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.
March 23, 2013
… A mental Monkey Man.
Chances are that what I don’t get blogged today, I won’t blog tomorrow, so here I go before another day passes.
Yesterday was the “anniversary” of the day I got the call that Monkey Man was found dead. I don’t even know if I should call it “anniversary”. Something about the connotation of that is upsetting me. So anyway, I’ll just say, a year ago yesterday, I got the news that Monkey Man was no longer with us.
Those of you that followed me back then know the story. I will not repeat it, nor do I want to. Yesterday, I spent most of the therapy session talking about it. And slowly but surely I realize that I am moving past this. The pain will never be completely gone, but I am ok with that now. I am working at managing my life and actually FEEL ALIVE today.
Brunet Young and I discussed so much and I felt relieved. I told her how sometimes I feel “happy” that he’s gone and feel like a “bad” person for that. We later found that maybe “happy” wasn’t the right word. No, not at all.
I cried in front of her for the first time. There are just too many emotions to describe or begin to recognize when someone you love dies this way–by their own hands. And there is A LOT OF ANGER! I for one have dealt with anger management problems all of my life (common in peopole with BPD). She suggested maybe, in a way, I’m relieved, definitely not “happy” about it. And that’s ok. It doesn’t mean I’m, a “bad” person.
Why else would so many of the depressing blog posts on here be about him?
One thing I did this week was draw this portrait in memory him. A.F., his stepsister gave me this picture she took of us sometime in 2006-2007. It was what she calls the “happy summer”. Strangely enough, I was very depressed then, but Monkey Man was glowing and everyone said it was on account of me being there.
The relationship I had with him was so intense, so wonderful, so terrifying, so loving yet so abusive at times. I learned a lot from that relationship.
But I did love him and I know he loved me.
Correction, I do love him. I know he’d be proud of how well things are going for me these days. I found a text he had sent me on my phone about two months ago, it reads:
“It’s ok my love. U r one of the most powerful people i know. I wish i had the strength u have”
Art brings me comfort.
March 12, 2013
I just completed a pen-and-ink portrait of a fellow blogger and friend, Amanda. Here blog, Amanda Has Words, is full of her awesome little poems. Please check ’em out.
I’ve drawn more these last three months. Like most things I get into, I hadn’t sketched for years, had put the pencil down. But I’m back at it again and I’ve decided (let’s hope I don’t change my mind) that I will try making portraits on of my goals as a freelancer.
I have therapy tomorrow and one thing Brunet Young and I discussed were my “abandonment” issues. I know I’ll have to finally resolve some shit from my childhood to move on from this. It seems to me sometimes, that everything that heals me also hurts me.
One thing that’s frustrating me is that my Nemo T-Rex Duck arm has been hella hurtin’. I mean HELLA. And that’s the arm I write/draw with! Damn you Osteogenesis Imperfecta!
If you guys remember (not that I’d expect you to), I fractured my arm February of last year, 2012. Well, apparently, the fracture didn’t heal properly and there is a part of the core that is still disconnect. So essentially, my arm is still a bit broken. Sigh. This is what I mean by the though, “Everything that heals me hurts me”. Why can’t I make art without something hindering me? First it was my music and hearing loss. Now this?
I know I sound upset, and I am, but I’m quite excited about my new illustration goals.
Thanks for the support Amanda!
addendum: if you visit her blog, make sure to ask her about her photography
November 15, 2012
Sometime in early summer when my bro, V, and I became friends again, he said to me, “P, I want you to listen to this chick. I think you’ll like her. She a bit off, like you. I know you like that kind of shit.”
He took me over to his computer and showed me a Lana del Rey video, “Born to Die”. I wasn’t very impressed, but I nodded my head and said, “yeah, yeah, she sounds good. Not bad.”
Turns out I’m really diggin’ her now. Not nose deep diggin’, just knee-high diggin’, ya dig?
Yeah, I admit that I like her music ok! There I said it. She’d probably be a cool chick to hang out with too. Yeah, sometimes she sounds like she’s having a seizure when she sings live, but I honestly think she’s just, you know, off. And I kind of like that. She’s not all jumping up and down the stage singing about partying. I think she has a pretty powerful voice actually; she just doesn’t control it well when she’s up in front of the mic live. I mean, shit, I’d probably sing like a dying baby goat if I went up in front of a stage. And I sing fairly good, mind you–good as in mediocre and taking into account my halfway deafness. ha.
