YAY!

Yesterday I got to work from home again. Again, the weather dropped to the 30’s degrees F. Something all Houstonians aren’t accustomed to: schools being closed due to winter storms and sleet (tiny tiny sleet). Considering that I hurt my fractured rib coughing yet AGAIN, this was a good thing for me.

Houston’s weather has always been what I call “bipolar” in the winter, but this year it’s flipping so fast it’s like rapid cycling and the changes are as volatile as the dysregulated emotions of a person diagnosed with borderline personality disorder/emotional dysregulation disorder.

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I took plenty of naps, risked a few minutes of my dad yelling at me for going out in the cold while I’m just getting over my cold to get these quick shots on my phone. I took some time to pamper myself and make sure I took my Mucinex for the cough and snot and whatnot.

Today I was off. Went to orthopedics for my fucked-up bone situation, hopefully the topic of my next post.

And… I’m being all girly with this glittery nail polish. I usually HATE glitter but I love this! Life feels good. I’m in a strange, uncharted territory. Le smile, le worry look, le sigh.

It’s 30 degrees this very moment but I’m in my room having cold sweats with muscle rub spread all over my ribs and back. Stinky and sweaty and achy. Ugh.

But alas, I’m in love. And love makes things more tolerable, makes the body stronger.

Well, looks like I’m going back to work on campus tomorrow to shoot an art gallery opening and do all the other things that I do and do not do. Better catch some zzzzzzzz.

Fuck you cold weather! Ted

Fuck you cold weather!

Mouse love,

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HOLY SHITBALLS! The last time I wrote a “Borderline Girl Song” series post was over a year ago… I had to search my own entries list HERE to figure out what number I left off at.

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AHEM.

I’m coughing and hacking greenish gooey phloem still, and I’m crackin bones in the process, yet I’m high high high HIGH or hypo hypo hypo or both! Yes, both. Same shit, sort of. I’m high on life and speedy typing (NOT Speed). I was crying non stop last weekend. Been giggling and singing all morning. Emotional dysregulation any? Just a bit.

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Anyway, I’m high. And content, relatively happy. Fuck. I’ll just say it: In this moment I am happy. (That’s lyrics from an Incubus song FYI)

I’m high on life… and cold medicine,  antibiotics for the N1F1 flu that upperecutted me three weeks ago, and half a hydrocodone for my cracked rib (yes I broke a rib coughing, maybe two), and dare I say I’m also high on LOVE…

Pretty Little Demons: Love? Like “romantic love”?

P/Mouse: YES!

I can’t even hear myself say or phantom the thought but, but, but (breathes), I may be falling in love with someone. This person “asked me out” back in August. (I hate the term dating by the way). That’s one of the reason I’ve gone MIA here on Bloggieland. Too busy with the boyfriend and work.

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Falling in love… maybe. Falling in love may be. Falling in love, falling, falling in love. 🙂

I’m sitting here on my bed covered in icy-hot muscle rub, Vicks vapor rub and pillows; three socks, bandage on my right leg, an orange wool scarf, and a laptop on my legs writing to you. I’m writing to tell you that people with Borderline Personality Disorder (or whatever they call it these days) can remain stable for–well, I’ve been relatively stable for a good while now and I’m busy in my “real life”, so I haven’t been able to complete a single post I begin. Started a few, but then had to go do this or that or him. heee.

Cup with spilled ice

Better Cancel School

It was 30 degrees fahrenheit  out this morning and it rained all day yesterday so we have sleet. Amber Alerts were sent and schools were closed. Truth is, the sleet melted by noon. We Houstonians can’t handle a little snow or ice. P Mouse is fine with that ’cause I get to work from home today and I ain’t going out in no cold while recovering from a cold in my wheelchair. 🙂 YAYUH.

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Anyway, where was I? Oh da song. This week’s Borderline Girl Song post is Dido’s “Thank You”.

I thank him, the guy mentioned above, for having the courage to tell me he had feelings for me/a crush or whatnot. I’m thankful for giving him a chance. I’m thankful that I gave him a chance because therapy helped me help myself give him a chance. And. Here. I. Am. Thankful for being alive, even though shit still pisses me off and I have my low moments (don’t think recovery is like that, I don’t).

