… you’re typing so fast that you make dozens of typing errors and don’t give a fuck. Hurry, let’s just keep going, you say to yourself. (This is coming from a grammar Nazi with some obsessive compulsive tendencies.) And as you’re typing you’re giggling and laughing and giggling but have no idea why you’re giggling or what you’re laughing at.

Well, that’s the “good” kind of hypomanic. I won’t talk about the not-so-good kind.

********

I went to a protest yesterday with Mansie. I had a lot of anxiety but still managed to enjoy it in the end. Maybe I’ll write a more in depth post about it. For now, here’s another one of my Nokia phone photos.

One of the slogans/chants we did was “Don’t take America back; take America forward!” We got hustled by some rich white folks, one who yelled “Romney!” at us. And then they called the po po. A cop showed up just as we were wrapping up.

Go on ahead, call me a dirty hippie. I know you wanna. I will not be hurt by it. Not today, son. Not today. I’m loving today thus far, despite the cramps. It’s strange to feel this good.

****

Jaen, I have a “You Know You’re Borderline When…” too. It happened to me this weekend. I think you’d like it. I may post it later.

Mouse Love

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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)

*sigh*

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?

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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):

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.

Source: PR Newswire (http://s.tt/1eBsL)

(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.

my “No Person is Illegal” t-shirt from college

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…

30 Days of Truth, Day 1: Don’t Believe P, She’s Flaky As All Fuck!

I’m not sure who began this project, it’s called “30 Days of Truth”. I’m not even sure why I’ve decided to take it up, but I’m guessing it has to do with my rampaging self-absorption brought on by my ego (brought on by a switch to fluoxetine aka the infamous Prozac, fuck, more drugs) thus causing a new found urge to tell truths about myself, or in other words, I suddenly want to reveal more of myself because I’m so stuck inside of myself. (Disclaimer: No body parts will be revealed during the posting of this post).

The first time I saw this little 30 Days of Truth blogging project was in Halfway Between the Gutter and the Stars‘ blog. She was my first follower! Back then I didn’t know people could or would actually follow my rambling. So thanks Halfway! Also, thanks to Halfway, I ran into dozens of mental health (really just mental 😉 ) bloggers who were also doing this little truth telling challenge. It’s because of her links and their links that I’ve had the pleasure of cybernetically meeting so many amazing bloggers.

****

So, here I am! I’m jumping on the band wagon y’all! So unlike me to jump in. Or is it? (oh oh borderline identity disturbance in the process here )

Whatever. I’m gonna do it! Besides, National Poetry Writing Month (NaPoWriMo) is over, and I need something else to live for. It’s also a good excuse for a blog topic.

Day one is to write about something you hate about yourself. Really? Why make the first one so hard? Do I have to choose just one thing? That’s so haaaard. And why you trying to get me to hate on myself when I’ve worked in therapy all this time not to? Hate is such a strong word too; I try not to use it in my trying-to-stay-sane vocabulary.

Man… pffft.

Alright, I realize now as I’ve grown older– and maybe, hopefully even wiser– that I no longer hate things about myself like I used to when I was say, a teenager. I no longer beat myself up about the fact that I was born with brittle and malformed bones, therefore, I no longer hate my body like I used to. I no longer hate the fact that my sternum sticks out like a third boob. I do however, currently hate the way this damn bell’s palsy has left me unable to make certain facial expressions the way I used to, but I’m working on it. I promise myself.

But has a lot of the other, non-superficial, self-hatred left me?

Sadly, no. I can still say I hate my short temper. I hate my angry, violent and aggressive ways. I can sit here and talk endlessly about how much I hate my depressive ways. I can talk about so many things but I’ll have to choose one, so I’ll go with my volatile flakiness, my indecisive and fickle ways. Can I combine those four just like that? Does it count? They are related, right?

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Today is May first, not just May first, it is May First: International Workers Day.  <— (Click on the link, why won’t you?)

Why am I bringing this up for my first 30 Days of Truth?

