"Almost Normal-->But Only When Drugged Up"

I have not written any posts lately.

I have nothing to say.

Or rather, I have no desire at the moment to show the general public just how psychologically damaged I really am. My true friend, my ex-boyfriend, the only male I returned to, died. I am shattered. Mourning takes its toll on my listless body and mind. I gained 3 pounds since my last psychiatrist visit. She noted that point on her paperwork when I showed up at her office a few days ago.

"I  need anti-anxiety medicine," I said. I do. Apparently, she is not willing to prescribe medicinal marijuana so instead I got a non-addictive pill to take twice a day. Good enough. If only it could erase the knowledge of my precarious mortality and replace it with the drive and passion I once had.

I might have taken a dose of strong anti-anxiety drugs while listening to Nine Inch Nails album, "With_Teeth" and now I am feeling irrational, strung out, relatively relaxed, but jittery all at the same time.

I slept with this guy from my past. I spontaneously texted him and he asked me to come over. I slid past my parent's room and did a silent exit from home. I drove to his apartment. I slept with him. Then I left. He complained that I was leaving so soon. I patted him on the back and said I didn't want to get caught. I might get into trouble if my mom found out I took off in the middle of the night. He seemed irritated. I left.

I have issues with men. That is not my musing, apparently that is what the professionals say. I submit to their decision. I have an electra's complex from never having a father in my life, from all the damage I acquired from various damaged men, from needing, always needing, love or a reasonable facsimile.

I need my friend, my ex-boyfriend. My true love that I never told how much he meant to me, how I needed him. I miss him.

The cup of diet coke is empty. I slurp air instead. It feels like my life, an empty cup, a hollow space that I cannot stop trying to get substance from. Emptiness. Man, this turned out to be a heady entry.

I will post a pleasant entry later. Thanks for reading!

Pizza Binge, Nap, Feeling Calmer

Earlier today I posted a long-winded weeping, mournful wail of a blog entry. I assure you, I feel much better and I am not as emotionally unstable as I was when I wrote that.

Writing out my feelings to the cybersphere felt amazing and healing. Maybe it is the exhibitionist in me, but speaking out about suicide, mental health, and my personal life makes me feel like more than a speck in the world. I feel like a human. Not bad for a dead doll.

Oh my gosh! I am watching a National Geographic youtube video called "Forbidden Love" where a female therapist (therapist, mind you) has sex with male patients for money. Where is this woman and how far ahead must one make an appointment?! Sorry, that came out of nowhere, I happen to be multi-tasking, which makes me a little skitzy in my writing, ha ha.

I still deeply miss my friend and I still feel like curling up into a ball and hiding from the outside world for days and days, but I am not as hysterical as I was this afternoon. I always thought he might have considered me attractive, just because he would always approach me and he never approached other females. Also, he used to smoke his cigarettes, stare into my eyes with a tender look, and smile a crooked smile that was charming but indecipherable. I myself caught myself thinking about him romantically from time to time. One time, a bunch of us were sitting around the table talking. He only made eye contact with me, never my friend. He smiled, laughed a low chuckle, and gave me that askance look he always threw me.

I don't think I ever told him that I considered him a friend. Our graduate program is so tightly knit that I just assumed that he knew I thought of him as more than a classmate. I felt a bond with him not only because we spent so much time in the same circle, but also because he chose me to approach when he had a question. Now, I feel guilty about not seeking him out more when we were still in school. He was always so composed. I felt so scattered, like his opposite. After a teary nap, I woke up and felt a sense of longing and a tiny bit of acceptance. Wherever he is, I will see him on the other side. Then I will see that crooked smile and those tender eyes once again......

I Am Dead Doll

It is all over the media in the next town from me. My friend committed suicide in a public manner. So far, my county has yet to pick up the story. I only found the story by digging through the internet. I don't think anybody else knows. I don't think any of my classmates know how our friend died. His name and mode of suicide is plastered on the internet. Animals, barbarians, hiding behind aliases, debate about his mangled corpse in the comments of their town's online newspaper. One slandered him by saying he traumatized the bystanders (with no mention about how he is DEAD now while they get to LIVE and that his grieving friend is reading every gory, ugly, callous comment they are making...). Ugh. Normal People are so incomprehensible to me. They think us mentally ill are the sick ones?! We are genetically different. THEY are jerks and dogs. They have all the normal mental health and what do they do? They joke about my classmate's suicide like so much Jimmy Fallon fodder. I sent a complaint about the comments to the online newspaper. They never responded.

