Biometrics Are IN!

November 27, 2012

BOOYAH!

They are in!

My fuckin’ FABULOUS finger prints are in! My hand prints, finger prints and a picture of my geeky face in a blue long-sleeve, corduroy, polo-style shirt have been submitted into the gubernatorial vortex.

WHEW! It. Is. Done.

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I haven’t been updating much on the immigration situation because my focus was on getting stable enough to function and get all the paperwork in. In case you’re new and are just now reading, I am an immigrant, an undocumented immigrant to say the very least. I’ve lived in Texas since I was five years old, roughly twenty-two years, but who’s counting right? *cough*

Back in June, President Obama made a sly move to get a head start in the 2012 elections–he signed an executive order for DACA (deferred action for childhood arrivals) meaning that, a) undocumented aka “illegal” immigrants who came to the U.S. prior to the age of sixteen would be deferred/protected by law from deportation proceedings and, b) they would, by discretionary case, receive a work permit so they (I) can work legally in the United States.

I currently cannot work “legally”. It is a difficult situation to be in as I mentioned in my posts “P Is in SHOCK! UTTER FUCKIN’ SHOCK!” and “P Is in SHOCK! UTTER FUCKIN’ SHOCK! …. But then remembers…”

Most of my friends and acquaintances who are in the same boat either work as waiters, house keepers (like my mother did), janitors (like my father did), construction or farm worker etc.–all jobs I cannot do in a wheelchair. My only options, out of desperation, were to try and freelance. But being mental and having severe anxiety on top of transportation issues makes freelancing extremely difficult. Besides, I needed more discipline.

Since I graduated college in May of 2011, my freelance jobs have added to nearly nothing. I tried websites like e-lance and all this other shit I can’t remember. I spend hours on those sites, touching up my resumé, putting up samples of my work, only to find that at the end of the process, I was always asked for a Social Security number which I obviously do not have.

It became another brick added to the weight of the depression that eventually knocked me down in May. But then, alas, June came with the news of Obama’s signature. I’m not an Obamacrat, I’ll tell you straight up. I’m with the rebel alliance and Jedi nights, not the empire. Besides, Obama had promised several activist groups (some of which I was part of) that he would sign this YEARS ago, but as a true politician, he did not until this election year.

Anywho, I’m not goin’ into my political or social ideals in detail since that is not the focus of my blog. I established at least that from the beginningWhat I do want to share is MY STORY.

********

In mid-October I received such wonderful birthday presents!

I got some stretchy pants from my mama, a poem from Angel; I got to see Fiona Apple LIVE with my bro who bought the tickets last-minute; I got a beautiful painting of Mermaid P mailed to moi from Le Sailor–LOOK HERE and I got the DACA application completed and mailed out. That to me was a wonderful gift. They all were.

In April, just before my suck-ass and shameful death attempt, when I thought I couldn’t fall further into depression, I got hooked up with a “job” and felt excitement followed by failure crushing me with the culmination of the second day of work, the day I got fired. I was only an intern, hence the legalities not being clear up and therefore they were not strict in mu application. That’s why I wasn’t asked for my SSI number. Plus, Mansie practically got me that job, a job that only lasted two days.

****

Sixty days after Obama’s June executive order, the DACA law went into effect. To cut my rambling a little short, I have had a long process applying for DACA since September, but I finally had my biometrics appointment today!

The biometrics proceeding is basically when USCIS, the Immigration and Citizenship Services department calls you in to take a photo of you, mark your fingerprints and so on, you know, Big Brother type shit . The dude who fingerprinted me was wearing blue latex gloves like he was about to give me an enema. I ranted on my MsMouse Facebook as follows (note the terrible grammar ’cause I was on a not-so-smartphone that kept auto-correcting me in my agitated state):

My rant for today: It’s so hard having to depend on my dad for SO much! I’m grateful that he’s here, but he’s extremely overbearing and has become more stubborn with age (he’s nearly 70). The biometrics appointment went well even though my dad and I got into an arguedment on the way to the US immigration dept office. It went super fast. Yaaaay!

But fuck anyone who thinks I, or anyone like me should be deported. Twenty two ducking years for this and I’ll still as a non-legal resident, only in immigrant with DACA and work permit. At least ill have that thought. And I can’t wait to finally have a job and a little more freedom! Wooohoo.Fuck you govt for playing with our lives! For controlling my live like a piece in a board game!End rant.

