Too much sugar and I'll go up, too little and I'll go down.

It's a beautiful Saturday morning.

It's been a week without medicine and things are surprisingly steady. I have been unbelievably cool and very together. I lost a huge amount of money on a failed business venture, which means I am broke right now, which also means I will not be able to buy the camera I was saving up for. Somehow though, I have managed not to freak out.

A Saturday after a Friday night out feels like the morning after an awesome sex, even doing the dishes feels like a superhero duty I am more than happy to do.

Look up. It's a vast sky.
It's not there so you can lie on your couch and watch crappy TV.
Move.
Create.
Indulge in cliches.

On Freshman Year, Self-Harm, and the Fight for National Democracy

So, while everyone else is bashing Grace Poe and Nancy Binay, here I am, contemplating about my sick head and its place in society.

I was 16 when I started cutting myself. I also did cut myself once when I was 14 but that wasn't out of sadness or anything, I just felt like doing it, at least that's how I remember it. Anyway, it didn't happen again until I was 16. 

It was my first year in college. I was losing focus in my studies, the daily commute was stressing me out, I spent too much time applying for this certain organization I don't even know why I wanted to be a part of in the first place, there were just too many people everywhere, they were always too loud and always moving too fast, the 493-hectare campus seemed like a wild jungle with its kings and predators and I was this fragile insect. I didn't know what I was doing in college or  what I would do after I've finished it.

The semester was about to end and all I could feel was anxiety and fear. I couldn't bear thinking about the future. I couldn't understand why I was failing myself purposely without intending to. It was confusing. I lost confidence, I wasn't "smart" anymore. But somehow I knew I could do those schoolwork, I knew I could write those papers, review for those exams, but somehow I didn't and I didn't know why. I blamed myself for being lazy. My chest felt heavier everyday. I would cry in bed and not sleep. I didn't cut myself so I could feel pain, I cut myself to escape it.

I struggled my way until the semester ended. I finished the first semester with two INCs, a 3.00 (1.00 is the highest, 5.00 is a failing mark) in Social Sciences (which is very ironic since I love social sciences and I've been reading about great thinkers even before I was allowed to), a 2.00 in PE (wtf), a 1.75 in Communications, and a 1.00 in Math. I aced Math. That's the biggest puzzle. I surrendered on everything else except Math.

Math made me feel better. It was different from all the other classes primarily because the professor was fair, progressive, and a nationalist. As a professor, he was an authority figure by title but he never made us feel inferior. He treated us as his equal. No symbolic violence could be felt in his presence. But my opinion of this professor and his class is related to how I felt at home in the forefront of the struggle for national democracy and is a different story entirely. I haven't realized all of these yet back then. I didn't know yet that it was these characteristics that motivated me to finish his class.

The next semester and summer classes was the same thing all over again. I could remember that I stopped thinking about my "worries" and, in a sense, was snapped back to reality during the PP 1017. I was already a nationalist, I just didn't know how to get involved.

The first semester of the next academic year I found out that I was given a Delinquent status. I wouldn't be allowed to enroll unless I finish my requirements for the INC subjects. I tried my best to. There was no other way. At this point I still cut myself whenever I felt extremely stressed.

I can't remember exactly when I stopped but I know why. I joined the fight for national democracy and I found a purpose. I realized why I must continue living. It was no longer just about me and my internal struggles. It was about the 99% (yes) and their everyday struggles. It was something bigger than finishing college. I dreamed of quitting school and working full-time as an activist. I felt down on some days but I "marched" on, there was no way but forward. Depression would kick in but there was always a better future to look forward to whether or not I realize it at that moment. I would talk to the "comrades" about it, and they would give me strength to keep on going.

