March 8, 2016
Today has been one of those shit-filled days, those days when I don’t want to be here or anywhere. I say filled with shit because that’s how my head feels. Stuffed and ready to pop. I’ve got all sorts negativity churning inside of me and nothing is digesting well. I hope I can metaphorically vomit this shit out. In attempts to, here I am writing.
I was awaked by a call from my love earlier. I’ll call him, the loverface, V. Vet because I met him at a veterinary clinic where he works as a vet tech. So anyway, he calls me around noon and wakes me. I wake with a big smile because I love hearing from him. I get lost in his voice. There’s nothing more reassuring to me than to hear from the person I’m romantically involved with when I first wake. And not only am I romantically involved with this guy, I am madly in love. This is terrifying. I spent two years in my previous relationship (this was while I was in hiatus from blogging) and it didn’t work out in the end. The end, which happened in June of last year, was as painful as breakups can be. Considering that I have Borderline Personality Disorder however, I’m quite proud of myself for not falling into the deep end. Said previous relationship was the most stable one I’d had, but it ended just as quickly as it started. Maybe I didn’t really love him? I would ask myself
This guy though. Sigh. It is different with him. He reminds me too much of Monkey Man. We have a deep connection that I didn’t have with my ex. And I’ve never fallen in love so soon, even with Monkey Man I didn’t fall so soon. Love can be as scary as it is uplifting. I’m sure you know this from your own experience. When you’ve loved someone who died from addiction, it is even scarier–terrifying–to then fall in love with someone else who also struggles with addiction. Yup. This is the case with my current fella. V. Vet is an alcoholic. He’s tole me all about it. He’s mostly sober now, or “in recovery” as I like to tell myself or he likes to tell me. That’s always my reassurance when I get doubt. He’s in recovery P. He says he doesn’t want to be the way he used to be P.
“You inspire me to be a better person,” he says. He always says.
Well, that wake up call today was not only literal. I see it as a metaphor now. See, he sounded off from the start of our talk. The conversation he lead was annoying the shit out of me. We’re both very excitable people so we tend to interrupt each other a lot, but today I knew he was off, more so than usual. Not only did he interrupt me more, but he just sounded beside himself. One thing to keep in mind is that he also struggles with mental health problems–psychosis and such–so it could be that he was having some sort of episode.
But… My intuition tells me otherwise. Our intuitions are carriers of truth, so I know my intuition doesn’t lie.
After that irritating conversation which I ended up with me in tears, I just hung up. “I’ll just call you back later,” I whimpered, “I can’t talk right now.”
I shoved myself out of bed and started my day. The day dragged from bleh-heh to fuckin bleugh. Everything sucks bleugh. All feelings escalated; the feelings of irritation turned into rage and then melancholy turned into depression. I wanted to lie in bed and cry all day. Then, around 3:00, I called him back. No ring. It went straight to voicemail. I did this two more times in the following two hours and it went the same: “… Please leave your message after the tone.”
Now this isn’t the first time it happened. Here’s where I begin to worry. He already sounded loopy earlier, I haven’t heard from him the rest of the day, AND when I dial his number it goes straight to voicemail. WTF. I tried to control my catastrophic thinking and replace all of the extreme situations I envisioned with to more positive or rational possibilities.
I was lying in bed just wanting to disappear when my dad called me to eat dinner. I reluctantly rolled my ass over there. I was hungry and shaky so it was a relief to finally eat. Just as I was beginning to eat, I got a call from V Vet. Ugh. Bad timing. But… FINALLY! Wait, he sounds even more fucked up that he did earlier. What’s going on? Could it be that he’s drunk?
My heart sank in further. While he babbled I decided to confront him and just simply ask, “Are you drunk?”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No I haven’t,” he replied again with a mumbling and almost slurring roll.
“I want to believe you but I don’t,” I said.
