August 17, 2013
This blog, like my other works, is a child of mine. It has been nourished from my mental umbilical cord. It is a living and breathing document of my life for over a year, one of which I had crashed again and nearly burned to ashes. I’m past the tragedies of 2012, but I’m also aware that they will never be erased from my memory no matter how much I want them to be sometimes.
How do I feel about my blog thus far? I feel like it has matured. It may well be a teenager; I can feel safe letting it wander on its own. It found a community, a family of friends; It has an extended family , one is called A Canvas of the Minds, a blog that allows those chronicling issues of their personal mental health experiences and general inquiries about mental health. And I do not know where the course of my blog (read: its little life) would be now without you readers or Canvas.
I don’t have to feed it, my little Melancholically Manic Mouse, any longer. I think this is one reason I have stopped posting as often as I used to (that, and my other life got in the way meheh).
Like all living things in life, it will eventually reach its end, it’s death to ashes in the Earth. But for the time being, it will be here and continue living.
It’s not saying goodbye forever, not just yet. No fuckin’ way.
addendum: How do you feel about your blog’s life?
November 22, 2012
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.
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.
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”
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.
“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!
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…
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 Life. It’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.
Maaan, that was saccharin! I don’t like tears… I better go stuff myself with more stuffing.
And to review my year in blogging, here is a list of the blog’s categories. CLICK DAMN YOU:
June 16, 2012
a silent man adjusts
rolling on and on
like the battery rabbit
with his drum–
wings on fingers,
life blood in black and white.
all thought pouring
into a screen–
a silent film, flashes
of a life unknown.
A Disclaimer and a Serious Question for My Fellow Beeper (BP), Borderline (BPD) and Other Mental Bloggies
May 23, 2012
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.
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.)
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.
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.
May 14, 2012
Bring the sweet.
Tonight we’ll meet
at Taco Milagro
on melancholy street
by the old
Third Ward hood.
Red fizz and black caps
burning grass like jazz
and my belly growlin’
or is that my heart?
Hungry head spinnin’
Red, red, like wine
drips of heart thumpin’
the jitters jumps,
runnin home stumblin’.
May 13, 2012
Silver seed erupts.
Light’s germ curls from utero.
Bloomed Moon cradled by Sun.
addendum: I didn’t even write this haiku with this “holiday” in mind; I’d written it yesterday on my phone actually. I was looking at the moon while at a graduation party. I was sitting next to a pool, legs kicking at the water and seeing the moon’s reflected light. So yeah wasn’t thinking about a holiday to honor mothers. Not at all. But maybe subconsciously there was something there which is why I’m adding it with a slight change. It’s funny that poetry works that way. I say it’s the writing form that taps deepest at our subconscious, for me at least.
So now that I think about it, Happy Mother’s Day beautiful mamas! If you’re a mama, you’re a mama EVERY damn day, and only you know what that means!
Here’s a brief RADICAL history of Mother’s Day. You non-lefty, non-radicals may also appreciate it.
April 21, 2012
I am not a poet.
By now, you should
I just like to spit.
I like to spit words,
spit words under my
spit when I’m sad;
spit when I’m joyful
reproachful or glad.
I’ll spit on your ass
’cause I’m a crass
I’ll spit in my cage
when I silently rage.
I like to spit
shitey shit with shit
when I twitch’n “bitch”
and can’t scratch
’cause I have to
be a lady!
What am I, a nun?
I’m just somewhat shady
But I’m not a poet.
And none of this is
Just so you know it,
I’m somewhat cynical,
maybe even a bit scary.
Sure I like to spit
in the lyrical
with a clitic
After all, a lady,
a sensitive cynic
with two tiny tits
a clit and no wit.
But I am not a poet.
you should know it.
And this is not
a dotty poem
’cause I’m no
longer a sot.
Sure enough, yesterday’s showers cooled down this inferno. It’s a beautiful, cool (even chilly) spring day. Unfortunately, I slept too much again–a little lowly and lonely. And my wheelchair decided to start acting up again. Bagh.
At least I’m following through with the NaPoWriMo deal, right?
April 14, 2012
My hunch was right!
I do have a fan, an Australian fan!
I figured out who it is too. And who knows, there may be more than one. There may be a dozen Aussie fans clicking away at my nonsense. There may be little Aussie fans multiplying out of that one fan–kind’a like Bruce Campbell’s character multiplies in that scene in The Army of Darkness with the mirror that shatters on the ground, leaving reflections of himself everywhere and all those tiny Bruce Campbell–tinier than me–reflections pop up out of the mirror every-which-way trying to kill him, only I don’t want to get killed by demented Aussie fan(s) or the demented reflections that came out of that one fan. I just want to be read by the Aussie fans (demented or not) as much as I love Australia.
(By the way, if you haven’t seen Army of Darkness, think Gullivers Travels when he gets caught by the little people in Lilliput and Blefuscu, only in a comical horror-adventure film–not nearly as good as it’s predecessors Evil Dead I and II–instead and everyone seems to be on some sort of psychotropic drug in some other strange, magical and medieval land. Coincidentally Lilliput is where Australia should be.)
