Art is my salvation.

May 2, 2012

Today has been a nerve wrecking day. I woke up at six in the morning. I don’t know why I’m still bothering taking that Ambien. I will quit soon, I tell myself. But I’m not sleeping.

I woke up, got a banana, mashed it up with almonds and a Kashi cerial and that was my breakfast. Took my new set of 10mg fluoxetine and two 100mg of tegretol, my B12 and Calcium1200+D600 IU. I got down on the floor and organized some paperwork while listening to Garbage. I’ve been having that song “Stupid Girl” in my head all week. I swear, I’d never thought about it that way, but it’s such a “borderline girl” song. It should be called “Stupid Borderline Girl”. ha. It was one of my teenage girl anthems and I swear it always will be, especially now that I call it my “Stupid Borderline Girl” anthem.

Anyway, I reviewed some of the immigration paperwork I had stacked up. It looks like I’ll be seeing the lawyers again on Friday. YAY! I have the money this time. It’s $420 that has to be paid to the “U.S. Department of Homeland Security” for the I-130 form for petition of relative. My brother paid me that amount for helping with the wedding videos and with his IRS files. I’ll explain more of what that immigration form is later. There’s just too much shit to explain in one sitting. Immigration laws are so ugh, how do you say, always changing and indefinitely unpredictable? Illogical? Aggressive, inward or outward? Difficult to read? They’re worse than a borderline! Actually, I shouldn’t even compare and insult my fellow borderlines. ANY borderline would be more reasonable than these outrageous laws!

****

I eventually got the stacks in order and then pulled out my appointment slip for today. I was scheduled for a 1pm appointment with endocrinology. I eventually went back to sleep until ten. At that time I was going to the living room and my dad called me. His photography “studio” is in a den area right between my room, the kitchen and the living room. So I have to get through there regardless. It sucks when you don’t know clients are over and your hair is a mess and you’re still in pajamas and get called over to do a business deal of all things.

See, I’ve restored photographs since I was a kid. It’s something I learned to do back in the day before Photoshop was so prominent. So you mainly used airbrushes then and all sorts of cool oil and oil pencil techniques. I love Photoshop though. Anyway, my dad calls me over while I’m still squinting from the light and trying to prop myself awake.

Two men introduced themselves and handed me an old damaged photograph. “How much will you do this for?”

“I’ll have to assess the damage and I’ll give you a quote in a minute.” Fuck! I need to go brush my teeth first.

I brushed my teeth, went out to take Luna to pee and then got back in. “This will cost you $130.00” I explained the level of damage and why I’d charged that much. I actually undervalue my work but I don’t know why people that know my dad seem to think I’m overprising it. These men didn’t though. I’m just complaining from past experiences and the fact that I’m a terrible sales person. And my dad sweetens up clients too much! It gets on my nerves. Well, that was eventually over with!  I gots me a fifty buck deposit so that means I’ll have money to pay for my own appointment today! Woohoo!

I made one of the men sign a contract, thanked them. I then excused myself and went to shower and get ready for my doc appointment.

****

The traffic was hell. What was even more hellish was the community hospital’s parking garage. Seven floors and not one damn spot available! Besides, my mom took me today (she hardly ever does) and I have little patience for her low patience.  Well, people fuckin’ honked from behind and from in front. WHAT THE FUCK PEOPLE!? We’re all in this together, can’t you see!? Baghaghagh.

Eventually, we were in. And it was crowded! I mean CROWDEDEDEDED. It’s a good thing I control my social anxiety more now. It was like a New York subway station on a Yankies game day.

I eventually got called, two hours later. And when the doc–really sweet girl–told me about the possible reactions I might’ve had with my first biphosphonate infusion last year for my Osteogenesis Imperfecta and what they can do to improve my vitamin D deficiency and my osteoperosis, she looked at the computer chart and then back at me and said, “How’s your chest feeling? You’re being followed by cardiology too, right? I see your aorta is dilated!”

WHAT THA FUCK!? Dear god/universe, why don’t you send Zeus again! Please!? Three months ago when he threw his lightning bolt at our house, he missed me.

“No, I’m not being followed by cardiology. I thought my heart was fine.”