That’s when the conversation ended. Two conversations ended with me crying today. Sigh. By this point I had left the dinning room and was in the bathroom crying. I figured I’d just get in the tub and take a shower to calm myself down. I didn’t want anyone to notice how upset I’d gotten. I cried and washed my hair. Then cried some more and washed my face. I paused to lather my body with soap only to cry again as the water washed off the soap. Once I was dry and dressed, I reached out to a friend who I knew would understand. We texted back and forth for a while. Whew. I just may not explode. I even practiced diaphragmatic breathing. Now on to blogging P. That should help too. Keep it up! Use all of your arsenal woman! YES! I’m using my skills!
And… just as was in the middle of writing this post, I got a third call from him. Let me just say it wasn’t very pretty and I’m still feeling shitty.
I’m left wondering, if he’s good for me the way I am for him? I know what’s good for me. I love him. I also know what I need to do right by me. I’ll have to figure this one out. Le sigh again. It’s not easy and it’s making the trigeminal neuralgia pain flare.
Here’s to a shitty day turned into a shitty night. I can hear the thunderstorm outside and all I want to do is run out in the rain. Maybe I’ll get lucky and be hit by lightning.
August 28, 2012
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!”
(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 P. Anyone 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!
Went to therapy today. The bus ride wasn’t as “fun” as the one last week, though the Houston heat today was much less piercing and much more enjoyable. I was reminded of how many stories I have from years of riding the bus. The people I encounter, I just want to write about them. So many people. I want to write about people.
As far as the actual session. I feel it wasn’t as productive as last week and a part of me wants to quit already, but I know that the thought of quitting therapy is a bit ridiculous since it’s one of my biggest life lines right now. And my homework assignment? Write down negative thoughts that cause intense, negative emotions tand challenge those with cognitive behavioral methods of cognitive restructuring. I’ll explain later.
For now, enjoy some of my ridiculous thoughts. I had some of these on my bus journey to the university campus. Some I had when I woke up from my nap. We all have them, some of us just believe them. I’m one of those.
That black albino girl looks like she came out of the Fifth Element. Why is she still staring? Oh, kids, they stare. She’s kinda cute and very albino, like the dude from the Da Vinci Code. Book was better. Ugh, kids stare because you’re so tiny, it’s just a fact of life. It’s better than ADULTS staring with that OH HOLY GOD WHAT IS THAT, look. Let me just wave my hand and smile–show her I acknowledged her little cute staring. Ooh, hey there, works every time!
Is the whole world fucked or what? That fucker honking at us! Good going albino girl’s mom. Tell him off! Shit, but calm down lady. Don’t go off that hard.
Swimming is only going to make you go deaf quicker. Why do you think your ears are itchy all the time? Swimmer’s ear? Yeah, and that’s just your ear’s nerve cell’s dying P.
Monkey Man needed you and you failed him.
You need a gun. No, a gun wouldn’t work for you. Shit, all those new shiny pills might.
You’re such a bitch. Let go of that thought.
Ugh, don’t use that word in the negative sense! Luna is a little bitch and she’s awesome.
They think you’re an asshole. Why else would you get so many views after writing that last post? So many hushed readers, no bitch? You worthless piece of…
But he saved three dogs from an abandoned warehouse several months ago. Yeah, and now he wants to cheat on his wife. And you’re his object of desire. What does that make you?
You won’t be able to go another day without texting him something sexual.
Lamotrigine is only going to make your hearing loss and tinnitus worse.
Can I just have a roomful of people I can punch? Matter fact, make it a room full of babies!
Your therapist is plotting to kill you, just like your psychiatrist is. Don’t believe them.
This feeling is unbearable. Tear your skin off instead. It’ll feel good.
Oh no, no no. That interview with the reporter is going to suck tomorrow. You’ll say something stupid, I’m sure.
You want to do something with all those new shiny pills don’t you? You think you can’t handle this? Ha!
Oh no! Now that you’ve shared this, the bloggie people will be able to read your mind!
Alright, I’ll stop there. Yes, I was a Cranberries fan in my younger days. Enjoy!