I cannot believe I missed the signs of suicide. I had more than 4 classes with him this past year...if not past 2 years. We saw each other every day. We greeted each other every day. He would approach me and ask me how I was, what did we do in class, how was my work going. I would make chit chat with him. I was very fond of him. He was tall, handsome, quiet. Withdrawn--I should have known. He has always been a little aloof, I thought maybe it was a cultural thing. No, it was his psychological wound not a personality trait.

This is hell. I drove around in shell-shock, trying to get an emergency session with a therapist. Next week, said the campus health clinic. I went to the county out-patient center where I am a consumer (I am bipolar but currently I have/had no symptoms). Next week, they said. Next week, next week, where will I be next week? I might take my student loan and flee this country. Forget finishing the Masters program. Forget everything. I just want a new start in a country that does not despise the mentally ill or laugh when we end our lives.

I previously wrote that I did not want any anger inside me, but when I read those callous and cruel comments on the article about my friend's suicide, I felt rage. Rage, wrath, hatred, deep-seated anger. I wanted to tell them exactly what I thought of them and their pathetic little personalities. I wanted to cross the line with the people who wrote those comments. I wanted to hurt them psychologically. Hence, the sudden drive to find a crisis therapist. I do not want to be that barbarian that these people are. I want to be able to snub my nose at them. I did not want to cut my wrist like I used to. I did not want to go screaming my anger over the internet like they do. Instead, I sat under the fluorescent lights of the out-patient treatment center and waited. "Next week," the counselor said. "Fine," I said. I left.

Outside in the parking lot I started to cry. I wept tears but I kept walking. I was a robot, a walking dead doll. Crying, floating outside of myself, feeling everything, feeling nothing. Limbo, then hell, then limbo, then emptiness, then over and over and over again, that endless cycle of grief and pain. I drove aimlessly for ten minutes.

I could see my life as endless opportunities. Death was not one. Neither was admitting myself to a psychiatric ward. There are many ways to self-destruct, to erupt like a volcano. I decided to binge eat. Off I went to the pizza joint for a large pizza and a bottle of diet Pepsi. I wanted nothing wicked to come out of my mouth so instead I stuffed it full of carbs and grease, swallow, repeat, until the heaven of sleep comes again, where I can pretend like all this is a nightmare. It is too bad, I ate 1200 calories yesterday and I even exercised. Then I found out exactly how my friend died and I went into a frenzied binge eating, remorse-ridden, tear-stained rollercoaster ride. I still feel like a dead doll. I put make-up on. I stare at myself in the mirror. I see large, oversized, kohl outlined eyes with a look in them like somebody vacuumed out the life out of them. I am dead doll. Hopefully, this will pass. Until then, I am going to eat my pain away.

Empty Summer Days

My classmate died this week. He was a very kind man who spoke to me in a gentle voice. I miss his presence already. Next semester will be a little difficult not having him in my graduate classes anymore.

I still have no therapist to replace my last one. I am slowly adjusting to the new cocktail of medications my psychiatrist put me on. I have no job and all I do is care-take my grandmother during the day and take walks in the evening.

Some days the reality of having a public blog makes me feel doomed. "What have I done," I think, "I am too exposed." But, I cannot help that I am mentally ill. Maybe my little wails and rants in cyberspace will make somebody else feel a little more normal. Also, it is healing to feel so emotionally stripped. I have nothing to hide anymore, my deepest secrets are posted online for people to root through and pass judgment on. Well, I always did want to be a confessional writer. I just never wanted to actually confess. I guess I wanted to be a fiction writer but that did not pan out. None of the writing panned out. Instead, I have milled about in academia, making friends who have no idea about my mental illness, feeling both accepted and alienated at the same time, struggling to come to grips with how society perceives me, and back in mourning after another classmate passed away.

