Sometimes I Get Stuck

I know it’s been a long time. It’s always been a long time.

As usual there is a lot to update on.

But I don’t feel like it.

Not today.

Normally I try to make this blog encouraging, educational and humorous, but sometimes I just need to be real about my mental state and honestly I’m not in a good place right now.

Someone once told me “Depression is living in the past, Anxiety is living in the future and the only place you’ll find happiness is being in the present moment.” Super sound advice and when I’m in a better place I can apply it, but not right now. Right now I am very, very, VERY stuck in the past and I can’t bring my head back to exist with me in October 2019.

Right now I’m stuck in October 2010, when I broke up with my first boyfriend. I can’t say I’m regretting that move in a logical sense. My future would have been incredibly limited and much harder if I had stayed with him. I’ve had such exponential wonderful experiences and happiness following that painful decision. But I’m stuck, and I can only think of how much I miss this memory of a person, because the reality is this ex-boyfriend is a stranger to me now, almost 10 years later, and probably doesn’t care to ever hear from me again. 

(His face is blocked for his own privacy, not because I don’t like him. Anyone who’s known me for longer than 10 years knows exactly who this is. I have fond memories of this day.. it was a fun photo shoot for a 17 year old)

Breakups are one of those things that always seem somewhat one sided. But that’s not the case. Having been the person who ended every relationship I was in, I never ended them for emotional reasons, and every single one was incredibly painful. All the guys I dated were wonderful, good, sweet guys. No matter how much I loved them, it was always a logical decision of realizing that I was empty and suffocating emotionally and I needed out. It was never an equal match intellectually, emotionally or spiritually. If love was all you needed, like The Beatles seem to think, then I would still be in the same relationship I got into when I was 17 and life would be just peachy. 

But since I’m the one that tapped out, I have to take the blame for being the heartbreaker, the one that suffered less, the dream ruiner. 

But that’s not how it works. I never wanted to hurt any of these people. I would have given my almost anything to take the pain away from them, because it’s almost unbearable for someone like me, an empath, to see someone suffer. It’s even worse when you realize that you’re the one who caused it. However, It’s not right or fair choke your soul for the sake of love. It’s also not right to continue to take the blame for these heartbreaks if people have been unable to move on.

(Drawing I made shortly after I broke up with my first boyfriend in 2010)

Part of depression is getting fixated on points in your life that are painful. And reliving them over and over and over again. Which obviously makes the depression worse. 

My husband, Daniel, has been a friggin saint this last week. Even though I’ve been crying over my ex, sobbing about how much I miss this memory of a relationship, he has been incredibly understanding. He’s been giving me a lot of hugs and explaining “It’s like you’re going through the break up again and that’s ok. We’ll watch corny movies and eat ice cream and chocolate and whatever else other girls do to get over an ex.” 

He understands that this is part of my depression, and he committed 7 and a half years ago to ride through it all with me. This is why he is my forever human and nobody else. He knows I feel uncomfortable talking about this recent fixation with anyone else, because I am well aware it’s ridiculous. He’s stepped up to being a best friend and emotional bodyguard. He’s not angry with me for getting stuck like this, he just knows it’s part of the deal sometimes.

Last night he cooked me chicken and homemade mashed potatoes for dinner with caramel chocolate ice cream for dessert. He made enough to have leftovers because he knows when I’m depressed I have a hard time feeding myself. He let me continually keep asking “Is somebody dying?” every 30 seconds while I was listening to the audio of IT CHAPTER 2 and didn’t get frustrated about me interrupting his movie. He’s been texting me silly pictures and messages all day and checking up on me, but not to an obnoxious degree. He helped me come up with a crisis plan in case I find the knives he hid to protect me. More than anything he’s just there and doing everything I need the most right now. 

I know not everyone has a “Daniel” to look after them when they get into a rough place, but no matter how alone you feel, a “Daniel” is out there for you too. It may be your mom, best friend or therapist. But a support network is everything. If you’re stuck and have nobody, reach out to your NAMI or other mental health alliance organization to get you connected to a support group. It may feel stupid or pointless but it really can be a life saver.