But such things could only go on for so long for someone like me. I was consistently active for that year and inconsistently the next. The entire hullabaloo started again when I entered a relationship. My neglect of school dawned on me and I panicked. In addition, I found a new obsession in the form of my partner and everything that surrounded him. My mood disorder was triggered. I started cutting again. I didn't sleep. Some nights I would roam around, walking to nowhere. I drew a lot, which was something I wasn't fond of before. I became negligent of my duties in my academic org where I was holding a position. There was a standoff within the organization between the "reds" and the "non-reds". I took everything personally. I got depressed again. Then I was gone. I stopped school, took a job, and took a pause on being an activist.

I tried going back to school a year later. Went back to being active in the fight again. School lasted only half a semester this time, and being an activist a year. The last time I cut myself was the summer two years ago though I do not remember consciously doing it. Everything is a cycle I can't get out of and at the same time, a tangled web I had weaved.

Now, here I am, a misplaced former activist struggling with her own state of emergency. I'm sure I would have come out a lot worse if it weren't for all the things "the movement" taught me--Dialectical Materialism and Historical Materialism, objectiveness, contradictions, selflessness, and other things no meds or therapy could have given me. Though I might momentarily forget these things and sometimes even question them when I'm having a bad episode, they are already a part of my self, and I will always believe in them deep inside of me, and that's what helps me keep my head together. It's the little inaudible voice that stops me from going amok when I'm manic and prevents me from cutting again when I'm depressed.

I wish I could go back to being tibak, but I am not brave enough to give up the comforts I have now for something I might give up on again in a year or less. If I'm going to do it, I must do it with all of me. If I'm going back to school, I must make it to the finish line this time. 

For now, though, all I could do is help as much as I can in spreading national democracy as the sharpest line and do it the best way I know how--creatively.

Be your own advocate. Serve the people.

The Aftermath

Found these photos sometime ago in my old email.

April 4, 2006. VGA Camera, Nokia 6610.

Taking Control

What's it like to not have thoughts racing in your head? I cannot seem to remember.

I haven't taken any meds in more than 48 hours. I thought I would just quit. I thought I would stop going to the doctor, stop taking medication, and everything would just go back to normal. At least the normal for me. I would be back to being the unsuccessful undergrad who does everything and nothing alternately, she struggled everyday and hurt herself on some days but at least people loved her, or at least that's what she thought. Even so, I would give anything in the world for that.

Now I'm back to the void. I don't know where I stand in this world. I can't stand to be like this, I can't stand to be like that. If I'm going to keep avoiding each and every stressor, I wouldn't become anything.

Not taking meds have taken me back up, I guess. But I still feel empty. I want to do a lot of things. I want to get drunk, get wasted, and know what it feels to be alive, again.

I am tired of being a zombie, of being a victim of my own self, if there's any more "self" left in me to begin with.

I like this state, I like feeling. I like not dissecting my mood. It is just what it is and I make the most out of it. It is only then that I become a human being. Or I'm just overreacting. Nevertheless, not paying any attention to "it" would mean that there isn't going to be any way for me to make it an excuse. From hereon out, I will no longer tell anyone else, unless absolutely necessary.

Because my doctor was right. It might not be just the mood that has caused the recent events, it might have been largely me. My decision-making and my fucked-up personality. I may or may not have thought of "this" as an excuse to do what I felt like doing. Nevertheless, that's not going to happen again. Whatever happens from this day forward is just me, no mood disorder involved. I will take accountability for everything. I am no longer in treatment. I am taking control.

Burning Bridges

Yesterday, when I went to my pdoc I expected to tell her a very long anecdote on all the events she missed since I last took a visit. But of course I was only able to tell not even a fourth of a story. I told her the gist, the titles of each chapter, the lines out of context. She gave me a speech about how I should get more control, make healthier choices, and get a better lifestyle. She emphasized on taking care of my relationships with others, I shouldn't act on something just because I had the impulse to. She said that "this" is not an excuse and I should check if maybe there are also "personality factors" involved. That I wouldn't want to burn bridges with people close to me and have no one in the future.

