose. But I want to be the one that says no. Kids, um just say no. I don’t want to tell them, “Hey, if you see me with a bottle in my hand, snatch it from me.”

I don’t.

Mr. Mackey says to P, “Uh, mmmkay, so alcohol is also bad P, ’cause you can’t seem to control yourself or your Melancholically Manic Mouse, mmmkay? Mmmkay P?”

Mmmkay Mr. Mackey. Mmmkay.

****

I did finally get a call back from the university where Ex-Young Therapist used to work. I’ll be seeing my new therapist Monday! I think that’s a good thing, no?!

I’m extremely nervous about meeting her on Monday, about so many things going all at once. I’ve been invited to a meeting, so I’m planning on being “involved” again. Can I do it? I hope so. I hope I don’t just drop everything half way. Hope is still flickering within, it’s just that I have to keep re-lighting it. That’s all.

I got a message from A.F. That was warming. Yes yes, things are looking up kid. Don’t mind the slip up. Oh yes, so much to do! Don’t panic. Shhhh. Calm. Calm. Quietly breath. They are lookin’ up kid. Just keep swimming when you can; just keep swimming when you can’t.