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.
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.
In my excitement I forgot that an executive order doesn’t necessarily guarantee proper implementation, or have immediate effect. Woops. haha. I guess there’s more fighting to be done. Well, there’s always fighting to to be done. And that’s just a reminder to myself to re-educate myself before I go writing overly excited WordPress posts.
I feel like I’m loosing my mind, agggggh, more so than ever.
Here’s a statement one of my dear friends posted:
This has the potential to be amazing news IF it gets effectively implemented on the ground. So the next 60 days shall be telling. Otherwise I am just reminded of past failed promises like Prosecutorial Discretion & the Morton Memo while the Dylans and the Andys and the Ramons and the Yanellis are deported every single day, and there is no room left in my heart for it to be disappointed yet again.
~ from my friend KB, one of the core members/founders of the National Immigrant Youth Alliance (NIYA). (A complete statement can be seen on their website if you click the link)
I miss being involved. I miss my friend KB, though I did see her at Mansie’s birthday the week before last… I don’t remember now. But my head isn’t cut out for handling that kind of intense work these days.
I guess this is why I’m “borderline”. I’m easily excited and I’m easily torn. FUCK. Why do I have such an impulsive nature?
In other news, Luna’s paw is still very cute. These photos are fresh from this morning (my shutter is still a little messed up, but I got one or two focused the way I wanted):
June 15, 2012
Holy hell! Holy hell give me the strength I need to proceed.
So… *takes deep breath*
I had a terrible night. I mean the cold came back two-fold. Phlegm woke me up in the middle of the night, gurrgling up my chest, up my throat, up my nostrils. Ugh. It was awful. I figured maybe it was because I swam in that cold water yesterday.
So I woke up thinking, or rather negative P woke up thinking, “Great, I was looking forward to swimming today. Can’t a girl get a break!?”
Then the most incredible thing happened. My mom got home from works (she cleans this rich dude’s house on Fridays) and said S, a family friend had called her to tell her the D.R.E.A.M Act was passed by president Obama. Now, I’m a leftist but I’m not an Obamacrat. Under his administration we’ve seen the highest rate of deportations, many of which have been fellow DREAM Act eligible students like myself. But I digress.
The news didn’t phase me since I’ve been so occustomed to hearing false hopes about the D.R.E.A.M Act, a bill which would allow a pathway to citizenship to at least half of the nearly two million undocumented youth who live, and much like myself, were raised in the U.S.
I had to read it to believe it. So I got online.
I have been rather distant to anything political over the last six months. The last thing I was involved in was the United We Dream National Congress in Dallas back in November of last year. I briefly mentioned the trip to the United We Dream Congress here: Interviews and Anxiety, A Retort. And if you read that, you know how disillusionment I’d become. I’d been criticized by native born Americans and immigrants alike. I’d been criticized even by a fellow “radicals” who I liked, who like myself, didn’t enjoy playing the politician games. I was part of a student organizing group and this one guys broke my heart when he said we were “joining in with the imperialists”.
Ha! If he only knew how desperate we were!
And then December came with its bad news. Ten long years fighting for the D.R.E.A.M Act and once again, it got shelved.
By then my usual depression was starting to kick in intensely. I ignored it; it was in its usual winter timing. I moved on. I started this blog. In fact, my very first post–A Sonnet for a Kid I Never Knew— was a poem dedicated to an “illegal alien” (note the sarcasm) who had shot himself just a few days before, in this very state I live in. Joaquin Luna was only 18 when he died.
Well, Joaquin, I dedicate another post to you. It’s a shame you’re no longer present to take part in this day with me, but guess what? I’m thinking of you. I will not kill myself because I know that I can do a lot for others.
Yep, the Development Relief and Education for Alien Minors (DREAM) Act has been approved by executive order.
From an Associated Press source:
WASHINGTON, June 15, 2012 /PRNewswire-USNewswire/ — Today the Obama administration announced a brazen usurpation of Congressional authority by using executive power to implement the DREAM Act. Effective immediately, the Department of Homeland Security (DHS) will grant deferred action and possible work authorization to certain illegal aliens under the age of 30 who arrived in the U.S. before 16 years of age. DHS Secretary Janet Napolitano expects that nearly 1 million illegal aliens will be granted amnesty through this effort.