I was pissed off at first. If there's anything I have always been scared of was "this" would become an excuse. I'd like to think I'm afraid of that more than anybody. And I have always wanted to think that I've been doing great despite "this". Maybe not so great, but hey, the last few weeks have been some of the worst weeks of my life and I'm still here. I still have a job, I'm not "living the summer", I haven't had sex with a stranger.

Truth is, I know what she means. I may still be here but my relationship with other people have been crumbling. Maybe it is more about being tactless, proud, and selfish than having bipolar disorder. Maybe I am the problem. Maybe it is time for an attitude check. Maybe I am really not capable of human relationships because I'm impossible, unlovable, and self-righteous. I am never satisfied and always disappointed with other people.

Even I would want to burn the bridge between myself.

Last Nite

What's the point of living when you are not even allowed to be yourself?

The things that these meds do to us. We eventually lose our "self" while it is replaced by something that everybody thinks is "better" because it fits what is "normal".

I'll write more about this later. Right now, I'm too tired.

Crashing

I am tired of mania. I've been like this for almost two weeks. I actually thought that I was having a pretty normal mood today until my father and I had a big fight because of my stupid mouth. I couldn't control my temper, I was shaking and was about to cry when we were only debating about politics.

Now I am just disappointed with myself. Fuck this. Nothing's going right lately. I am hopeless.

Admission

For the first time, I told someone today that I nearly got myself killed (techinically, tried to kill myself) last Thursday. I don't think I should have told her. I do trust her, but I don't think she understands. I know I should accept that not everyone would understand and that sometimes they would say the wrong things, but sometimes I just don't like hearing the wrong things.

I will just have to remind myself that they only mean well and if I feel that they don't understand, I should properly inform them about BD and what it's like to have it.

Well, good luck.

Do You Know?

Boring people bore me. Now's the best time to go to an amusement park. SOMEBODY!

A Follow-Up on Iron Man 3: Not a Review

I have written about what I think and, more importantly, how I feel about Iron Man 3. But what I realized, a short moment after I published the post was it wasn't so much as Guy Pearce's character, Aldrich Killian, that gave the film its flaws. It was, on the bigger picture, the tug-of-war between the Shane Black storytelling and the Marvel formula. The supervillain is the most obvious, but not the only, victim of this ambiguity. Shane Black is a brilliant director but he had to make Ironman 3 within the confines of the superhero genre, particularly Marvel. So the film feels a little bit confused and arbitrary in this regard. It's a beautiful psycho-realistic film one moment and then a cliched superhero movie the next. Personally, I would have preferred Shane Black to have had taken full control of the steering wheel.

Nevertheless, Iron Man 3 is still both a gem to behold in today's film industry and one of the best rollercoaster rides I've ever been on. An example of what entertainment should be, fun but not brainless. Other moviemakers should learn from it.

Throw-up Thursday Part 2

(The Bad Parts)

She couldn't take it anymore. "Punch me!," he said. She punched him. "Good! Hit me! Hit me more!" Confused, angry, and frustrated, she hit him. She punched him, again and again. Exhausted, she stopped. He shouted at her, hurt her with his words, provoked her. She begged him to stop, sobbing and shouting. She couldn't take it anymore. It went on  for a while, him shouting, her punching him, kicking him to the ground, hitting the wall, shouting and crying. She felt angry, hurt, helpless. She was in so much pain inside but there was nothing she could do but cry and yell and hope that something would make it all stop. Then she heard something coming. She knew what she wanted. She ran straight and fast toward the source of the sound. He ran after her. She saw the headlights turning the corner, she ran faster. He caught up and pulled her away right before she collided with the truck. She cried again.

Shaking

I hate my ex. I hate him from the core of his heart up to the tips of his hair. But I still hang out with him. We still sleep together, do things together, and can't spend a day without seeing each other.

I want to quit. But, there's the quintessential question--how?
I am tired of getting hurt over and over again. And I am tired of being pushed to the brink of both mania and depression.
He loves my friends. I hate his friends.
He adores my family. I abhor his family.
He's not good for me and I'm not good for him.

