Criminal

September 16, 2012

I’ve been a bad bad girl 
I’ve been careless with a delicate man 
And it’s a sad sad world 
When a girl will break a boy 
Just because she can

Don’t you tell me to deny it
I’ve done wrong and I want to
Suffer for my sins
I’ve come to you ’cause I need
Guidance to be true
And I just don’t know where I can begin

What I need is a good defense
‘Cause I’m feelin’ like a criminal
And I need to redeemed
To the one I’ve sinned against
Because he’s all I ever knew of love~ Fiona Apple

********

All I can think of to describe this is the lyrics to the song “Criminal” by Fiona Apple. I swear that woman writes out my life story. I’m sure a lot of you “sullen” girls know what I mean.

There’s this Canadian guy; I’ll call him Eg. I’ve known him in the virtual world since 2007. I mean, we’ve been online buddies. We used to chat a lot on MSN and on Skype. Well, Eg (not to be pronounced as egg!) just sent me a text that shook me up a little, no A LOT. First, I need to back track…

I don’t know if I should write about this in an open post since you guys (you know who you are) already know that I don’t like to share too much about others around or close to me for their sake.

I kind of sort of always knew though. I knew he was fond of me. See the thing is, he lives in Canada! AND, I had met Monkey Man a year before. As you might know, Monkey Man and I, well, we revolved around each other in a cataclysmic storm. Monkey Man would throw it in my face: how much I hurt him, how much I broke his heart, how I don’t allow people to love me, how I was cold. He did this a lot in a passive aggressive ways, and it hurt me. This was especially the case in the years 2009-2010.

Anyway, I digress.

Eg seemed to back off when I talked about marrying Monkey Man. And well, we hadn’t talked much in the last year or so. Except, ever since I found out Big Drummer Bear (don’t you just love these names) is married, I sort of kind of… Ok, I went to Eg for… I don’t know. I just started talking to Eg. And he started calling me. He paid long distance just to call me! Of course, things got sexual, as sexual as they can be long-distance.

Today, I got this text message from him:

“I know we have an innocent fun thing going on and I appreciate more than you know… but it’s starting to mean more to me than it probably is to you, which is find because you lost someone close. You know what I’m getting at right? I want to say it, and I want to hear it back, not if it’s gonna cause you pain.”

To which I replied:

“I know what you’re getting at, i think…”

****

I know, not the best answer. But I had no idea what else to say. What was I supposed to say? Then he came at me with this:

Eg: Sorry, i’ll take it back if you like. I guess I was just in a romantic mood… I’m ok if you want to forget about it… thought not fully.

Me: Don’t be sorry. 🙂 It is sweet. Don’t ever take back anything kind. You know I’ve always been fond of you… I’m just really fucked up. And yeah, his loss still affects me every day.

Eg: Sorry.

Me: Don’t be. But thanks… The fucker practically killed himself [deleted]. Sorry, you probably didn’t want to know that. But it causes a lot of anger and sadness and too many mixed feelings. By the way what’d you mean you said you’d had a few rough days. You don’t have to tell me. Just wondering.

Eg: hmm, so should we say goodbye?

Me: No! Unless you want to.

Eg: [something about his brother]

Me: [deleted]

Eg: No we can keep having fun… its nice just needed to say, even though you don’t wanna hear it. I think I’m in love with you.

Me: Jezus. im not sure what to say to that. You just hit my chest right now. I don’t wanna hurt you.

Give me a minute or two. 😉

Eg: I wasn’t expecting a response. We’ll keep having fun on the phone and that will be it.

********

I don’t know what to do. What the hell is wrong with me? Ok. I know, nothing’s wrong with me. bleh, blah. I still don’t know what to do. I’m an asshole aren’t I? But I didn’t mean to, you know? I don’t intend for these things to happen, though I see a pattern forming. I enchant and then I run off. Fear of abandonment much? Unsure sense of self? I wonder if I’ll keep sabotaging myself. I’m not saying this particular situation is sabotage, but most of the time it is.

