Jaw surgery

I'm reading through old posts and finding myself smiling.
I imagine this is what people in novelas feel when attempting to recuperate their memory after a bad accident
"Que paso? Quien eres? Quien... soy?!"
"Tranquilizate, sufriste un accidente... perdiste la memoria."
"Pero... ayy, mi cabeza... me duele tanto."
"No te preocupes... juntos lograremos recordar."
... those type of plot-lines.

I'm finding some fucking golden lines in there. I really came up with that shit? Jesus Christ, was God talking to me in those moments?
Ha. Nah, more like some fucking raw emotions.

For instance, this line from December 2013:
(Imagination-- that's what has kept my heart beating all these years. That's how I can deal. That's how I handle anything. Just give me enough time to dream, and I'm good)
Or this beauty from November of that same year:
My heart is not gold, or titanium, or even iron-- it's coal... an energy source which is consumed for the generation of cooler shit.

It's all true. It remains true.

Goddamn, I said that shit? ... that's nuts.

It shows just how disconnected I currently am with the real me. It's like picking up a stranger's journal and being enthralled by it... then realizing I'M the fucking author... how in the fuck? Some "Memento" type shit.

I've been working on my vocabulary. On my knowledge.
I didn't know the extent of the loss until reading through my old entires.
The loss is huge. It's very much like hackers went into the filing cabinets in my brain and erased a huge chunk.
Things that used to be common knowledge to me ten years ago are seriously obscure little gems now.
I blame it on illness, I blame it on pregnancy, I blame it on depression... and I blame it on company.
It has all added up to me being at a total loss of the person I used to be.

I'm finding myself increasingly sad as my time to go back to Arizona approaches.
Originally I was going to leave last week but that had to be put on hold because I literally went through jaw surgery.
I wasn't ready for it.
When I was at the dentist, I WAS told about potentially seeing a periodontist on May 10th back in mid April when I had my teeth cleaned. The hygienist was concerned with the "pockets" in my gums and recommended I see a periodontist the next time she came to the clinic (apparently these motherfuckers travel around the city instead of just having an office we can visit... ?). She told me the perio was booked for her May 10th visit, but if anyone cancelled (and "there's always at least one cancellation") they'd call me to come in. I agreed thinking no biggie.

Well, May 10th rolls around and I get the call to come in at 2pm. I do... like it was just some regular check up, since I haven't felt pain, just some discomfort.
I then have this cool young lady come in to the room and checks out my grill.
She lays it on me: every single one of my molars is in deep trouble. Everything is "either a 5 or 6 (millimeters in depth. That's the depth of the pocket. If you have anything over a 3 it means you got yourself a mild case of gingivitis. Anything 6 or plus-- 8 being max, it is serious periodontitis), you're going to need bone grafts on all three molars, one premolar of all four sides. You cool with that?"
Me: Is it going to hurt?
Perio: Most uncomfortable part will be getting it all numb, but we first use the topical numbing cream so after that you won't feel a thing.
Me: Uh, is it possible to get it all done now?
Perio: You sure can.
Me: Then let's do this. I'm down for it all.

Big motherfucking mistake.
Chick leaves the room to set up everything and also "run the numbers" of how much this is going to cost me.
Perio's assistant walks in with an ipad to show me a video of "what is going to happen" and I very calmly grab the ipad and watch the video as the dude leaves the room.
Jesus fucking christ. I almost passed out as soon as they showed the scalpel. They were going to detach my gums from the bone, scrape my fucking BONE to get all the bacteria, then DRILL OFF MY FUCKING BONE, then add the cadaver bone, then suture my gums back onto my fucking bone.

I sat in frozen silence.
What. The. Fuck.

Next time anyone walks in it's the dentist's secretary-- she has the bill.
The surgery is originally $13,000... with my TWO dental insurances, it comes out to $3,289.
"Is this ok?" she asks.
I nod.
I fucking guess... I need fucking BONE CADAVER IN MY FUCKING FACE.

I sign everything and I'm once again sitting alone in the room... texting everyone like a maniac, scared as shit.
Perio walks in after perhaps ten minutes of me panic-texting my family.
Let's roll.
Lady applies the topical gel all over my gums and palate and area under my tongue near the far back... which ONLY WORKS ON ONE SIDE OF MY FACE because for whatever fucking reason, my dumbfuck body is resistant to this shit.
Then come the shots of Novocain. 
SIXTEEN MOTHERFUCKING SHOTS. SIXTEEN. Four on each side on the outside, four shots on the fucking INSIDE. And let me fucking tell you... the shot that is placed on the muscle that holds your fucking tongue on the far back.... that motherfucking shot... is the WORST fucking pain I have felt in my life. Give me seven spinal taps... 'cause FUCK ever feel that tongue shot ever again. The fucking liquid going inside sounded like a pop in my ear!

After that traumatic event, the perio left to "let me get numb"... yeah. So she's gone for about half an hour, all the while I can hear her in her two other appointments, speaking with equally panicked people.
My body starts shaking, a thing it has done after traumatic physical events... I mean, it's normal. I then realize that my right side of the face is not numb whatsoever. I panic even worse.
The perio's assitant walks in to check on me and asks if all is good. I let him know I am not numb on the right side, and he lets me know it's ok... that the perio comes back and reapplies more Novocain, in a larger quantity before the surgery.
Once the assistant left, I went back to panicking. These fucking breaks did nothing to chill me out.
After about ten minutes the surgeon came back in and went right to cutting my mouth open.
For the most part, everything felt like pressure on my bone... but after two hours, everything started wearing off... I felt three drills into my bone which led to immediate shaking... but the surgery had to go on. I felt everything on my hind molars of my LEFT side, and one molar on my right side. The suturing was the worst. I literally cried for the entire time, tears streamed down my face the entire time.
This fucking thing last three hours. Three hours of torture.
Then came the "healing"... which was a swollen face for three days (it's still swollen on my lower lip) and I drooled blood for two days.
I've been on a pudding and jello diet up until yesterday when I ventured to chew on pho noodles. It sucked. Back on the jello.