I wish for the will to stay away from him. So be it.

Throw-up Thursday Part 1

The Good Parts

On Thursday, I was supposed to see my doctor. But I didn't have money so I had our appointment postponed. Welcome to the Third World.

In the evening, I met with my bestfriend because she was leaving for Europe the next day. I missed her so much and I regret not making the effort to see her the past weeks. But I had also been a big mess, so there's that.

I dragged C to a gig in the South where an old friend was playing. It was a good night, nothing eventful, just good company and a chill ambiance, except for one funny moment.

Earlier in the evening, my bestfriend was teasing me on how I reminded her of Zooey Deschanel (particularly her character in the New Girl) and it escapes her understanding why I do not like the actress. Jesse and I are both socially awkward and a total klutz, she says. I couldn't think of anything to snap back at her at the time except to tell her that again, I do not like Zooey Deschanel.

Later that night, at the gig, I was trying to be poised and all. It is also worth noting that I was wearing a dress. But because this is me, I can only try, and try in vain. I still walked, sat, talked, and moved definitely not like a lady by society's definition.

At one point, when C and I decided to go to the bar to get a beer, I passed by this guy friend of mine (a puppy love who I haven't seen in 10 years), he was deep in conversation with someone. I tried to catch his attention, very slyly. I gave him a quick pat on the arm when I passed by him, which I thought was very cool of me. He gave me a nod and a "Hey." then went back talking to his friend. I was suave, I thought. Then I fell. I didn't notice the step in front of me. I fell and yelled "Fucker!" I was back on my feet when he turned around. He was like, "What happened?" The friend he was having a conversation with answered, "She fell." I smiled quite awkwardly and walked towards the bar. I waited for C very anxiously but he never came, so I had to go back to the table and ask him what's taking him so long. Then I walked towards the bar again, passing by them again.

Things like this only happen to me.

---

Throw-up Thursday Part 2, The Bad Parts soon.

I want to die again and again a hundred times over.

Straight and Fast

Dear World,

I nearly got myself killed today.

It was a long day.

There was an attempt to get an ID.
I dyed my hair burgundy.
I went to a gig in a faraway place.
We fought on the way home.
Then it happened.

How could I have even done such a thing?

Only one answer: straight and fast.

Love,
Me

Damn.

But no matter how hard I try to do the self-pity thing, fact remains my libido is still way up there. Must. Take. Control. Until. Mania. Ends.

BTW,

I've been hanging out with my ex again and yes, we have sex. I feel guilty because I know that this is going to lead us both nowhere. I just don't want to think about it right now. Because, again, I feel like I can handle anything. Which next week's depressive episode will probably prove me otherwise.

Oh, well. At least for now, hakuna matata.

View Blog

I've been manic lately (obviously, if you follow my posts). My self-confidence was at its peak, sex drive was bursting out of the thermometer, and superhero and superego tendencies were worse than it ever was.

Just now, I took a moment to look at myself at the mirror. I'm very average-looking, I'm too thin, I have chicken legs, knobby knees, no hips,and a non-existent ass, and I've got a horrible smile because of my braces.

Now I think,
What a horrible point of view to have while being manic.

Running in my head

i grabbed the knife and shoved it down
the throat of the little thing
i spliced its chest and pulled the heart
out of the lifeless piece of meat

really frustrated and mad. i don't even want to take my meds today. i want to allow myself to drop everything and do stupid things.

Tony Stark Triggered My Mania: Not a Review

I watched Ironman 3 today. I usually check Rotten Tomatoes after seeing a film. Not this time though.

Yes, I'm taking Ironman 3 personally. Yes, I find the feelings of the movie more compelling than the nitty-gritty stuff other people would probably be raving about. I'm not doing that, because with Ironman films, it's a given: they're all good--great, actually--technically and story-wise. Perfect action scene choreography, stunning visual effects, witty dialogues, and so on and so forth.