I really do feel like a criminal right now. 😦 My chest feels tight and I want to cry. I wish I had a close girlfriend to consult with about this… Well, I guess I do. Maybe even more than a few. There’s Eloise. I just prefer to keep to myself for a while and think. Then again, I tend to overthink things.

And of course, I have my MFFs here on WordPress…

I still want to bang my head again the desk.

****

Today is my pop’s birthday. Maybe I should just focus on that now.

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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.

…so I can’t stop changing all the time” ~ Fiona Apple, Extraordinary Machine

I’ll try and make this one a quicky because the one below this is a bit long. It was my first attempt at “scheduling a post” heheh. I had forgotten all about it until I saw a “like”.

*********

Anyway, I’ve been feeling ambivalent about blogging lately. VERY ambivalent. And the last few days I became painfully aware of how much of myself I’ve put out there. If it weren’t for my semi-anonymous voice, I don’t think I could’ve ever expressed some of this. And even so, I’m holding back on what I call some of the “darker stuff,” most of what the Pretty Little Demons feed me. A fellow blogger, well two actually, recently wrote about such conflicts when it comes to writing a personal or somewhat personal blog.

I submitted the photo and felt ecstatic at the reply I got from Broken Light , but I also felt very self critical.

“What are you doing? You only set up the first shot, even then it was a mutual take. You’re not even a photographer. You’re an amateur, a whanabe. What are you anyway? What are you doing exposing yourself like this? Do you want pity?”

No, I’ve always hated the pity people have showered down on me! This is fucking expression of art; it’s NOT a pity party! Besides, it’s cathartic, therapeutic even and what if I inspire someone? Quit being so overcritical P!

“Ok, ok. I’ll stop being so critical, so harsh. But really, are you this narcissistic? You need to tone it down! What if you embarrass your family!? hmmm? They don’t even know about your little drug adventures anyway, not most of them at least.”

Ugh. If embarrassment is the case, I’ve done that already and the only one I’ll really be embarrassing is myself. That’s been done too. I’m used to being uncomfortable, remember?

Here’s where I realize that the other voice is just my punitive parent trying to punish me for expressing myself (and hell even indulging myself), much like the guy in the video I shared in my Five Faces of Borderline post.

********

Then today, something odd happened. I was feeling alright, well, let me go back a little…

Last night I hung out with my brother, my brother’s girlfriend, his girlfriend’s little daughter and a new co-worker he’s been showing around (he just got here from Britain and is originally from Iran). We went to a park in downtown called Discovery Green. They play movies on certain weekends. We packed up fruits, pita chips and other snacks. It was a beautiful starless night. The weather was gorgeous, slightly windy, slightly cool and NOT HUMID–so unlike Houston. And despite my worry about the Bell’s Palsy returning (yeah, my lips ain’t right) I had a great time.

Oh, we watched ET on a big projector they set up on the park hill!

On the way home, I sat in his girlfriend’s car while my brother rode with his Iranian/British co-worker in his co-workers rental. And for the first time, I warmed up to her. We ended up having a great chat on the way to my house. She seemed to have warmed up to me too, telling me about her difficulty with trying to stay in nursing school while having C, her little girl, and having to drop out in the end. We talked about our mothers and all sorts of fun nonsense.

****

Then this afternoon, my brother stopped by again with his girlfriend and her little girl. He’d brought fish tacos for me and some other food for us to eat.

Well, we were having a good ole time, a good ole talk when all of a sudden, they started joking about drugs. I don’t know what prompted this. But it made me very anxious. See, my brother has never been a drug user or abuser like me. He’s very nervous about putting things in his body for fear of contamination. The only thing I think he’s done is weed and alcohol and alcohol is probably one of the worst drugs ever in my opinion, but anyway… weed, eh, I don’t really see it as much of a drug, though it is a substance and here I go contradicting myself. So yeah, I’m kind of the black sheep of the family in that aspect.

