January 24, 2014
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.
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.
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”?
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.
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.
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.
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).
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.
Well, here’s my song for this series. I dedicated this to him the other day.
August 18, 2013
I feel frantic tonight, as I have the last few nights this week. Tonight, well, I don’t know quite how to explain this feeling. It’s like the PLDs (Pretty Little Demons) came back from vacation, hung over and strung out on cocaine, and are throwing a party in my honor. What am I trying to fuckin’ say…
Well, shit… I’m frantic but not angry. I’m excited; I’m thrilled with life and can’t wait for the next second to come. Everything is much to slow or much too fast. I’m over stimulated. I want it to speed up to my level. Confidence has soared and roared. I’m a social butterfly, not a wallflower. I am everyone–everyone is ME. Loud and outspoken, but agreeable to. I start a fight, but then I’ll make the peace. Pacify me and i’ll pacify you.
But an a storm of instability seems to approach. I hope I’m wrong. I HOPE THE WEATHER MAN IS WRONG!
That’s how I feel, only I can’t seem to pacify myself at night. In the days, yes. Nights, not so much. I’m caught in a tangle of thoughts.
This morning I woke up screaming. I was yelling at my mother in a dream, though I don’t know or remember what the dream was about or what I said to her. All I know is my own voice woke me. It’s odd. It it happens a lot to me; it happens more when I’m frantic, or hypomanic or whatever.
Friday night was terrible. I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts were racing. My body wanted rest but my brain was running a marathon. I wrote yet another ramble on my iPhone (note the bad grammar). You can’t write at light-speed while tapping tiny keys on a little screen.
I jump from tangent to tangent. And I’m anxious. These days there’s so much anxiety that is coursing through my body that my hands are shaky again.
I went from writing on my phone to writing on my sketchbook. I don’t know when I finally fell asleep.
But here’s more of what I wrote. I’ll call them my positive affirmations, for now.
August 16, 2013
My 5 a.m. rambles from last night’s hypomanic induced sleeplessness.
August 28, 2012
You know you’re hypomanic when you wake up at four in the morning every morning. And then, after breakfast, you feel the sudden urge to write another “You Know You’re Hypomanic When…” post. Then you run off to the kitchen to clean EVERYTHING, or as Allie Brosh would say “CLEAN ALL THE THINGS!”
(I’m too hyped to do my own sketch without getting distracted and doing ten more.)
Then you find yourself rashly cleaning all the dishes while thinking, Sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex sex, I hate the way my dad washes dishes. He does NOT scrub them well. From now on, I’ll wash ALL THINGS ALL THE TIME. ESPECIALLY THE DISHES! I’ll have to karate chop him out of the kitchen if he even dares to wash them. And as you’re scrubbing away, you start fantasizing about who you’d want to have sex with and you laugh ’cause you realize how much scrubbing you’re doing and how that looks a lot like…
And then you find yourself cleaning out and reorganizing the refrigerator. Then you go back to the dishes and think, mmmm I want some coffeee. No P! Coffee will make this worse. You and Mouse will turn into Speedy Gonzales with his weed-head cousin, Slo Poq Rodrigues.
(sidenote: Slo Poq Rodrigues sings about smoking marijuana, in case you didn’t understand the Spanish part: “La cucaracha… le falta marijuana que fumar”. Also, in primary school, I was nicknamed Speedy Gonzales by one of the teacher aides. Case in point.)
But your inner Mouse says, Fuck it, get yourself some coffee girl! Coffee, coffee coffee woman. You know you want some. mmmmmm. Coffee and sex. Ooooh, and more mouse sketches!
And as little funny and violent images of mouse sketches run through your head every five miliseconds, you wonder if you’ll ever become a world famous ukulele player because, Damn, I’m getting kinda good, after only three weeks of playing again! Oooooo, P, you’ll be the first deaf midget in a wheelchair–with a T-Rex-Duck-Nemo arm— to play the ukulele like a true virtuoso.