I don’t think I have a point to make tonight, if I ever did have one any other night and today is lacking, then I apologize in advance.
But I will say this, I think this blog’s been a good thing. It’s helped me write again, and writing again means I keep my mind full of less demons. Pretty and little as they may be, they are vicious and I’ve been telling them to vacate for nearly fifteen years and though sometimes they do scurry out, I somehow keep finding them back in there in my mouse hole, in my skull lounging about. And when they see me eying them deliberately, they scatter about like roaches but screech louder and more consistently than cicadas. They just don’t die entirely.
They started coming by again sometime in mid December soon after I’d opened up this blog, so it’s good I’m writing, right?
I went to Texas Children’s Hospital today because I’m participating in a longitudinal study on Osteogenesis Imperfecta (OI). I’m not getting paid shit for it so my dad kept asking if I was going to get reimbursed for gas. I told him yes even though I’m not so sure. It’s all in the name of good science. I’m glad. Too bad that after dropping me off at Children’s, my dad broke down twice, once in the freeway I-59 which is congested as hell. I could just picture him there on the side of one of the busiest highways in Houston in the midday sun standing off to the farthest, rightmost lane while hundreds of cars swoosh inches away from him each minute.
Something would’ve been nice, like a consolation prize at least. I spend my good half of the day there at Children’s and at the end of it, when I did the pulmonary function test, the nurse screamed “go go go, push, push all that air out, go go go, push!” like I was lifting weights or giving birth or something. I asked if I was getting a prize, a scratch-and-sniff sticker at least and all she did was laugh.
I figure, instead, I’ll give a prize to my Aussie fan–the one getting me big headed, or bigger headed since my head-to-body ratio is low, something like 1:3 or 1:4 (Totsymae can attest to that).
Anyway, I’m gonna give this Aussie fan her present even though she, I mean she or he didn’t reveal themselves to me: it was what I had asked for remember? Ahem, don’t worry Aussie fan, I won’t reveal you just yet! I don’t want the other Aussies to get jealous ’cause I found you and liked you before I’d found out.
The thing is, although I’m extremely, extremely flattered and excited and what-have-you, I’m still dealing with a lot and cannot fully accept to do the whole deciding and passing on. And I’m not that versatile am I? I mean, I just keep blogging about myself. Blegh. Also, I’m barely catching up on my favorite reads, so I’ll be slow at this if ever.
Besides, I’m a strange, indecisive girl and I don’t usually follow instructions well.
So here’s what I’ma gonna do.
Aussie fan, you get to choose something you like and I’m going to draw it for you! It has to be just one thing, like for example, I’d have a Nintendo controller for myself. Then, depending on what thing you choose, I’ll add another thing.
It may not be good, but it’s just for you.
Think about it and email me or post it here.
It’s my own personal challenge too. It may take a while because it takes me forever and a day and a half to get things done. In fact, I rarely finish what I start. I probably have over half a dozen half finished posts on here and a list full of shenanigans to put in my shenanigans page. (I uploaded old sketches there by the way.)
Anyway, blogging and writing and mental health….
Today I’d be looking like She-Hulk instead of this.
And this is me smiling at the blogosphere people who’ve made good suggestions, said thoughtful things, inspired me at one point or another and just plain read my nonsensical rambling. Here’s to the one’s that have made me smile, chuckle, giggle and laugh and spill my coffee like dear Dotty Headbanger. And, the mental health bloggers I’ve found are so addicting. I can really relate to you guys; it’s comforting to know.
It’s good to have a voice.
So here’s my consolation prize to yous guys who are not THE Aussie.
A little sketch.
My arm actually hurt after doing those sketches, so you better like them!
You better, even though Id’a liked to sketch them better.
Really, not to make an excuse for my poor skill but I’m shaky as hell lately, like more than usual shaky, which sucks balls, old, hairy balls. I know, excuse my language guys but that’s how I speak sometimes and that’s how much it sucks. Anyway, I told the psychiatrist about this yesterday when I had my appointment but, egh. I may write about that later.
To be honest, I’m raging today. I’ve been raging for several days now, but the rage escalated today. I’m not really, really raging. But I’m fuckin‘ raging. I’ve been raging all day. Almost everything everyone says pisses me off. And I feel bad about it so I have to put myself in time out.
I helped my mom out with an application today (finally she does it) and I was raging. It was so bad, that rage, I even wanted to flip that computer keyboard over her right then and there.
The heat, that hellish salty and breathy heat I was talking about snuck by for a couple of hours while we were stuck in traffic, then I got home to a swarm of flies and mosquitos because we’re not turning on the air conditioning just yet to save up. I don’t mind that. What I mind is the damn flies and mosquito invasion.
There had to be another massacre today, too many mosquito and fly bodies to count.
My dad leaves the doors wide open and I have that sweet blood they like. So I’m raging and I rage some more from the three dozen mosquito bites I got on my legs, my arms, my shoulders and back and face and eyelids and forehead and foot (that one really itches) and I even got some up my thighs and butt.
Man I’m raging. I want to smash things so I better go lie down..
I drew a little to placate the rage but then raged some more.
Anyway, this one is for you guys. Not the rage, the smile.