Then, out of nowhere, my brother’s girlfriend started saying, “I just don’t like to be out of control. I don’t like not being in control of my thoughts or my body. I even freaked out when I had to take a Vicodin after I had C. [her little girl].” She started to giggle but I didn’t. I couldn’t even FAKE a smile. It was a trigger.

Holy shit, it was a HUGE trigger. I began to panic. The mere words, “I took Vicodin…freaked…took Vicodin…freaked…took Vicodin,” sent my head spinning.

After what happened when I wrote the “Voluntary Hospitalization Post” I’ve been so wary of talking about anything related to painkillers, especially VICODIN. Of all things, why did she… of all things? (Vicodin is the same thing as Hydrocodone by the way)

So I quietly removed myself. I pretended I was too busy clearing the dishes to hear her. And once they were in the living room watching TV, I was washing the dishes, bawling my eyes out. I ended up having flashes of L and I downing painkillers. And after I was done with the dishes I went to my room to cry some more. I hope they didn’t notice but then again, I feel like running and telling my brother, “I don’t know what to do anymore”.

Good thing is I managed to cry just enough and re-enter the living room looking calm and collected. To a certain extent I was. I was being mindful of my thoughts and feelings–of everything around me. I was changing.

“I’m used to being uncomfortable so I can’t stop changing all the time”

This, my friends, is what it’s like to live with BPD. Any little thing can trigger you.

********

Oh and I know I haven’t been coming up with anything funny as of late. Sorry. I think the recent overdosing/relapsing incident drained all the funny juice, well not all, MOST of the funny juice out of me, but I know I’ll refill soon and be a little funnier and less depressing with these posts.

p.s. FREE HUGS FROM COPYRIGHT BOUNCER BEAR Y’ALL! COME AND GET’EM! SUNDAY SUNDAY SUNDAY ONLY!

HEY HEY! NO SHOVIN’ NOW. EVERYONE WILL GET THEIR TURN!

The Rapper

March 13, 2012

Note: This post isn’t really all about a rapper; it’s a rant, a bit of angry rambling even. But I’m settled down now, really. I’m settled, so much so that I can focus on typing with my (currently) one useful hand.

Rant commences now…

(Just a heads up.)

Ahem.

Ok.

So there’s this chick who’s in a jazzy, hip-hop trio from the Rockies terrain. Let’s call her K. Miss K is the MC/beats-maker of the three; there’s also a saxophone player/soulful singer and a live drummer. She’s about two years younger than I am and also has OI. She’s also nearly deaf in one ear, but not nearly as deaf as me–hearing loss is a common thing with us OIers. I think Miss K is also type III but I don’t know, she could be type IV (she uses a wheelchair like I do but looks like she may be an inch or two or three taller and that’s not saying much). And get this, she also studied audio engineering and music production (yeah), only she went to  a four year program that offered a B.A in it. I went to a two year program then transfered to a four year university to complete a broader study in media arts and whatnot. The similarities are just wonderful.

Anyway, I’ve never met her in person. I’ve only chatted with her on Facebook. After all she’s from one of the Grand Canyon states and I’m down below in the plains of larger-than-life-Tejas. We “met up” in one of those rare coincidences. I don’t even remember now. But as it turns out, L. knew her from years ago when his godfather would take him to national OI conventions. What are the odds? When she came up in one of our conversations, L. was the one that told me what she was going to school for which prompted me to ask her, and thus, sparked a mutual connection.

I finally got on Facebook yesterday and there she was telling me she’d be in Houston today for a performance before heading to Austin for SXSW–a four-day long music and film festival–and that she wants to meet up.

“Hey, I’m in your hood! Let’s meet up!”

I really want to meet her, so I hastily replied by saying I’d do my best to make it out tonight (I even forgot to ask if there’s a cover charge for the show).

