Edit 5:53pm 11.22.2011:

This is my introduction to the blogosphere.

There are a total of what, twenty billion blogs out there? Twenty eight trillion maybe, to be sure? And most of these are far from being hot, hardly lukewarm. And the world doesn’t need any more lukewarm bloggers popping out like malnourished crack babies. I’ve never really even enjoyed being lukewarm and though I’ve never been a malnourished, lukewarm crack baby, I imagine I wouldn’t enjoy that either. But to you, and often times to me, it doesn’t really matter what I do or don’t enjoy.

Phew.

So I begin my blogging journey. I begin by wondering if I may as well continue writing like a madman—lost to the world in my nonsensical, ranting and raving–battering my poor, hapless notebooks.

A part of me rebels though. I get tired of that lonely rambling. I get tired of putting it aside as hogwash.

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I want this to have a clear purpose, a focus. And I think what better focus than to share my whacked-out thoughts on the WORLD WIDE WEB!

THE WORLD NEEDS TO KNOW THESE WACKY THOUGHTS!

Plus, I can stick my timid, mutant turtle neck out just a little from under the shell of anonymity. It would be good for my crawling self-esteem.

But the true motivator here is the fear that I’m at a breaking point again. And maybe I have something of value to share? If not, then at least I’ll be writing again.

Now that I finally decided to open this account, my self talk went a little like this:

“Well, it’s done. You’re signed in now. What hell are you going to make this about? Yourself? Fuck no. There’s lots of shit in this world you wanna talk about. No? Well, what do you think to get out of it? What’s the point in it? To fuel your narcissism, yes? Come on, you know you want to. You know you do. No really though, I don’t. Yeah really though. Are you really that self-absorbed, you punk ass? Yes. Yes I am”

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Most writers find an intimate experience in the process of laying words to rest–to rest in the world, the solitude, the page– all transmitting and transcending the inner being to the unknown, endless landscape that is this universe, the mind, the infinite particles of thought.

But the truth is, despite this intimacy, I suspect most people who write also have a deep need to speak and be heard; that somewhere deep down (even if they refuse to admit it) they want to drag people into their world. They too are narcissistic. In kinder words though, people who enjoy writing want to share that intimate experience with others.

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“Maybe I’ll really enjoy it”, I thought. And since I’m in desperate need of an unchained creative outlet (seriously, this blog may become my only outlet for maintaining sanity) I figured, “Eh fuck it, I’ma do this shit! I’m gonna write to my heart’s content“.

The dilemma is, I’m a very private person. Any kind of personal exposure is terrifying for me, even with Facebook occasionally tempting me to whip out my dirty (I mean splattered with virally infectious verbal diarrhea dirty) drawers. And if I ever did secretly want to start a blog, which I’m pretty sure I did, I always ran from the idea in fear that it would become a spiraling vortex into my strange little world, into my swirling mind.

I would be giving others a ticket to enter my thoughts, to judge me from every angle until my longed-for-death. I’d end up having to wear an anti-mind-reading helmet made of aluminum foil and toothpaste.

So, I told myself: Write, but the personal is forbidden!

HA!

To make things worse, I’ve been encouraged to write about myself in the last few years. Two years ago, my brother’s co-worker told him to tell me that I should write a memoir. For all she knows, I could be illiterate. She’s never even met me!

I even had a complete stranger say this to me: “Hey you! Yeah YOU. YOU, you. You should write about YOU!” 

Ugh, I’m guessing all this is because I’m somehow “special”. Trust me, I’m not that special, please don’t inflate my ears with such nonsense. I did find out I was in SPECIAL ED in tenth grade and it confirmed my suspicions that I am mentally retarded. But this is another kind of special.

Anyway, here I am writing about myself.

But I don’t want to take myself too seriously. I really don’t. Anyone who knows me well enough knows that I’m a joker. I enjoy kicking back my child-sized shoes and laughing at the absurdities of this world, and most of all, the absurdities of my creation.

I’m REALLY not THAT special. Subtract the special-ed part from school and I get pretty close to not being special at all.

One thing I do know is that I plan to enjoy myself and hopefully learn from this. If this dies here, however, it dies. If it lives as a serious, boring or humorous, self-deprecating facet of me, then it lives.

In any case, without further ado, I present to you my…

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2011 (c) paz
My very first sketch/version of the Mouse before I’d even named the blog. Butt-crack chinned guy in the bottom right (yeah the creepy one) is one of my first PLDs (Pretty Little Demons). They’ve been altered since.