So yeah. That was my last week... just recovering from jaw surgery.
Now, before people go off and claim it was poor oral hygiene, it wasn't. Everyone was surprised because I would brush and floss three times a day like a maniac. Pregnancy did this to me. Two back to back pregnancies busted my gums. Had I not done this surgery, I would have lost my teeth, since I already lost plenty of bone in my jaw since my first pregnancy.
I basically have to sit back and hope this works.

Never get pregnant, y'al.

Still alive I guess

The surgeon ended up prescribing me Percocet.
I don't know why the Dr. changed his mind about providing me with some post-op drugs, my best bet is that the messed up gallbladder agitated the area more than he expected.
Eating sucks, just as I had been warned. Anything I ingest ends up feeling like a shuriken just ripping up my intestines.

My biggest anxiety pre-op was not knowing how general anesthesia would work on me. I almost had an attack when they started clamping my arms and legs on to the operating table, and it only intensified as they placed the oxygen over my mouth.
The (cool) anesthesiologist then looked over at me and told me it was going to "burn" once I felt the anesthesia going in. Just as I was going to say "Oh shit, that was fast..." when I felt my eyelids feel heavy, I woke up to the sound of my heart monitor and I tried to say "Oh shit, y'all, I'm waking up!" thinking I was still about to get cut up.
I then realized my throat felt incredibly phlegmy, but I couldn't get it out. Instead, I let out an "Ohkayyy..." then a weaker "that was fast..."
I was surprised at how quickly the groggy feeling was dispersing.

I had no nausea, just a whole lot of fear of what was to come. I as under the impression that this was going to suck.

But nah... I'm doing alright. I mean, it fucking blows that I can't hold either of my boys... the littlest is the one completely bewildered by this... my poor little angel baby.
Ah, and I damn near fainted yesterday after my post-op shower... those motherfuckers always get me for whatever reason... probably my subconscious acting up at the sight of my wounds and how generally uncomfortable I am with all that shit.
But, I'm ok.

A cool thing I noticed is that my body doesn't feel as sluggish, or lethargic anymore. This last month felt like such a goddamn burden. There's now brightness to my day, if that makes sense... even if it's just me shuffling back and forth between my bedroom and the living room... I feel the warmth of the sun... I see the sharpness of color.

And that's it. That's all I have to say about anything. No feelings no nothing... I'm just going through the days waiting for these damn incisions to close up so I can stop thinking about them.

Pre-op thoughts

I'm doing better.
I saw a Mexican celebrity (Gloria Trevi. Looking back on older entries, I get agitated as fuck over my vagueness on some posts. I guess I swore I'd always have the good memory to remember what the fuck or who the fuck I was talking about. Plot twist: I fucking don't. Pregnancy stole that away from me... my good memory, that is. Now it's a good day when I fucking remember what my husband told me two hours ago. It feels like garbage... a horrible loss I can't put into words because I just find myself crying over how torturous it feels to have very little memory, and having it NOT return to me like so many people promised me it would... it's not coming back, guys... it's not fucking coming back) talking about how a few days after receiving her COVID vaccine she had horrible depression, but it only lasted a few days.
I went ahead and finally got vaccinated on the 10th of this month. I then struggled with a very intense case of depression... suicidal... for about a week. I don't know... it just sort of makes sense.

I hate having people telling me my "sadness" will go away. I hate people being angry at me because I admit that motherhood is... weird to me... that it isn't, it wasn't, my ultimate goal in life... how it didn't even rank as a goal... and now I'm here with two little humans for whom I'm responsible. I hate how some people translate it as me not loving my kids. I fucking love the shit out of them... I want them to have an amazing life and know no sorrows. Seeing them smile makes my fucking world feel like a very colorful, brilliant universe. But at the end of the day, I feel empty. I feel... I feel like I've been dead... completely gone, for three years now. A total fucking shell of a human who has no memories, no ambitions, no... no interests... no knowledge. I'm just this goddamn shell who goes through motions of changing diapers and feeding babies... checking up on the wellness of others.
Bro... what happened to your intelligence? WERE you even intelligent? You were pretty fucking annoying, actually.
My mind beats me up relentlessly... my body even worse.
I'm getting my gallbladder removed on the 27th. I've never been put under anesthesia... just that good shit that is an epidural (lmao... good shit... lmao. I trembled like a leaf both times, but sat there cracking jokes through it all to try and at least laugh instead of cry... to get the room full of people to laugh instead of feel sorry for me). So I'm a little scared sometimes... I claim to want to die, but as soon as I think of it actually possibly occurring I get all scared like a dumbass. I think... what if I don't wake up? What if my shitty heart goes kaput and they can't get it to work again? What a way to go... not even knowing you're going...
Anyway, I hadn't suffered any gallbladder attacks since they first discovered stones in there back in 2018... when they told me I had to keep it in there until "they either turn cancerous or you have an attack." Welp, come Valentine's Day of this year, I suffered the infamous attack. That shit lasted from 10pm until 5am... and it was a pain so goddamn unbearable, I spent the night crying, trying to find a position to be in that wasn't causing me more pain. The pain was worse than the contractions I felt with my kids... it was worse than any pain I've ever felt. I cried even more because I felt so alone... my husband occasionally looking down at me writhing on the floor as he slept on our double-king size bed (two king sized bed put together because we got a free mattress ha. That's a funny story), asking "You're STILL having the attack?!" and going back to sleep... it... really broke me to have him do that. No pat on the back, no offers to bring me some warm tea... or even some tylenol... just an irritated "You're still having the attack?"
Anyway, since that attack, I went to my doctor asking for some sort of resolution to this, and I was scheduled for surgery in FUCKING APRIL. Since then, as the date approaches, my attacks become more frequent-- less painful, but multiple little attacks a day. I can't really eat anything... everything fucking sucks and I'm left with horrible pain in my stomach. I'm nauseated every day-- not the nausea I felt when pregnant (that fucking animal is goddamn inexplicable... it fucking sucks on a level I never knew existed. I never want to feel that again), but the thought of food makes me feel sick.