In case you have been reading throughout this blog's timeline, I have actually experienced quite a bit of loss these past few years. My cousin committed suicide a few years ago. That was actually the impetus to start writing online. Next, my classmate whom I was secretly infatuated with passed away at a young age. Later, my grandfather passed away from a heart attack. Now another classmate has died at a young age. My mother mentioned to me that it was strange that so many people close to me had died the past few years. I really wish she had not mentioned that, because it actually is true. Three out of four of my close contacts died before the age of 40. That is far, far too young.

Now, I feel mortality like a chiffon dress that is delicate, transparent, and quick to rip. I wear my mortality like my new tattoo-- on my sleeve and open to the elements.

Tragedy always brings to mind the shame I feel over my own anger. Anger in words, anger in print, anger in general makes me self-loathe. I feel like anger is arsenic, slowly devouring my insides until one day I will stagger into the desert and die. I don't want to die with anger. I want to live. I want to be free of anger. How to escape the anger of being hurt, traumatized, alienated---that is something I have yet to answer. I try to find positive things in life to focus on. I try to accept that I will get angry and learn to control it so that it transforms into a butterfly and not some mutant caterpillar.

I will now list positive things about my life for balance and peace of mind:

I knew two great and kind men who were fond of me and whose memory as classmates I will hold in my heart for the rest of my life.
I am half way to earning my Master's degree.
I am sticking to my new diet of raw vegetables and I am not weighing myself obsessively.
My grandmother and mother spent the majority of their lives taking care of me and I will become a better person so that they will be proud.
John Nash is awesome and a genius whose schizophrenia did not stop him from winning a Nobel Peace Prize.
Despite having schizo-affective disorder, I achieved a B.A. and entered a graduate program.
Puppies.

1 BM suspect dead, other on run

The news is unfolding this morning and it looks like the two suspects were brothers who came over from Europe, near the region of Chechnya. This is bewildering, sad, confusing, and infuriating.

All of Boston is shut down, no one is supposed to leave. Right now, the live news stream coming from Boston says that law enforcement is surrounding a house.

It was a terrible night of violence, more explosions, and shoot outs.

I have been having a hard time with going about my day-to-day life. I tend to get extremely nervous about national and global news. Maybe it's my mental illness, but I get really, really paranoid that something else is going to happen. I have become fixated with the news and I check for updates on multiple source websites every hour. I have been missing class to sit at home and listen to the news. This is all very distressing.

I went to class infrequently this week. It was odd, being friendly, smiling, and focused when inside I was shaken and fearful. Somehow, I managed to get a major class presentation done the day after the bombings. I felt like it was inappropriate to go about my life, but I did it anyways. I got a high B on the presentation. Not great, but good, especially considering I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

The period following 9/11 actually ignited my first psychotic episode. I was 18 years old and in the Bay Area going to a different university as a freshman. I became very delusional about everything. I was obsessed with a white van parked down the street. I would go outside to check if it was still there at every hour of the night, from 8 pm to 4 am. I also quit going to class. I was too wracked with personal paranoia, fear, and the belief that people's thoughts were being monitored. It was a very, very bad time to go insane.

I am afraid that I might have a harder time managing my mental illness. I don't want to become a reclusive hermit again. I do that when I go mad. Luckily, I have a bottle of anti-psychotics, anti-anxiety medicine, and anti-depressants. I am very grateful to the city for giving me these medicines.

I have been doing fine in my the grad classes but  I've fallen behind in my math and programming class. I really have to pull off a magic trick to get good grades.

I'll have to compartamentalize this distress and pretend like everything in my petty life is still important.

Good luck to you and I hope that our nation finds a way to deal with this horror.
~Thinking of the MIT officer who was shot last night and praying for his family....and for all 140 victims from April 15th...my deepest sympathies are with you.
~~Electra

On Sorrow

Dear public, online diary,

my secret crush died two weeks ago. He had a wife and child and I could never tell him the truth: that I was enamored with him. Now, he is gone from this world forever. His death has made me a new person; somebody desperate for love, for affection. I need somebody to hold me, to love me, to make me feel whole again. I know this is not possible---nobody can make another person whole, but in my time of mourning I feel restless and needy. I need.

I have a study session with my partner in one of my foreign language classes tomorrow. He doesn't know that I've taken in interest in him since my secret crush died. This new man stares at me with a strange intensity. He invited me over to study last week. He gave me white wine and homemade dumplings. Nothing romantic happened. At the back of my mind, I imagined my secret crush was watching me from wherever it is the dead go---and disapproving of it all. However, the need for affection is overwhelming.

