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August 29, 2012

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Le Clown’s Contest

August 29, 2012

Bloggies! So there’s this Le Clown dude who thinks he’s a demi-god or some shit. He has a contest going on RIGHT NOW. Please go to Le Clown’s blog (linked here and in the Canvas  post) and write “like” under the comments section where Ruby has commented. Canvas, contestant # 3, could use more eyeballs. And it’s not just because I’m a writer there and secretly collect eyeballs. Contrary to popular belief, I do NOT collect nut sacks nor balls of any other kind (except maybe a few therapy squish balls for relaxation). And I do NOT have any kind of obsession with hairy old balls either. Also, Le Clown’s over-inflated ego must be bigger than any ball in existence, including his own. Yeah, he also has one ab, apparently. It’s nothing to brag about. It doesn’t even compare to one of my six abs ’cause I be swimmin’ like a champ!

You know you’re hypomanic when you wake up at four in the morning every morning. And then, after breakfast, you feel the sudden urge to write another “You Know You’re Hypomanic When…” post. Then you run off to the kitchen to clean EVERYTHING, or as Allie Brosh would say “CLEAN ALL THE THINGS!”

CLEAN ALL THINGS! by Allie Brosh (c) Allie Brosh owns this art work. It is not mine. It can be found at http://www.hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

(I’m too hyped to do my own sketch without getting distracted and doing ten more.)

Then you find yourself rashly cleaning all the dishes while thinking, Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex, I hate the way my dad washes dishes. He does NOT scrub them well. From now on, I’ll wash ALL THINGS ALL THE TIME. ESPECIALLY THE DISHES!  I’ll have to karate chop him out of the kitchen if he even dares to wash them. And as you’re scrubbing away, you start fantasizing about who you’d want to have sex with and you laugh ’cause you realize how much scrubbing you’re doing and how that looks a lot like…

And then you find yourself cleaning out and reorganizing the refrigerator. Then you go back to the dishes and think, mmmm I want some coffeee. No P! Coffee will make this worse. You and Mouse will turn into Speedy Gonzales with his weed-head cousin, Slo Poq Rodrigues. 

(sidenote: Slo Poq Rodrigues sings about smoking marijuana, in case you didn’t understand the Spanish part: “La cucaracha… le falta marijuana que fumar”. Also, in primary school, I was nicknamed Speedy Gonzales by one of the teacher aides. Case in point.)

But your inner Mouse says, Fuck it, get yourself some coffee girl! Coffee, coffee coffee woman. You know you want some. mmmmmm. Coffee and sex. Ooooh, and more mouse sketches!

And as little funny and violent images of mouse sketches run through your head every five miliseconds, you wonder if you’ll ever become a world famous ukulele player because, Damn, I’m getting kinda good, after only three weeks of playing again! Oooooo, P, you’ll be the first deaf midget in a wheelchair–with a T-Rex-Duck-Nemo arm— to play the ukulele like a true virtuoso. 

Then, after serving yourself some coffee you go back to washing dishes. But when you’re nearly done, you grab your cup off coffee (because you forgot you’d placed it next to the dirty dishes you were washing) and end up throwing it in the sink, spilling coffee everywhere. And you start cursing like a mutha, but then you laugh and wash the counters and take little Luna out to pee and think about swimming and sex and coffee five dozen other things in less than a second. And if someone didn’t know you well enough, they’d think you’re pissed off because of how hard you keep shutting the counter drawers and cupboards. And you’re all, Holy baby Jesuz, did I just think of having sex with THAT guy? NO, no, no no no, not him PAnyone but him.

And when you’re back in the kitchen cleaning some more, you nearly fall out of your wheelchair ’cause you keep crashing it on all the counters and nearly fall off again (more like jump off) when you get out of it to pick something you see on the floor. Because, remember, MUHSSS CLEENS ALL DA TEENS (in Speedy Gonzales’s exaggerated Spanish accent).

And then you’re all, Holy shitballs (not saying old man hairy balls; still getting disturbing search terms on that one), I need to review my immigration stuff. So you hurriedly run off to the room to look over all the documents. Yes, yes yes yes yes. It all looks good now. Ok. Good good good good.

And you end up wrestling with one of the family dogs on the carpet to the point where he gets tired and runs off. And as he’s running off you bark at him feeling a sense of domination.

And you know you’re hypo when, back in the room, you get on the computer to edit your post to include a bit about how you just almost fell out of your wheelchair and nearly plastered your head and nearly broke all your bones. But the damn internet is slow and not keeping up with your fast typing so you want to punch the screen but you realize you have to be kind to this borrowed computer because your laptop is still broken. And then, once the computer has responded, you have to keep yourself from writing yet another “You Know You’re Hypo When…” post because two is enough P, for now!

… you’re typing so fast that you make dozens of typing errors and don’t give a fuck. Hurry, let’s just keep going, you say to yourself. (This is coming from a grammar Nazi with some obsessive compulsive tendencies.) And as you’re typing you’re giggling and laughing and giggling but have no idea why you’re giggling or what you’re laughing at.

Well, that’s the “good” kind of hypomanic. I won’t talk about the not-so-good kind.

********

I went to a protest yesterday with Mansie. I had a lot of anxiety but still managed to enjoy it in the end. Maybe I’ll write a more in depth post about it. For now, here’s another one of my Nokia phone photos.