I'm basically breaking down, physically. I long for the days when I was very heartbroken and lost... but with a body that did damn near anything... that beast of a body that could workout for hours... like a motherfucking ox. Now I'm a broken human... completely broken... and my body has joined the cause. I can't even fucking EAT without being in pain. My skin is ripped to shreds... and what isn't ripped is rashed up with no signs of healing.
Like... what the fuck happened, AnoMALIE? Goddamn... my god... fuck. I just didn't know how bad things could get... and how it would still be demanded of me to ACT like I'm fine and be "Strong".... how it's even MORE demanded of me now.

I know, or at least I hope, this will eventually go back into hibernation... this depression... I keep myself going by telling myself that life is a fucking rollercoaster. I'm currently on the wild decent where you feel your innards wanting to exit through your mouth (and oh boy, that is so fucking literal right now)... but eventually I'll get that feel good shit where I'm going back up while enjoying the beautiful view. That has to return, right? Maybe this cholecystectomy will return some sense of normalcy to my life (y'all... it is "highly recommended" I follow a vegetarian lifestyle after this. The fuck? I'm Mexican... the fuck you asking me to do here? Nah, homes... I'll find a way to enjoy a nice little carne asada from time to time).
Let's see how this shit turns out. Might update before the operation... but if I don't, let me just put it out there that I'm good with the outcome... just please remember the happy, annoying Me... the one who often times was too caught up in her own little dreamy world fantasy to catch a joke as it flew completely over her head.
And it's not all darkness for me right now... my boys make me laugh every day. Yes, they drive me batshit crazy and wear the shit out of me... but they get me to chuckle each and every day. These boys get me to talk in a strange, goofy voice every day. These boys are the warm sun in the dark, dark bog my mind has forced me to live in.

anger owns fear

Guesssss who's depressed again!
Yay!

I try every day to fight this shit... but it appears the universe only wants to see me sad. Smiles and happiness... and dreams-- dude, I reached the level where I actually looked forward to the future and had fucking DREAMS-- just are not meant for your girl right here.

I guess on the positive side, the sadness has done wonders for my fear. Fear levels are at an all time low. Now I'm just angry:
"If I catch this fucking virus because of you and your endless goddamn need to go to the grocery store every other day, I'M COMING BACK TO HAUNT YOUR FUCKING ASS!"
That sort of deal.

My kids are great. The oldest is wild as shit, and he doesn't really like me anymore... but he's still fantastic. I get it. I'm hard to even like.

But the sadness... it just exists... it lingers... it intensifies at random times like psoriasis flare ups.
I just have to learn to thread carefully.

I hope to one day be on the ascent again.

2013ish

Damn it. Here I thought I'd be able to write every day.
Journaling with a computer is much more difficult than with pen and paper... my kid doesn't care about me messing with pen and paper. Computer? That kid will wreck my shit.

My anxiety is a roller coaster... not the traditional kind, but like the fucking Goliath at Six Flags (don't know what I'm talking about? You're missing out, bro).
Each time one of my kids cries I freak out... my heart races thinking "this is it... my kid has it."
I fucking "stress sweat" all fucking day. I live in my pajamas since it's pointless to fuck up any more of my clothes with this fucking sweat.

Then some days I feel sort of like myself. I feel like AnoMALIE2013ish. I'm at home with my parents, I hang out in my room... I walk on the treadmill and sweat up a storm. I write in my blog. Ha. I'm temporarily at peace.
Then one of my babies cries.
Or my husband texts me some stressful shit (Jesus Christ, does the home go to hell when I'm not there. All hell fucking breaks loose... everything fucking breaks. Shit drives me fucking nuts).
Or I check Twitter.

One positive is that my panic attacks have been greatly reduced. I am nowhere near the level I was when I started writing again. I'm still scared as shit... irritated as shit... paranoid as shit... but I think I'm sort of at the resignation portion of this wild ride. Sort of. I still cry when I think one of my parents or kids could catch this shit.

I wish I could write about any other type of subject. Or be funny, or just anything other than paranoid and terrified... but I can't.

I hope I can write more tomorrow.

Girls aren't all bad

What was I doing when the motherfucking Cubs broke the curse and won the World Series on Wednesday night?
Angrily screaming "A MOTHERFUCKER BETTER BE DEAD!" as I sat in stand-still traffic for nearly an hour.