“Over the past ten years, Congress has repeatedly rejected the DREAM Act. Now, five months before the presidential election, the Obama administration is unilaterally rewriting our immigration laws, defying Congressional authority and threatening our constitutional framework,” said Dan Stein, president of the Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR).
“This is a blatant abuse of executive power that ignores the will of Congress and the American people,” charged Stein. “The Obama administration is engaging in a shameless display of political pandering to satisfy a narrow slice of its party.
(Don’t you just love the term. “Alien” Yeah. I’m an “illegal alien”. Right.) And actually, to make a correction from the not-so-great news source, it isn’t amnesty–not merely at least. People love to simplify things to their lowest common denominator. Amnesty is more broad. This is really restricted. This is only for students and minors, and dare I say it is mostly earned. People think “Amnesty” is giving a man a fish. I think I learned to fuckin fish and swim and survive.
I’m going to have to call my laywer now and tell him the news! Go thing we didn’t send off the I-130 yesterday. Maybe I forgot those papers for a reason?
Oh this is bittersweet.
Sweet because I now have a chance! Bitter because I know so many stories, much more heart wrenching than I can even imagine. My story is a rainbows-and-butterflies-story compared to some of the other students I’ve read about, encountered, spoke and cried with.
One girl in particular just came to mind. Her mother, a former maquiladora, was tired of her hustbands abuse and left for El Paso. She died crossing the border and this girl was left to travel with strangers. There she was dumped in a small town in Texas… god, the story gets worse. But this girl was an honors student, made it out of college. I hope she’s able to apply like I am now that this executive order was passed!
Baghh… I want to scream and cry. Not everyone who deserves it will get it. And that’s the terrible thing about laws, someone–someone very deserving, someone struggling will be marginalized, will be kicked to the curb.
I’m shaking but this time it’s not bad. Yes, I am in shock, utter fuckin shock!
Guess a girl did get a break today!
Oh right, the lawyer. “Deferred Action” here I fuckin’ come!
And I’m out…
May 28, 2012
…and thought, “What’s the point?”
Yeah, I’m in a shitty mood. Very shitty. This fuckin’ relapse period needs to end soon. I’m sick of it, been sick of it, been done being sick of it. I’m trying to hold on but the thread feels so thin. And I’m not a spider.
So I wrote a poem.
Progress came to mind in a large scale but also in a small scale–inner and outer, yours and mine. And I think, “fuck it!”
I thought about how much I used to be involved in activist organizations and how even though that helped, I would eventually crash. And I’ve realized how I long for the involvement but how crippled I feel and how trapped in myself I’ve been after everything that’s hit me this year (guys this mental crippling is far worse than the bone condition that has me using a wheelchair).
I don’t care to know what’s going on in the world when I’m depressed (am I depressed?), much of it is because the world can be so depressing and I don’t want to set off my piss-o-meter. But know it’s a perspective. What I know and what I feel and think to know can be so, uhhh, dissociated? Everything seems so foreign, unreal. I’ve been living in a dream again.
I feel like crying but my well is dry.
The more hopeless you feel, the less you think you can do something to change anything. False beliefs. What is reality but what’s in you? As Anais Nin said, “the world is not how it is but how we see it” or something like that. I have the full quote in my Shenanigans page.
It’s a cycle for me, a circle–to jump into the spotlight with others, to embrace this world, to help others, then run away and hide in myself, my womb, not allowing myself to be helped. I am in my own utero, a baby, only allowing myself to be nourished there. Problem is, I don’t have enough to nourish myself. I need more nourishment. I need the nourishment of this Earth, of others. And what of others? You don’t want others. That’s what the Pretty Little Demons (PLDs) say.
Once again, months ago, I become hallow into myself. I’m hollower still.
A need for self-destruction… A ridiculous mind game those PLD’s play.
I must be a cocoon ready to kill the worm inside of that which I am, rebirth the self, re-invent, recreate, reopen.
I’m tightly sealed. There is no drawbridge, only walls. Am I in a cocoon?
I hope so, better than a bricked dungeon, better than steel chains.
I can only hope.
Then, as usual these days, I had the breathtaking, heart-curdling anxiety and the stomach churns when I got out of bed. My chest hurts and I feel like vomiting.