Oh look, it’s young Frodo–I mean, little Elijah Wood. God, I feel like I’m reliving some of my childhood in these songs…
July 30, 2012
As I mentioned in the previous post, I started therapy again three weeks ago. I’m seeing her on Wednesdays. This Wednesday will be my fourth session.
The second session I had with Brunet Young was just as productive as the first, but the third surprised me. Did I actually say all that? Yes, yes you did P. At ‘a girl!
It’s a good thing when you know what you’re getting yourself into when starting therapy. The same could not be said when I first went to see a counselor after my monumental mental meltdown in 2008. I had no idea what to expect then; I even walked out, or rolled out, of a therapist’s office in frustration in 2009. But this time… I have goals this time!
I came into therapy just as desperate, but more ready than ever. I know my borderline personality disorder (BPD) diagnosis, I’m more sure of the bipolar tendencies if the psychiatrist is right, and I’ve learned some basic dialectical behavioral skills training from Ex-Young Therapist as well as core training in cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT).
I’m barely driving out of hell, but I have a tank full of gas, me thinks. That’s hope for ya.
On the second session, much like the first, we went over major areas of my life that need working on. I asked Brunet Young if she could tell me what it was she remembered about my history from the consultation team so I could fill in the rest as best I could.
I told her things like, “the overdose from two months ago was not my first, but definitely the worst” and “I have a history of abuse, though my views on it change. I mean, you have to understand our culture is different. But, it’s a fine line no?” I told her about my mother’s past suicidal tendencies, her upbringing, her sister’s (my aunt’s) suicide and so on. She already knew about my immigration situation, my medical problems, my tendency toward isolation, and my body image issues, so I didn’t have to go into that with her.
We talked a lot about how Monkey Man’s recent and sudden death has affected me, how I was drugged up with him much of the time we were together (off and on), but how I always tried to get him to stop drinking. We discussed ways in which I can work up my courage to call his step-mom and/or dad to ask about the toxicology report results again.
On and on we went. I couldn’t believe myself.
Towards the end of the session, she did something I was so thankful for. She asked me to write a list of issues I thought I hadn’t had a chance to go over with Ex-Young Therapist.
My dad had taken me that second day and, on the way out, he said something that bothered me a little.
“She’s not good like the Ex-Young Therapist is she?”
“Why?” I asked.
“Well, she didn’t say hi to me as kindly as the other one.”
After the initial frustration this remark induced, a light bulb lit up in my head! Aha! I have to discuss this with Brunet Young, not this in particular, but my dad. I have to discuss how I think some of my black and white thinking patterns about myself lead back to his black and white thinking. I didn’t get into depth discussing my dad much with Ex-Young Therapist. I did a little, but more toward the end, or just when issues arose. In fact, because we focused so much on me learning DBT skills, the therapy process and focus remained on present problems and not past, “unresolved” problems.
Last Wednesday, I decided to take the bus for our third session. It was better for all of us. My dad didn’t have gas money and I wanted the liberty of no off-handed comments.
It was an hour and a half bus ride; I have to take two buses and the MetroRail downtown but that’s a hell of a lot better than waiting on ole MetroLift’s shifty ass.
I arrived on time and with my homework assignment completed.
Here is my list of “past problems” I didn’t get to discuss with Ex-Young Therapist. And I added a bonus for Brunet Young. I added some therapy goals–totally my idea.
I’m on a roll. I’m telling you. Here’s what I wrote down for her:
Goals for Therapy
*Manage Panic attacks and chronic pain
*Reduce suicidal and self-injurious impulses/actions/urges and manage the thoughts better. (No more overdosing!)
*Increase support network
-> continue rebuilding relationship with brother
-> get into that DBT group at BT (keep calling! don’t desist!)
-> get involved again in community organizing/activist orgs.
* Interpersonal effectiveness -> review
* Distress tolerance -> review and continue practice!
