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.

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My heart’s made of parts of all that’s around me

And that’s why the devil just can’t get around me

Every single night’s alright, every single night’s a fight
And every single fight’s alright with my brain

I just want to feel everything

~Fiona Apple

********

The fever hit again in the afternoon.

Yep, I’m fighting a cold guys. It started Saturday when I hit my goal of fourteen laps in forty-five minutes at the pool. It came full swing at me Sunday night and yesterday morning. But yesterday was also my first day at the job, so I couldn’t back out.

I got to the office at two and Mansie showed me a few things since she’ll be my supervisor. I wish I could tell you guys what it is exactly that I’ll be doing (truth is I don’t even know yet), but all I’m going to say is I’m the “New Media Intern,” and H, Mansie’s boss wants me to have as much creative freedom as I can possibly get. That’s what she said he told her. He did tell me he saw something in me and that’s exciting but also very scary considering how unstable I’ve been.

What does he see? What is expected of me? I’m too much of a perfectionist to not drown in my own questioning and self doubt. Maybe that’s why I’ve never responded so well to compliments.

****

I think the job has been a blessing even though it’s stipend pay, even though I have some immigration concerns, even though the pay is next to nothing. Why? It’s something that will keep me busy for ten to twenty hours a week. Keeping me busy, means I’ll have no time for tears.

At the same time, I’m afraid I’ll break down at the office. I’ve barely been there one day and already I feel I’m having to fight the Pretty Little Demons (PLDs) to the point of exhaustion. They’re a funny gang, these demons.

*******

There’s so much I want to write, but I haven’t been able to get my head around any of it. Or rather, as Fiona Apple sings in this lovely song, “the devil just can’t get around me”. Oh but it does. It just comes back with its gang of PLDs.

Speaking of devils and demons, I used to have night terrors as a kid and one of them was a recurring dream of the devil coming after me. It was like the devil lived in my closet. Damn Catholic superstitions! And now I’ve begun to have them again, only I can’t remember much.

****

I’ve been swimming as a way to pacify the PLDs but today with the cold, the coughing, the phlegm, I had to hold it off. The fever in my body is down today thankfully, but the fever in my brain burns on. A funny thing this fire–this raw emotion. Kiera Van Gelder, the author of “The Buddha & The Borderline: My Recovery From Borderline Personality Disorder Through Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, Buddhism and Online Dating,” mentions this fire a lot. Ever seen the picture of the famous monk that set himself on fire? Kiera mentions that monk and says that that’s how she feels, though much less noble. That’s how I feel, like I’m burning myself alive. It shouldn’t have struck me as odd though because fire has always been a metaphor for intense and passionate emotions.

****

What did strike me ass odd was the fact that the emotion comes with a fight. An inner struggle that is almost unbearable sometimes. Kiera always comes back to the metaphor of a “burnt patient” with no “emotional skin” which Dr. Linehan, the mother of Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT), first gave in her manual on treating borderlines.

Last night, Kiera’s words stuck out and struck me:

I try not to let go of the mindfulness practice. I observe the emotions crest and clash, tidal in the coming and going of perspectives. Opposing forces battle within me: I want to get better. I want to die. I want to be loved. I want to spit on the face of everyone I see. Such drastic shifts exhaust me, and I know they baffle others. And it’s gaining momentum again. My mercurial self is clamoring for a foothold, and I’m slipping. Borderlines are experts at wrestling with demons; the problem is, we always seem to lose. Fight long enough, and it only makes sense to join the demons. What other choice is there?

Every single night I fight the gang of Pretty Little Demons, and they seem to have recruited new members in the last two months. Every single night is a battle with my brain as Fiona says. But it’s all right! The Mouse is having ping pong matches with them every day, and when I swim, I can drown them out a little. Sometimes, like on Saturday, I’ll get a crying fit while a do a lap, but it’s alright. It’s alright honey.

If there ever were “borderline girl” songs, they would be in Fiona Apple’s entire discography as it is a reflection of my very being. Thank you Fiona for doing what you do best, write about your PLD’s, sing about them, and smash your angry hands at the piano. Kiera, like Fiona, like myself are drawn to the creative fields. “What other choice is there?” Kiera asks but answers by knowing that she just has to “transform this despair into power”.

That’s what Fiona has done with her music and what it means to me. That’s what I hope to do.