The kickoff to the long-weekend girl's getaway to Palm Springs started rough, being stuck in a horrible traffic jam in the most crucial moments of the World Series. Had it not been for that dickhead wrecking his car on a post, I would have made it to Kelley's place in time to catch at least the last three innings of the World Series ('cause who the fuck wants to sit through an entire game?). Instead, I very frustratedly sat in the passenger seat of my friend's car, reloading my google app, eating my nails, pulling my hair, and grunting like an animal.
But that was the only bump on the road (har-har... pun-y. I write like shit, get over it), and no, no dead bodies, just a dumb motherfucker running into a post in his stupid convertible... probably watching the game on his phone... but he lived.

I complain a lot about females and how I don't tend to get along with them, but this weekend was fantastic... though one female was driving me crazy at times... and she was not Kelley... or her pets. Now that I think about it, I hung out with pure estrogen this weekend.
And I could not have had a better time (well, maybe if I had gone to an amusement park-- because I get obnoxiously happy when I risk my life). I laughed so hard, I spit a mouth-full of water on my pants... I hadn't done that in years.

I was surrounded by animals... I hadn't done that in a minute either. I tried my hardest to win the approval of a cat, and I sure won it. That shit had me feeling all sorts of Snow White-y... a swollen Snow White due to her cat allergy she refuses to acknowledge or respect. I will NOT refuse to pet a friendly kitty, sinuses and itchy eyes be damned. Little homegirl even slept next to me on my final night, occasionally hugging my left leg (sure, her claws would "gently" wake me sometimes... but what if she was having a nightmare?).

So... yeah... girls getaway to the desert, night drives through Joshua Tree National Park, shopping goodass deals, eating burgers every afternoon, and listening to "oldies" rock... while going home to a couple of dogs and a cat, made me forget how heartbroken and disappointed I was in humanity.

But I'm sure I'll discuss my disappointment in the very near future.

No harbors

I'm disappointed in the lack of writing this month... but things are so depressing, I don't find it very conducive for my emotional wellbeing to constantly update.
No, I am not depressed, and the depressing things are not happening to me.
It's still that very bizarre thing where I'm standing quietly as I watch the world of others come crashing down.
People are dying-- YOUNG people. Young people are dealing with health scares.

I'm watching friends deal with the looming death of their loved ones... watching them watch their loved ones succumb...

It is surreal. It is scary. It is... so tragic.
SO MANY of the people in my circle are dealing with this... it's hard not to feel my heart break... and frustrated that I can't do more for them.

There's also that fear in the back of my mind-- don't let this trip you up... don't let this be what reels you back in... don't let this shake your grip on that lifeline you were given.

But I'm ok, it's not that type of sadness I'm feeling.My current sadness actually guilt trips me in a way... for ever wanting to end my existence, while ALL THESE PEOPLE are battling so fiercely to keep their own.

It's all stuff I'd rather not delve into... so I just paint-- that's where I am.

Leap on

I've had four people wish me a happy birthday today.
Though I seriously was NOT born on Leap Day, it still made me smile-- each time.

I'm at a completely different place than I was last year.
I feel like such a tool saying that line... but it's true. I think about last year-- how it felt, how it looked-- and it has nothing to do with how I feel today.
I'm not ecstatic, or even happy... but I definitely do not feel lost, or worse yet, suicidal.
I'm ok. Totally fine.
But not fine enough to remain on social media to hear the congratulations from people who don't give a shit about me... and especially not to see those who TRULY don't give a shit about me go out of their way to NOT wish me a happy birthday. It's all such a weird, paradoxical bunch of "logic," that I prefer not to have to deal with it at all.
Social media ruins everything, so I deleted it for now.

I don't want to think about anything.
I don't want to feel anything.
I don't want to deal.

I am just going to chill. I'm going to draw and chill... and paint.

Just another day, kiddo, let's move it along.
(I'm glad I was gifted an extra day to enjoy 30 years on this planet, before adding that extra "1" afterward)

This time I am

How I know I am A-fucking-OK:

Things are really fucking piling up-- people intentionally trying to piss me off, my sister dealing with some fucking bullshit at work where one of her coworkers is harassing the shit out of her, the Costa Rican family's telenovela hitting a motherfucking INCREDIBLE level of "WTF IS THIS SHIT?!", people fuckin' with my travel plans...
And so much more...

Yet, I remain happy (hmmm... that might be an ambitious claim, but I'll stick with it for now).
No, I'm not cartwheeling all over the place... I'm not even skipping around the house (I have jumped with joy a couple of times, but part of it was because one of the times I was freezing my ass off)... but I don't feel surrounded, or suffocated, by those dark clouds from last year. I don't feel a single ounce of heaviness in my chest... and that's considering I've had a couple of heartbreaking Tyson dreams.


Now, I did wonder "maybe this is just like... being manic-depressive and I'm currently in a manic episode," but... aren't manics typically super happy and all that shit? I wouldn't necessarily consider my happiness as "extreme"... but more precisely as "constant."
It's steady.
While I have moments where I remember something unpleasant, or bump into someone I definitely do not hold in a favorable light (I hate the motherfucker, k?), the negative feelings don't linger (or worse yet-- accumulate).
I'm not fucking jubilant and laughing like a maniac all over the place, either... I'm just fucking NORMAL for once-- not wanting to strangle some idiot, but also not laughing so loud the neighbors are calling the cops.

Not too long ago, I heard what maybe six months ago would have sent me into a deep depression. Instead of falling into a pit of darkness, I sat perplexed for a few hours ("Did... I just hear that?"), then spent another couple of hours trying to make sense of it ("Why... would he say that about me? Why would this other person think it was ok to tell me this? Who is lying? IS someone lying? Consider the narrator..."). I decided I WOULDN'T make sense of it... I would just let that sit there and fucking rot away on its own. Eventually the truth will emerge, it always does, even if it doesn't look like it will happen for quite some time. When I find out what was really said, IF I find out, THEN I'll make my conclusion. Until then? I'm gonna ride this shit out.
This is something that would have been too fucking unimaginable a few months ago.