********
And that is that! I’m on my way to being more of an adult. I feel as though my entire life I haven’t been given room to grow, to spread out and show my inner beauty. This is why I feel so child-like. It’s not a “bad” thing to be child-like, but what I mean is, I’ve always felt restricted like a child. I’ve felt things that should be entitled to me weren’t. I’m an angry little mouse on a tiny, albeit heavy, leash and the cheese is only a foot away. (Godamn I love cheese!)
****
Hopefully in a month’s time, I’ll be receiving a social security number along with my work permit! Nope guys, no green card or “legal status” yet. I’ll still technically be an “illegal,” only an “illegal” who can work “legally” (I prefer undocumented).
And ain’t that an oxymoron? That’s politics for ya…
Here’s a little sketch I did on my not-so-smart-smartphone that my bro’s sweet girlfriend gave me before my surgery!
Anyone know of any good and cheap/free sketching apps for Andriod? This one isn’t too great. But I like that you can’t be precise; it makes me less perfectionistic  less critical and quicker. heheh. The scribble at the right surrounding the MsMouse is supposed to say “ILLEGAL”. Try and figure out which part of the tail is the letter G and/or A.
Mouse love

ILLEGAL MsMouse
2012 (c) paz
I am still undocumented aka “illegal”

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An Old Sketch

August 23, 2012

I’ve been filling out the applications for immigration (USCIS)– well, as much as I can get done on my own–before I see the lawyer at the university next week.

Last night, my dad gave me a folder of some of my old elementary and high school grades/teacher reports since I’ll need proof of records that I studied in the U.S. for many years. It’s required for the DACA (Deferred Action For Childhood Arrivals) application which would give me a work permit. No legal residence, just a work permit (aka SSI#) valid for only two years. So much for citizenship. Twenty-two years in this country and I’ll only have a work permit to show for. Ain’t that a motha–?

Well, somethin’s better than nothin’.

****

There were some funny comments from old teachers. How I had potential and needed to apply myself more.

“P has potential. She does good work when she applies herself!” and “P is receiving an hour tutoring from —-” and “P, remember to finish your homework!” and “P has improved this quarter. She is in ESL Level II [that’s English as a second language]” and “P does really well when she’s able to concentrate” and “P, keep reading every night! Good job [smiley sticker]” are just a few of teacher’s notes from third grade.

What’s funny is my dad kept them but he never really read them due to his limited understanding of English at the time. I’m guessing he saw the smiley stickers and thought, “Ok, she’s good”. I could’ve easily sneaked by with failing grades in high school because my parents never knew when progress reports came out. Good thing I was a damn good student, despite the depression. I could see when I was depressed because my straight As would fall to all As, two or three Bs and an F. Id go from being on the honor roll to being in academic probation. Every time.

****

This got me to snooping around some of my old notebooks I have hidden in my room. ha. And I found this from when I was 16 years old.

God, that was a depressing year.

Jan 2003 (c) paz

********

On the page next to it, I have a sort of poem. It says:

written when high…

These are my snow-covered dreams.
I’d take back all that shit I said to make you feel like that.
I’d give it all to have the thought of me in you again.
These are my snow covered tears.
I try… but I fall apart…
Thwarted tattered imbecile.

I don’t think I was in a very coherent state of mind then, obviously.

********

Note: I think, if I remember correctly, this was written the first time I tried weed. (It would be a while until I’d try it again.) I was out in the backyard all by my lonesome self, freezing my little ass off. I lit a match and accidentally burned a few eyelashes since the wind was howling. When I drove the wheelchair back inside, I ate a whole bag of pretzels and wrote that “poem” and then crashed. I also used to have an eyebrow piercing at the time. I guess that’s what that is on the sketch’s eyebrow.

Life Line

August 2, 2012

I’m too tired to write anything today. But I did want to share this. I think I’m going to start a new series, “P’s Pool Stories” What do you think? Does that sound cheesy, but something you may want to read? Yay? Nay?

****

I was scheduled to have an interview with a reporter today about the Deferred Action/Dream Act that was sent out as an executive order by president Obama. I guess she wanted to interview me about it and for me to share my personal story. As usual these last two weeks, I only slept about four and a half hours. I was so nervous/anxious. I’d been trembling all morning. But that’s already been happening anyway as you may know.  I’m not going to get into details, but basically she canceled on me.