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In my next post, I’ll tell you who this mystery man is. He’ll be introduced, I promise. I was writing his introduction on Monday actually–on Reverend Martin Luther King Day–but as I just said, I keep getting cut off to do this or that or him. In this case it was him. Too much info? 🙂 Then that evening, my dad and his friend interrupted… No, no, no I’m not explaining myself right. In other words:

On Monday, MLK day, I spent all day with HIM (mystery love) at his place, then that evening when I was back home, I logged on WP and started writing a post, which I will post tomorrow.

Sigh.

Well, here’s my song for this series. I dedicated this to him the other day.

Those of you that have been with me here on WordPress since the birth of this blog are already familiar with the rare connective tissue disorder I was born with: Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI) aka Brittle Bone Disease.

As I started writing this blog, I realized I wanted to explore the relationship between chronic illness and mental health. I wanted to share how the two have blended in my own experience. To an extent, I’ve done that, though not as much as I’d like. And when I found out about the BPD diagnosis, I began to look deeper at how my medical condition has been a factor in my development of “BPD symptomatology”.

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The first therapist I went to see in 2008 was more of a general counselor at the university. Her specialties were not relevant to my mental problems. But it was because of her that I was able to accept the fact that I’ve dealt with a lot of traumatic experiences.

“Your mother has been abusive to you P,” she said quietly, “and on top of that, you’ve had to deal with a lot of medical trauma. Give yourself some credit! You deserve it. Don’t you think?”

I’ve always refused the thought of being a “trauma survivor”. In The Buddha and the Borderline, Kiera Van Gelder says something I completely connect to: “And while I still resist seeing myself as a victim of trauma, it’s becoming clear that I have some lingering unresolved issues…”

Lingering and unresolved. Don’t we all have some of the lingering and unresolved?

I think about what I deal with on a day-to-day basis–the triggers, the anxiety, the high-voltage electric current of emotions and suicidal ideations. I start to connect things. For example, I’m easily triggered and flinch with certain things that remind me of past fractures. If my brother does a sharp turn while pushing me in my wheelchair, my heart leaps, then stops. And I instantly get a chill up my spine. When I protest, he reassures me by saying, “Don’t worry. I got this shit Shorty. How many years have I pushed you?” I know he won’t drop me or let me fall, but my reactions are like clock-work despite my best efforts. I’m beginning to think I may have a form of complex post traumatic stress (C-PTSD), something very common with those who also have BPD (borderline personality disorder).

I think of these last seven months.

When February hit, I was already suicidal again. But then I came down with Bell’s Palsy. And then I broke my T-Rex arm less than a week after playing a prank over at Monkey Man’s apartment. All hell went loose in my head after that. I mean, the Pretty Little Demons had their way with me, leaving a wreckage in my head. I’m glad and lucky to have survived this last “episode” thus far. And though it feels like it’s lessening, it’s far from over. I’m not out of hell yet; I’m just in the suburbs now. Hopefully, I’ll be able to drive farther out of it when I start therapy Thursday (yeah, we rescheduled yet again).

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It hit me hard, the fracture. Those first two months after the fracture coupled with Monkey Man L’s death were too much. And it hit me not so much because of the physical pain. I deal with chronic pain; it fucks with your life, but it is what it is. And what’s funny is I can talk about that pain with people but I can’t talk about the mental/emotional pain even with those closest to me like my brother.

So what hit me most about the recent fracture was the inability to do certain things on my own, things I’ve grown accustomed to doing. I’m pretty independent and mobile despite the physical limitations, so not being able to do things as simple as getting into the shower on my own ( it was hell waiting on my mom to help me wrap my cast in a bag and carry me in everyday), plunged me to the bottom quicker. I hadn’t broken a limb since I was sixteen, so even though I’ve fractured dozens upon dozens of bones, it all seemed new.

It’s amazing how quickly we forget the intensity of the pain once it’s gone just as we forget we ever experienced joy when in the midst of deep depression. I also find it amazing how a new life seems to emerge out of these deep dark cracks in our lives. Mine has many, like the Grand Canyon. I don’t know what life I’m in at the moment. Life number ten or eleven?

