Oi

“We all carry within us places of exile, our crimes, our ravages. Our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to transform them in ourselves and others.”

―Albert Camus

Today, I shall meet my new shrink.

I’m always filled with dread whenever this happens. I brace myself to tell my story all over again. Should I go chronological? Should I narrate it the same way I let my stories unfold (suffice it to say, that DOESN’T mean it’ll be chronological)? Should I try to remain calm and clinical or should I awkward-giggle my way through the whole recounting (as I am wont to do)?

Also, that story’s pretty darn difficult to live through all over again.

And then after that, I’ll have to go through the scrutiny again—another round of tests, perhaps?—to diagnose me all over again. I’ll wonder if I’ll still be on the same meds or if I’ll have to be on new ones. And then I’ll do the mental math (such a noble term for the frantic ewan-ewan math that goes on inside my mind) to see if I can incorporate those expenses into our daily budget.

And then, there’s the fear of having yet another massive panic attack while waiting, waiting, waiting for the doctor who will be late, panigurado. My obsessive compulsion for being on time (or massively early so that I shan’t be late) will add to the anxiety of being diagnosed all over again and…well, let’s just say the first time I met my last shrink, she wanted to confine me right then and there.

But, oh, don’t mind me. I’m just crashing from the mania that was last night. Went to Geek Fight with some friends, made new friends, (got new clients!), saw a lot of old friends from college, and was able to catch up with dear, old friends. All that hap-hap-happiness last night and then…this rainy, gloomy Saturday morning, anxious and fidgety and ever-so-slightly regretting those yummy gummy bears from last night.

Anyhoo, I’m going to take a nap. Ish. I leave in a few hours to wait for, hmmm, I’m going to say…two hours. Here’s hoping I don’t turn into a violent mess again. I’m a little tired from carrying my place of exile, my crimes, and my ravages. Mostly tired from keeping it all in, stopping myself from unleashing it on to the world.

Perhaps this is a good day to meet my new shrink.

---

Update:
4:27 pm

Perhaps not. I napped too long and missed my appointment. Next week it is!

(Almost) Wordless Wednesday

In between feeling sick and being grossly ill, I was able to spend time with the people I love the most. Ever so happy.

She wasn't feeling well either, so as soon as she started being makulit again,
I brought her Pancake House. Pancakes for dinner, yay!

 

Spent time with longtime friends to celebrate one of my girls' birthday.
Photo is courtesy of Joepi Paloma, the beautiful lady with me in the
middle picture at the bottom.

Fully accessorized little girl.

Swish art work by Lucia.

Absurd and Pink (Which Doesn't Exist)

So, clearly, my not-of-this-world-ness has reached new heights. Not only am I absurd, I am obsessed with a color that doesn't exist.

Let's file this under "Of Course, Of Course."

Here We Go

Starting the period of One Year Marks this week; today, actually. The realization hit me when I read a tweet heralding the start of an annual activity where I used to work. I remember that period last year very well. I remember one very distinct afternoon, in fact. While all those activities were underway, I was in the bathroom, shaking and crying. And then, a few minutes after that, I was jumping up and down, cheering and screaming (for the said activity, not out of the blue).

It's very difficult to relive those moments, even with the distance of time (and space as I have not been even remotely near that place in so long). But snippets of that period waft in and out of my mind from time to time (a lot more these days) and I always feel, I dunno, tired—I suppose?—after a recollection. The effort to keep all those strange, confusing, and crushing memories at bay knocks the wind out of me.

From this vantage point, I can't help but be grateful for being alive, for surviving all of that. But I long for a time when I can stop identifying myself as a person who is living with Bipolar Disorder. (But I know I can never really be rid of this.)

Or, to be at peace with the fact that I am a person living with Bipolar Disorder. (Because I know I can never really be rid of this.)

Or, to just—ugh—be. (Because. Ugh, ugh.)

Ugh.

But here come the drums. It's time. Happy anniversaries. Here we go.

Saturdate

It was a busy week for both me and Papa, and we didn't have Lucia during the latter half of the week, so it was nice to be together this way.

