March 23, 2013
… A mental Monkey Man.
Chances are that what I don’t get blogged today, I won’t blog tomorrow, so here I go before another day passes.
Yesterday was the “anniversary” of the day I got the call that Monkey Man was found dead. I don’t even know if I should call it “anniversary”. Something about the connotation of that is upsetting me. So anyway, I’ll just say, a year ago yesterday, I got the news that Monkey Man was no longer with us.
Those of you that followed me back then know the story. I will not repeat it, nor do I want to. Yesterday, I spent most of the therapy session talking about it. And slowly but surely I realize that I am moving past this. The pain will never be completely gone, but I am ok with that now. I am working at managing my life and actually FEEL ALIVE today.
Brunet Young and I discussed so much and I felt relieved. I told her how sometimes I feel “happy” that he’s gone and feel like a “bad” person for that. We later found that maybe “happy” wasn’t the right word. No, not at all.
I cried in front of her for the first time. There are just too many emotions to describe or begin to recognize when someone you love dies this way–by their own hands. And there is A LOT OF ANGER! I for one have dealt with anger management problems all of my life (common in peopole with BPD). She suggested maybe, in a way, I’m relieved, definitely not “happy” about it. And that’s ok. It doesn’t mean I’m, a “bad” person.
Why else would so many of the depressing blog posts on here be about him?
One thing I did this week was draw this portrait in memory him. A.F., his stepsister gave me this picture she took of us sometime in 2006-2007. It was what she calls the “happy summer”. Strangely enough, I was very depressed then, but Monkey Man was glowing and everyone said it was on account of me being there.
The relationship I had with him was so intense, so wonderful, so terrifying, so loving yet so abusive at times. I learned a lot from that relationship.
But I did love him and I know he loved me.
Correction, I do love him. I know he’d be proud of how well things are going for me these days. I found a text he had sent me on my phone about two months ago, it reads:
“It’s ok my love. U r one of the most powerful people i know. I wish i had the strength u have”
Art brings me comfort.
March 19, 2013
It’s almost the end of the third month into 2013. I blogged for mental health all of last year. No, no. I BEGGED for mental health all of last year. And I never pledged the pledge but I walked the walk or whatever.
My fellow Canvas bloggies have established a pledging that connects people with the mental-health blogging community. This blog has been a reflection of my personal journey in the last year and a half. My mental health has improved drastically since then. No drastically sounds too negative. It has improved INCREDIBLY.
I am at a point now where I’m not having to fight off suicidal ideations, thoughts and urges damn near every hour of everyday. I am not constantly cryin’ or having panic attacks all the time. Since the start of this blog I lost someone dear, had a ton of medical issues, and made a suicide attempt. Then I found out that my Ex-Young therapist had diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder, my therapist left (that was just before the suicide attempt) and in June of 2012, I finally got back in therapy and tried different medications.
I’m still going to therapy once a week, mostly. It’s on Fridays these days. No more Thursday therapy ’cause I’m working and Brunet Young changed her schedule. Therapy has been a major lifeline, so has this blog (as I’ve mentioned dozens of times before) and my swimming. I’m still swimming despite all the shit thrown at me. I’m fortunate that my mom is still working at the gym and I’m able to go and release my demons for free, for a bit at least.
Of course I still struggle. Life is a struggle and for those with mental health issues, that struggle becomes unbearable, so painful that it kills. It is another kind of struggle in itself. But I have accomplished many of my “goals for therapy” and am still working on others.
My “stability” has settle some.
I have a bit more clarity in my life now and feeling a sense of direction, despite my many changes in course. There are so many challenges, so much more to endure and enjoy. I don’t know where I’m at with this blog. I’ve considered retiring it many times (as a “borderline” I’ll drastically change my mind from one minute to the next ha). But I think I’m giving it a go for a bit longer.
I’m continuing my pledge to write for mental health, to shout out, to show that we are not alone in this.
Please visit my Canvas family at A Canvas of the Minds. It’s a great little blog of mental health bloggers and shenanigans!