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Anyway, as I mentioned in Whiskers and Lashes, I’ve had a ton of cartooning ideas milling around my head but the Mouse hasn’t been able to catch one, even with my rebirth and the PLDs quieting down some.

One of the ideas I have is a little comic strip explaining OI, like “OI 101: Adventures of Mr. Healthy Bone and Mr. Brittle OI Bone” or something silly like that. Then I started thinking about the mad anxiety I’ve been having lately–the damned morning panic attacks that have been waking me.

Little P and Little T circa 1993-4. my dad left this on my desk last week. He must’ve found it while working in the garage. The furry guy riding behind me is Tito, the one I found huddled with pigs in a pen at the Mexican flee market.

I’ve struggled with loads of anxiety since I was a child; it’s only now I’m beginning to realize it. Chronic indecision is often reflective of high anxiety levels. When I was fitted to get my first electric wheelchair (see picture), I remember sitting in a physical therapy room with a giant binder full of samples and a tall man (all men are tall to a tiny girl) flipping through sheet after sheet of fabric colors. I got dizzy looking at what was to me a monolithic block of color. I got physically ill from looking through. I wanted to cry because the choices overwhelmed me as they do now. Would I make the right choice? Who was I do decide? Pink is always for girls, why? No, I like the blues! Why do they keep asking about the pink?

“Can’t I just have all of the colors!?” I finally yelled. They had a rainbow-colored option for the belt which the man kindly suggested!

But I digress.

For the last few weeks, maybe a month or so, the deep depression–the core of it–seems to have lifted, mostly. It has lifted to the extent that I feel as though I’m emerging from that hell, shedding a layer of skin and climbing back up from the grave of that ninth life. But with this emergence something else has come up–increased awareness of the jaw pain.

Funny enough now that the emotional pain isn’t at a constant crisis level, I feel the physical pain coming back. It could also be the anxiety that’s tightening the muscles on my face and causing the pain to return. (My arm still hurts but that’s not as disturbing as the jaw pain.)

Ugh, the fractured jaw and nerve damage incident! Talk about fuckin’ trauma. They jacked up my jaw! I’ll have to write out that story some other time.

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Several days ago, I ran into a comment on one of the Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI) Facebook groups.

“Any of you have horror stories from the past, from the hospital, from doctors and nurses and such?” the group’s creator asked.

Replies came in almost immediately. I replied that I’d waken up during the end of a surgery in my femur, among other things. It’s a surreal experience being a twelve-year-old, waking up naked (with the exception of a tiny towel over the crotch), surrounded by half a dozen doctors and nurses covered in blood and tubes and beeping machines closing in above your head.

I sat there thinking, Horror stories? Hell’s yeah I got them. I got Post Traumatic Stress up my ass! (Literally, my bum’s been messed with.)

A mom in that Facebook group has a little eight year-old girl with type II OI (I have type III). This lady is on there chatting away as much as I’m here in WordPress. She’s constantly talking about her little one. The girl has broken over 500 bones! Jeezus! I think I just barely passed the 100 mark. But 500? I can’t imagine, or rather, I don’t want to. I wonder how many of us have PTSD from just the fractures alone! Monkey Man L was having his leg turned for an X-Ray when, BAM, they SNAPPED it in two. It was already broken and they just added another break! All more reasons for me to think of this PTSD and BPD correlation.

So, on Sunday, I started researching: “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Osteogenesis Imperfecta” and “Trauma and Borderline Personality Disorder”. I found some interesting things, but more on that later. 🙂

Yep, that’s me. I think I was three years old in this one.

I have a bisphosphonate infusion to look forward to tomorrow. It’ll be the second time I get one. Wish me luck!

Much Love from the Mouse

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Oh and here’s some info on bisphosphonate therapy for osteogenesis imperfecta.

1.
un-birth me mamita linda.
no te quiero ver!

uncover me papito lindo,
pero no, no te quiero ver!

lo que ocurrió es que
el viento me
robó las alas
y borró
el polvo mágico
que me regalaron
las hadas.

sí, las que cantaban
dentro de mi, pero no las quiero ver!