One of the slogans/chants we did was “Don’t take America back; take America forward!” We got hustled by some rich white folks, one who yelled “Romney!” at us. And then they called the po po. A cop showed up just as we were wrapping up.

Go on ahead, call me a dirty hippie. I know you wanna. I will not be hurt by it. Not today, son. Not today. I’m loving today thus far, despite the cramps. It’s strange to feel this good.

****

Jaen, I have a “You Know You’re Borderline When…” too. It happened to me this weekend. I think you’d like it. I may post it later.

Mouse Love

Where Borderlines Excel

August 27, 2012

I don’t normally reblog, unless it’s from MFFs or Canvas or something like that. But I really love this one. “Krohn noted people with these issues usually grew up with unpredictable parents and inconsistent rules; what Marsha Linehan would later dub the invalidating environment.” That one is especially true for me. Oh, and it’s amazing how many I got correct in the test! I guess if that were an indicator of “borderliness,” I’d pass for “hella borderline”.

PsychotherapySphere

If you’ve worked with clients who have borderline personality disorder (BPD), you’ve probably had a conversation like this:

Therapist: How did that make you feel?

Client: I dunno.

Therapist: How do you think that might have made someone else feel?

Client: I dunno.

Therapist: Take a look at that list of feeling words and see if there’s anything that fits.

Client: Oh God. I can’t face that list today.

Therapist: Well… hm.

Client: You’re getting worried. You’re thinking about referring me, aren’t you?

Can people really be so oblivious to their emotions when they’re so well-attuned to yours?

Carina Frick, Simone Lang, et al answer at least half of that question in their  new study. They asked clients with BPD to receive an MRI while guessing the emotions others displayed in photographs.  The BPD clients out-guessed the control group of healthy subjects. The fMRIs showed they actually…

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An Old Sketch

August 23, 2012

I’ve been filling out the applications for immigration (USCIS)– well, as much as I can get done on my own–before I see the lawyer at the university next week.

Last night, my dad gave me a folder of some of my old elementary and high school grades/teacher reports since I’ll need proof of records that I studied in the U.S. for many years. It’s required for the DACA (Deferred Action For Childhood Arrivals) application which would give me a work permit. No legal residence, just a work permit (aka SSI#) valid for only two years. So much for citizenship. Twenty-two years in this country and I’ll only have a work permit to show for. Ain’t that a motha–?

Well, somethin’s better than nothin’.

****

There were some funny comments from old teachers. How I had potential and needed to apply myself more.

“P has potential. She does good work when she applies herself!” and “P is receiving an hour tutoring from —-” and “P, remember to finish your homework!” and “P has improved this quarter. She is in ESL Level II [that’s English as a second language]” and “P does really well when she’s able to concentrate” and “P, keep reading every night! Good job [smiley sticker]” are just a few of teacher’s notes from third grade.

What’s funny is my dad kept them but he never really read them due to his limited understanding of English at the time. I’m guessing he saw the smiley stickers and thought, “Ok, she’s good”. I could’ve easily sneaked by with failing grades in high school because my parents never knew when progress reports came out. Good thing I was a damn good student, despite the depression. I could see when I was depressed because my straight As would fall to all As, two or three Bs and an F. Id go from being on the honor roll to being in academic probation. Every time.

****

This got me to snooping around some of my old notebooks I have hidden in my room. ha. And I found this from when I was 16 years old.

God, that was a depressing year.

Jan 2003 (c) paz

********

On the page next to it, I have a sort of poem. It says:

written when high…

These are my snow-covered dreams.
I’d take back all that shit I said to make you feel like that.
I’d give it all to have the thought of me in you again.
These are my snow covered tears.
I try… but I fall apart…
Thwarted tattered imbecile.

I don’t think I was in a very coherent state of mind then, obviously.

********

Note: I think, if I remember correctly, this was written the first time I tried weed. (It would be a while until I’d try it again.) I was out in the backyard all by my lonesome self, freezing my little ass off. I lit a match and accidentally burned a few eyelashes since the wind was howling. When I drove the wheelchair back inside, I ate a whole bag of pretzels and wrote that “poem” and then crashed. I also used to have an eyebrow piercing at the time. I guess that’s what that is on the sketch’s eyebrow.

August 21, 2012

It’s finally here! My first Canvas post. Please forgive any messy mistakes. I’ve been somewhat absent from the bloggie world this last week and a half. My laptop is still broken and a lot has been going on (when doesn’t a lot go on?)

Anyway, the immigration papers/forms came out for deferred action, so I’ve been looking through those. Let me tell you, it’s a pain in the ass and I can’t see the lawyers until the week after next. But at least my frantic, maddening anxiety has gone down a notch. I’ve been swimming every day now instead of every other day. And between that, playing my ukulele, cuddling with little Luna and taking the bus to therapy, I’ve had little time to catch up on reading. 😦

Also, I went out Saturday despite my bro flaking out on me two nights in a row. And for someone with BPD (read: someone with intense fear of abandonment), I think I managed well by writing this post and accepting a ride from Mansie. He did call to apologize yesterday. 🙂

Anyway, without further adieu, here it is!

Hammer, A Senryu

August 20, 2012

Hammer this iron,
this tongue. Oh murderous rage —
strike my scalding mold.

© paz

********

Thanks for the inspiration Le Sailor!

xxx