I am sorry that this entry is so bleak---I decided to be honest. I need someone to be honest to. Nobody I associate with at school or in my social life knows I am a paranoid schizophrenic. Also, nobody knew I had deep feelings for my secret crush, who was a classmate of mine. I feel fragmented; this identity split into little compartments with nobody to share my secrets with. So, rather than risk losing friends and close associates, I will reach out to total strangers (you) and beg for understanding and tolerance.

My future epigraph: splintered no more.

Rest in peace, love, you have a hidden nook in me!

My love/hate affair with Academia

I spent 4 months cultivating my grades to an A- average. I am carrying 16 units, over full-time, of upper-division courses. I tended to my homework and to my academics like a gardener tends to her roses and sunflowers. Everyday, homework, studies.

In one to two weeks my months of hard work has been undone. My grandfather was the closest thing I had to a father my whole life. He died right before Thanksgiving and since that time I have had a hard time concentrating and doing well in my classes. I bombed a quiz. I bombed the first draft of a paper. One would assume that since my grades were in the 90th percentile, I'd be alright. But no, weighted grades means that my top grades plummeted to a low B in one class, a C in 2 others. That academia is built this way; allowing a student who maintained an A for four months, only to take it away in a heartbeat, is a damn shame.

Then there's all the other issues. Students disregard my work because they think I'm getting it "easy" because I'm a minority. Just the other day, a student complained about his 78% score on his homework by saying that a fellow who happens to be Indonesian got an 86% on his homework that was "identical" and that the professor must be a reverse racist.
 That's funny, considering the professor is a White guy who made a racist remark himself about how Mexicans are "dishwashers." Being a Mexican myself (or Chicana, since I was born here in California), this stung. You're hated either way; either you're a lowly dishwasher or you're getting it easy because of your race.

Recently a professor falsely accused me of cheating, allegedly because she though a scribble on my answer sheet was a cheat sheet (it was just the exam question written on my paper so I wouldn't have to keep glancing up at the whiteboard). My thought, however, is that her action was far more nefarious. It was as if she were searching for a reason to destroy my academic potential---the only brown skinned girl in the class, of course, I had to have been cheating, right? Or maybe it was my tattoos that made her peg me as a deviant type. Whatever her motivation, I gritted my teeth and explained myself. I was polite even though I had been totally humiliated in front of my peers! She later sent out a mass email to our class apologizing for her behavior, but it was far, far too late.

These examples are just the tip of the ice burg when it comes to the ugly side of academia. Professors yell about how all their students are cheating, all of their students are being allowed in due to affirmative action, blah blah blah. Well, this is my side of the coin: my grades are better than the others, that's why I'm in college, not because of a long-since banned affirmative action program. My grades are better than quite a few students even now that they've dropped due to my grieving state, even though I feel like crying every day because I miss the only man in my life who was reliably good to me. I deserve to be in academia. I'm not leaving. Ridiculously weighted grades, insulting students, false accusations, plummeting grades and all----I'm willing to take this all because I told my grandfather on his deathbed that I would complete college and get a job, that he wouldn't have to worry about me because I would be doing alright.

Of Death and Calories

I'm watching a documentary titled "America the Beautiful" (2007). It chronicles today's fixation on appearance. The narrator follows various people in the beauty in-crowd and asks them, "are you accountable for anorexia, bulimia, and general low self-esteem of American women?" The answer is a resounding "no." It is as if the disease of self-obsession entered society as a mysterious fog that invaded our lungs simultaneously---nobody is to blame, and nobody can escape.

Few escape the fog. Those who do are mostly the people who are not able to critically think. Then again, if you're running on a handful of romaine lettuce, how can you think at all?

To be honest, I spent today worrying about how many blueberries and packets of splenda I dumped into my plain yogurt. Was I serving myself too much? I didn't want to go over my limit of 1300 calories.