Because it relates to what I hate about myself. Bare with me. No, no. May First is great! May First is the shit! I mean good shit! Not shitey shit! None of that stinky stuff. I love it. It’s got a wonderful history to it but I’ll refrain from telling it because I know this post should be about HATE and about ME, and general strikes for workers’ rights is something I LOVE, something to love, not hate. I do encourage you to look it up though.

So May First, aka May Day aka International Worker’s Day, is a day to strike for worker’s rights, this encompasses any worker rights and over the years has shifted directions, that being said, migrant workers are a big bunch.

Here in Houston, Texas, we–by we, I mean those actively involved in political movements–organize the strike into a march not only for worker’s rights but also immigrant rights because, often times, immigrants are the ones that are most abused at work, that have more work related abuses in this region. Wage theft, for example is a huge problem for the “illegals” or more correctly stated, for the undocumented workers. There is also a VAST immigrant population here, most notably Latinos/Hispanics (that’s a given), Vietnamese, Chinese, Nigerian and Indian. There are a ton more I’m leaving out. Anyway, the Latino/Hipanic communities are very much affected by the shifts in immigration laws. And I’ll talk about that later in another post.

Here’s where I get to hating myself. In the last three and a half years, I’d been heavily involved in organizations and activist groups, some of which organize the city’s May Day March. But because of my flakiness, my indecision, my fickle ways which stem from anxiety, identity disturbances (which further stem from self-esteem issues and self-doubt) and of course depression, people have gone from seeing me as a “community leader” within these organizations to someone they do not call to organize events with because I’m unreliable.

I know I may view this in a distorted way–black and white thinking and whatnot. I know that’s not always the case. I have been contacted this month, a little. I know that if I pull away from people and groups, I can’t expect others to include me in things the way they used to, right? It’s only logical. But the depressive, the bipolar or the borderline does not see logic in these cases!

The last two years I had been involved in the May Day March planning. Two years ago, in 2010, I came up with the idea of making t-shirts for a student group I was involved in.

“Hey guys! We should make shirts that read ‘NO PERSON IS ILLEGAL’ and sell them after the march to save up for our trip to Detroit!”

my t-shirt, i kept a small one for myself.

“Yeah P. That’s a badass idea!”

I smiled smuggly at myself for thinking up of such an idea, an idea people actually liked! And that idea turned out pretty good once we sold enough shirts, $3.00 to $5.00 a pop. The march turned out well too (even though a self-proclaimed Minuteman almost hit me with his American flag pole while screaming at my little group to “Go back where you came from! Go back home!” and I ended up having a panic attack, but more on that some other time).

Then, for last year’s May Day, I designed a banner for a non-profit that works with wage theft abuses as well as other worker related abuses (that’s the org that called me the week before last). I also designed a poster for another student group, this was a group I’d actually helped found. The poster was based on the ideas I came up with on these sketches I did.

mayday-amp-voice-1 mmm/paz 2011

© mmm/paz 2011

Last year however, I was in a deep depression around this time. And once I finished the posters, I sent them out to everyone and crashed. I did not return phone calls. I did not send anymore emails about the location and time of meeting. I did not coordinate with anyone to get a ride for the day of the march. I vacated completely, inside and out.

Vacating and emptying out completely is something I tend to do after I take on too much.

“Oh I’ll do this and yes, I’ll help out with that and don’t worry guys, I got that too!  And that! Ooooh, I wanna do that. Yeah, I’ll get it done in a week….” [two weeks later] “Guys, give me another week. I promise!”

I do tend to finish the bigger, important things, but all of the little promises placed in between get shoved around; I re-prioritized other things in the utmost illogical fashion and thus, I lose what I intended to get at in the first place. Those big things only get done with excruciating effort. I even go as far as making promises I know I should NOT make because trying to keep them all would be senseless, would only make my stress levels rise out of proportion and thus make my anxiety explode. All of a sudden, EVERYONE starts asking for favors. “P, can you do this? P, can you do that? Oh, yeah, just call P, here’s her number, she’ll design that for you!”