Before we left for lunch, Lucia was playing around with the closet. She was named after Lucy from the Narnia Chronicles, so it was fun watching her play. Perhaps she went to Narnia?

During lunch, Lucia was up to her usual antics, but since she had her noodles and soup, she was a happy camper.

Papa will fly to Singapore tomorrow to give more seminars and workshops, and I shall be ulila again till next year's visits. Hay.

Outtakes

Today, at work:

Click on the picture to get a better look-see.

My co-workers and I did a mini photo shoot to participate in Library For All's (LFA) campaign to make books easily accessible in third world countries. (We were supposed to explain why we supported LFA, hence, the sign says, "Because we know what it's like NOT to have access to books.") These didn't make the cut, but I thought they were still pretty kickass.

It was a fun little break from the usual stuff I do (although the stuff I usually do is also fun). Best of all, it was for a cause that was dear to all of us. Do check out LFA's site to know how you can help (and participate!).

Pictures are by Adam David and that shy fellow beside me is Charles Tan.

How to Apply Make Up Like a Feminist (Insert Wink Here)

I just need to repost this here because it's the funniest thing I've seen since ever.


Incidentally, sans a good handful of the products used here (I only use 4 every day: powder, blush, eyeliner, and an eyebrow kathingy; 6 if I want to be fancy via mascara and, yes, red lipstick), this is the only kind of made up face I am capable of achieving.

 I guess that makes me a feminist. Whew. :P

Unica Hijas

I'm addicted to taking pictures of my daughter and the things around us. But I often forget to take a picture of myself as proof that I'm also there, so I'm usually reduced to awkward-looking selfies.

This picture, then, is such a treat.

At the courtyard across where we live. Taken on June 23, 2013.

Papa took this picture. A picture of his unica hija holding her unica hija.

Sometimes, I'm so busy thinking of myself as a mother, I often forget that I am a daughter, too. Thank you, Papa.

Spite

Dear You,

I don't think I've ever written you a letter. Which makes sense, because I don't think we've ever actually talked meaningfully. That one time we attempted to talk, you didn't really hear me. You only heard what you wanted to hear, and we moved along with life hoping that that would be enough. But that wasn't enough. In fact, it made things much, much, much worse.

How I want to tell you that I blame you for my brokenness. How you made me feel powerless. How you made me weak. How you shamed me into silence just so I could keep the ugly and fake peace that I thought would keep my family together. How you made me so angry as to be rendered silent and festering and rotten. How, in the end, I was too weak to fight my demons and how eventually, I was too weak to want to live.

I hate you. With all my heart. With the same vitriol you used whenever you called me "Katrina", making my given name sound like a cuss word with each utterance. With passions I have yet to master. With real memories that beget made up memories that come as nightmares. With a strength I thought I was never capable of. With emotional resources that I have long thought of as bankrupt. With a fear that awakens the most ancient and primordial instincts to protect my child from you. 

Of all my triggers, you are the only one that has this much power left over me. I still have nightmares about you, about waking up in that house with you, and realizing that I am trapped and rendered mute all over again. One time, I was walking down the street, and I heard someone who sounded like you -- shrilly, high-pitched, with the same condescending tones. I wanted to look behind me to make sure that it wasn't you (for what on earth would you be doing in my neck of the woods anyway?), but I couldn't take the chance, and so I ended up running home.

Such is the effect you have on me. The mere memory, hint, possibility of you brings fear into my heart. And anger. So much anger.

But you know what? I'm so tired of being afraid of you. I'm so tired of being angry at you. Because despite the best efforts of the people who love me the most to shield me from you, to make sure you never have a say in my life again, you will always be in it because of who you are to the people I love the most. 

Your birthday is tomorrow, and I shall do my best to set these feelings aside, even for just a day. I will not wish that you have a happy one, for that would be disingenuous. I will not wish that returns be happy nor numerous. 

Instead.

On your birthday, I will allow myself to celebrate the fact that I lived, in spite of you. That I am living in spite of you. That I shall be happy in spite of you.