“Oh, you’re not being followed? That’s strange.” She looked back at her computer chart, “Oh, hehe, yes… Oh, I’m so sorry. My mistake, your heart is perfectly fine!” She patted me on the knee, “Sorry about that.”

I felt like I’d just gotten me a Dr. Hibbert moment from the Simpsons, when he gives Homer the worst possible diagnosis only to realize his mistake and just does his signature chuckle. “Oh I’m just teasing, oh hoo hoo. heheh hoo hoo.” Yeah.

simpsons-julius-hibbert-edit

Dr. Julius Hibbert

Then she asked if she could examine my bones. (She just wanted to cop a feel on me guys.)

After feeling up my arms and legs and back, she asked me to lift my shirt and started feeling up on my chest. She asked about the malformed, protruding sternum, “And this one’s from birth?”

“Yes it was a prenatal fracture that never healed properly.”

“Is it more pronounced now? As your bone grew, I’m sure it got more pronounced.”

“Yes, yeah it is. When I was a kid, it was hardly noticeable.” Great, now I feel self conscious.

It went well overall though. And I’ll be getting a call from them about some new treatment that might be available for osteoporosis but that may also be helpful in improving my risk of fractures caused by the Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI).

****

I got home and not long after popping my shoes off and lazing down to listen to a little more Garbage, I got a call… from… MR. BILL COLLECTOR!

Remember that awful letter I’d gotten from the university? (Click here if you don’t) Well, yep, they’d wanted to know what I’d planned on doing about paying that money I owe. (If any of you have dealt with this and have any advice, please do give me some. Also, if you’ve heard of the Bill Collector Mafia asking for me in Blogland, tell them I’m not here!) He was really good at not being too pushy though. And I didn’t have a panic attack. Now I just have to figure out what the fuck to do about this.

Moral of my post?

I want to do something artsy fartsy now.

“Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.” ~ Pablo Picasso

I found this too and absolutely loved it:

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addendum: You know what really pisses me off? I mean, irks me. It’s seeing all those fuckin’ McDonalds bags everywhere at every hospital. Why do most hospitals (I don’t know how it is overseas) seem to have a McDonalds in the cafeteria?Really? Really, you’re going to capitalize on people’s health? It’s a fuckin’ hospital! Let the drug and insurance companies do that since they’re experts at it! This HOSPITAL should be promoting HEALTH, not food that really WILL dilate your aorta!

addendum 2: Oh god. oh god. There are two things that have me getting nervous. OH OH OH GOD. MY FIRST APPOINTMENT WITH NEW DR. MALE THERAPIST IS TOMORROW!  And the Bell’s Palsy was getting better but these last few days, NO, NO NO. I’LL MENTION IT LATER. IT’S TOO MUCH.

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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?

****

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.

Spring Brews

I.
Drenched with what was,
what will eventually dry
and become white-washed
like ghosts behind
these brown eyes.

Morning dark
like night
or evening as I
adjust to dim light.

Wake up in a fog.
Wake up soft
and soggy
like these brown sheets.

The jitters will
only come later
with panic, with shrill
and erratic static.

II.
Sleeping too much
only tires the body,
the inner dwelling,
my soddy self. My sire

stoops over me now.
Gentle creases beside each
eye, like little creeks
meeting in a lake.
“Let’s go,” he says. I shiver.

We ride on. A storm
is brewing.
He interrupts,
“It’ll rain. We need cooling”

Clouds above grey, loaded.
The road, cars, widshield
all the same, aligned, faded.
Spring, I wonder, who’s to say

from behind this glass,
below her headless mass
we’re merely tinkering nothings,
traveling through endless outpourings,

raindrops clinking on tin cups
ready for her wind, her purring.
And the clouds’ grumbling, what do
they argue about in all this stirring?

III.
A witch behind the couldren
up there high. Stirring still
behind her
kettle-sky, her boiler

down here, drops of agitation,
acid rain
ready to fall
down, down the drains

like this faint
lass’s young heart.
See, she and I
that Witch-Sky
are much the same.

Her fury crackles
thunder turning off
the lights
much like I have lived
shutting off my…

IV.
The more I wait
under sedating
spring shadows,
the tartrate still coursing

my veins, the more
I wonder when she’ll
be done brewing rain
come down from her den,

done with unrestrained storms,
done filling my heart like worms
in a carcasses’s
eye sockets, when she’ll climb

down to cleanse,
to un-braid her sky
and let in some light
to untangle my thoughts.