And I'm ok. No depression... no extreme jubilance... I'm chill. When something happens, I have a certain feeling about it... but don't dwell.

I'm not in love, or even crushing on anyone... so I can't blame the pleasant mood on that (this is odd. I can't recall a time where I didn't have at least a TINY crush on someone).
I'm not taking any medication or drugs... so I can't accuse any of that mind altering shit on my mood.
I don't have a puppy.
I'm not working out or pigging out like a savage.
I haven't suffered brain trauma.

Real talk, it feels like someone excised a motherfucking demon from me. The extreme, suicidal depression that side-swiped the fucking shit out of me last year, is totally gone... totally... and I did nothing to really change that... I think?
Only explanation I have is that someone out there prayed super hard for me... like... that person has a direct line to God or something.
Visiting Rome three times in a year does that to someone? Well... shoot! I wish that prescription were cheaper, then.

Bad things are happening to me and around me, bad things BRING ME DOWN for a minute or two... but they don't keep me down... and that is odd as fuck.

I welcome this change.. obviously... because it's very nice to feel warmth and see colors again... I actually appreciate them much, MUCH more now.

Chill blue

I've been back for a few days now, however, as has become my motherfucking cutsom for the last five years, I returned with a horrible case of... being old.

Another Mexico trip, another parasitic intestinal infection. Damn infection has left me weak, trembly, lightheaded, and unable to maintain a healthy appetite.
At least I didn't puke on the ride here this time around.

No, rather than spend my few days in the motherland confined to the bathroom evacuating my gut in some form, I spent my days READING (imagine that shit!), writing, listening to music, walking... and crying. Good lord, did I cry. I cried like I would back in the good ol' days... like the good ol' confused, emotionally abused teenager I was 15 years ago.

Yeah, I have different versions of crying... there are different vibes to it all.
For the most part, I would say my crying sessions in my teen years, while heavy and heartbreaking, still carried this silver lining to them... a sense of hope. Something in the back of my mind would always calm me down... give me the illusion that "YO! You still have like... so MANY fucking years to fix this shit! It's going to get better! Just you watch!" I also had Tyson to calm me down during that painful time in my life... that little cow was magical.
And so... if I could assign those crying scenes a color, it'd be pastel pink.
My crying sessions in my 20's were brutal. There was intense desperation in them... there was intense, uncontrollable vomiting... so much fucking stress. SO MUCH disillusionment. So much failure. Then when the decade started coming to an end, it all went black... it all fucking died... especially once Tyson died. I felt nothing. Hopes imploded. Dreams disappeared. "WHY DID I STAY?!" type desperation. FUCK. THAT. SHIT.
Yeah... the crying meltdowns in my twenties... I wouldn't repeat those for all the fucking money in the world. Black... the darkest fucking black is what I'd assign those crying sessions. Jesus. I'm uncomfortable just recalling it.

ANYWAY, this time around, my crying was... it had almost the same feel as they did in my teens... shit, the crying was milder. There was never any sobbing, or shaking... or sound, really. I would be sitting back, usually laying face up, thinking or listening to music... and tears would begin to roll down the sides of my face. Quiet little tears. Actually, I did sigh one time.-- the only time I sat outside in my backyard where Tyson would sit beside me as I'd cry bitterly at night. I looked up at the stars-- bright and glorious as they always are in Hometown-- and sighed at the sight... then tears quietly began to run when I looked over at the empty spot Tyson would have been occupying if he were still alive. ("I'm still alone, Tyson... but unlike all the times before... there's no desperation, but instead quiet resignation that no, it will NOT get better... so I no longer feel that sense of urgency for it to 'get better'... it's a peaceful sort of quitting... of giving up. Makes it so much easier to live... to just accept")
What color would I paint these crying scenes that I now begin at 30? I'm still uncertain about the hue... but I'm leaning towards a blue. It's not dark in the sense that I feel lost and frustrated... angry and agitated... but it's also not lined brightly with hope for a positive change. It's quiet resignation that it doesn't get better... it just boils over and pacifies for a while. It's sadness... not desperately begging for an end, but calmly waiting for it. It's watching those around me experiencing happiness, and feeling genuinely happy for them, while simultaneously NOT angrily demanding why the fuck I am refused this same, seemingly common privilege... just accepting that I won't. It's chill sadness... chill blue sadness.
Nice change I welcome... I was getting tired of screaming into my pillows, anyway.

Clearing visible

Not that I want to jinx anything, but I honestly feel it this time, and doubt I can jinx it...
I think I'm out of the woods.
I feel pretty solid about that statement.

It's not that I no longer think about suicide... but more like... I don't feel it's a threat... I don't "fear" it will happen, if that makes sense.
I'll once in a while wonder what life would be like without me... or I'll catch myself enjoying something, and think something like "See, imagine if you would have actually followed through with your thoughts back in January and not have been able to relish this moment!" The thought actually makes me enjoy little pretty moments that much more... I'm much more appreciative.

It really does feel like someone has woken me up. I have no idea who it was... or how it happened... I just know it was a semi-slow process... like watching a sunrise... watching the rays of sun slowly take over the darkness and reveal the beauty that had always been there-- just like that.