**********

Yesterday evening I asked my mom if she’d give me a ride (I don’t have easy access to transportation). I earned a little bit of cash from my brother for another favor I did this past weekend and I offered to pay for gas with the little I have. She said she would. Problem is, I’m not sure I wan’t to go. I don’t really. I just want to meet her.

I keep thinking if I had my own means of transportation then situations like this would be easier. I could just drive up there after the show, go to some quiet cafe to meet her and drive back home. But I know, I know “maladaptive, wishful thinking”.

I’m already dealing with a lot of anxiety. I just started Sertraline last Wednesday, even though I’ve had the script for over a month, and it has me on edge. Being in a crowed right now would only make me reach my peak. Just thinking about it makes me tremble. I know because I’ve put myself in situations like this before, situations where I have to wait in a crowd in a rough side of town with nobody to talk to but my shivering, shriveling mind. Sure, there are people to talk to, but a shivering, shriveling mind doesn’t see that.

Besides, my ears can’t handle that level of noise anymore. It’s one reason why I’ve avoided shows the last two years. And who would I invite on such a short notice? I can’t push myself around with a broken arm. I’ve hardly talked to anyone since I’ve been back from Florida, not even L. I already asked L bit he’s in a worse mental state than I am. He’s not picking up these days, and when I text, he tells me to leave him be. I could ask B., a good friend and all around great guy, but then again I don’t want to talk to anyone.

“Hey how you been? How’ve things been?”

“Good. Good. Well…”

Nah, I’m not up for that.

People don’t want to hear it. If they’re your friends they will, you may say. But there’s only so much they can take at a time. I just hate being a downer. Besides I tend to be an introvert and keep my feelings to myself, even in the presence of a close friend.

If I go, they may see my grimace. Sure they may also see what I have of a smile. Oh no, they’ll see my crooked smile, my palsied out face. I look like a grinch not being able to smile.

**********

This morning I was at the hospital with my dad. I had an appointment with the geneticist today. The thing about these community hospitals is there’s always a really long wait and you only see the doc for about fifteen minutes–turns out my bone density is very low, but more on that later. So we eventually get called in and as the doc finishes up his final remarks, he adds, “Are you still seeing psychiatry?” I guess he must’ve read it in the charts. I only started “seeing psychiatry” there in December, though I have been seeing psychiatrists off and on since 2008.

“Yes,” I reply.

Then out of nowhere–no, no, right behind me–my dad makes some snappy remark. But even with my hearing aides on, I couldn’t make it out clearly. I was still in a bit of shock from the doc’s unexpected question. Whatever my dad said must’ve been a joke ’cause everyone chuckled. I chuckled too, instinctively and half-heartedly. The awkwardness in the air filled my lungs and I wanted to gag. I felt so piercingly uncomfortable. There was another doctor in the room, one I’d just met. Too much for one morning.

Later, we were in the car leaving, and I asked my dad what it was he said.

“I told the Dr. ‘but she’s crazier than ever,'” he replied.

[insert laugh track]

“Oh. ha. ok”

Now, I think I’m someone who can take a joke, but really? That’s mildly amusing at best. It’s uncalled for. Wrong time pops. Bad, bad timing.  He needs a comic coach.

Let me make the joke, please, or let me participate in them. A warning at least–would’ve been nice. And this kind of remark is exactly what creates stigma. What’s most inflammatory though is that I sensed some passive aggression there. My dad has many good qualities about him, he really does, but he completely lacks discretion. I know he’s been taking a lot my shit lately. I know it’s not easy on him these days being in a not-so-good financial situation. I know it’s been a hastle for him to still have to care for a household at his age and then drive me around to the hospital every week for the last two months. He’s sixty-eight. He’s tired. I know.

Whatever.

I let it slide like water. Slide on down, drip on down my head, my body, my legs. Let the carpet soak it.

**********

Then about two hours ago, my dad and I get back home from the hospital. I’m in the kitchen about to eat ’cause I’m hungry. All the while I’m deciding on whether or not to go to this thing K. invited me to. I start telling my mom about K and how I miss being in the music scene. I miss recoding, miss making music–my number one love.