* Develope a more consistent daily ruitine to include: writing/blogging, sketching, watching Lynda.com tutorials, planing, swimming/yoga, playing ukulele again, and getting a job after filing the immigration papers!
-> remember to do one thing at a time
-> break down into smaller chunks
-> plan ways to reduce stressful situations, not increase or worsen them
* Continue healthy eating / no binging
* Work on self-validation
* Work on healthier ways to deal with complicated grief
-> Monkey Man L’s death and guilt about death
-> hearing loss
* Ask about/look into other methods such as IFS (Internal Family Systems) and Schema Mode therapies.
* Mother’s verbal and physical abuse (I really hate the way I wrote this one because, honestly, I feel closer to my mother than my father and I love them both very much, even when they piss me off. And my mom’s changed for the better after getting help herself.)
* Dad’s continued invalidation and overbearing tendencies (not to mention the fact that I still have to depend on him financially)
* Medical Trauma (e.g. still need to deal with jaw incident and set up a date for surgery, continued nerve pain, decreased bone density, past accidents that led to ER, prolonged stays at hospital during childhood; loads of surgeries)
* Sexuality and validation issues (e.g. what happened with Dusty and Emily)
*Repetetive compulsion with alcohol and drugs (mainly alcohol and self-harm)
* Maladaptive core beliefs (e.g. I am not a “good” person, I’m “a burden,” etc.)
Yep, so that’s what I have so far. We went over this list I wrote, which she said was very good. I think it’s a good starting point too. And since I was able to write it out, it helped when she asked to explain what I meant by “sexuality and validation issues”. That’s when I brought up Sir Dusty and a lot of other things I may or may not mention here. Man, it was hard work!
July 29, 2012
Fuck my bleeding ears! I’m trying to stay positive. I really am. I’m relying on my inner wisdom.
And these days, I’m maintaining a better outlook more than not, which is the complete opposite of what could be said a month and half ago. I feel funny though, and not previous-post funny. The anxiety has just been maddening.
On Friday night, when I hung out with my brother, I ended up staying over the night. Well, around 4am (as usual these days), I woke up with chest pain, feeling like I was having a heart attack. You’re not having a heart attack P. This is just anxiety. I was nauseated, felt the same old prickly feeling in my toes and hands and was shivering too. So I woke up my brother and asked him for another blanket. I told him what I felt and he agreed about the anxiety.
Earlier Friday, I was eating lunch with my dad at the kitchen table. We had arepas and queso and coffee. I hadn’t even touched my coffee yet and my hands were trembling. (I swear, I’ve been cutting back substantially on the coffee.)
“Your hands are shaking really bad. Why are they shaking like that?” he asked.
“I think I’m just having a lot of anxiety right now.” I lowered my head.
“I don’t know. It’s a lot of things, I guess.”
“It looks as if you had Parkinson’s”
Ah my dad, good ole papi. Gotta love the way he throws in something that sounds both amusing and insulting or hurtful (to me) without even meaning to–but sometimes meaning to. I’d made a joke about looking like Michael J. Fox during an interview on my very second (or third) post here! So, yes, this isn’t new. But now it’s noticeable to my dad even?
Today, right now, I’m feeling the same way. I hope it passes soon. I hope typing will at least keep me at ease a little while.
I wonder if it’s the medication that’s making it worse. Almost every morning it’s the same.
At the end of May, a few weeks after the incident, I saw the psychiatrist. She had the Fluoxetine/Prozac upped. I keep wondering, how did I get here? Accepting drugs from a psych? For me, taking “medication” is last, last, last resort.
I saw her again this past Thursday. She said something that both surprised and didn’t surprise me.
“I’m thinking… you seem to have bipolar, bipolar two,” she said midway through our appointment. These appointments, by the way, are actually forty-five minutes long. Ok. Well, at the moment, labels don’t matter to me much. I just need all the help I can get. I don’t want another incident to occur, for the sake of those around me at least. But in part, for my sake too. And that’s a good thing! It means I’m seeing light at the end of the tunnel, despite the way I’m feeling.