My grandfather died last week. I have been on a semi-diet since then, reducing my caloric intake from 1700 calories to 1100 one day, 1010 the next. Grief made me think less critically about what I'm doing to my body. I have become obsessed with a number: 161, and how I can't make it drop more than 2 pounds below 161. Rather than feel pride that I've already lost 25 pounds since this April, I feel shame for my current weight. Rather than think about what my grandfather would have wanted---to be healthy, I started to procrastinate on my University term papers and closely monitor every portion of food I ate and every beverage I drank. I wake up, check the weight, make a food menu (vegetables with coffee, with some stuffing since it's Thanksgiving), and spend my days thinking about how I'm going to prepare that zucchini. I think about how I'm still sitting on the BMI fence between overweight and obese at 161 and 5'1 or 5'2. I think I can't stand another day of flabby belly and thunder thighs.

My research on linguistics sits untouched by my bed as I sit at my computer, mindlessly playing "Top of the World" by the Cataracs and wondering why I can't look like the Viddie girls. Then I started shopping on amazon dot com for movies on getting thin. I stumbled on "America the Beautiful" and I watched the trailer, thinking it would be another marketing movie that plays up the worth of vapid, egotistical supermodels and sends a message of hate and contempt to the everyday woman. Instead, I found a poignant, moving, and often disturbing view into our society and our drive to obtain a Western ideal of beauty.

Something dawned on my as I clicked the "rent now" button on amazon dot com: I'm not getting paid to give a shit about how I look. I'm getting grant money to write papers and learn the theory of linguistics. The real reason why I'm suddenly unhealthy in my diet is because I did horrible on several home-work assignments which I had to complete while my grandfather was in the morgue. First, I lose the only father-figure I have. Next, I lose my borderline A grade in two of my classes. I'm not afraid that I won't be able to lose another 25 pounds. I'm afraid I'll fail out of college and break the vow I made to my grandfather when he was on his deathbed. I'm fixated on weight and beauty right now because I feel like I failed in the part of my life that actually matters: my education.

Thank you, "America the Beautiful", for putting my priorities back in order. I am not what I look like, I am what I accomplish in life with my mind and my actions.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some homework to complete. :)

Reason to Live

As stated in previous blog entries, my cousin killed himself June 25th. He left the rest of the family disillusioned, heart-broken, and shattered. Having my own psychological problems, I faced certain questions, like why should I live? What point is there? I'm so insignificant, why bother to live?
Frankly, I'm still searching for concrete answers.
I talked to my ex-boyfriend today for several hours and he asked the same question: what is the point of living if there is no point in living? This made me sad. I answered: Go buy a kitten and take care of it. Was that lame? Probably. But there is nothing more powerful than reciprocated love, even if it's just the adoration of a pet.

Having split from my boyfriend this week, I feel unloved. So I fill the void with you.You who are reading this. You got this far in the blog entry, you  must either be curious, morbidly curious, or seeking for the same thing I am: love, acceptance, happiness, understanding, and hope.

They say, 'take it one day at a time, one step at a time' and I hate that. There is nothing like a cliche to take the meaning out of perfectly sage advice. For me, I  have to set small goals for myself and wake up every day asking myself how I can achieve that small goal. For tomorrow it's revise a paper on British literature, eat less, exercise for 20 minutes, study the next chapter in my Arabic language textbook, and start looking into graduate programs for Fall 2012.
There are two ways I could look at this: either I'm a failure for not having a BA at the age of 28, or I can take this as an opportunity to earn around three thousand dollars each semester, tax free. To compare, at my last crappy job delivering pizzas, I earned minimum wage, plus tips, as a part-time worker. That came to about five thousand dollars a year, waaaay below the poverty level. Half way through the year, I've already earned about six thousand dollars, with another check coming next semester in September. In one sense, I'm a total failure. In another sense, I've come up in the world. Since I like to spend money, I am going to see this as a positive step.
Perhaps I'm way behind the rest of the flock. Perhaps I'm fooling myself with the illusion of job prospects. Perhaps I should just give up....but then how would I afford expensive computer software like Ableton Live music mixing software? I could either give up here and now and refuse to get out of bed, or I can wake up early tomorrow, brew some coffee, and start my homework, knowing that there is a check waiting to be deposited into my bank account if I successfully complete my work. AND if I raise my GPA by .1 (cumulative GPA is a measly 2.9 right now, due to  mental illness requiring in-patient treatment, but my University GPA is 3.6), I qualify for even MORE money. No, money isn't a reason to live, but it sure makes you feel better in the short run. Along with the money there is also my bachelor's degree, which I should obtain by the end of next spring. There's also the allure of a graduate program. At the moment, my GPA is the minimum for entry into the program of my choice at the State University, but with some hard work I can boost it up with the two classes I'm taking now, plus the next two semesters.