Thankfully, today is one of my swimming days. It has been one of my lifelines for the last month and a half or so. Sucks my mom works as a janitor there and is starting to get tired of her supervisor who keeps telling her to “scrub harder here and scrub harder there” and “you missed a spot”. My mom is a clean freak, so I’m sure she’s doing her job well, he’s just buggin’. On the plus side, she has a job! It’s not something we could’ve said six months ago. And the fact that she works there is the only reason I’m able to go swimming in the first place.

Money issues? Meh.

I’m at ease at the moment and will savor this bit of strange calm (I did take a Clonazepam for the interview though, so that’s one reason why).

And I’m buff! heheh. Or as my brother says, “Damn you’re shredded shorty!” I think I’m the fittest I’ve ever been in my life, though not mentally fit yet. I mean, I am mentally strong despite the instability and my lack of self-esteem and all the other bullshit that comes with mental problems.

I’ve been fit before and I’ve also been overweight as well as crack-head skinny. My weight fluctuates to extremes like my moods. As I mentioned in Termination of Therapy and a Secret Diagnosis of BPD, my weight has fluctuated A LOT throughout my life, and I have serious body image issues that I have slowly been working out the last three years. And now I’m turning into one of those douchey muscle guys that always stand in front of the mirror flexing and kissing their pecks.

Oh, snap, I think I did just write. heheh. My favorite lane is the one on the far left by the windows. 🙂

********

Just keep swimming. It’s hardly ever this empty.
(taken with  my semi-crappy Nokia camera phone) I’m doing an average of 8 to 14 laps. 48 seconds  a lap (2way) was my latest timing. And I don’t know why the water looks so cloudy here.

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?

********

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?

****

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.

A Good List, Round Two

April 9, 2012

Numero 15: It’s a good thing I like mariachi music because I still have those songs from the polished turd dancing all around my head, a swirly fanfare looping and looping with all the other Paz and not so Paz monologues.

“Que vivan los novios, que viva el amor”

UMPRAPAPAPA!

BOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCH! BOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCHPARRURRURRUR! UMPA-RAPAPAP! UMPAPAP! PAP! Enter voilin solo–DEED-A-REED-DEED–and another trumpet roll. PARURRURRUR! BRAPAPAP!

And…

PAP! PAP!

“But why’d you have to leave like this? Are you at peace now? Please tell me you are. Yeah, you’re at peace. You’ve gotta be…Yeah, you better be you little prick… god…I miss you so much…damn you… you know I love you right? I love you so much…”

“Will I be able to finish it? Oh I can’t now, it’s been so long. She’ll never refer me to her friend for work now. Gaaah, gotta find work. Fuckin’ papers. Wonder if I should call Mansie about this, she did text me last week…”

“I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am. I am…”

“Just ignore. Just ignore that she does that and you better go eat now.”

“Alright, just focus. Why isn’t this opening!? Stupid editing programs and their fuckin’ glitches! Reconnect media, reconnect media! No! I don’t want to send an error message to Adobe. Why won’t you–Bargarghargh!”

“Que vivan los novios, que viva el amor, que viva el amor–” 

UMPRAPAPAPA! BOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCHBOOM BOOM CHUCKCH CHUCKCHPARRURRURRUR! UMPA-RAPAPAP! UMPAPAP! PAP!” BOOM CHUCKUCHUCK! PARURRURRUR! BRAPAPAP!

“Que vivan los novios, que viva el amor, que viva el amor–” 

Numero 16: I’m not even going to try and describe what the pretty little demon’s monologues are like or how they yell over that fanfare above. But I will say that they’re somewhat hushed these last few day. So that’s why they’re number sixteen.

Numero 17: My arm is still pretty frail, still in a thermoplast splint but I’m able to type with two hands again: Tap-tap-tap tapity-tap tap tap! “Que vivan los novios, que viv–” 

Once that twisty, mangled bone is completely healed, I’ll regain strength and be able to doodle and pick up the ukelele again, the one L gave me nearly three years ago. Maybe I’ll join a mariachi band, you know, convince the band that a uke honed by a chick in a wheelchair would be fitting.

Numero 18: Living in Houston is like living in a stinky armpit. Spring lasts three weeks max and it’s hell’s heat from then on out. The salty and tangy smell from the Gulf of Mexico washes in along with its oppressive humidity. The humidity hits you like a sweaty wrestler clothes-lining you. As you slam onto the floor, his moist, ruffled pit cups you breathless.