********

Does life have to be a battle? I don’t know. Life just is. Yet seeing the way impalas run from a lion, seeing the way they clash their horns when fighting over a female makes me think differently. Seeing my own survival, seeing my owns demons clash makes me think differently. And I know that for some of us, it’s an all out war–those of us who, as Jill over at Not Quite Lost, mentioned “live in survival mode”.

addendum: I recently found out Fiona Apple’s fourth albums is complete and will be released soon! This song is from the new albums. Check this out! Yes, I’m going to marry her someday though neither of us cares for marriage.

And forgive my rambling, off-beat writing. These days I’m not so coherent.

********

Then brother get back ’cause my breast’s gonna bust open
The rib is the shell and the heart is the yolk
And I just made a meal for us both to choke on ….

And maybe I’d relax, let my breast just bust open

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

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.


********

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) and substance use disorders (SUDS aka drug abuse and addiction) have high co-occurrences.

Like many of those diagnosed with BPD, I’ve had an issue with drugs, both illicit and prescribed. The first drug I got hooked on was alcohol when I was fifteen. Later on, there were others. I’ve never been addicted hardcore. I’ve always had a level of restraint despite my low impulse control, but mostly, I’ve just always had a lack of access. So I was always able to maintain a strong will with an air of sobriety and a high functioning persona, but the looming pitfalls awaited throughout the years.

********

So drugs.

Isn’t this nation (U.S. of A) over-medicated? I think so. I’m currently rethinking and outweighing the pros and cons of going inpatient because of this urge to take the rest of the painkillers I have left and that just mean I’m afraid I’ll OD again. I think I’ll have to call New Male Therapist because I still haven’t heard back from that DBT group I was supposed to get screened to get into and the other three waiting lists I’m on. I’m hanging on though, barely, but I am. I’m really tired of the nonstop crying bouts, these random highs and lows, this susceptibility to triggers everywhere. It’s exhausting. I feel like fainting every morning. Ha. I just got a picture of a damsel in distress fainting and then a flutter of birds swooping in from the window to pick me up like a Disney-style Cinderella in her opening shower scene.

********

Well, this “borderline girl” P feels a tad over-medicated sometimes. I feel like the drugs given to me by my psychiatrist are gonna kill me, sometimes, like now, I hope they do. Other times, like yesterday, I worry they will. I worry I won’t make it to thirty.

And why do they call illicit drugs “controlled substances” when prescribed drugs are substances just as, or more “controlled”?

And aren’t we just mere chemicals bouncing around? You know, quantum physics and shit.

We are the essence of substances which contain energy, more or less. That’s why I love to bounce to this beat, because it’s so energetic, maybe. It’s called none other than “Drugs” by the wonderful Ratatat.

Yeah, I have nothing else of interest to write since my “Good List” went to shit after I’d only written half of it and then I got another one of my mini breakdowns this weekend and on Monday, so I figured I’d just throw in another “Bordeline Girl Song of the Week” for filler… until I get my head on straight.

********

By the way, our human bodies… I’m probably saying “human bodies” because I started watching Battlestar Galactica for the first time on Sunday to cope. Guys, I know, I have to get nerd/geek points for this or something–anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, human bodies. Our bodies produce a tad bit of DMT, one of THE MOST powerful psychotropic chemical compounds in the history of our existence. It is a naturally occurring substance that is also seen in plants like ayahuasca which is found in places like the Amazons.

The Amazonian shamans use ayahuasca it to get “into the spiritual” realm. You know, religious rituals and such. Well, I’m from Colombia, and I sometimes wonder if I ever get my legal/immigration and financial situation fixed, I’ll travel to my birthplace and after visiting family I’ve never met, I’ll go down to the Amazons and ask those shamans for a little hit of ayahuasca and give god/universe a high five, a kiss or a cursing scream (depends on my mood guys).

Then, I’ll say, “Drugs no more”.  Except love, ’cause love is also a drug.

Oh, and now I know what this song reminds me of. Ahhh, yes, it reminds me of Jaques Cousteau Escargot. (It’s French spelling guys  because he had a French name though he was adopted, so that’s what we’ll call him for now.)

Anyway, he’s the boy that broke my heart back in late 2007 (I was drinking and druggin’ every night by then). He’s the boy that triggered my Monumental Mental Meltdown in 2008. And that meltdown was what led me to see my first psychiatrist ever.

Thank you Jaques Cousteau Escargot! Thank you alcohol! Thanks to you two and my “borderline”self- destructive ways and my depressive susceptibility, I am now in a merry-go-round with the mental health system. You’ve led me to a revelation, though I happen to think I’m no better seeing it–not at the moment at least.