© Paz

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I didn’t know there were prompts to this thing. ha! Well, I kinda did. But I guess I was too steadfast and didn’t read clearly or bother to.

So today I actually followed the prompt. Meh. It was a slow, lowly day unlike the last two, super-hyped up weeks. Slept too much. Bleh.

I feel like I’m on the upside of down, seeing the world like a bonobo dangling hands down from a tree or like these wonderfully colored white folks full of soul. (They’re playing Ella Fitzgerld, “When I Get Low, I Get High.”) I’m a huge fan of them, especially Fiona. I’d marry her even though I don’t believe in marriage  (shhh. Keep it on the DL).

At any rate, ahem, the last four days I’ve been a mix and mash. I’m chatty, I’m full of energy, but it’s all anxious energy. Does that mean I’m a little mixed up? I don’t know. It’s the changing of seasons. Put it how you like. My body has come alive but with a vengeance, a vengeance called mad irritability.

And speaking of bodies coming alive, it’s Good Friday! There’s something about Jesus dying and resurrecting to give us eternal life and the chance to avoid eternal damnation. It makes me want to make a list! So I figured in lieux of all of these sad worldly and personal affairs, I’d write me a “Good List”. A good list is something I just came up with.

It’s pretty good. Hear me out…

I was supposed to do a “hope box” for therapy four weeks ago but never got it done. You know the habitual procrastination and then tragedy struck again or I struck it. Besides, a good list is better.

I like making lists and I know I’ve said this before but I really do. Something about making lists–about having certain thoughts cascading on paper or screen–makes me feel momentarily at ease; it’s become more of a compulsion. I also find making lists helps me clear my jumbled head a little. I like making skinny, stout lists and fat, drawn out lists. When I was in school, especially my first batch-full of semesters, I made a hell of a lot of snappy lists:

“GET STARTED ON RESEARCH PAPER!” then
“GET STARTED ON OUTLINE FOR RESEARCH PAPER” then
“FIRST TWO PAGES OF RESEARCH PAPER!” then
“GET STARTED ON RESEARCH PAPER, FOR REAL THIS TIME!” then
“RESEARCH PAPER DUE TOMORROW!” then
“GET RESEARCH PAPER DONE! LAST DAY!” then
“GET RESEARCH PAPER DONE BY EXTENSION DUE DATE! FINISH IT”

I found those were never helpful, only a cause of more anxiety. Nowadays, I make very specific detailed lists, still a cause of anxiety. But I’m no longer in school and don’t have a steady job or the like so I am able to break things down much easier. There’s even this exercise I learned from a time management tutorial called a “mind clearing session” in which you also make lists. It’s good stuff, but more on that later.

I digress. I’m having three, four, five conversations going off in my head right about now while one voice is singing and looping a mariachi song and a sixth conversation comes in to argue. My instinct in all of this mental chaos is to pace, more like rolling around the house aimlessly stopping in the kitchen or in my room to ask “what was I gonna get from here?”

But instead I’ll write down all the things I need to finish and break them down into very itty bitty chunks so I don’t get overwhelmed.

To edit a wedding video, I don’t just list say the songs, the tracks, and the approximate due date, I list every major step in a separate chunk and I only worry about one chunk at a time. “Create folders and set all capture scratch settings” then “transcribe or capture video” and so on. Even in this way, I tend to get stuck when I’m low or on the high side of low (which is 99% of the time) but I’m able to accomplish more if I just set myself to do one thing at a time. One thing at a time woman! I’m on speed, figuratively speaking. I’m just trying to survive one day at a time, one second at a time.

My “good list” is this:

I’ll write down some good things I can think of that happened this week and all the things I set out to do and actually managed to do, even if they’re incomplete (I’ll count them if I at least got started). As far as the “bad” things, and there are many (my mind tends to focus on those), I’ll list them if (read: IF) I find one good thing in them.

Taking the good from the bad in no particular order all stream of  conscious like and shit, etc, etc.

Numero 1: I’m currently polishing a turd. In fact, as soon as I’m done with this blog post and as soon as my bro’s wedding transfers I’m going to turn to the turd at hand.