I ate breakfast and still feel like vomiting. Every morning it’s been like this.
Off I go to make some more calls in search for a therapist. At this very moment, THAT is progress.
Here’s another woman, like Anais Nin, another woman I admire: Camila Vallejo.
addendum: Today is Memorial Day. Realized that after the third call was picked up by an answering machine. Ooops. Silly mouse. In that case, I’ll dedicate my last poem to those who’s lost their lives, been wounded (physically and mentally) and who’ve survived senseless battles.
And as far as finding a therapist, well shit, I’ll have to try tomorrow dammit!
May 9, 2012
Life is beautiful, it’s precious, it’s [insert other euphemism]. It is the only one we know we’ll get. So why waste it? Why throw it away?
Sure, there are tsunamis that claw over, killing hundreds of people and hurricanes and tornadoes and earthquakes all leaving ravage in their wake; there’s disease and famine, and worst of all, the man-made stuff–if you don’t count some of the natural disaster stuff being partially an effect of some of the man made stuff.
But still, why throw it away?
I have often wondered “How does one get to that point?” of taking your own life, of constantly being bombarded by thoughts of suicide. I wonder about this, even when I myself have been there countless times. So I can only imagine how incomprehensible it maybe for someone who’s never dealt with chronic depression and chronic thoughts of suicide like I have.
I say take this as a trigger warning, please: I will refer to suicide a lot in this post. Read the rest of this entry »
May 7, 2012
*possible trigger warning in which P whimpers like a blind, bald baby mouse*
The community hospital I go to doesn’t have very good services for some things. For others, it’s fine. But that first therapy appointment I had was a HUGE dissapointment. I had wanted to write about it. It was only twenty minutes and they could only schedule every 4-6 weeks. yeah, that’s not gonna help!
I’m not having very good nights. Suicidal ideations are reaching what I like to call “worrisome, realistic peaks” which for me are not merely suicidal thoughts I can brush off, but rather urges, URGES SO STRONG you thingk you just may this time.
There have been many triggers I HAVEN’T been avoiding obviously… And I need to be more careful. And that’s on me, I know…
But there were two triggers I had no control over. I had two very disturbing dreams about L last week, just a few days ago. Well, one was about his godfather. And I’ve had a few dreams about him since his passing almost two months ago, but the last one I had last week was the worst. In my dream I was at his apartment, only it wasn’t his apartment–he was living with all these other people–and I was trying to dump out some cocaine I’d found in his room. I was so angry at him. I was furious, “You’re doing this shit again L, really?!” I yelled. Things were said. I ended up taking a bump from the bag before I flushed its contents down the toilet. Then when I got back out, it was no longer his room; it was a hospital room and he was nowhere to be seen… A nurse was there making the bed. That’s when it got disturbing. I couldn’t understand what the nurse said. A lot of crazy shit happened afterward. It was just messed up. I woke up with that shivering feeling. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t until later that evening.
And I don’t know why thoughts of my hearing keep popping up. Maybe it’s ’cause I was taking that Wellbutrin that I kep thinking was messing with my tinnitus. If you go COMPLETELY deaf P, what’s the point P? You were a musician. Why does everything you love destroy you in the end? Oh don’t give me that Beethoven bullshit! First of all, you’re not Beethoven! No where near! And even HE wanted to do it; he too wanted to off himself. Remember his Heilenstadt Testament–it was basically a fuckin’ suicide letter to his brother. That’s why you’ve obsessed about it so much.
Last night and the night before I just sat from 1am until around 3 (I don’t remember), but I sat there on my bed crying and thinking about all of the pills I had in my possession. I was taking inventory. Will this be enough? I’ve never wanted to go out on pills. I’ve wanted some more distant, more quick way of doing it… I don’t know what I’m thinking.
I just looked at the left over clonazepam from last year, the hydrocodone, the zolpidem/Ambien, and one of those Pretty Little Demons wouldn’t leave me, kept egging me on.