“You know she looks really jovial, really cheerful and happy, a go getter” my mom interjects. (I’d shown her pictures online the night prior when I asked about the ride.)

When she said that, I don’t know what came over me. No, I do know, I took offense. It must’ve been my shattered pride, that demonic ego. I guess I got on the defensive because I’ve been a hard-working, jovial, go-getter too. I’m just not right now. I felt she was implying something, like she was comparing, criticizing. So I start saying how L. mentioned that she K. a big temper. Why does this all even matter? Why would I say that about her in my defense? I too have a big temper. So what? Great comeback PAZ.

My dad passes by as I’m making these remarks about K. and interrupts, “one thing is having a temper, another is being afflicted and sad all the time.”

Ok. Now I’m perplexed and angry. But I do my best to maintain my cool. Keep cool P. Keep cool.

“What do you mean by that?” I ask. He doesn’t reply and walks off. I look over at my mom, “What does he mean by that?”

My mom then starts a lecture about how she learned to let things slide and that’s how she avoids being miserable these days, these dog days . She tells me that sometimes, it’s difficult to let it go, to drop it, but it’s best to.

She’s right. She’s right in many ways.

Alright then.

And she learned this after she had been in therapy (referred for mandatory therapy by APS) a short while as a result of the last serious fight we had three years ago, the one where she slammed me to the car floor, nearly choked me to death, and had to be pulled off of me while clawing and lashing at my face and hair and everything. I’m not even going to say all of the angry nonsense she was yelling at me while all of this was going on.

So I start to think that if I didn’t “let things slide” or “let things go,” I wouldn’t be talking to her right now. I’m not so bad then. And I know what she means. I know she means well. I know my mom is concerned. I know she loves me. She has done a great deal of change since then. I guess one could say she sure has benefited more from her brief stint in therapy than I have in my four years of it. But who’s to say? In the end what does concern alone do? And what was this all about? How did it get started? What am I doing?

I’m frustrated. I’m confused. It’s beyond me. My mind is in a swirl. Whatever.

I don’t want to be bitter.

“Oh you’re gonna end up bitter like your grandma if you don’t change” I hear that a lot. (This is the grandmother that lives in Colombia, the one I haven’t seen since I was four.)

Have I not been trying?

I’m not going to be bitter. I know better. I’ll continue trying.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t hurt; it doesn’t mean things like that are cool to say. How do I get him, my dad, to understand? He doesn’t even know the half of it. He doesn’t even know half of half of half of it. I will not burden him with my madness. This isn’t sadness. I am not “sad”. I do not want this. 

Pride is spiraling down. It’s all just piled and avalanching within. Idiotic pride. And this, this situation’s gotta change. Something’s gotta give and I’m ready to make  way. Otherwise, I just may…

Well… I guess it wasn’t so much a rant after all. Or was it? Don’t tell me. I’m not in the mood to argue.

Jesuz. I’m really sensitive these days.

**********

So in the end, I listened to my mother until she was done, then quietly rolled back to my room to cry for a bit. I calmed myself with this song. It’s on replay.

(I normally wouldn’t embed videos but Fiona is an exception, an extraordinary exception. Oh Fiona, my platonic wifey.)

I know I can be self assured. I’m just not right now. I want to be so again because I’m pretty fucking extraordinary.

Will I go see K. perform? I still haven’t decided. Probably not.

Fuckin’ done.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

As you may know, I am a girl prone to low-days. I don’t know how many times I got to soundcheck, in a grumpy, nasty, teary rut.. ~Fiona Apple

And after all the folderol 

What did I learn?

I am likely to miss the main event
If I stop to cry or complain again
So I will keep a deliberate pace
Let the damned breeze dry my face

Oh, mister, wait until you see
What I’m gonna be

~Better Version of Me, Fiona Apple