In the last three days I’ve worked hard on this wedding turd. One of my dad’s wannabe photographer friends did this wedding and gave it to me to fix. Basically, I’m fixing the messed up sound, or in more technical terms, I’m repairing clipped audio. This guy’s wife does the video while he shoots and does occasional DJing. The thing is, she doesn’t know how to work the camera and she accidentally set the audio out of automatic mode and well, you got the rest. I’ve had this video for two weeks now, so it’s good I finally got started.

I’m finishing up the mariachi singing at the reception. But a turd is a turd is a turd (I’m going all Gertrude Stein on you and once again abusing the power of parenthesis). Oh well, this will be a turd that went from hella profuse, “god almighty is that a rotting corpse?” putrid stank, to “beuggh. what is that?” stank.

Numero 2: This is actually part of one but I felt I should start a new number. I’m actually getting paid for polishing this turd, not much but something.

Numero 3: I’ve been doing a moodchart again so I can give it to this new psychiatrist I started with in December. I have an appointment with her next Thursday and I feel there’s too much to even begin discussing in such a short time. I never end up saying what I want and I usually get drawn into something the doc says and forget what I wanted to say in the first place.

She’s only seen me twice since the December intake. I could never get how an accurate assessment of my past/current mental health has been if they only see me for fifteen minutes–twenty minutes at most–every two to three months at a time.

I’m being proactive and plan to slap this mood chart on her lap. The chart is dated from January on up to today. I had to go back and retrace my general moods for most of January and some of February, but I think I did a good job of that.

Numero 4: Sertraline has killed my sex drive (not that I have any great avenues to clear that one out at the moment anyway), but I actually felt a little sexy yesterday. And yes girls in wheelchairs can feel sexy.

Numero 5: I’ve been losing a lot of weight. I wasn’t overweight to begin with. Two pounds in the last three/four weeks. That may not seem like a lot to you but considering I’m only three feet tall and weigh a total of 45 lb–that’s roughly 19 kilos–a hell of a lot. In retrospect, that may not be such a good thing since the loss was a result of my downward spiral. My appetite declined along with my mind (usually I overeat when I’m down not the other way around). BUT the lighter feel has probably contributed to my sexiness.

Numero 6: My brother bought me a haircut. My hair is in a cute chin-length bop now. That definitely contributes to the sexiness as oppose to the mullet that was starting to grow after the super short cut I got sometime at the end of last summer.

Numero 7: I had more series of intense crying bouts but I’ve managed to recover quicker from them this week.

Numero 8: The chest pains eventually subsided today and also my heart didn’t explode or implode though it felt it would.

Numero 9: I actually managed to persuade myself to blog by making this silly list.

Numero 10: I did not punch a baby, break a window or smash a glass, but I found my aviator sunglasses which hide my tears while making me look fashionable.

Numero 11: On Wednesday, I saw the therapist and the immigration lawyers at the University. A two for one! Booya!

Numero 12: I went with my dad to apply for some benefit stuff. I can’t receive any because of legalities and he was denied because of legalities, so that just means we’re both going to have to work harder at launching his new website or starve. I have not started on it but discussions began rolling again this week.

Numero 13: I’ve had a lot of hip pain but I’m doing my stretches and have kept up with my exercises more or less.

Numero 14: I’ve been practicing a lot of mindfulness, especially the diaphragmatic breathing.

More good lists to come, I hope.

Happy Good Friday yall!

Jesus not God

I stole this from a FB page

(You’ll have to forgive my blasphemous and heathen ways and my overuse of parenthesis. Jesus did, so there’s no reason you shouldn’t. 😉 He told me so himself; he also told me this is not a very good image and likeness of him and that he was indeed not as fair )

The Rapper

March 13, 2012

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

Rant commences now…

(Just a heads up.)

Ahem.

Ok.

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

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

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

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

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

**********

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

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

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

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

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

“Good. Good. Well…”

Nah, I’m not up for that.

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

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

**********

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

“Yes,” I reply.

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

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

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

[insert laugh track]

“Oh. ha. ok”

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

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

Whatever.

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

**********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alright then.

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

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

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

I don’t want to be bitter.

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

Have I not been trying?