Anyway, I was listening to her the other night, ON MY NEW-OLD phone that my bro’s sweet girlfriend gave me! Yep, I now have a smartphone! BOOYAH!
“Ride” is one of the songs that really got me liking this Lana girl—obviously a pseudo name ’cause girl is whiter than YouTube sensation Krispi Kreme. Lana is a beauty. In this song, she expresses some of the core “borderline” characteristics. And I mean the version that’s in this video specifically when she says, “mama said I always had a chameleon soul” and “no fixed personality”. Also the whole being a poet thing and “to seek safety in other people” really rings with me. I mean she’s running around with a whole bunch of older men.
This seems a bit pretentious, but it is good nonetheless. I have good taste so it’s GOOD CAUSE I SAY IT IS DAMMIT. I kid. Whatever never mind.
Note: The direction/cinematography/editing of the video is pretty damn good too!
Oh right the surgery?! The surgery went splendidly. I no longer have a metal rod stuck in my jaw, poking out on the back of my mouth. YAY! I’m in pain now and a bit high on Norco and don’t want to take more ’cause I know how quickly I can get out of hand– being impulsive and all, so I’ll go on the sewing machine for a bit.
Mouse love (the PLDs are off on vacation but they send their love too).
I’ve been feeling rather dizzy lately, albeit “stable”. When I say life’s been better these days, I’m talking about stability–emotional and mental stability. I’ve cried a few times in the last three/four weeks, but it hasn’t been a gut wrenching, shake inducing phenomenon followed by an all-encompassing emptiness and urge to die. In other words, I’m not laughing and jumping ups and down and then wanting to jab a knife into my neck. I want to live! I want life!
A few good things are happening too. Good is such a relative word. But anyway, other than having blogger’s block, I’m keeping busy. Therapy, swimmin’, washing dishes, cleaning up, reading, immigration paperwork, rolling around with Luna, trying to keep her from rolling around on her own poo and then licking me. Shit like that.
This past week was really nice. I mean nice. Just “happy days” where I don’t give a damn about the bullshit in my life, in life. I wasn’t particularly happy about one thing, except for maybe the fact that the immigration situation, the work permit, is becoming a reality despite the hold-ups. (Yeah, I’ll mention those later as I always say I’ll do).
All I have to say is this and you can stop reading the rest of my nonsense:
Fool, I’m feelin’ fresh like fuckin’ Fonzie here! On the plus size, I also feel aaaaaliiiiiive. I’m mostly high on life; not just merely existing.
I’ve had one of those weeks where I can laugh at humanity and not be too cynical about it. “Child,” I tell myself, “these are happy days aren’t they?” Yes, yes yes. the Mouse nods in agreement. I have to. This year has been hell–like much of my other twenty-six years– and I’ve finally driven out of hell, or so it seems. I’m always a bit suspicious though. I suppose what matters is that I am presently feeling pleasant, feeling calm. I’m ok.
My mood has just been too good to be true. And I’m not even on drugs… wait, I kinda am. But anyway.
And we all have our quirks, our little weird secrets (though some more than others). Don’t we?
What the hell do I mean? People are strange. That’s what I’m sayin’.
A strange week with (MOSTLY) good feeling. Let me start with Monday–this is last Monday, October first.
The Monday Mentals
Monday began, and as usual, I went to the gym where my mom works to do my daily swim. I’ve been keeping track of how many laps I do. I told the therapist this and she said it’s a great idea to look back on my progress. Chronic pain gets in the way of this sometimes, but anyway. I’d planned on doing some blogging after my swim only I had the bloggin’ block going on in my head. And like Sara Draws says, I think I’m getting the “brain rot”. (Back on Lamotrigine after a week off of it).
I just can’t seem to sketch or play the ukulele or write, except for now. I’m writing now, ain’t I? I don’t know.
My brother and I are building our relationship again, after a major fight involving him saying he wanted me out of his life because of something impulsive I did. I’m glad we’re talking again. And we’re not just talking; we’re “friends” again. He’s been calling me up every couple of days or so and asking if I want him to pick me up to go over his apartment.