Drugs. Love em. Hate em. Nuf’ said.

addendum: Dear Dotty says Venus is going to fly over the Sun today! TRANSIT OF VENUS GUYS! I have not seen the news due to my current Battlestar Galactica addiction on my brother’s Netflix account and the fact that I don’t have antenae for HD conversion, so I don’t know what time it’ll be in your part of the world, but it seems like trippy stuff and you don’t have to take any drugs for the trip. Just look up at the sky (wear protective eye gear and punch a hole in a paper if you don’t have any special equipment).

*Trigger warning? Read tags*

This one is self explanatory. It’s “numb” by Portishead, lyrics written by the beautiful Beth Gibbons, music by the guys. And I can tell you, from my experience, that the “borderline’s” tendency towards feeling “chronic emptiness” is embodied in this song, for me at least. These songs are only here because of what they mean to ME. Please don’t take this as my interpretation of them as what they are supposed to mean for you, and especially not the writers themselves. They are not songs about “borderline girls”. I don’t mean overstatements and overgenralizations, so apologies ahead of time.

********

I just got back from Mansie’s surprise birthday party. It was wonderful! And I was ready to write one of my “Good Lists” for Saturday/tomorrow, but I had a trigger on the way home. B was driving me back. I’d drank a little at the party, and though no one from the activist group of friends besides C. and his girlfriend KJK, went out back with them. I went out and I smoked with the two of them, KJK and C, out in the back patio of the J. House. God, I’ve missed Mary J (yeah, yeah, I know it can be a depressant, especially with alcohol not to mention I’m on two different meds and took clonazepam to calm my nerves).

********

See, B and I were in the car when all of a suddenl, as if to break a momentary silence, he asked, “You ever been to Victoria, P?”

Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Is that enough times? God no. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria.Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria.Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Not enough still? Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. Victoria. I’d say more. I’ve been to Victoria more than that.

“Yes, I have. Why do you ask?” I quietly replied. I got suspicious that someone had told him. I was still a little drunk, AM STILL a little drunk. He hadn’t drank all night thankfully.

“Uh, I was just wondering what it would be like to live in a place like that. I always pass by there when I go to the valley.” We’d been talking about the valley and an activist girl from there who was at the party.

“Yeah, well I know what it’s like to live there, at least from the times I visited. You remember L?” Tears began to swell.

“Yeah, the guy you were thinking of marrying and had the off and on situation with?”

“Yeah, he died,” I burst into tears.

“Oh no P, I’m sorry… When?”

“In March, at the end of March… and I don’t even know how he died! … Yeah, exactly… speculations… speculations…There are only speculations,” I couldn’t contain it. I didn’t want to tell him I suspect it was an overdose. It kills me, the speculation.

Poor B, he apologized for triggering… apologized to me so many times. He’d already had a bad night with Mansie, his ex. Good for me though; I was able to cry in front of someone besides my immediate family. He cried a little too. He told me about the death of three of his friends in an attempt to console me, and probably himself too. And also as a way to connect.

L was more than a friend, more than an ex-lover boy. He was family to me. I haven’t had the kind of connection I had with L with anyone in my entire life.

And when I got inside the house, I cut (just a bit), more like jabbed at my elbow with a pocket knife from my keys, and I downed four hydrocodones and a clonazepam–crushed the clonazepam. I’m still high and numb at the moment. High. High. I know, I know. Stupid. It felt good though; it helped–only momentarily, I know. It’s only momentarily relief. That’s all this shit provides. It’s superficial relief. I hadn’t done this since last September, this cutting business. It’s so ridiculous. It’s so ridiculous how much more numb I want to be.

********

Monkey Man L was raised in Victoria. I have endless memories of that place–beautiful memories, fucked up memories, lovely memories–all of of spending weekends, entire weeks with him there in VICTORIA. Oh yes, I’ve been to Victoria, Texas. I’ve been.

The good thing is I opened up a little to B. He told me about the loss of three friends. I didn’t let him get near me until I was in the doorstep in which I asked for a hug and he stumbled on his own words trying to comfort me again. He’s a nice guys, very sweet–a genuinely kiund heart.

As Beth Gibbons says in this song, I feel like “A lady of war” indeed. A constant war.

But I do need to write that Good List. So more on this in my good list because pleasant, or “good” and progressive things have been happening. I can’t think all black and white now, can I? Night. Night. Numb. Numb. Smile. Smile.

I’m going to go lie down have a conversation with Monkey Man L now. It was a long, eventful day.