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

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

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

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

Jesuz. I’m really sensitive these days.

**********

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

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

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

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

Fuckin’ done.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

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

And after all the folderol 

What did I learn?

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

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

~Better Version of Me, Fiona Apple

Floridaze

December 31, 2011

It’s 2:20 a.m., my third night here in Florida.

I arrived Wednesday night, and tonight I have been tossing around with those tiny, dancing and restless legs of mine. Been trying to sleep since midnight. I told myself I wouldn’t take the Zolpidem/Ambien tonight. For one, I feel I’m becoming dependent on it again.  Two, I’m starting to fear that it’s affecting my already deteriorated hearing. I’m becoming increasingly cautious of any neuroleptic drug or any drug that affects the central nervous system in general, which makes it challenging since all psychiatric medications affect the central nervous system in one way or another. I’m also taking Hydrocodone again. *sigh*

Months ago, I’d read somewhere online that Bupropion can increase tinnitus. I plan to get off of it soon because, well, I’m afraid it’s affecting that too. The only reason why I didn’t stop taking it then was because I had improved so much during the summer. I was afraid to stop. I still am, though I’m not much of a believer in or a fan of pharmacotherapy. That’s me, a rolling contradiction, a wadded ball of indecision. That’s probably what’s keeping me up too–fear. That fear of decisions I’m facing has me partially paralyzed.

I didn’t cry myself to sleep the night I wrote the post about the interview (by, the way I heard back from the reporter yesterday and have avoided to look at the now syndicate article which probably has me blabbing nonsense again). But I digress. I have been crying a lot since then, a lot more that is. The tears keep huddling behind my eyelid–all ganged up–wanting to bail out of my eye sockets every other hour, and I’m having to mentally punch them back into place where they belong.

It’s just so damn hard to cry in another home, as much as close to home as this may be for me. It’s difficult to find a private corner, fall into a fetal position and have it out with the tears, the spit, the mucus and the funny gagging noises.

I’m just too anxious; my hands are unsteady.

And I’ve been getting that god-awful facial nerve pain again. It kicked in hardcore today. The kind of hardcore where I’m screaming inside, “God, just rip my face off already! Just rip it off”

To top it off, I hurt a rib, or a couple. My lower right ribcage popped a little while I leaned over for toilet paper. That’s part of what comes with being vertically challenged and having a brittle bones condition. Who the hell… I mean what type of industrial/interior designer or architect or whoever the hell it is that designs homes places the toilet paper holder behind the toilet?

And why does it seem like I’m inundated with ideas at night? Like the moonlight and shifting tides call to me. I guess I was born for the night. I shift with the tides. And maybe the moon is my true muse, my impossible lover.

Blah.

Bleugh.

It’s times like these when I’d really like a doobie to burn, but the kind that make you just munch and chill and fall asleep. I’m not talking about the hydro that makes you want do yoga while cooking and then binging on whatever it is you cooked while then deciding to either clean or lay back and wonder about quantum physics’ ties to new wave religions (and the mysteries of the universe). Somehow you then find yourself staring at the water trickling down your hand and the plates for half an hour as the shiny aluminum sink glistens and you think about how we are all connected to that water and all that food you  just ate can be summed down carbon and water like yourself. “That’s all we are,” you think and then realize you just wasted a lot of precious water.

Only right now, I do not feel connected to anything. I do not feel that I am part of that water.

Maybe I should read a little bit more of The Omnivore’s Dilemma that Eloise had saved for me when I arrived. Or maybe I’ll lay back down and see if I can sleep. Yeah, I think I’ll do that. Plus, I better get rest because Eloise mentioned something about going to a farmer’s market tomorrow morning! Or would that be later today since it’s already morning?

All apologies. I have no epiphany to share, no philosophizing, no metacognicizing, no politicizing and no toilet jokes (unless you find the predicament I was in with the unreachable toilet paper holder funny, and in that case, you’re a heartless bastard). Not really. I kid. It was a little amusing, but only a little. And only because I was on the crapper.

So yeah, no mediocre poems, no little doodles and no story concluding the toilet-rib-cage-rupturing incident, just a cheap, bitter complaint tonight.

Ugh. Alright, the bed beckons. Hopefully I don’t have another tug-a-war with the pillow.