I still feel rage. I still get sad. I still cry.
But it's not... it doesn't have the same... weight. It doesn't burden me as much as it did a few months ago-- it also doesn't linger as long.
Just like I mentally beat the fucking shit out of myself to the point of extreme depression, I also forced myself back up. I reached the point where something inside me, that same little part of me which kept me going as a kid when all those bad things would happen to me, that relentless optimism that hides in a corner of my being which has yet to be destroyed... just slapped me across the face and told me to chill the fuck out. Like Bambi's dad commands his son to "GET UP!" in the movie after Bambi gets shot... some part of me commanded me to do the same.
"Goddamn it! You're going to enjoy this!"
"SMILE, you fucking imbecile!"
"NO! No! You fucking stop that motherfucking negative memory RIGHT NOW!"
"LAUGHT, DAMN IT! LAUGH!"
"GET. UP."
And after much inner-turmoil, daily struggles with myself to NOT be sad... I eventually began to genuinely not feel sad. I began to enjoy things.

I'm not going to sit here and act like I'm fucking elated, because I'm not. I'm not a ball of energy, either.
But I feel strong. I'm not drained. I feel grounded AS FUCK. I'm present.

I'm taking things a day at a time, and allowing myself to enjoy things.
I still don't look forward to the future-- I don't dread it either-- but I sense this is a more optimistic thing for me. When I think too much about the future, that's when my issues begin, it's when I begin dipping my feet into those buckets of fresh cement, waiting for them to dry so I can throw myself into a deep body of water.
I actually give thanks at the end of each day, even the shitty ones. "Thank you for allowing me to smile today! That was nice." "Thank you for the learning experience today... I'll try not to do that again. Let it go, AnoMALIE."

There's nothing worse than feeling like an invisible "entity" just floating on by... I didn't even feel like a person the majority of the time... just an invisible, meaningless ghost.
I've never felt as horrible as the dark shit I'm just now leaving behind. Never. And I hope never to revisit that shit again... EVER.

Maybe I'll talk about the bad days further down the road.
But right now? I'm good. I'm sturdy. I'm ok. I'll be ok.

Tres Dias

This past weekend was one of the best I've had in a very long time. I laughed more over the course of three days than I have in the last three months.
Most instances required me to break away from the nagging negative thoughts, and forced me to get out-- actually PARTICIPATE, not just do my typical zombie shit. Each day was a battle with myself... I even cried one of the times before leaving my house... but by the end of the day, I was always happy I refused to listen to the depressive shit, and fought my way through the paralyzing fears.

Now the trick is to hold on to the feeling... or to at least not lose my grip and slip back into the land of misery.
I haven't mastered that shit yet.

Balloons

I don't know how true this is, but I could almost swear it's mandatory in all high school French classes across the country to have its students watch "The Red Balloon."
(I'm being sarcastic)

I connected with it, even tearing up at the end.
(I'm not being sarcastic)

Balloons-- I hate those shits, but I also find those pieces of shit do a great job at describing my life.
In person, balloons make me panic. I HATE when others pop balloons, and I freak out when I see kids biting balloons.
But using balloons for metaphorical purposes? Boy, they get the job done.
Balloon-- looked like one for the majority of my life... all round and corpulent and... inflated.
Balloon on a string-- I feel like one when things start getting out of hand. I feel... I feel as though I am drifting away, slipping out of the firm grasp of a kid that keeps me grounded. Float away, float away, and away... further away from reality... from everything I know and comforts me. Away, to the unknown.
Popping my balloon-- that happens the majority of the time. My hopes are popped. My dreams are popped. My heart-shaped ballon is always popped with a fucking harpoon, all the time... all the damn motherfucking time.

Then come the moments where I feel the gentle tug of my kid... a family member of the kid... someone who knows me, and begins to pull me back to the happy reality I once knew. I'm rescued from aimlessly flying out into the atmosphere... and reminded who I am, and why I love being who I am.

I don't know... I don't make sense.
I just know I love my friends... and am reminded of how much I fucking missed them in my life.
I aimlessly wander through the world... quietly, completely alone... sometimes sad, sometimes apathetic, often curious, many times excited... but still aimlessly. I convince myself I'm this person... this terrible, solitary person... and then I feel the familiar tug of a friend... a really good fucking friend, and I am gently reeled into the fact that some great people are part of my life... and they just know how to turn me into the REAL me.
I am not shy. I am not sad. I am not mad.
With these people, I'm comfortable, I am laughing, I am happy, I'm talking.
I remember the awesome times we had ten years ago, look around at our present, and feel thankful we're still capable of making one another laugh hysterically, able to continue to make more enjoyable memories.

I look around and still find myself smiling.
One is married.
One is engaged.
I am still very much single.
The three musketeers at three different stages in life, but we're still fucking laughing together.

I don't know... I just really needed these guys to pull me back to reality, more than I knew... and I feel so very damn good now that they did.

Therapy, my way.

As predicted, this strong, violent episode of unadulterated rage produced a surge of creativity.

In two days, I manically created this:

 

Today, my mind's like "Are you gonna finish this or nah?" to which, of course, I'm like "Nah, man... I'm actually pretty happy and calm now. Thanks for the outlet, Brain... but I'm good now. Fuck the details for now. I'll finish this sucker next time someone makes me irate... or the next time I come across some fucking imbecile drunkard. And I'll stop talking now because I'm starting to get angry again."

But for real, I'm so much better now. Sure, I still feel a little tear coming up when I let my memory wander back to some of the mean, idiotic shit MGH said and did... but I just force myself to be happy by thinking of things like... dumb music lyrics... or the fact that my brother is hollering at one of my close friends from high school (this I'll discuss in much more detail in the near future, you know, when this story gains more material).