A friend of mine from high school gave me the best advice on coping with loss: distract yourself. Study, read, do whatever you need to so that you don't start wallowing in pain. I have found this to be true. That's actually the reason I started this blog; to distract myself, to vent, to heal, to accept what I cannot change and change what I cannot accept. Oops, I wrote an oxymoron, well, you get what I mean.

My aim for these blog is to bare my soul to people who empathize or relate to my situation in life, thereby making it easier for them to feel like they are not alone. I want to create a safe spot where I can grow to accept myself and to strive to better myself, and hopefully, by showing my struggles, other people will find ways in which to cope and grow. Does that make sense? I'm not doing this for profit. I haven't monetized this blog, though there is a little button that allows me to do so, nor am I hoping for a lucrative writing contract (I actually penned an erotic e-book through a publisher already and I know all to well that it's next to impossible to make a living off writing). What do I want from this? Attention? Maybe, if you're that cynical, maybe, but I was hoping for change. Not drastic, go-on-Oprah-show-and-be-an-inspiration-to-millions change, but to bring change to a couple of people would make me happy. It would be another reason to live. Yeah, you are the reason I choose to live. Well, you and that three grand I get every five months, and my mother, and my grandmother, and my cat who would be very hungry without me, but you get the idea.

Following a New Path Down Unfamiliar Roads

Well, I just re-read that last blog entry and it is totally a downer.

A few days later I feel super great. I did well on an exam, I found some great bras that fit my bust (Panache, 36FF and Cacique 38DDD, though that last one has cups just a teeny bit too tight near the armpits), and I wrote some nostalgic stories about my cousin who committed suicide on the 25th of last month. Writing about my happy times hanging out with him helped because it made me realize what a good person he had always been to me. Even though he's gone I still have that feeling of happiness he brought me. Plus, my counselor is back in town so I have somebody to vent to aside from the hapless innocents who accidentally stumble onto this blog. LOL.

PS Sorry to Dawkins for that F-Word blog entry...you may be a jerk, but you're not over-rated. :)

Empty

Dear online, public diary,

today I feel empty. My cousin died last week and I still haven't gotten over the shock that he chose to leave his family and friends by committing suicide. I was close to that abyss once, but I chose life, family, friends, uncertainty, financial insecurity, unemployment, and this: a futile attempt at making a connection with random people on the internet. I wish I could have been there at the last moment of my cousin's life to bring him back from that horrible wasteland of despair. But I wasn't. I feel from the bottom of my being that I have to do something; there is a terrible urgency pushing me out to seek people, to seek change, to seek help. What helps, though? This helps--writing to nobody, posting it online for anybody to find. Baring my soul and telling my truths are the only things that give me the courage to take my psychotropic medications nightly and wake up in the morning still myself, still flawed, still aching from grief.

Today I feel blue. I've been surfing the internet in my spare time and I realized how insignificant I am and how my beliefs and values are not shared by the majority of people. I would like respect, progress, peace, joy, social integration, equality, fairness, and lots of money. I get none of these things. This makes me feel blue.

Today I must find one good thing to write about. I'll write about learning.
Being in summer school has saved me from a potentially lethal combination of intense mourning and isolation. I wake up, I shower, I go to class and I participate. It takes my mind off the horror of death, and the pain of life. Instead of weeping again I pick up a book and learn new words in a foreign language. I'm learning the Arabic alphabet right now at the University, and I have to say it brings me serenity to puzzle over each word. There is no greater joy in my life at the moment then trying to figure out what the letter "Baa" will look like in initial, medial, and final position in a word. I can practice my cursive for hours. In this learning mode, I am firing synapses, strengthening my concentration, progressing in life, and experimenting with another culture. I get little boosts of serotonin naturally after a 2 hour session of struggling to recall the alphabet. I lose myself in the language.  I study, I train, I memorize. I heal.