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 »

So, just one more for today. I’ve been working (trying to at least) on this invitation card design all day. It’s for a non-profit I’ve volunteered for in the past. I’d promised to get it in last Monday but because of my little incident, I couldn’t . There goes the flakiness I was talking about.

Anyway, I AM getting it done now. How’s that for cognitive and behavioral restructuring?

The title of the invitation is:

“Down With Wage Theft FIESTA!”

Pretty cool, huh? Yeah, I figure if I’m doing things like this, I’m still maintaining. I’ve gotten a referral for group (DBT) therapy because I requested it, and I’m waiting on that now… Haven’t heard back from the psychiatrist though and probably won’t considering what the receptionist told me. Blegh. “You have to go to the ER. We don’t handle emergencies.”

And my mind has been racing all over the place. And family got together, just my little family of four, but when we get together we sound like ten. So I’m super hyped still and in my hyped state I wrote a WHOLE BUNCH of posts that have become a little series now. heehee

I’m titling this series, “Borderline Girl Songs” because these are songs that have always reminded me of my mental struggles and kept me company in some way or another.

Now I know I shouldn’t be listening or reading anything triggering right now (oops already did accidentally). However, even though this first song I selected, “The Outsider,” by A Perfect Circle may be an angry song, it’s actually a song that has often  motivated me not to commit suicide, or so I think.

Oh, Maynard you can make me swoon by listening to your crooning and/or your yelling voice all day.

Enjoy!

*I suppose to or should I add a trigger warning here?*

Liking Her More and More

November 21, 2012

I was a metal-head and a punk, but my appreciation for music goes far beyond that. I was a musician. I guess I should use that in the present tense–I AM a musician. But I have trouble accepting that, always have.

I’m now faced with declined hearing due to the OI. I’m starting to wear my hearing aide more often (I have two but one needs adjustment), particularly when I sing and want to enjoy undertones in music. Going deaf is one of my biggest fears. I often think that I’ll definitely kill myself if that ever happens.

But lately, I’ve been calmer, more generally content–not happy, just content. I don’t like the word happy. My contentment, however, has reached back out to the warm embrace of music, the one thing that has saved my life before.

I picked up my ukulele a few months ago when I was in the dark and the PLDs had moved in again. And though I haven’t played recently, I still plan to play it and eventually maybe write songs again. Most of my songs start off as poems anyway, so maybe (just maybe) I could adapt some of my NaPoWriMo poems as uke songs.

****

Oh right, Lana! So on my Borderline Girl Song Week Thirteen post, I posted a Lana Del Rey Song. Her real name is Lizzy Grant. In that post, I called her pretentious but good. I suppose though, that pretentious is just a label given to any musician that takes their music seriously. So I will back away from that word. I’ve been listening to her more and more. Surprisingly, despite my minuscule stature, I sing better in her register, or rather, women who sing in lower, contralto registers like two of my favorites–Amy Winehouse and Fiona Apple.

I’m liking her more and more. I want to sing again and shout out loud. But I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll fail. Afraid I’ll quit like I have before. I can’t let the fear of my hearing loss take control of my actions though.

Here she is singing live. Oh, yeah, and it turns out she CAN sing very well live. It just depends.

There is so much I want to write about  (and not just about myself, heh).

I wish I had the poetic air that filled me in April during NaPoWriMo. It just seems to have depleted. But I’ve been feeling somewhat, oh I don’t know, “normal”. Is that even an accurate way of describing not wanting to kill yourself everyday?

I was really excercizing some demons there with some of those poems. Actually, the Pretty Little Demons (PLDs) were exercising the Mouse if you recall the ping-pong matches they started in May and all the other ruckus.

Feels like an enema is being done in my head now. But I will write and/or sketch something proper soon enough (as if I ever did). For now, I give  you this from Nacho Libre:

********

p.s. I saw Dusty yesterday. We had sex. And I want to have sex with him again and again and again and again. I know. I know. But he’ll be leaving for Brazil tomorrow, for a few months, with his family (his dad is Brazilian). And I have a therapy appointment tomorrow (have to ride the MetroLift since it’s been raining all week, bleugh). I kind of want to tell her, the therapist, about Dusty since it’s barely my second session in which we’ll do an overview of my life’s major problems–and well, the Saga of Dusty and P covers a lot of my druggy days/years. But I’ve never been open with therapists about sexual things. Should I tell her about him? It’s just… I think I’m hypomanic… I should leave this for another post.

p.p.s. XOXOxxxX

p.p.p.s. Your support has been incredible.