Stigmatized July 28, 2008

I’m so frustrated with myself.

Why am I not getting better when I have so many people trying for me?

Am I not trying hard enough? Am I not good enough? Why am I never good enough?

What the hell is wrong with me? Why aren’t the medicines making me any better?

I’m shoving these pills down my throat every damn day and I’m not making any progress at all.

I’m still suicidally depressed and my mood swings are still there.

In fact, I think I’m getting worse.

Why am I such a failure?

It all boils down to this:

Am I really sick or am I just pathetic?

(or am I expecting too much of the wounded?)

Bug July 27, 2008

I have a quiz tomorrow and I haven’t studied a line. I can’t concentrate. I can’t comprehend a thing. I can’t focus enough on it.

And the sad thing is, I’m not even frantic about it.

Looks like I’ll cram again later.

Sigh.

Another sleepless, smoke-filled night lies ahead.

If, and I emphasize it, if, I manage to care enough later.

—

I’m seeing Dr. Los Baños later, albeit with some urgency. He said to “see me without fail.”

That’s because I’ve been suicidally depressed the past few days.

That’s because I can barely function.

If there’s one image I can’t get out of my head, it’s the image of my own funeral, and who would be there, and who would weep.

Would you, dear reader, weep?

Angels and Devils July 24, 2008

I’ve lost all desire and motivation.

I sit here and think of nothing.

I’m lost and not scared at all.

I’m in the wilderness and not desperate to find my way.

Last night, I was thinking that I am a nuisance to society and should just quit existing.

My mind is clear as mud.

There are demons and they are stronger this time around and the different thing is, I’ve no fight left in me and I am letting them win.

The devils they burn inside of us.

Studying July 21, 2008

Somehow, the stack of papers I’m supposed to be studying isn’t diminishing in size since I started on them six, yes, six, hours ago. (Okay, discount the cigarette breaks and coffee breaks in between). Am I that slow of a reader and highlighter now? I’m not even halfway done and yet here I am, actually blogging. It’s officially my break time. I just puffed my way through half a pack of Marlboro Lights and 3 cups of Nescafe coffee. I’m restless but nothing is going into my damn head. All that sticks is Schistosomiasis, Schistosomiasis, Schistosomiasis. Fuckit. I’m not going to pass with just that parasite in my head!

I just realized a few things, which is why I’m here.

I used to think that I’m a visual person, but I just don’t get the graphs. The dose-response relationships? What the? The AUC (area under the curve?) I don’t get it! I don’t get the pharmacology graphs at all! I don’t get it! Waaah! God help me! And I’m running out of Marlboro Lights! All I have are Tet’s Reds and I just know I’ll be smoking them before the night is through.

Another thing I realized is that my quasi-photographic memory is largely dependent on where the item is on the page. If I try to memorize it on, let’s say, a print out of a powerpoint presentation, I’m screwed. That’s two columns of eight boxes. That’s really hard to place in my head. I’m better off with the trans, which just leaves me with two options: left or right.

Waaah! Okay, panic mode again. I’ll go make myself a nice cup of coffee again. And face the transes again. And highlighters again.

Alternatives July 20, 2008

… or is it I who move away by standing still?

—

I think I’m just insanely sensitive to whatever I perceive as rejection. It’s just like Miss Belle said. I cannot distinguish between real and imagined rejection or abandonment. And I can’t. I really can’t. And last night, I quietly explained to Mark why he has to be the reason for me to stop cutting: I lack insight into the matter. For me, nothing is wrong with it. I find it absolutely alright. It’s a case of pure lack of insight. I don’t know why cutting is bad, deep down inside me. So I have to want to get better for him not for me. If he removes himself as the reason, then I will have no reason whatsoever and I will cease to want to get better. In short, I will degenerate and may even quit taking my medicines and just succumb to my psychosis and mood swings and be a raving lunatic. Because I care not about myself.

I am the most self-destructive person I know. And the most anxious too. I vomit because of anxiety and depression combined. I dare not write here what really goes on in my head during those times. I shudder to think about them. I just hate myself so bad. I know, I know. Hate the illness and not the ill. But it’s so hard to separate the two, in my case.

Erratum July 18, 2008

Something is wrong.

I can’t put my finger on it.

I’m dissociating too much.

Or you’re too far away.

I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

Bahala na si Batman.

My Own Curb July 15, 2008

There’s this curb in our condominium that I’ve already claimed as my yosi curb. I sit there, drown out the world with my music and smoke. I watch the people pass by and on rainy days, I watch the rain cover the lobby in sheets of glistening water.

My stay is always metered by the rate at which I puff and the rate at which I think. Tonight, I listen the three songs: No Me Ames, So Contagious and The Light and the Glass.

could this be out of line, could this be out of line? to say you’re the only one breaking me down like this?

I shudder at what I’ve become but only because I’ve looked at myself in the mirror long and hard today and I didn’t like what I saw. I hated what I saw. I hated what I felt and I didn’t like what it said to me.

puff, puff, puff.

hello, innocent passersby. how dreadfully happy you look under the pouring rain. how unaware of your impending doom. do all people operate the same way as you? not caring whether they die today?

no me ames, no me ames, no escucha si te digo no me ames. [don't love me, don't love me, don't listen to me when I tell you you don't love me]

I am twisted and mangled beyond repair and I revel in my misery. I sit here and piece together my scraps of truth like a quilt: building them for future use. As if they will bring me comfort; as if they will bring me peace.

carving her name across your arm. with every wish it’s hit or miss.

puff, puff, puff.

I only ever wished for peace and this is what I got: chaos. Entropy. Illness. I hate myself. I hate what I’ve become. I never really chose any of this. You say “obsessed”. Damnit. That hurt me. I’m not obsessed. At least not with you. I’m obsessed with concepts, with ideas, with truths, with perceptions, with lies, with broken glass. And with amorphous red liquid making its way down silky white skin…

silence.

Obsession July 12, 2008

I can feel it rising in my throat, permeating my mind. I can feel it go through every crevice, like some godforsaken drug challenging my system to a battle. I cannot go here. I cannot be like this. It’s a compulsion, an auto-destruction of the self. It’s webs entangling me, catching me in a hurricane from which there is never an escape. Oh, rescue me.

If you can, if you would, if you could.

There must be something you could do. I cannot and will not rely on my medications forever to pull me out of this rut. I’ve decided that I won’t take medications for life, if I can help it. I won’t have my kids telling their friends “mommy’s taking antipsychotics…”

Oh, take me away, away from here.

“Brighten my northern sky…”

—

The sadness is just too infinite. I don’t want to get out of bed, but I don’t know what to do there because I can’t sleep. I can only stare blankly into space.

I’m trying to listen to soothing music (Lullabye for a Stormy Night) but it’s not working. Nothing is working. Nothing at all. I’m mildly catatonic psychologically, if that makes sense.