Then, after serving yourself some coffee you go back to washing dishes. But when you’re nearly done, you grab your cup off coffee (because you forgot you’d placed it next to the dirty dishes you were washing) and end up throwing it in the sink, spilling coffee everywhere. And you start cursing like a mutha, but then you laugh and wash the counters and take little Luna out to pee and think about swimming and sex and coffee five dozen other things in less than a second. And if someone didn’t know you well enough, they’d think you’re pissed off because of how hard you keep shutting the counter drawers and cupboards. And you’re all, Holy baby Jesuz, did I just think of having sex with THAT guy? NO, no, no no no, not him P. Anyone but him.
And when you’re back in the kitchen cleaning some more, you nearly fall out of your wheelchair ’cause you keep crashing it on all the counters and nearly fall off again (more like jump off) when you get out of it to pick something you see on the floor. Because, remember, MUHSSS CLEENS ALL DA TEENS (in Speedy Gonzales’s exaggerated Spanish accent).
And then you’re all, Holy shitballs (not saying old man hairy balls; still getting disturbing search terms on that one), I need to review my immigration stuff. So you hurriedly run off to the room to look over all the documents. Yes, yes yes yes yes. It all looks good now. Ok. Good good good good.
And you end up wrestling with one of the family dogs on the carpet to the point where he gets tired and runs off. And as he’s running off you bark at him feeling a sense of domination.
And you know you’re hypo when, back in the room, you get on the computer to edit your post to include a bit about how you just almost fell out of your wheelchair and nearly plastered your head and nearly broke all your bones. But the damn internet is slow and not keeping up with your fast typing so you want to punch the screen but you realize you have to be kind to this borrowed computer because your laptop is still broken. And then, once the computer has responded, you have to keep yourself from writing yet another “You Know You’re Hypo When…” post because two is enough P, for now!
August 2, 2012
I’m too tired to write anything today. But I did want to share this. I think I’m going to start a new series, “P’s Pool Stories” What do you think? Does that sound cheesy, but something you may want to read? Yay? Nay?
I was scheduled to have an interview with a reporter today about the Deferred Action/Dream Act that was sent out as an executive order by president Obama. I guess she wanted to interview me about it and for me to share my personal story. As usual these last two weeks, I only slept about four and a half hours. I was so nervous/anxious. I’d been trembling all morning. But that’s already been happening anyway as you may know. I’m not going to get into details, but basically she canceled on me.
Thankfully, today is one of my swimming days. It has been one of my lifelines for the last month and a half or so. Sucks my mom works as a janitor there and is starting to get tired of her supervisor who keeps telling her to “scrub harder here and scrub harder there” and “you missed a spot”. My mom is a clean freak, so I’m sure she’s doing her job well, he’s just buggin’. On the plus side, she has a job! It’s not something we could’ve said six months ago. And the fact that she works there is the only reason I’m able to go swimming in the first place.
Money issues? Meh.
I’m at ease at the moment and will savor this bit of strange calm (I did take a Clonazepam for the interview though, so that’s one reason why).
And I’m buff! heheh. Or as my brother says, “Damn you’re shredded shorty!” I think I’m the fittest I’ve ever been in my life, though not mentally fit yet. I mean, I am mentally strong despite the instability and my lack of self-esteem and all the other bullshit that comes with mental problems.
I’ve been fit before and I’ve also been overweight as well as crack-head skinny. My weight fluctuates to extremes like my moods. As I mentioned in Termination of Therapy and a Secret Diagnosis of BPD, my weight has fluctuated A LOT throughout my life, and I have serious body image issues that I have slowly been working out the last three years. And now I’m turning into one of those douchey muscle guys that always stand in front of the mirror flexing and kissing their pecks.
Oh, snap, I think I did just write. heheh. My favorite lane is the one on the far left by the windows. 🙂
Went to therapy today. The bus ride wasn’t as “fun” as the one last week, though the Houston heat today was much less piercing and much more enjoyable. I was reminded of how many stories I have from years of riding the bus. The people I encounter, I just want to write about them. So many people. I want to write about people.