I wish I could become creative on command, not after some fucking traumatic life event or whatever.
Anyway, painting is great... and drawing psychopaths is fun.

Slippery sink

It's a bumpy road back to "normal."

Ever seen a cat panic when they're about to fall from a high place?

My dad's mom had this... ummm, well, it's supposedly translated as "sink" or a water basin, but it doesn't do this structure justice. This "sink" is common in the ranch we're from, because it's where women would do their laundry. It's a cement pool... a "baby pool" in the shape of a cube, built above ground, no taller than a woman's hip (I mean, they have to bend over it in the first place, in order to scrub the clothes). Two thirds of the cube is the actual pool that was always at least half-filled. The other third was where the women would scrub the clothes on the ridges built into the cement (they'd have a cup on the side that they would dip into the pool in order to grab water to rinse the soapy clothes. Am I doing a decent job describing this shit for people who live in this day and age where all we have to do is shove our clothes into a machine and press a couple of buttons in order to get shit washed?).
Anyway, I loved playing by this "pool," mainly because the cement was so worn, it would be irresistibly smooth, and water would evaporate in the strangest way. When the cement would be wet, it was the slickest, most entertaining shit to mess with (I'd try to write my name as fast as possible... I'd try to beat the evaporation process. That's the kind of shit that entertains me. I'm simple).
Well, I remember numerous times when my grandmother's cat (of the moment. They went through cats like I go through socks. Rough times in the rancho) would be curious enough to climb to the edge of this pool. As it circled the top of the baby pool, that slick cement would almost never fail to trip up the cat and BAM! cat in the pool-- or floor, when lucky. I remember catching glimpses of the cats right before they tumbled off... and I swear they always had that "FUCKFUCKFUCK!" look as they violently clawed at anything and everything to try and get a grip... all to no avail. Bye bye, kitty.

This is how I feel when I KNOW I'm about to slip into a depression... especially this latest bout I'm currently handling.
I know I shouldn't bottle negative feelings, but I do it anyway... I know I shouldn't dwell on negative comments OR ACTIONS... but I do it anyway.
I know nothing good will come out of these bad habits... I fucking KNOW I'm going to slip and absolutely nothing will be available to grasp to stay out of the sink... and I go ahead and fall.

Hopefully one day I'll learn there's no way to "safely" tread this slippery surface, and just stay on solid ground.

La Felicidad

My happiness-- it's an accumulation of events and decisions.

1. I have health care AND dental care.
I finally feel a little bit more normal. I am that Mexican-American kid, child of immigrants, who never had health care coverage... well, once for a brief period of time in 4th grade, but other than that, I was shit out of luck.

Cut myself? Suck it up! Don't look at the injury and wait for it to heal on it's own. Stitches? Come over here, bring me the sowing kit, I'LL sow that shit up for you... what? You don't think that's a good idea? Then shut up.
Broken bones? Bitch, you know better than to fuck around with something capable of breaking a bone-- don't do it. Break a bone, heal on your own. (Never did break a bone)

Fun times, growing up.

2. I joined a legit boxing gym with my bestie.
Not only do I get to take it back to our college days by hanging out with my best homie on a regular basis, but we get to pummel the shit out of stuff. I can't begin to describe how relieving this all is for me.
I sweat so much, and get worked SO HARD, each night I drop like a sack of potatoes on my bed, more than ready for lights out. I sleep like a fucking baby.
The chill time with Kelley also gives me much needed laughs... or gossip time, because MAN, can I fucking talk shit without getting judged when I chat with her. She also gives me good advice. And if shit-talking or problem solving isn't involved, I always learn SOME sort of fact from her, and my vocabulary increases by at least two words-- new words or ones I forgot in a ten year time span.

3. Nutrition coach.
This Christmas, my sister gave me the weird gift of a nutrition coach.
Sister originally hired him for herself, but since she's quite fond of beer and ice cream, she exasperated him with her lack of discipline. Sister then told the coach about me, how she may lack discipline, but as far as I'm concerned, I'm militant about shit when I set my mind to it. SO, the coach gave Sister a two for one deal, and that's how I got myself a coach.
First thing he did? Force-fed me some carbs... lots and lots of carbs.
And I. Am. Happy.
Within three days of the twelve week program, I felt a shift in mood. I'm a fucking ray of sunshine, no lie. Life is fucking beautiful and brighter and all that shit.
The program isn't built to thin me out, it's made to build me up... which I am TOTALLY game for. Bitches always feel compelled to share their opinion of how muscle on girls is ugly, but that's not something I give a single shit about. Muscle is gorgeous. Muscle is strength. Muscle is intimidating. Muscle I WANT.
No frail little chick here, thank you very much.

The sense of happiness and serenity I feel is indescribable. It makes me go to bed with a smile on my face... a genuine, carefree, involuntary smile.
I am so much kinder to strangers, and I only really scowl maybe once or twice on my daily commutes.

Shitty things have happened and STILL happen, but it's so much easier to release the crappy stuff and move on. It's not that I'm ignoring them, I just ask myself what good the feeling does me, and I have a much easier time carrying on with my day and life (I actually had a nasty incident a few weeks back that I was going to vent about here, but I wound up falling asleep before I posted it, and so, the moment passed. It WAS hilarious, now in hindsight... maybe I'll post it some other day, when I find the photo I was going to add before knocking out).

I feel like a hippie. Am I being creepy? I'm a different girl, and it all happened over the course of like... ten days. I'm all zen and whatnot, but I still have my incredibly dirty mouth, so no, my mind wasn't hijacked or any of that shit... I'm just very happy and pleasant. It's pretty cool.