(To spite you, to spite you, to spite you...in spite of you, in spite of you, in spite of you.)

But I am so tired of hating you. So watch out, I shall stop hating you soon, because I've decided to use that energy to love myself, my daughter, and other people instead. And when that happens, what would become of you?

But that's not my problem anymore. 

Sincerely,

Katrina

Almost

This is a post that I've kinda been dreading to write. A lot of one year marks are coming up. As difficult as the past year's events are to relive, they help remind me to be thankful to still be alive. However, before I get to that part of the year, I have to relive...these next few weeks. These coming weeks mark the first year since...things started getting really bad.

---

I was in the middle of writing one of the many emails I send during the day. It wasn't a particularly important email and so I allowed myself to focus on the song blasting from my iPod, randomly selected by the all-ubiquitous shuffle. I realized that it was a song that I used to listen to every day in those two weeks that separated both instances of confinement in the basement last year.

Since I Stockholm Syndrome-d my way through both confinements (how could I not fall in love with those antiseptic halls and round-the-clock sedatives?) those two weeks sandwiched by my basement stints were actually worse than my stay(s) at the basement.

Each day I would ask myself why I wasn't better yet. Why I always felt numb. Why I couldn't eat. Why I still felt like I should've died. Why I couldn't find comfort in my daughter's hugs. Why I couldn't understand why my husband wanted to take care of me...It had gotten so bad (much worse) that I ended up going back to the hospital.

But it hasn't been a year since those weeks yet. So, I shall have to suspend those memories and their corresponding feelings up in the air for now.

In the meantime, this is me not writing about all that yet.

---

Also, I'm making a playlist for when I'm at work.

A Month In...

This week was tough, to say the least.

But there are some things I realized:

1. My support systems are intact. “Do you want company or do you want to be alone?” Alone. “Did you sleep well?” Ish. “How are you?” “How are you?” “How are you?” (8 am. 12 nn. 8 pm.) “Have you eaten? Are you lying? Stop lying, start eating.” … “Let’s go to the Great Unknown. Holding hands tayo.” Let’s.
2. I actually love my job. I’m learning so many new things, meeting so many people, making new friendships. I’ve had a tough week, but I didn't want to miss work because I like what I’m doing, and I actually really like the people I work with.
3. There will always be assholes out there (hiding behind Nice Guy clothing), but I realized I still want to believe in the best in people because…I interact with so many people who strive so hard to be the best they can be. (And sorry, but there really is no other way to describe those sorts of people.)
4. In spite of my tendency to leave people (wondering) because I withdraw within myself  when I’m sad, distressed, overwhelmed, or having an episode – people don’t leave me. While some not only let me walk away (and do things to make sure I will never want to go back), the people who really love me stay. Because they know I need them to be there. And so they stay. They just refuse to leave, they refuse to give up on me. (And besides, I’m never too far away, just within myself.) And when they say they love me, they really love me. They really, really love me. I don’t know why, I doubt if they know either, but they do. Because they know me better than my pronouncements about wanting to be left alone. (But they keep a respectable distance. Thanks, everybody.)
5. “You’re not your usual bubbly self. What’s wrong?” And to that I said I was just having a bad day. But hang on – so my de facto is bubbly? Yay! I’ve been so afraid that my de facto was, well, Eeyore. You have no idea how relieved I was to realize this. I've been so afraid that I bring people down.
6. My best friend is still my best friend. Our relationship has had many incarnations in the 10 years we’ve known each other: friend, boyfriend, husband, ex-husband, co-parent…but he’s still my best friend. And he still looks out for me and our daughter. And to him who has every right to say “I told you so”, who has been nothing but gracious and supportive, to him I say: thank you.
7. And finally, my truest love is my truest joy. Lucia is growing and growing and growing. And she’s so smart. And curious. And loving. And happy. And dimply. And giggly. And she is my world. And as of this moment, I'm still her favorite person in the world (because Pocoyo isn't a real person).

So this week was tough. But that's okay. I'm okay. I'm actually really, really okay.