So, what the hell is this?! The paragraphs above were written in November of 2011.

This was my very first post, an introduction of sorts. I never even published it then, but it’s been saved here, an ENTIRE YEAR!

When I sat in front of the glaring blue light of the computer screen a year ago, I was covered in darkness. The only thing lighting me was the screen. The depression had hit again and I was falling deep into my little mouse hole. I was reading an awesome illustration blog then called My Medicated Cartoon LifeIt’s written (or was written) by an animator of children’s T.V. programming. He dealt with deep depression for many years, most of his life actually. I could relate to so much of what he wrote.

That blog inspired me to open up my own blog here on WordPress. I didn’t do anything with it for days. It just sat here all lonely–an abandoned dumpster baby. It became a malnourished little baby, the very thing I didn’t want.

BUT, here I am a year later. My baby has grown. Over ten-thousand views! I can’t believe I’ve written for this long. I hardly ever stick to something for this long. One thing I didn’t mention in the original post was that at the time, I had recently finished reading Marjane Satrapi’s graphic/illustrated memoir, Percepolis which, along with Allie Brosh’s hilarious blog, had also given me inspiration for my blog.

Here’s to writing, blogging, sharing and loving!

More than “lukewarm” blogs, I found a ton of really talented, amazing writers, photographers, illustrators, artists, humorists and like-minded mental-brainiacs. I’ve made some really wonderful friends I didn’t expect to gain! I also got the chance to write as a Canvas author and be part of their wonderful mental health community.

And of course, I appreciate everyone who’s passed through this little year-old blog.

Melancholically Manic Mouse, born November 22, 2011. HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE GUY! I’m thankful that you came to life here.

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Maaan, that was saccharin! I don’t like tears… I better go stuff myself with more stuffing.

Mouse love

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And to review my year in blogging, here is a list of the blog’s categories. CLICK DAMN YOU:

Humor | Memoirs |Mental Health Files | The Immigrant Files | Disability & Chronic Illness | Comicy & Doodly | Poetry Photos

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I have a question for all of you bloggers that are writing personal blogs in an anonymous or semi-anonymous fashion the way I am. In particular, I want to ask the Beepers (those with Bipolar Disorder) and the Borderlines (those with Borderline Personality Disorder), but really, anyone who just writes about their experiences day in and day out.

Yesterday, after I wrote about my grieving, I began to realize that one of the reasons why I have not shared much of the stories or “misadventures” as well as the adventures in as much detail as I’d like is because I have fear of discovery. Also, there’s just not enough time with all that’s going on with me.

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Fear.

I fear that my family and/or friends or just people I know in my personal life will find this blog and feel insulted that I’ve written about them. Or that they’ll feel like I was distorting the truth. I also fear that those that are only distant friends and aquiantances will eye me differently if they read this. I realize I’m being a little paranoid. But there’s some genuine, founded concern in some of this.

I tried to keep as much of my family out of my earlier posts, as much as possible without being dull, but I realized how futile that was considering the nature of my blog is to: A) crack jokes and make comic-y doodles, B) talk about immigration and how my personal immigration experience has been, C) share my experiences of what it’s like to be mental and D) share my experience as a mental person who also has a physical disability/chronic illness.

Taking all of these factors into account, there’s no way in hell I can just write about my mental problems without writing about my familial problems and some of my fucked-up experiences growing up. There’s no way to separate one from the other. I’m not blaming my parents for how I am, but there are forces at play here beyond me, and we cannot deny how much our environments shape us and break us.

Here’s the thing though, when I wrote yesterday’s post and gave a brief example of what I think some of my invalidation growing up has been, I feel I mirepresented my dad. I also feel I oversimplified the whole “invalidation” thing (which I will get back to sooner or later), but I think you got that being the smart bloggies that you are.

Still, I’m conflicted with the relief writing brings me, the unrestrained flow and the fear that I’m mirepresenting him or anyone, or that someone will misinterpret what I write. I feel like–and I have to use “feel” instead of think in this case–I made it out to seem like my parents never let me cry and that’s not the case at all. One thing about Borderlines is the sensitivity level combined with invalidation or perceived invalidation. It can get quite layered. I just hope that’s not how I made it seem. My mother was very violent though, especially with me, and often ignored our needs (my brother’s and mine) but she came from a far more abusive household, so the cycle was just repeated with me in a lesser extreme. She didn’t know better then.