***

2.
i was spleen-size
sucked out, cut clean from
below your womb,
a piggish wad of pink,
red, purple and blue goo–
grey sack you could’ve
thrown out.

seís meses, they said.
young men in white robes
out of universidades.
they probed and probed
and probed you,
they, youthful men
as fruitful as you
but not as torn.

“six months and her heart
will stop.”
too big for her fragile
chest
they said and laid me–
tiny bag of broken bones–
to rest.

un-birth me mamita linda.
no te quiero ver!

unearth me amor viejo, arrugado,
listo para fallecer
como yo lo he hestado.

oh yes, i remember
the story clearly,
remember it dearly.
how many times
hadn’t i heard it?
you’d resigned
dear papi,

already grieved
my death
with swigs
and nightly sighs,
“mija, déjala,
que yo la cuido
venga duerma.
de un modo o otro
uno de estos dias
se nos irá.”

you never gave up
though,
i guess
that’s love;
that’s hope
mamita linda
and i didn’t go.

but you know,
it’s difficult
to cope.
this heart is still
too crammed in this
barrel chest and one
day, someday
it will stop.

for my dear mother who endured all the poking, the prodding and was somehow able to birth me without a cesarean, and for Sailor Carrie

© Paz

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

[my lazy translation; some things will always be lost in translation]

1.
un-birth me dear mommy.
i don’t want to look at you!

uncover me dear daddy.
but i don’t want to look at you!

what’s happened is,
the wind
snatched my wings
and erased
my magic powder,
yeah the one
the fairies
gave me.

yes, the ones that
sang within me,
but i don’t want to look at them!

2.
six months, they said…

blah blah blah…

unearth me old love, crumbled
and haggard, ready for death
like I’ve been.

student doctors prodding you…

….

…hadn’t i heard it?
“honey, leave her,
i’ll take care of her
go on, go on
sleep,
on day or another
she’ll be gone.”

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

Guys, I was lucky enough to have lived past the six month mark those doctors gave me and have survived thus far (which sometimes still surprises me considering the crazies I get), but unfortunately, a fellow mental health blogger’s little girl did not; she passed during childbirth.  I can’t fathom what that must be like.

His blog is Salted Lithium. Maybe you can pay a visit and show some love. I’m sure he could use it.

Oh god, am I still alive?

February 25, 2012

Dear God/Universe,

I sit here groggily in this pale Saturday afternoon sippin’ on my cold coffee. It’s just the dogs and myself today. All’s quiet and lonesome. But little Luna, the cutest and sweetest little bitch ever, is laying beside me, leaning her furry back against the desk, taking care of my emotions–and she’s doing a better job than I am. She kept me from crying my half paralyzed eye out. I know, it’s not the soggy eyeball that’s paralyzed; it’s the muscles connected to the eyelid, but  whatever, same shit. Anyway, you should know she also kept me from gauging it out like ole Oedipus there.

God/Universe, I know you know I love you but why do you do me this way sometimes? Are you trying to get rid of me? Why so soon? Why so often? I no longer shout mean, spiteful names at you. I try to eat healthy (when there’s food to do so). I try to eat even when I don’t want to, and that’s often these days. I actually prefer fruits and veggies. I finally got myself in a city-based physical therapy program, and I’m still in psychotherapy. I take my vitamin B12, my Caltrate, my psych shit and my fish oils. I rarely drink sodas. I try to eat as little processed food as I can. I’m not even taking painkillers right now! And I promised I wouldn’t get rid of myself but then you go and whack me repeatedly from behind? What in the fuckin’ fuck?

I thought we were cool man. It’s ok though. Really. I won’t resent you. And you don’t have to answer the first question, but at least tell me if you’re ridding yourself of me. If you are, do it quick. I’m not up for another slow death and resurrection. Tell Zeus to get his lightning bolt ready or something. I know it’s partly, ok mostly, my own creation. But come on! And I know you also know that I’m in pain here and I can try and negate it all I want but it just keeps tagging along. I thought I’d remind you in case you forgot.