Oh oh. And I ALMOST forgot. Thank you Laura/Soul Survivor for pledging me this year. You can find her blog, Bipolar for Life by clicking the link.
October 27, 2012
I’ve had a good week though I’m having a shitty night. I really want to drink and pass out, but I won’t. Or at least I’m trying not to. I was gonna post another song, but this one’s been in my head all week and I’m feeling lonely at the moment.
I like being by myself much of the time, but I can’t stand being alone– that empty feeling– and especially that feeling of being abandoned. Alone has nothing to do with being with one’s self. It, like many things in life, is just a state of mind. I can and have been surrounded by hundreds of people and felt completely alone–empty, devoid of human warmth, of connection.
But I haven’t been feeling “alone” or lonely lately, which is almost strange for me–to NOT feel alone. I’ve spent most of my life feeling alone, distant, cut off from the world as if an opposing magnetic force shielded me from humanity.
Tonight I do feel very, very lonesome. That shield has been placed over me again. See, I had plans today to go to a Halloween party. I was so anxious. The anxiety had been building up. I haven’t even properly worn a costume since I was probably thirteen years old. I don’t even think I’ve been invited to Halloween parties since I was a small child (maybe a few exceptions). Anyway, I even talked to the therapist about this Halloween party and how anxious I get despite the fact that I’ve been more social lately. I love Warrior D, so I was looking forward to going and seeing her. She’s the one throwing the party, only her home is waaaay far up north Houston. She’s also the only person I’ve told about my overdose in May.
Well, all my plans for tonight went down the fuckin’ drain (I don’t get plans, making them and all). It makes it harder when you don’t drive in a city that is built on nothing but highways and SUVs. It doesn’t make it easy when everyone bails on you last minute. And it doesn’t help that one of the “borderline” characteristics is having a deep-seeded fear of abandonment. I’m just coming to terms with it. But I can’t help to feel abandoned (albeit momentarily) by any little insignificant thing like this. They couldn’t get me to where I wanted to go, so now it means they don’t care and I shouldn’t give a fuck about anyone. I depended on them; I hate not being able to have that sense of freedom independence grants you, hence, I suck and so does my existence. That’s the twisted way my mind interprets the situation. However, I’m intelligent, I’m calmer these days than I have been all year. And I’m aware. I’m working on using more balanced/adaptive cognitive restructuring here… I won’t see things in black and white and I definitely understand why the others couldn’t make it out to give me a ride. I understand their side.
Wish I had some weed though.
So now I’m chillin’ with the dogs trying to use self-sooth by cuddling with them, keeping busy and using the distracting coping mechanism taught in DBT; I’m writing this and maybe watching a movie later or taking them for a walk. I thought about reading some blogs or some poems from this book I got at the university, but I’ve been having the reading spasms. I just can’t seem to read much these days.
Guess it hasn’t been a COMPLETELY bad day. Nah, it was a nice, pleasant afternoon. Houston decided to finally feel like fall; the chill brushed in to our coast.
I don’t even like to use the words ‘good’ and ‘bad’ to describe most things. That’s why I won’t say tonight is bad. There have been a few disappointments, but it happens. Though days like this are when I miss Monkey Man the most. I felt alone with him much of the time (especially when he was high and drunk out of his mind), but at least I got some comfort of a warm body and of knowing he was filled with me and I could be filled with his lovin’. I did (and still do) love him.
Well, I’m out my magnificent mofo’ bloggies and MFFs.
Oh, and here’s the lovely Amy
“Got so sick of cryin’, so just lately, when I catch myself, I do a 180” ~Amy Winehouse
I’m catchin’ myself. Catchin’ the Mouse. Catching the Pretty Little Demons and tuckin’ their sleepy thorny heads in to bed.
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”.
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?
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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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.
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.
…of old-school Latin pop music from P’s palette. First it was my guilty pleasure, Gloria Trevi (see previous post), and now I bring to you a pop, power-ballad by Amanda Miguel who sings like a howling cat (if cats could howl).