It goes without saying that Ironman 3 was better than its predecessors in a lot of ways. As expected, it was darker and more mature. Usually, this works. In this case, it worked perfectly. It was no longer a brainlessly entertaining, technically superb action movie. This one's a work of art. It was more grounded in reality vis-a-vis its superhero-movie counterparts. It had an attempt to be socially critical. I'm not sure if that was intentional or if it was just to make a good plot. (With Hollywood films, you never know--with "Hollywood" being the operative word. Case in point, The Hunger Games.) Nevertheless, it did the movie and the entire humanity a favor.

The film started out establishing Tony Stark's weaknesses. That he was after all, like all of us, human. It wasn't like in the first two installments where his character was designed to purposely invite idolatry (like all superheroes) in spite and including his decadence and other negative virtues. In this film, Tony Stark's character and emotions were vulnerably exposed in a very precise and brilliant storytelling (straightforward but not overly dramatic, unlike the the portrayal of Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Clark Kent--you get the idea.) Notable was his battle with trauma and anxiety over what happened in New York. Most of us have had to deal with something like this, and like all of us, he was scared to deal with it and the stigma that comes with it. We are, after all, including the great Tony Stark, subjective beings. The movie was filled with scenes and layers reflective of this and although they were not hard to miss, they were very subtle, tightly told, and never excessive.

Having said that, the main protagonist in this movie was Tony Stark, not Ironman.

Now, the problem, in so many ways--Aldrich Killian. We all get the character. He's both stereotypical and not. We've seen him before. Only this time, there's that political spin. He was the good-guy-gone-bad type of villain, except he happened to take advantage of the current global issues with "terrorism". In real life though, it's not the regular guy. It's the people who are actually seated in power who commit these types of crimes. It was a good spin to the story, that much I can say. Anonymity and the power it gives to a person is a very timely concept to tackle. His character could have been more established though. Really, a fan who had his heart broken by his "idol" who stood him up? That just sounds like Syndrome in The Incredibles. Killian was just so typical that the portrayal of Guy Pearce was so bland his were the only boring scenes of the movie. Because we all knew what he was going to say, we could predict what he was going to do. He was the only one who made an attempt to explain why he's doing the things he's doing. Duh. Fine, he was smart, but not cunning. He lacks the charm of a villain. He's not even that much hate-able, he was just there, a villain performing his villainous duties. This exactly is his human factor, though told poorly.

Pepper Potts was something else though. First off, you must know how much I have always hated the character of Mary Jane. She's the pretty girl the awkward boy bagged because he was nice. Her only role was too be sad, complain about her life, and be rescued. We all know the damsel in distress trope runs rampant and can be found in almost every superhero story. Then there's the shallow Black Widow portrayal of Scarlett Johannson whose sole purpose was too be a beautiful foreign girl who kicks ass. On the other hand, there's the hero's female servant who was just there to provide support and sometimes information and words of wisdom (e.g. Moira MacTaggert in X-Men: First Class). And in comes Pepper Potts, a strong, powerful, and confident female character, with all her charm and brains.She stands her ground and has never regarded Tony Stark as her hero. In this movie, she herself was a hero. A very humble, grounded, and humane hero.

What hits hard in the story is the relationship of Tony Stark and Pepper Potts. It was too real that we never expected something like it to be found in a superhero movie. We usually see these kinds of romantic relationship and emotional struggles in films that are actually dedicated to romantic relationships and emotional struggles. I don't want to spoil the ending but it was so epic (yes, I'm using the word epic) I cried.

After everything, I cannot classify Ironman as a superhero movie anymore. Sure it was, if you want to be technical. But it was also much more than that. It was even much more than most films we've seen lately.

---

EDIT: A follow-up here.

Tony Stark Triggered My Mania

I'm being manic again so I asked C for a valium.

Okay, I started typing this about an hour ago. Now I'm too "sabaw" to even type.

That was a fast depressive episode.

I'm back up again. This is not good. Fuckity fucky fuck.