See, my dad has been a very loving father, generally speaking. He’s actually much more affectionate than my mother is. He’s the “lovey dovey” type that always asks for hugs and gives you kisses and showers you with little sweet surprises on your birthday (even if he has no money) and buys you ice-cream, etc. But I think some of his affection actually stems from his own fear of abandonment. He grew up in Colombia, was born in the 1940s to a single mother. That stigmatized him a lot in a country and at a time in our history when a single mother who’d had her child out of wedlock was akin to being a “whore,” thus making my father–her child–nothing but a “bastard”.

What I’m getting at is, that I have some anger issues about a lot of things still–clearly–and that leads to my mixed feelings about all of this. I want to share the bad because I feel this has been one of the only outlets where I can talk freely about some of my family’s dysfunction without fear of being reprimanded.

Besides, from an early age, from the time I could write I used it as a tool to cope. When I got older, I toyed with the idea of becoming a writer. Yet I fear that I’ll veer too much into the negative with this blog. I want to show the light too. And then, more importantly, I fear they will find this and not like it, not approve.

I say to myself, “Fuck what they like, it’s your blog. It’s not like you’re disclosing their names or anything identifying.”

I’m still hesitant.

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What do you guys think? I mean, have you experienced this ambivalence about writing about your friends, families, etc? I guess the memoirist and non-fiction writer must get some of this inner conflict as well. How do you reconcile the two–the freedom this writing gives you with the fear of reproach, of hurting those you write about? Do you fear reproach?

I’d love to read your replies but you don’t have to answer all of the questions or any of them. Feel free to share your experiences/conflicts about blogging however you like, or don’t.  I just thank you for reading. 🙂

I appreciate those who’ve read and those I’ve shared ideas and experiences with in particular. Also, since NO ONE seems to click on my other pages 😉 (e.g. my Disclaimer page), hehe, I figured I’d put it in a post and MAKE YOU READ IT. muahahah.

Much love to you bloggers. Blog on!

addendum: I forgot to mention, I got my 100th follower sometime last week. When I started this blog, I didn’t even know that was possible. And I’m at 3,939 views. Not that that should matter much, but it just shows me what dedicated readers and WordPress addicts you all are!

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The Disclaimer

This blog is not for the faint of heart. Some content may be triggering so if you have a case of the mentals and believe you’re feeling unstable, look away. I joke a lot but I’m not kidding here. I’ve had to back away from other’s triggering posts too and from blogs I generally enjoy reading, so please note this.

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If you are offended by any content here, should you take offense, well then… you’re a big wiener. LIKE THIS WEINER!

In all seriousness, I don’t mean disrespect, but… you’re still a wiener, a flacid one at that.

I appreciate and respect different points of view, but hate talk will be ignored. I admit though, I can also be harsh, vicious eve, especially when it comes to IGRNORAMUSNESS.

A lot of conversations have been translated from Spanish to English so things may be lost in translation.

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Names have been abbreviated or fictionalized for discretion to protect the innocent and the guilty. These stories are not a representation of their person as they are based on my perceptions and/or my distorted memories and tendency toward employing hyperbole for comical effect. (Readers, I don’t underestimate your intelligence so I assume you already know this but I gotta watch my back y’all.)

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I make a LOT of assumptions and statements about psychology, psychiatry, mental disorders and mental health/illness but I am NOT a mental health professional. Sometimes I bash psychiatry, other times I cuddle it. My statements are not empirical. They are merely based on reading from mental health professionals, my own research of other’s research and my personal experience as a mental health patient as well as observing, reading and hearing the anecdotes of other mental health patients. To me, that personal means a lot, however.

By poking fun of mental health issues, I am not trivializing mental disorders. I’ve lived with a number of them most of my life, so I have no wish to trivialize and further stigmatize my own mental struggles as well as those of others. I am making fun of how others trivialize and misinterpret mental health/illness. I’m merely a mental humorist and a poet (aw sheeeit, note what I just did there?). Besides, I just have to laugh a hearty laugh before I finally put the barrel in and pull the trigger.

bukowski crazy

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If you think you know me, you probably don’t. Even if you do, you don’t know a lot about me. So if you do, please don’t mention anything personal about me on here or elsewhere. Please leave that to me, myself and I and yo and je. Oh wait, never mind, I just won’t approve any of your comments if you do!