Long story short, she prescribed Lamotrigine/Lamictal. I haven’t gotten it yet. I barely ran out of Tegretol last week and didn’t bother to get it filled. Well, there’s was more to it than that. There was the money issue. It’s rough right now. I just wish I could handle things better, without getting so frantic, so worked up inside… Swimming is the only time I don’t feel like I’m drowning!
And now I’m to try yet another drug?
I don’t know. I just don’t know…
But therapy. Right!
I finally got in three weeks ago. The very first week, we covered a lot.
She’s also a young brunet like Ex-Young Therapist, but it’s a university, so what was I expecting, an old student? Anyway, we covered basics, like what I did with my Ex-Young Therapist, what worked, what didn’t work. Turns out this new therapist (I’m going to call her Brunet Young) worked in a team with Ex-Young Therapist, so she already knew a little bit about me. A consultation team is part of dialectical behavioral therapy (DBT).
After going over some of the basics, like major problems in my life, she mentioned the overdose incident from early May. Has it been two and a half months already?
“In the intake interview, you mentioned that you didn’t consider the overdose a suicide attempt. Why is that?” Brunet Young asks.
“Um… I’m not sure,” I reply. I stammer around and stutter for a little while. “Maybe it’s because I have a hard time seeing it as that. But also, I think I was gambling. I was playing Russian roulette. I told myself that if I died that night, then fine, but if I didn’t, I would have to just try a lot harder. I mean, I would’ve definitely taken the entire bottle had I wanted it to be more sure…a more definite thing.”
“How much did you take?”
“About eight painkillers and two sleeping pills.”
“And you were ok with the fact that you might’ve died as a result?”
“Yes, I was.” It’s scary to think, but at the time, I was.
“You know, from a clinical perspective, there is a distinction between suicide attempts. There’s an active suicide attempt and a passive one. What you describe is a more passive attempt.”
She made sure to emphasis that it was still considered an attempt. Or at least that’s how I heard it.
We then wrote up a crisis plan, which looks a little something like this.
When I feel upset and have thoughts of hurting myself or someone else, or I feel that I am in emotional crisis, I will take the following steps:
1. My warning signs are (e.g. very self-critical, hopeless, isolation, staying in bed)
-passive thoughts of suicide increase in frequency and become clearer, more of an urge/stronger urge
-insomnia and crying spells worsen
-triggers (e.g. Monkey Man, relationships, drugs, reminders, etc) –> anger/rage
-isolating myself –> not picking up calls, curling up in bed and staring blankly, dissociating
-being upset about hearing loss; being upset on days when I’m not able to go swimming
-chronic bone pain intensifies; facial nerve pain increases
2. My reasons to live are:
– I can do a lot for others. I have potential to do a lot.
-I don’t want to hurt my family
That’s all I have for reasons right now. I used to have career plans, but that’s not strong-holding at the moment. It has to be something that you really believe, something that will grab you, will keep you from doing anything permanent–a true deterrent. I think I need to come up with more. I told Brunet Young this and she said, “It’s alright, we’ll come up with more later.” I thought of adding “love”. Just focus on the word love, the meaning of it for me, how I’ve managed to hold on to “love” in my life. But love of what? Art? Life? Beauty? Family? How can you focus on that in a “crisis” situation when all you’re thinking about is the pain you’re in and peaceful bliss of death and non-existance?
3. Do these things to calm myself or distract myself:
-say serenity prayer and Buddha refuge prayer
-If at home, call Luna, pet and cuddle with her. (The good thing about Luna is if she hears me crying, I don’t even have to call her over. She finds me. Sweetest dog ever.)