Ever since Monkey Man’s death, he’s been there for me, more or less. That’s what I love about my family. Things get crazy between us sometime, like when mama busted my brother’s nose throwing a phone at him (not a cellphone) and then he…or when I… ugh.. I’ll leave the rest for a private post. But what I’m saying is my family is here for me. And I realize that now. I always have, it’s just the depression gets in the way of these things–of FEELING the good things around you. Of feeling the love of those in your life. Of truly absorbing life, takin’ each breath and feeling the oxygen fill your lungs, pumping through your cells, in your blood, in your veins and fueling the engine that is your heart.
My brother called me Monday and asked if I’d come over. I said sure, since I’m working on being a little more open. Once we settled in his apartment, we started watching Alien, the original 1979 version. All was good until he asked me to try some wine he’d bought. Well, I said to myself “P, you don’t get a chance to drink fine wine often. You’re doing well. Just half a glass.”
“Only half a glass,” the Mouse whispered. But…Half a glass turned into nearly three-fourths of the bottle and I got drunk. Really drunk. I was still fine though, just enjoying myself. It was a surprise, actually, to feel “happy drunk” because usually I become a somewhat psychotic and “angry drunk” or a very depressed drunk.
My bro went off to bed because he had to work early in the morning and I sat there on the floor with my wine, clicking around Netflix until I saw MAD MAX 2: THE ROAD WARRIOR! Mel Gibson was still a young, sexy actor who wasn’t as misogynistic as he is now. But then again, I don’t know for sure. Shit, I digress.
So I was watching Mad Max: Road Warrior with Mel Gibson, getting drunker, lickin’ every last drop. Then I got heavy-eyed and figured I’d go to bed. By then it was probably midnight and my brother was asleep. I went over to my brother’s spare room and then to the restroom to brush my teeth, and that’s when I decide to start reading some blogs instead of curling up on the futon. Around this time is when the mentals hit me like a spear to the spine.
I was reading one of my favorite poet-bloggies and she had a link to this music duo. I dug it, so I looked ’em up on YouTube. I found THIS. It’s the duo singing a cover of Elliott Smith’s “Between the Bars”. This here–this song, Between the Bars— is a song that has an intense affect on me. I was learning how to play it on the uke back in December before I headed to Florida; before I got facial paralysis; before I became increasingly depressed; before I broke my arm; but most importantly, before Monkey Man died. And if you guys have read about what happened to Monkey Man, all those depressing posts I wrote about him… yeah. It’s been six months already!
A song that was once dedicated to Monkey Man–that now rings truer than it did in December–turned on the PLDs and maybe some of the borderline in me came out. I immediately snapped and picked a paperclip from my brother’s desk. You can imagine what happened next. But the paperclip wasn’t good enough, so I ended up in the kitchen with a bloody knife and a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. I don’t remember much after cleaning up the sink except I wrapped my arm in toilet paper and went to bed (the futon) crying.
Here’s the strange part. The next day, I was fine again. I had to keep my arm from sight when my dad picked me up, but otherwise, I was back to my cheery self.
I found a sketch of a monkey with a guitar that I drewcbefore running into the song and it’s terribly cute. Just above the crooked ears I must’ve drunkenly scribbled. It reads: T.H.L 1984-2012
Tuesday. I’m not gonna bother recapping Tuesday since it was just a chill day, apart from swimming fourteen laps and hiding a still-bleeding gash on my T-Rex-Duck arm.
Wednesday… Wednesday was wonderful. There’s a happy day.
My friend Sandy came over with her little three-year old boy. I hadn’t seen them in months. I had finished ten laps earlier that day and was feeling like things really are turning up. So Sandy came by with sushi which we ate. We then watched a kiddie movie and talked. I think we were more into the movie than her boy. She’s very different from me, Sandy, but despite that, we get along pretty well.
Sometimes I can only get so much of her though, but I’ve been pretty social lately, so my anxiety about people is subdued a bit and my patience has grown a bit. I’m still a very anxious person; I’m still having lots of anxiety, but as long as I’m not having panic attacks, as long as it’s not crippling I think it’s manageable. I’m good to go.
After she left, B came by and we talked. Here’s where Sandy and B differ. B and I can have very deep conversations: we’re like-minded. He’s a very intelligent fella and he gets my sick sense of humor which is always a plus in a friendship (for me at least).
That was Wednesday. Nice, peaceful and full of camaraderie.
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.
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]
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.
September 15, 2012
Brunet Young went out of town this week, so I didn’t get a chance to have my weekly therapy session. She said she’d call to “check” on me or something along those lines, only she put it more gently. Overall, I’m feeling great though! I think the Lamictal has toned me down a bit. I don’t know.