Happy tears?

I keep thinking I'm going to update... and I start, but then I have to leave, or fall asleep, so I never finish anything.

But I am still happy. So fucking happy.
And busy.
And... I'm having a good time.
And I'm not TOO paranoid about all of this exploding, and then being unable to put the pieces back together once it does.

I'm happy. I'm smiling A LOT. I'm seeing faces I hadn't seen in years... I'm meeting new, wonderful people.
I mean... this is all so... it's all going so smoothly, I get all fucking emotional and just... look up into the sky and mouth "thank you" to whoever, WHATever is responsible for this turn of events.
Sometimes, I even find myself crying-- nothing loud or scandalous, just me sitting there, quietly, tears rolling down my face out of sheer... joy? Gratitude? Whatever it is, it's new, and something I thought I'd never experience-- something I WASN'T MEANT to experience--and now that it's making a strange little vacation home in my heart, I don't know what to do... I just... cry.

Comforting this baby

Enough drama.
Ha. Totally expected when I notice shit is going so smoothly... but the difference now is that I don't allow myself to wallow in the self-pitying shit for too long. Don't get me wrong, I was ridiculously sensitive all of Friday... randomly having tears streak down my face... and my fucking eyelids were a pink mess... but on days like that, I stay away from society as much as possible and entertain myself with either writing or doodling/painting.

I've noticed the people most adept at noticing I've had a shitty time AND TRYING to fix that are males. Girls seem to be aloof, or just too uncomfortable acknowledging a sad girl (except for my bestie. Well, we sort of do that thing where we ignore the problem, but try and fix moods by making the other laugh at silly stuff, which I certainly appreciate, because I'm pretty shitty at speaking about my tender, often-injured feelings. Too often my fucking sobs betray me and you just get an incoherent, violently shaking AnoMALIE... all scared-Chihuahua-like, nobody likes that). Guys on the other hand, turn so... umm... warm? Soft? You know, all those words associated with gentleness. Kind of like how most dudes behave when given that school activity where they are handed an "egg baby" and have to protect said egg for a week. Guys get all gentle, yet protective-- Get away from my goddamn egg. You might break it, bitch. Are you ok, Egg? Here, you're safer here.
Girls might approach you to talk... but see your busted eyelids and think "Whoa, messed up girl... I'll give her some space, she might be contagious. I might say something to make her cry... and then we'll just end up two girls randomly crying in public."
Dudes might be standing across the room, notice your fucked up eyelids, and make their way over to you to crack a joke, then add a reassuring squeeze to your shoulder... or some other comforting touch that melts your heart at the same time that it makes your bottom lip quiver. I choose not to make much eye-contact when such a thing happens, because the tenderness in their stare usually leads to me tearing up again, and all gains are lost... because I cry once they leave my side.

This is just my personal experience.
I'm sure plenty of girls out there go straight to their ladies to feel better... and probably DO get the comfort they need.
I just get the other side of the coin-- a very peculiar side, which still achieves the point of it all: to feel better, to get better. 

Don't apologize

I've been selfish.
I've been holding on to this feeling, and have kept it all to myself.

I am so happy.
So, so happy.

"It takes the same effort to be miserable, as it does to be happy."

I went back to basics.
I released any and all resentment. I forgave every single person on my shit-list. I may not have befriended every person on my bad list, but I did release those I find a hinderance to my happiness.
I've laughed, I've smiled... I've returned to hanging out with my best friend.
It's like ten years ago... the fun parts... the random, simple times, where just WALKING down the sidewalk at school in the cool breeze made me smile and relax.

Relaxed-- that's what I am.
I am being given this huge gift of surrounding myself with some... vibrant, happy people, and it's rubbing off on me.
I've stopped complaining-- for the most part-- and it lifts the heaviness that has been resting on my chest for so long.

I am so very happy, and I finally don't feel like I must APOLOGIZE for it.
This is so fucking awesome.

Destiny? HAHAHA!

So... I'm sure it's well established that I truly do wish for the best, but almost always, my dreams are dashed, right? Or at least, that my hopes and dreams get smothered once I open my big mouth like the giant idiot that I am, right?

I'm not sad-- more like amazed.
It's hard to feel sad about something that was in its fledgling stage.
That whole moving to Mexico thing-- yeah, no, don't think it's happening.
I don't know how much attention anyone pays to Mexico... but it has been pounded by two storms (one coming in from the Pacific, the other from the Atlantic, then meeting in the middle like a happy family of destructive, murderous beasts) in the last couple of weeks... wreaking havoc all over the south.

I do not know what this is all about, it's just really, VERY amusing (how the universe works out for me, not the death and destruction my poor people are currently enduring-- that's very fucking tragic).

WHY don't you talk, AnoMALIE? We'd really like to know more about you.
No. NO. Leave me alone. I'm quiet for a reason, Holmes. Come on, I'm 28, I should be well-trained in this fucking department.
My goodness.
ZIP the lip, girl!

Of course, I'm taking this in good stride (or at least, to the best of my abilities... by unexpectedly turning into a wino)... because who want to live in Mexico? In the humid, rainy parts full of idiot tourists who don't shut the fuck up... ?

Just a TAD BIT bummed over thinking that perhaps I'd finally found my destiny... but like I said, that was quickly smothered with a taunting finger. Tsk-tsk... how could you be so silly, AGAIN, dumbass? "Destiny"... JOKE!

I'm only destined to be a quiet, angsty, abrasive recluse. I'm cool with that.
Se cuerda, pendeja!