Houston is being promoted as a “cultural” city. Ha! We do have a great mixture of ethnicities and people and cultures–we’re a melting pot–much like NYC (not at all), but cultural city it is not. And it is far from being urban.

If I were in charge of the city’s public relations, I’d make an ad campaign that reads: “Houston! Come on over and feel the South Texas heat! It’s like having a sweaty wrestler’s armpit stuck on your face or a breathy old waitress with halitosis leaning over too close to your nose! You’re only an hour away from Galveston beaches, where much of the oil has yet to settle!”

But (read: BUT) these short lived glory days of southern spring have been so pretty that they’re helping me with my mindfulness. I’ve tried my best to focus on the warmth of the sun; the green of the grass; the cool evening air that seeps in after the sky’s showers fall; the smell of the dew; the odor of skin, that burning smell it gets when it’s seen the sun too long; the heat, the suffocating heat, the itchiness from the mosquito bites, and the soft fur of Little Luna, soft like a rabbit.

Numero 19: I’m drinking tea instead of coffee. In fact I didn’t have coffee at all yesterday.

Numero 20: I drank a bottle of Heineken yesterday. It was during a barb’q one of my dad’s photographer friends had for Easter–this one isn’t the same one that gave me the turd; this one’s wacky, a bit of a drinker, tweaked-out and has cool younger friends who look up to my dad and tell the dirtiest jokes without being too chauvinistic about it (and these are all Colombian men in their late thirties or older fellas, people, rare thing to see them not being complete chauvinists).

Anyway, this wacked-out photographer friend always seems to want to get me drunk.

“Come on! So you’re not drinking anymore? Ever?”

“No, but right now I’m not.” I know that drinking in the current state I’m in will only lead to disaster. I don’t want a relapse of any kind.

“Are you worried that you’ll have another accident? You’re not going to have another accident” His girlfriend gives him a firm look. “What? She told me about it herself.”

I’d had a near near-death experience due to my drinking a couple of years ago and I didn’t recall telling him about it. I made some excuse about alcohol and my bone density being low and how alcohol isn’t good when you’re trying to build up bone density, which is true.

About an hour later though, I gave in and asked for a beer. I ended up having half of my mom’s beer too.

So what’s the good in this? Well, when I was asked if I wanted another, I firmly replied,”No thank you.”

And that was that.

Numero 21: In the past month, my brother and I have hung out more than we have in years! This evening, I helped him out with another wedding video–nope not getting paid for this one–but, he gave me a copy of a good CD, Florence and the Machine.

Numero 22: I seem to have a fan! A fan from Australia. I’ve been getting lots (by my marks) of views from down under (heehee) and I’m pretty sure it’s just one person.

Show yourself and I’ll reward you times three!

Numero 23: I started writing this post yesterday but got back too down and tired to finish, so instead I put it off and finally added things to my Shenanigans.

Numero 24: Last night was terrible, but I don’t feel quite as hopeless tonight, a little more hopeful even.

G’night. I’m out.

Oh god, am I still alive?

February 25, 2012

Dear God/Universe,

I sit here groggily in this pale Saturday afternoon sippin’ on my cold coffee. It’s just the dogs and myself today. All’s quiet and lonesome. But little Luna, the cutest and sweetest little bitch ever, is laying beside me, leaning her furry back against the desk, taking care of my emotions–and she’s doing a better job than I am. She kept me from crying my half paralyzed eye out. I know, it’s not the soggy eyeball that’s paralyzed; it’s the muscles connected to the eyelid, but  whatever, same shit. Anyway, you should know she also kept me from gauging it out like ole Oedipus there.

God/Universe, I know you know I love you but why do you do me this way sometimes? Are you trying to get rid of me? Why so soon? Why so often? I no longer shout mean, spiteful names at you. I try to eat healthy (when there’s food to do so). I try to eat even when I don’t want to, and that’s often these days. I actually prefer fruits and veggies. I finally got myself in a city-based physical therapy program, and I’m still in psychotherapy. I take my vitamin B12, my Caltrate, my psych shit and my fish oils. I rarely drink sodas. I try to eat as little processed food as I can. I’m not even taking painkillers right now! And I promised I wouldn’t get rid of myself but then you go and whack me repeatedly from behind? What in the fuckin’ fuck?