And I CAN’T SAY “NO” to others! Even those weaseling fuckers I don’t know. “Who are you? What’s your name again? Oh really, so-and-so told you I would design that for you? Ok.” Then I want to scream at everyone: “FUCK YOU AND YOU AND YOU. FUCK YOU ALL! FUCK, YOU ALL ARE JUST FUCKIN’ USING ME! ESPECIALLY YOU, YOU LITTLE UNKNOWN WEASELING FUCKER WHO’S NAME I DON’T EVEN REMEMBER! And on second thought, NO, I WON’T DO THAT DESIGN FOR YOU!”

Then I’m. No one will see or hear from me for weeks. I run from it all. I roll out of there as fast as my wheelchair can haul me (usually speed #5, if it’s fully charged). I leave myself with no other option left. Well, that or combusting in front of everyone, and no one wants P guts all over them.

****

Last year, when the day of March 1st march came rolling in, I got a call from Mansie, a friend from the Students Against Sweatshops group.

“We are renting a van and heading out. Do you want us to pick you up?”

“Yeah, sure thing! Thanks Mansie! Un beso!” I said. But I wasn’t feeling it. My anxiety was at a pain and vomit-inducing level.

“Ok, we’ll call you back in an hour. Try to be ready by then P.”

“Ok. I definitely will.” Note how I said definitely, of all things.

Here’s what sucks. I didn’t get ready. I didn’t answer her calls. Instead, I left a text that read, “I’m not going to be able to make it. No need to pick me up.” before she even had a chance to tell me what the plan was.

I was also angry at my group. The group I’d started and designed the flier/poster for. “Why did the Sweatshop kids call me and intend to pick me up but not my own group?”

What sucks is that I actually cried all afternoon after sending that text because I’d spent the entire hour debating on whether I’d go or not. What’s worse is I fell into a self-loathing moment of ,”Why do you have to be so indecisive? Why do you change your mind so much? Why do you drop out of events last minute? You let people down!”

And not only was I angry at myself, I was frustrated and hurt by the ones who hadn’t called, though it wasn’t their fault if I never gave them a definite answer, right? I couldn’t just simply be glad at the fact that the other group had offered me a ride with them!

I was depressed. I was flakey. And when I’m depressed it becomes ten times more difficult to decide on ANYTHING. Depression leads to low self-esteem. Anxiety leads to indecision leads to flaky, fickle ways, leads to self-doubt which leads to self-hatred which goes back to depression. Beautiful circle isn’t it?

mayday-amp-voice-2 © mmm/paz 2011

****

A few weeks after that, it was Mansie, Sweatshop girl’s, birthday. She invited me to her birthday party one day when I was over at her apartment. “Yeah, I’ll be having a party here soon, in a couple of weeks, and I want you to come!”

Well, she never invited me the DAY OF. I felt so hurt. Why did I need her to invite me the day of? Why did I feel hurt? Why didn’t I make plans to go? Did I want to go? Yes and no. And guess, what? Had she invited me again the “day of” I probably wouldn’t have gone anyway. Fickle. Indecisive. Flaky. Self-doubting. Socially anxious. That’s why.

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addendum: Today was a bit sad remembering this. I hope this year’s march was a hearty one. I really should get involved again, which reminds me: This past November I was well underway helping establish a new group, community based. We’d been working at creating a scholarship fund for undocumented students. Up until last year I was also an undocumented student (I’m still undocumented), but I was an undocumented student that was fortunately able to go to university because of private scholarships–one church-related (funny story there) and another academic based–that didn’t fuss about immigration status, and those are VERY hard to come by guys. I can’t even begin to tell you how hard it is for an undocumented student to get any kind of scholarship and there’s no such thing as Financial Aide. Forget it, no FAFSA, no nothing. That’s what me and my friend and a few others wanted to give to our younger peers, so we started yet another organization. And guess what I did when the depression came hurling back mid-December of last year? Yes, I dropped out. The only things I’ve managed to do in these last months is create a basic site for our organization on WordPress. I haven’t kept any other promise except that one. Thank you WP! You helped me not be so flakey with them this time. You helped me keep at least one of my promises! Hey. 🙂

Have I scared off all of my non-mentally disordered bloggers? So soon? 😦

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May is Borderline Personality Disorder awareness month.