“El Me Mintio/He Lied to Me”. This, along with Trevi’s “Dr. Psiquiatra” will be my unofficial “Borderline Girl Song(s)” for the week. hahah! Don’t you just love that 80s big hair!?
So, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been texting back and forth with this fella that’s in his late thirties to early forties–probably forty-two at most. I met him a few years back through my BPD-Friend-I-Keep-At-A-Close-Distance. I’m going to call her Ryden since we both love the pop surrealist painter Mark Ryden.
Anway, I met him because of her and he became a mutual friend. He is clearly into me but I always ignored and doubted the fact, especially since he was married. He divorced his wife not long ago though. And about two, maybe three weeks ago the texts started rolling in. They eventually became sexual. He’s a nice fella, I think. I’m always doubting people though. He’s a drummer too. He’s shy and I kind of like that. I also like that he speaks Spanish like I do. I guess what I mean is I like that we’re both immigrants, only he came here way before I did. He has a good taste in music, but that means nothing really. There are a lot of things I like about him, I suppose.
Then I start to think I got ahead of myself. You’re being impulsive P! Getting with this dude may open a can of worms!
I mean, I don’t think I would normally go for him, though I’m not sure. He knew how to get to me–through humor. He turned me on by being funny about it! Dammit, I can’t help that I like clowns (not the scary ones). There’s just one thing: He’s a heavy drinker. I definitely don’t like that.
I know I’m vulnerable right now. I also know that I don’t ever want to be involved with an alcoholic again, even if it’s just a non-committed thing. (God, I hate saying that.) He’s heavy too, overweight. I don’t mind much about a fella’s weight or how a fella looks, but it does count for something–mainly lifestyle–and besides, I do have my limits or standards I suppose… and it’s best the guy not be heavy because I’m… I’m… I’m tiny! It’s just seems a bit weird when…you know…but then again, I’m weird. And… I mean, it’s not like I’m planning to date this person. I’m not.
The texting has gotten more consistent and intense. I’m waking up to texts like “morning gorgeous” or “morning love” or “how are you love?” or “q haces amor? como estas?” and I kinda like it but I hate that I like it. I prefer older men anyway, but I don’t care to be doted on or do I? Not now. No. No. I’m afraid I’ll grow tired of the attention or I’ll get fearful of attachment and run–or roll since I can’t run.
I’d rather be the asshole in any relationship-type situation because I often think I’m no good. Wait, why am I even starting to call this a relationship-type situation?
I just don’t know what I’m doing.
Yesterday, I met my brother’s girlfriend’s family. We watched fireworks for Fourth Of July. I couldn’t help but to think of Monkey Man L and that year we watched fireworks with A.F. in Victoria. It hit me hard when I got dropped off back at home. He’s really no longer here is he?
And I haven’t seen the nerdy mechanical engineer, aka bearded boy at the gym since that Saturday. I haven’t begun therapy either after lasts weeks ordeal with the MetroLift. This week it was my fault though, I thought she’d said Wednesday at 2:30 then I realized Wednesday was a holiday. I slept most of the day today avoiding everything, so I didn’t call the office to see what the date really was or check up on the mix-up. Yesterday, my dad was taking me to my appointment (which I realized I didn’t have anyway) and started nagging when I said I’d left the phone. We had just pulled out of the driveway when I said that and he went on about how, “You should plan things!” and “You SHOULD be organized!”
I’d planned yesterday’s events since last week! I tried, but it didn’t work out and I didn’t triple check. Sorry. At the risk of sounding like an ungrateful child–I tried but it got to me–I just told him not to take me anywhere and to just let me get off the car because I wasn’t going to have it that day.
I long for independence.
Longing is a good sign of wanting to live eh? Yeah, it sort of is.
I’ve been meditating out of the water as well as in it. That has been my prayer.
My jaw pain from the metal plate that’s sticking out–oh right, I haven’t told that story yet–has been hurting again. I keep feeling like grabbing a chainsaw and hacking my entire jaw out.
Mansie came by on Monday so we could write a proposal and I could get that job back as a contracted worker, but…
I don’t know what I’m doing.
June 27, 2012
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.