Just go P. Just go and do it once and for all. It’s got to end. It’ll end anyway, sooner or later, so why not sooner? YOU WON’T LIVE WITHOUT MUSIC! YOU JUST WON’T! What kind of life is that? That’s not. It’s not getting any better P. Fuck it all, it’s not. All these years and you still deal with this? This suicidal ideation. This other shit. What is it with you and death anyway? YOU LOVE IT! YOU WANT IT! You want to–you-I want to want to so bad. There’s the three bottles of pills, the rum and wine in the kitchen and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide in the bathroom to chase it with…
Then the other me, what I call the “REAL” me fights back.
No, no no. You’re so fuckin’ wrong! SO FUCKIN’ OFF! FIRST OF ALL I’VE TAKEN YEARS IN BETWEEN WHERE I PUT MUSIC ASIDE AND I WAS OK. You, YOU, P, were meant to live, to do, to CREATE, to LOVE. You’re so strong. You’re not deaf, not completely, not yet, maybe never even will be. NO no no. You’ve been loving yourself so much lately. Look at all that you’ve accomplished. Just one more day. Remember, one moment at a time. You were born to live. To live, to live. To TRHIVE. You’ve gotten this far, there’s no fuckin’ way you won’t go farther! If you’re going through hell, just keep on going remember? This is just a feeling, just a thought. It too shall pass. Think of your family. They love you. You don’t want to hurt them. Sleep my love, lay down and feel the soft things, call little Luna to stroke her if you have to…
I just need to go somewhere. I want to tear my skin off completely.
I don’t think I’ll be able to finish that Hulk review, I mean Avengers or whatever, or anything. It’s absurd anyway, though that IS what I write, what I tend to write–absurdities.
Then I think of all that I have to do, the immigration shit, the two restorations which is the least of it. Finding work! HA. That’s a joke. Then my dad criticizes and complaining about the financial situation day and day out. ANd he keeps asking me if I could be his right hand man. I’m ALWAYS helping my mom because she can’t seem to do anything for herself….
I’m tired of that shit. I just want out. I want independence. I’m tired of the constant crying. Are these epsidoes getting worse with the years?
Just go to bed, just sleep. But I keep waking up. The restless legs things is just so much worse. My legs flail all over theplace.
My dad asked me if I’d been sick last night because he noticed I wasn’t right today. I didn’t say much. I didn’t say shit. I think he’s in fuckin’ denial about a lot of things like he’s always been. But maybe I shouldn’t push him away. Poor papi, I can’t blame him.
So hospitalization came to mind.
I’ve never been, not even when I had the monumental mental breakdown in 2008 and my brother called a psychiatric clinic on me. When the receptionist asked my brother if I was a “threat to herself or anyone else?” he said “no”, but the truth is I WAS.
It’s not like those places make you feel any better. NAAAH. They don’t. Do they? ESPECIALLY not a dreadful, overcrowded ole county places. That’s were they put people who’ve been arested and shit… I don’t mean this as offense to arrested people because I could be an arrested person too.
NO, then they won’t let me out, right? What’s it like at county psych hospitals? I mean, it’s kinda REALLY fucked from what I’ve seen and heard. I pass by there all the time on my way to my other doc appointments. What do they do there anyways besides drug you? I want to be drugged though. ha. Like that Ramones song. I sure as all fuck “want to be sedated”.
Could it be the added stress of these last few days and the recent change to fluoxetine/prozac and that I decided I wasn’t taking bupropion/wellbutrin anymore.
Night before last, I came very close to cutting. I just scratched thighs with nails all night to release some of that tension, well then I did some other little things I won’t talk about. I wasn’t drinking thankfully. I don’t do that now. I just couldn’t manage any mindfulness.
Should I call my psych instead? But then she won’t call me back until Thursday. Even if she calls what can she do? This reminds me of the story my dad tells when my mom wouldn’t leave her room for months so they called a priest on her. A PRIEST!? A PRIEST ON THE POOR GIRL (My CHILD MOTHER)! Know what priest said? “Girl needs a doctor.” Turns out she had the post partum, but no one knew that then.
Fuck all this man. I’m good. I’m good. I’m good. No, no, I’m not good but I WILL BE GOOD. I’m going to maintain. I know I can!
This is quite possibly the most ridiculous post I’ve ever made.
*le desperate, confused mouse cries*
“Face your life
Leave no path untaken.”
~ Neil Gaiman in “The Graveyard Book” ~