-remember “Distress Tolerance” –> follow breath, deep breathing
-self sooth –> hum a tune, splash water on face, take warm bath, play ukulele
-write, write, write
-read, read, read
-watch TV (comedy preferably)
-stretch with yoga mat
-image focus –>meditate
-progressive muscle relaxation
-review “coping card”
-take a short nap and/or break from whatever you’re doing (e.g. go out in the fresh air and walk the dogs)
4. Contact a friend or family member that I can trust:
name & number: answering service at PRSC –>that’s the university’s psychological research and services center
Also, I’ve listed my brother, mom, and maybe B and Mansie, Ryden and Eloise, although I’m having a hard time with this one. I’ll really need to work at it.
5. Call PRSC and ask to speak with my therapist
6. If it is after clinic hours (M-Th 9-8; F 9-5) and I can’t reach my therapist, call the PRSC after-hours answering service at **********
7. Call a hotline for support or assistance:
I also have several other local hotline numbers included here. But I don’t do hotlines. It’s not how I roll.
8. If I am unable to get help quickly enough and feel that things can’t wait, I will call 911 or go to the nearest emergency room for help.
The thing about the crisis plan is that I have only been able to get myself to do steps one through three, maybe four. I’m able to recognize warning signs and use methods like distress tolerance and mindfulness, but contacting a “trusted” person is difficult. That’s the thing, on Friday, I did contact my brother, but I did it after too much thinking. Also, I don’t tell him how bad I feel, I just ask him what’s up. Brunet Young said that was fine, I don’t exactly have to tell him, especially not now if I’m not comfortable doing so. The important thing is to distract in non-harmful ways.
Another difficulty I’m having with this crisis plan is knowing the “answering service” after hours aren’t open on weekends. I’ll have to ask her about this. But even then, I’m not the type of person who would call. I think I only called Ex-Young Therapist twice or maybe three times during a “crisis situation”. And that was after two years of seeing her! One of those times was a few days after I found out about Monkey Man’s death this March.
I used to hate the idea of therapy. Sometimes I still do. Right now though, I’m just glad I finally got in again.
July 28, 2012
Yes, I just got a good giggle from fellow blogger THAM. Click if you want to laugh too! I’m not saying what it is, just click and come back here afterward, ya hear.
The last few days have been slippery (think it’s the premenstrual suicidal syndrome-pmss– kicking in) and I realized how depressing my last post was, so I’m glad two people cracked up an already cracking P.
Yesterday, while I was at home alone–well, home with the dogs–and in the midst of despair, my brother dropped by so we could watch movie at his apartment. On the way there, he starts telling me the funniest story I’d heard in days. It was something that would have played out perfectly on that show, The Office. Think awkward moment silliness in an office meeting.
It involves the movie Robocop (a childhood favorite of ours), the severed head of Alex Murphy from Robocop, Photoshop and a picture of my brother’s face, my brother giving a presentation with the slide of said severed head and said picture, pictures of the family and the dogs, and a confused and probably scared crowed of high-maintenance female co-workers that probably know nothing about sci-fi geekery since they didn’t even know that was Robocop’s severed head. It’s just one of those things you have to see. Priceless. Ok, I may post it as a “private post” just for you, limited time only though. But shhhhh…. Promise not to tell him. Ok?
Anyway, today miss THAM decides challenge my brother on a “who can make suicidal P laugh the most contest”. All I’m gonna say is she did good too. This was my reply to her post which I mentioned above:
Aw. I liked that Fred guy! Though I hardly got to read from his blog (just too many)
And… BAHAAGGGHAAAH! LOVE IT! It made my dad thus far. Yesterday my brother cracked me up with a work story and today you.
Unfortunately for me, it’s common to get “licking balls” in my search term ever since I made my “this sucks old, wrinkled hairy balls” joke.
Here are my search terms from two days ago just so you can get a glimpse of what I mean:
little t-rex duck 2
bpd why he hates me 1
keep finding little hairy balls 1 <——- SEE! TOLD YA!
melancholically manic mouse 1
borderline numbing out 1
videos vestidas como perras 1 <—- I get the “putas perras” one a lot too, which is a little disheartening. oh and the HULK. I seem to get the HULK a lot.
ayahuasca for depression 1
borderline personality whimpering 1
Note the misspelling of day as dad. And now I’m wondering about that last one. Bordeline personality whimpering? hmmmm. Yes, I’ve been whimpering a lot and yes I was diagnosed with borderline personality or whatever you want to call it. But what kind of search term is that?