Last Thursday (I’m seeing her Thursdays now), I confronted Brunet Young about the BPD diagnosis my Ex-Young Therapist had given me. I’d been meaning to ask her why Ex-Young Therapist was so hesitant about giving me the Termination Reports and why she said I couldn’t have the Evaluation Summary. It took a lot of courage to ask this.
“She wasn’t supposed to give you that,” Brunet Young replied.
What the fuck? I really like Brunet Young but I don’t get why she said Ex-Young Therapist wasn’t supposed to give me that form. I inquired about it, and she basically explained that: telling the patient he/she has BPD is detrimental to the therapeutic process. For me, the fact I now know this bit of information has given me a sense of validation. Isn’t an invalidating environment one of the contributing factors of borderline personality (BPD) development?
“I feel like all these years… all I’ve gone through has at least been validated.” My voice began to shake, “A name has been put to it. Now I feel like, like I’m not JUST an asshole.” I started chuckling.
“That makes sense, I can see why you’d feel that way. The thing is, we are required to give a diagnosis even when we think there is no reason or need to place one on the client. In some cases, we go with what only fits closest.”
Ok. Then what’s the point of categorizing certain behavioral attributes?
My hands trembled and I kept rubbing my aluminum water bottle. “I think I’m a pretty intelligent person… I mean, it’s not like I’m going to just throw my hands up in the air and say ‘Well, I have this and such and I’m doomed’. I’m no different than… than I was before I knew. I’m not going to put myself in a box! I’m not going to quit trying to improve myself and look for ways of recovering.” I went on telling her that what upset me was that I often talked about BPD in regards to online forums I visited and my friend Ryden who has BPD. I would mention how much I could related to people with that and yet, she didn’t say a word about it.
Brunet Young was silent for a moment. Then she looked up with gentle eyes and said, “I know YOU wouldn’t put yourself in a box or quit trying P, but many others with this would. That’s the thing.”
She said she’d be sure to talk about why I “fit” the BPD criteria next time we meet, this coming Thursday.
“It doesn’t matter,” I replied nearly in tears. I don’t cry in front of people, so for me to nearly burst into tears was astonishing, to me especially.
“No, it does. It does matter. We’ll discuss it.”
I’m glad I finally asked. I can see why a BPD diagnosis can be withheld from a patient/client, particularly those who have more “anti-social” tendencies. For one, the patient might use it to justify for acting out of line, or they might feel discriminated against. I can see how it might conflict with therapy for SOME people to have that information disclosed. I figured perhaps my Ex-Young Therapist was afraid I’d base my entire identity around the diagnostic criteria for BPD, but I HAVEN’T. Have I?
I don’t think I have. I think too much outside of the box for that nonsense.
Yeah, I’ve researched and read a lot about it since finding out, maybe a little too much. And sure, I understand the implications behind such discretion. But as I told Brunet Young, I’m intelligent, and therefore, I sure as hell know that we are not the same (those with BPD) just because of a diagnosis. I told her I realize how arbitrary diagnosis for mental illnesses/disorders are in the first place.
Even among fellow BPDers (or whatever you want to call it), there is an infinite array of expressions of “symptoms”. I know the difference between a set of “criteria/symptoms” that BPDers share and the indefinite, individual minds–the being, the self, the person, and the personalities we hold.
We are not our labels.
In fact, I mentioned this when I found out. People are people regardless of their mental problems, illnesses, religion, sexual orientation, ethnicity, culture–I can go on and on. But it’s because this information was released to me that I feel more confident to talk about the darker sides of my experience; I’ve already told Brunet Young things I wouldn’t dare tell Ex-Young therapist like the overdoses; the day I threw a whole load of books at Monkey Man, rolled out crying and banged my head repeatedly at the side of his godfathers house; all those drugs we did together; and my mother’s suicide attempts. It’s because of knowing about BPD that I learned a lot from books/articles/blogs–like “The Buddha and the Borderline” by Kiera Van Gelder–that I no longer feel so alone.
I’m nervous about seeing her this Thursday. She said we’d discuss why Ex-Young Therapist wrote that on my Termination Report. The thing is, there’s so much I want to say and don’t know how. I feel mute when I roll into that room (though lately I’ve been talking fifteen miles a minute and typing three-hundred words per second). I don’t want to cry. I only cried when I told Ex-Young Therapist Monkey Man died.