I don’t wanna take myself or anything too seriously even though sometimes I tend to.

So I post a comment, right. And then I post another because I realized I hit send before I wanted to add something else. Then I realize, I TYPED IT WRONG because I’m typing TOO FAST and my hands are shaking even though I haven’t had my coffee yet and I don’t have my splint on so my hand is still a little weird and needs retraining… THEN… when I hit the “post comment” button again (for the third time), WordPress tells me this in BIG RED letters so I could be sure not to miss it:

“You are posting comments too quickly. Slow down.”

I was stunned, taken aback. And I think WordPress really means to say this:

“P, what the fuck? Seriously? Another string of comments? WordPress is tired of this shit and so are the bloggie people who have to hit “approve” buttons and get cluttered emails. Just, just hold it up a second. Hold it one minute girl.  SLOW. YOUR. ROLL. ALSO, didn’t you say you were going to the mental hospital and were going to be out for a while? What the fuck?! What are you doing back so soon? Aren’t you going to stick to your promise? SLOW. THE. FUCK. DOWN. Before we block you!”

What the fuck WordPress? I thought we were cool again?

And no. No! We are not blaming it on the borderline personality disorder this time! We are not blaming it on no hypomania. You’re just picking on me.

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.

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

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

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

Man… pffft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah P. That’s a badass idea!”

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

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

mayday-amp-voice-1 mmm/paz 2011

© mmm/paz 2011

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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

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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.

I just LOST my Lorna in cyberspace, parts 3 and 4. I want to punch the screen. But I won’t. I don’t want to break my other arm. Besides, this is not my computer. My laptop is broken (not because I punched it guys, don’t get wrong ideas), has been for a week and I’m just not bothering.

I didn’t think I’d do another meaningless post like this but… do any of you know how to recover previously saved versions of drafted posts? Again, I was writing Lorna’s story and then I saved and boom it disapeared. Now when I click preview it’s just a few lines. ALL the rest I wrote is gone. GONE.

Ah, I shouldn’t even be writing poetry right now; I should be editing this guy’s picture and watching this boring wedding video, looking for editing errors and such.

I hate weddings!

(at this moment i do)

I’m going to go look at the WP support forums, but only after I get through this wedding. *crabby face*

Maybe I’ll go for a walk first.

Yeah, a walk in my wheelchair…

addendum: What’s ironic is I usually write these poems out on paper, bit and chunks at least, then on Word but I didn’t with Lorna. 😦 Le sigh

addendum 2: Before I go for real this time. I decided to humor myself  a little. This is me right now only I’m screaming “Looooooornaaaaaa. Looooooornaaaaaa. Looooooornaaaaaa”:

Don’t ask me why it’s in Italian. I couldn’t find an English version.

addendum 3: LOL. I think I’m cracking. This is it. I’m done for. It’s IN SPANISH! HOW COULD I NOT RECOGNIZE MY OWN LANGUAGE? ITALIAN? HAHAH. ROMANIAN? NO PAZ, NO. IT’S IN FUCKIN SPANISH. SPA-N-ISH. Just like Lorna was.

ESTELORNAAAAAAAA!

And I’m out.

Damn you WordPress

March 31, 2012

How do I get this damn thing to space poems properly? I haven’t been able to do it since I opened this account. The first one I posted was a sonnet and sonnets only have fourteen lines that run along one stanza. The second was an improvisation so it didn’t need spacing for stanzas and whatnot, the Haiku was a Haiku, and on the last one I actually gave up and just put indents which I ended up liking.

I’m trying to post one of L.’s poems. I can’t sleep.

I’m having this fear of falling asleep. It’s strange and I get it when I’m dealing with lots of anxiety. I just keep pacing, watching T.V., pacing again, laying down and getting up to pace some more all between crying bouts. I still feel like my body is coming apart at the seams. I knew L.’s funeral would be hard to deal with but I can’t even describe… No words. It simply made it more official. I can’t hide behind the false notion that I’ll just be able to pick up the phone and call him today, tomorrow, whenever.

So I wanted to publish one of the two poems A.F. had printed for the funeral, but I can’t seem to get it formatted properly. I’ve tried the forums. I’ve done the shift + enter deal. I’ve tried pasting it straight to HTML then formatting. I’ve tried formatting with <br></br> or <br/> in HTML. I’ve tried preformatting. I’ve tried typing it from scratch. I’ve tried pasting it only as plain text then doing all of the above over again.

What the hell man?