I thought we were cool man. It’s ok though. Really. I won’t resent you. And you don’t have to answer the first question, but at least tell me if you’re ridding yourself of me. If you are, do it quick. I’m not up for another slow death and resurrection. Tell Zeus to get his lightning bolt ready or something. I know it’s partly, ok mostly, my own creation. But come on! And I know you also know that I’m in pain here and I can try and negate it all I want but it just keeps tagging along. I thought I’d remind you in case you forgot.

My arm? No, that’s actually not hurting now. The recasting was done a lot better this week. Nice fella, the casting tech/nurse/whatchumacallem. And the face is slowly waking up, enough for a half-assed smirk. But this damn eye… I just… ugh. I’m seeing blurry here.

God/Universe, I do want to thank you for all of the patience you granted me with my brother this week. I’d like more of that. I had stocked up on a lot of it during the holidazzzee but I feel like I may run out soon. I have to admit though, we did a hell of great job on that video. I’m not too happy about the sound quality of the voice over in that last sequence, but fuck it. Everyone loved it! And we didn’t even have time to really polish it with finishing touches–no color correction or anything. We’re geniuses! Well, not really but you spotted me with some ideas on that one. You really did. Too bad I don’t get to see him often, and when I do, he usually just gets a hold of me to get something like get help with editing a video he desperately needs to turn in to angry clients. But I can to do the same, so no blame there. The important thing is we got it in and they were happy (better be too with all that work we put in). That’s the thing about my bro and I. When it comes to creating shit, our minds sync up. Too bad we both have that perfectionist tendency and he’s got the OCD thing going. Regardless, Universe/God, I thank you for that.

There are just a few things I wanna request though. I know you saw it coming. So if my brother asks for another editing favor, can you get him to pay me next time (granted there will be a next time)? I know, but I already asked him. I just thought maybe you’d remind him every so often when I’m not around. I don’t like doing too many reminders. It’s cool this time. I’m glad I can help. It made me feel less useless actually. But next time, just a little at least? You know my desperation.

Also, if you send me work, please have them pay too. No more freebees. Fuck that I can’t get a Social Security! Fuck feeling helpless! No more. I will work, regardless of what “the law” says! The fridge is empty and my momma, eh, I’ll write you another letter about her later. It’s not really so bad, I mean, I just need to stay busy so as not to be tempted to burrow back under the covers and stare at the faceless ceiling all day. But how? I couldn’t even add twenty and forty-eight the other day. I swear I’ll do my part about the work though. In fact, I’m watching a tutorial on how to interview a client. See! I’m watching as I type this request with one hand, well I’m not getting much our of it but… I’m going to watch it again… I’m prepping up for motivation and some concentration.

I just… I’m nervous about making this website for my dad (another free job), and I’m anxious about making it at all in life. I mean what the hell? What I even mean by that? Am I still alive? I don’t feel it. Aside from the innermost ache, it’s all still a bit numb, most days. There’s a tingle of life, yes, a little. But not today, not most of these days. You know how fuckin’ shitty this immigration situation can be. Can you grant me something for that? Anything? I don’t want to have to marry L. I don’t. This week, I saw these cool pro-bono-ish lawyers at the university and they gave me a similar prognosis as all other immigration lawyers do. So I really would hope for more encouragement if I weren’t already so vapid.

God/Universe, one more thing, can you tell the Sun to stop calling in sick? It’s getting really heavy and burdensome in this in this stifled city. No, the air is fine, more than fine, but it isn’t enough. And can you tell Karma (if it really is her) that I’ve had enough of her this month? I think she’s overstayed her visit for the year and has given me more shit than I’d like right now. I just don’t think she believes me when I say I’m sorry for any harm I’ve done on this earth and to any living being in this lifetime or any past lives–if, indeed, there were past lives.

And I promise, I won’t write you anymore sappy letters. Ok maybe I will, just not this sappy. I also promise to keep this blog free of too many lengthy or cheeky posts. Just, please help me out here. At least enough for me to focus on this tutorial? (Heehee I accidentally typed “titsoral”. Why do I want to giggle like Peter Griffin? Am I really that childish?)

Anyway, I don’t call on you much, if at all. And I don’t really think I’m useless per say–even with this temporary one-handedness I have going here–but at least, with your help, I can convince myself that I’m not.

I realize acceptance is best. Can you help me with that too? Pleeease.

Love,

PAZ

p.s. I once heard that this little earth I’m on is just another cell in your body. But I happen to know it’s just another subatomic particle full of energy, pirouetting in your endless anatomy. So I’ll understand if you don’t reply.

p.p.s. Kisses.