And is my t-rex duck arm famous now? I wanna know! Cause if it is, I want royalties on that shit!
I’m serious. I’m this serious 😐
Also, last week as seen on my Facebook page, I got another scary “old —- balls” search term: “pictures of old wrinkled balls”. Yep, and I thought “naked Hulk” and “Hulk’s hairy chest” were a bit much.
Goes to show two things guys. One, humanity is full of nuttiness and is just plain nutzzzzz! And two, laughter is good for the soul, which is why I’ll do my best not to forget that silly side of P.
Remind her to come out more, will you? She forgets, especially on PMSS and mourning days like these.
thanks and mouse love
July 12, 2012
It’s the middle of the night. All is quiet. I’m alright, then SWHOOSH–the fire lights up. I think part of the gasoline was poured earlier today with the hearing test results at the hospital (I had the infusion done too).
I’m now having what can only be described as a hellish night. FUCK YOU PLDs! You may be pretty but you’re fuckin’ mean!
I don’t get how I can turn such a sharp corner from feeling alright to crying in the bathroom, getting myself to be mindful, to refocus on the present moment and not dissociate.
Ok, ok, start your breathing exercises. What does the floor feel like? Step on it. Feeeeeel it. Ok. It’s cool. Say your Serenity Prayer. Go back to bed now.
But then it all starts over again and I’m heaving and moaning like some zebra that just got striked by a lion and though he’s got a mean grip at my throat, I’m not quite dead; I’m gasping, and I think, “Oh god, I have to be up at 7:30 so I can take the bus, 1 and a half hour ride to the university for my very first appointment back in therapy.”
Oh and today at the hospital…
I don’t get it. I don’t get how I can go from being ok to crawling into a fetal position wanting so badly to jab and tare up a vein and watch it all drain out, slowly and peacefully.
Then I see this.
And more than the words, the bright green and red colors–the complementary color contrast soothes. In DBT this would be, “self sooth” and “distract” skills for distress tolerance and emotional regulation.
And I realize I’m choosing to use my coping skills as best I can (though I did take one of my year-old, spare Clonazepam).
I’m choosing to use my wise mind. My heartbeat is back at a regular pace. Hopefully after writing this I’ll catch some sleep.
July 9, 2012
I feel like no matter what I do, I’m going to slip into an early grave. I’ve got my right foot in the coffin and my left foot in the pool. I’m no longer at a “kill yourself” mentality most days but rather a, “haha, you’re going to die soon even if you don’t kill yourself so best enjoy this fuckin’ ride” mentality.
That’s an improvement right?
Look at me Monkey Man. I’m gonna die young like you!
I’m laughing like the Joker and whimpering with all the oxygen I have left.
I hope it ends quick, but clearly it hasn’t been. I can’t keep waking up like this–nauseated, shaky, dizzy, with a croaking frog lodged in my throat, with a well of tears backed up behind my eyes, with my stomach churning, my chest palpitating, my toes and fingers tingling and my lungs so out of breath! People with Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI) tend to have heart and lung problems but I know this is due to anxiety, not my OI.
Is this a panic attack?
Am I getting one every morning?
Is it the medications?
What the fuck man!?
I’ll admit, I took two painkillers and an Ambien last night because the jaw pain has gotten bad again. I don’t know why it’s gotten bad again but it has. I know I have to have the metal plate removed. I should just get it over with, but I’m afraid. The surgery I mean… because of how they fucked it up last time. Anyway, I only have three painkillers left.
I just don’t know what to do. Hang on I suppose. Hang on tight. Hang on clawing if I have to.
But I feel like tearing at my skin in hopes that it will stop.
waking up like this.
With heavens help, I’ll carry these Pretty Little Demons well.