My arm? No, that’s actually not hurting now. The recasting was done a lot better this week. Nice fella, the casting tech/nurse/whatchumacallem. And the face is slowly waking up, enough for a half-assed smirk. But this damn eye… I just… ugh. I’m seeing blurry here.

God/Universe, I do want to thank you for all of the patience you granted me with my brother this week. I’d like more of that. I had stocked up on a lot of it during the holidazzzee but I feel like I may run out soon. I have to admit though, we did a hell of great job on that video. I’m not too happy about the sound quality of the voice over in that last sequence, but fuck it. Everyone loved it! And we didn’t even have time to really polish it with finishing touches–no color correction or anything. We’re geniuses! Well, not really but you spotted me with some ideas on that one. You really did. Too bad I don’t get to see him often, and when I do, he usually just gets a hold of me to get something like get help with editing a video he desperately needs to turn in to angry clients. But I can to do the same, so no blame there. The important thing is we got it in and they were happy (better be too with all that work we put in). That’s the thing about my bro and I. When it comes to creating shit, our minds sync up. Too bad we both have that perfectionist tendency and he’s got the OCD thing going. Regardless, Universe/God, I thank you for that.

There are just a few things I wanna request though. I know you saw it coming. So if my brother asks for another editing favor, can you get him to pay me next time (granted there will be a next time)? I know, but I already asked him. I just thought maybe you’d remind him every so often when I’m not around. I don’t like doing too many reminders. It’s cool this time. I’m glad I can help. It made me feel less useless actually. But next time, just a little at least? You know my desperation.

Also, if you send me work, please have them pay too. No more freebees. Fuck that I can’t get a Social Security! Fuck feeling helpless! No more. I will work, regardless of what “the law” says! The fridge is empty and my momma, eh, I’ll write you another letter about her later. It’s not really so bad, I mean, I just need to stay busy so as not to be tempted to burrow back under the covers and stare at the faceless ceiling all day. But how? I couldn’t even add twenty and forty-eight the other day. I swear I’ll do my part about the work though. In fact, I’m watching a tutorial on how to interview a client. See! I’m watching as I type this request with one hand, well I’m not getting much our of it but… I’m going to watch it again… I’m prepping up for motivation and some concentration.

I just… I’m nervous about making this website for my dad (another free job), and I’m anxious about making it at all in life. I mean what the hell? What I even mean by that? Am I still alive? I don’t feel it. Aside from the innermost ache, it’s all still a bit numb, most days. There’s a tingle of life, yes, a little. But not today, not most of these days. You know how fuckin’ shitty this immigration situation can be. Can you grant me something for that? Anything? I don’t want to have to marry L. I don’t. This week, I saw these cool pro-bono-ish lawyers at the university and they gave me a similar prognosis as all other immigration lawyers do. So I really would hope for more encouragement if I weren’t already so vapid.

God/Universe, one more thing, can you tell the Sun to stop calling in sick? It’s getting really heavy and burdensome in this in this stifled city. No, the air is fine, more than fine, but it isn’t enough. And can you tell Karma (if it really is her) that I’ve had enough of her this month? I think she’s overstayed her visit for the year and has given me more shit than I’d like right now. I just don’t think she believes me when I say I’m sorry for any harm I’ve done on this earth and to any living being in this lifetime or any past lives–if, indeed, there were past lives.

And I promise, I won’t write you anymore sappy letters. Ok maybe I will, just not this sappy. I also promise to keep this blog free of too many lengthy or cheeky posts. Just, please help me out here. At least enough for me to focus on this tutorial? (Heehee I accidentally typed “titsoral”. Why do I want to giggle like Peter Griffin? Am I really that childish?)

Anyway, I don’t call on you much, if at all. And I don’t really think I’m useless per say–even with this temporary one-handedness I have going here–but at least, with your help, I can convince myself that I’m not.

I realize acceptance is best. Can you help me with that too? Pleeease.

Love,

PAZ

p.s. I once heard that this little earth I’m on is just another cell in your body. But I happen to know it’s just another subatomic particle full of energy, pirouetting in your endless anatomy. So I’ll understand if you don’t reply.

p.p.s. Kisses.