As far as the actual session. I feel it wasn’t as productive as last week and a part of me wants to quit already, but I know that the thought of quitting therapy is a bit ridiculous since it’s one of my biggest life lines right now. And my homework assignment? Write down negative thoughts that cause intense, negative emotions tand challenge those with cognitive behavioral methods of cognitive restructuring. I’ll explain later.
For now, enjoy some of my ridiculous thoughts. I had some of these on my bus journey to the university campus. Some I had when I woke up from my nap. We all have them, some of us just believe them. I’m one of those.
That black albino girl looks like she came out of the Fifth Element. Why is she still staring? Oh, kids, they stare. She’s kinda cute and very albino, like the dude from the Da Vinci Code. Book was better. Ugh, kids stare because you’re so tiny, it’s just a fact of life. It’s better than ADULTS staring with that OH HOLY GOD WHAT IS THAT, look. Let me just wave my hand and smile–show her I acknowledged her little cute staring. Ooh, hey there, works every time!
Is the whole world fucked or what? That fucker honking at us! Good going albino girl’s mom. Tell him off! Shit, but calm down lady. Don’t go off that hard.
Swimming is only going to make you go deaf quicker. Why do you think your ears are itchy all the time? Swimmer’s ear? Yeah, and that’s just your ear’s nerve cell’s dying P.
Monkey Man needed you and you failed him.
You need a gun. No, a gun wouldn’t work for you. Shit, all those new shiny pills might.
You’re such a bitch. Let go of that thought.
Ugh, don’t use that word in the negative sense! Luna is a little bitch and she’s awesome.
They think you’re an asshole. Why else would you get so many views after writing that last post? So many hushed readers, no bitch? You worthless piece of…
But he saved three dogs from an abandoned warehouse several months ago. Yeah, and now he wants to cheat on his wife. And you’re his object of desire. What does that make you?
You won’t be able to go another day without texting him something sexual.
Lamotrigine is only going to make your hearing loss and tinnitus worse.
Can I just have a roomful of people I can punch? Matter fact, make it a room full of babies!
Your therapist is plotting to kill you, just like your psychiatrist is. Don’t believe them.
This feeling is unbearable. Tear your skin off instead. It’ll feel good.
Oh no, no no. That interview with the reporter is going to suck tomorrow. You’ll say something stupid, I’m sure.
You want to do something with all those new shiny pills don’t you? You think you can’t handle this? Ha!
Oh no! Now that you’ve shared this, the bloggie people will be able to read your mind!
Alright, I’ll stop there. Yes, I was a Cranberries fan in my younger days. Enjoy!
Oh look, it’s young Frodo–I mean, little Elijah Wood. God, I feel like I’m reliving some of my childhood in these songs…
July 17, 2012
There is so much I want to write about (and not just about myself, heh).
I wish I had the poetic air that filled me in April during NaPoWriMo. It just seems to have depleted. But I’ve been feeling somewhat, oh I don’t know, “normal”. Is that even an accurate way of describing not wanting to kill yourself everyday?
I was really excercizing some demons there with some of those poems. Actually, the Pretty Little Demons (PLDs) were exercising the Mouse if you recall the ping-pong matches they started in May and all the other ruckus.
Feels like an enema is being done in my head now. But I will write and/or sketch something proper soon enough (as if I ever did). For now, I give you this from Nacho Libre:
p.s. I saw Dusty yesterday. We had sex. And I want to have sex with him again and again and again and again. I know. I know. But he’ll be leaving for Brazil tomorrow, for a few months, with his family (his dad is Brazilian). And I have a therapy appointment tomorrow (have to ride the MetroLift since it’s been raining all week, bleugh). I kind of want to tell her, the therapist, about Dusty since it’s barely my second session in which we’ll do an overview of my life’s major problems–and well, the Saga of Dusty and P covers a lot of my druggy days/years. But I’ve never been open with therapists about sexual things. Should I tell her about him? It’s just… I think I’m hypomanic… I should leave this for another post.
p.p.p.s. Your support has been incredible.