I don’t know. I just feel awkward now.
But, I’m glad.
addendum: Today I swam like a champ! Would’a been cool if I swam like a chimp too. Can chimps swim alright?
September 8, 2012
I’ve been on Facebook a lot lately. heh. Very unlike me, then again I’m hyped so this is how I am when I’m hyped. I message everyone. One good thing happened while I was on Facebook, the other not so good.
I’ll talk about the latter first. So a friend of mine from high school is about to get married. We haven’t talked in nearly two years, beside occasional Facebook hellos. I’m really happy for him and his fiance. The girl is so cute! And they look soooo happy together. He’s also a musician and we both went to the same college for sound engineering/music production, only he started two years after I did. In fact, he started the program because of me (mainly because I told him he’d like it).
Anyway, this guy and I started flirting for a while back in ’06-’08 and even ’09. I didn’t even realize I’d been flirting until MUCH later. One time, when I was hanging out in his apartment playing his synths, he wanted to have sex with me but I rejected him, not because I didn’t want to. God, I really wanted to. He has the prettiest big blue eyes, curled eyelashes, curly hair, glasses and thick lips. He sometimes wore a goatee. I just felt it was IMPOSSIBLE for anyone to be attracted to me. I somehow thought it was a sick joke of his. I don’t feel as shy now as I was then, but I still am very insecure.
For me, it’s as if it’s impossible for anyone to find me attractive–so tiny, so angry and in a wheelchair, nah. Maybe that’s why I reach out so much for approval of men? Yet, no matter how much approval I get, I seem to want more. And when I get more, I still feel the void.
I really liked M. back then. We went to local shows together (most of which he performed in), he bought me drinks and dinner, he’d visit me at my parents house, bringing his entire synthesizer collection with him etc.. I realize now, he must’ve been really into me. At his shows, I used to get so jealous when he made out with this one bass player–a really short, cute gothic chick (she was drunk as hell though though, an even bigger drunk than me).
I kicked myself in the ass for sabotaging any kind of “romantic” relationship I could have had with him. I began to idolize him. He is quite possibly the most gorgeous guy I’ve been “involved with” more or less, but it wasn’t that. And oh god his heavenly hands! Long fingers, long strong hands–long pianist hands.
We clicked. He’s intelligent and funny, a bit geeky and really sweet. We are musicians, so we had that in common too. And though he’s a little on the “crazy” side, he wasn’t “mental” (as in he didn’t seem to have a severe mental disorder like most other guys I’d be involved with) and the best part, he wasn’t addicted to anything hardcore. Funy enough, he now works as an instructor in the same performing arts center we did the audio engineering program in.
Why did I reject him then? Why did I find it impossible to believe that he “liked” me? Why did I not care enough about myself to believe anyone could like me? I did the same damn thing with Jaque Cousteau, only Jaque was an insecure, immature punk (literraly, he had a mohawk when I met him). Ughhh. He was also a musician, the Cousteau guy. It’s just.. It’s just that seeing M’s pictures with his fiance on FB yesterday brought back some of those feelings. I guess I’m jealous. I don’t know. I know comparing myself to peers from the past (and present) isn’t good for my mental health.
It will pass.
Oh right, what’s the good news? The good news is I’m in this Facebook group for women with OI–“OI Chicks Are Hot”. OI is Osteogenesis Imperfecta aka Brittle Bone disease.
The group consists of all these “hot” OI chicks talking about… anything. It’s a private group, so I don’t care if you try to find it. Anyway, I think I still have that deep seeded insecurity about myself, BUT I’m more aware of how to control it now–or how to restructure my cognition–and hopefully I’ll learn to stop sabotaging myself so much. I still don’t trust any man, anyone for that matter (including myself) but I’m slowly learning to be more open. I hope. And groups like these are definitely a good thing for building up that self love.
In the group, I found some pretty amazing women. Here’s one of them (and yes, I think she’s hella hot):
Nadia Roberts interview in a contest to win a wheelchair <—- Click it, damn you!
She’s also been through a lot, much like I have.
Here’s an excerpt from the interview:
I began life in St. Petersburg, Russia and was born with Osteogenisis Imperfecta, (OI). I was bounced around hospitals and orphanages for the first 9 years of my life, and eventually given up for adoption was a challenging way to start life, including several surgeries under severe conditions such as no anesthesia…