What an Episode Feels Like

Most people are curious and want know more about mental health and generally things unknown. So usually after someone gets to know me and my diagnosis, I typically get asked what it’s like to live with bipolar disorder.

One of the token markers of mental illness is having symptoms or behaviors lasting for a significant period of time that severely disrupt daily living. Dealing with an unresolved mental illness is literally the most excruciatingly uncomfortable experience imaginable. It’s not just uncomfortable mentally, but also physically. I would not wish it on my even the most hated person in my life. So for those who are curious, this is what my episodes are like. Keep in mind that I can experience any combination of these at a given time. An individual’s experience with mental illness will vary from person to person so what I deal with may not be the same as somebody else. Also, a number of factors can contribute to these symptoms occurring such as drug abuse, hormone imbalance and other medical issues. Episodes can be caused without reason or triggered by totally normal life events and stresses. This is not diagnostic material. If you are feeling concerned, please seek professional medical advice.

Typically it starts out with overcommitting to a lot of things, lofty ideas and a desire to save the world through unreasonable humanitarian efforts. I also get restless and want to travel and accomplish greatness for the good of humanity. It quickly spirals out of control. I feel confined and trapped indoors and have a great need to exercise, especially at inappropriate times. I fidget and pace and rock and talk to myself. Anything to bring me comfort. My thoughts are red-hot, racing and unstoppable. I often will scribble nonsense in notebooks when trying to bring some peace into my mind. I sleep little or stop sleeping altogether. I feel like I can’t turn my brain off. I turn into the energizer bunny and work and work and work and never stop.

I most often experience this type of mania. It’s the combination of both mania and depression. I get angry. Not just angry, but a boiling hot ferocious hatred that comes up from the deepest pit of my stomach. Everything is irritating. I’m furious and impulsive. I often “temper tantrum” and can wind up breaking things or causing serious property damage. I scream and rant. I hate everything including myself. I just don’t give a flying #*$%. This burning anger causes me to violently self harm to get my aggression out . (I never want to hurt other people… only myself) I am a flaming steam roller with no breaks and nothing can stop my fury except taking an ice cold shower and taking a PRN (chill pill). I actively seek out and plan my suicide. This is different than depression suicidal ideation because in this case I actually have the impulsivity and the energy to go through with it. This the most dangerous state for me to be in and spending extended periods of time in this place is often what leads to my hospitalization.

Imagine the feeling you get when you walk at night in a bad part of town and then hear some gunshots a few blocks over. It’s like this all the time.

With paranoia, I always have the feeling that someone is following me, cataloging your every move and action to put toward the purpose of harming me or those I love. Everyone’s a suspect. I can trust no-one. Every conspiracy theory becomes a terrifying reality. I believe the government is lying, spying, drilling holes in my walls and installing cameras.

With anxiety, I never feel like I can catch my breath. I constantly sigh because I don’t feel like I’m getting enough oxygen. I chest hurts and I feel sick to my stomach. I usually cry. Even the smallest of tasks are monstrously overwhelming. I often feel like the end of the world is just days away and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I sleep and back out of commitments to escape responsibility and then beat myself up for it. I avoid being social because I feel inadequate and like everyone is judging me.

It’s horrible. I believe that I see demons, ghosts and monsters and they hurt me. They crawl inside of me and cause medical problems. Even when I close my eyes there is this horrible hissing and cackling and sometimes repetitive terrifying phrases being chanted. I can feel them breathing on me. There is something evil lurking in every shadow and around every corner. Shadows stretch and move and turn into terrible beings. I’m convinced my house is haunted and there’s no safe place for me to be. One of the worst hallucinations I’ve had more recently was when I was still living with my parents and I walked past the stairs and when I turned to look there was this sickly pale, almost translucent and slimy humanoid being with 6 skeletal legs and claws on long boney fingers bent over backwards in a crab-walk position. It’s head snapped backwards and there were no eyes, just a large gaping mouth and it scrambled up the stairs after me. I ran and screamed and hugged my mom and cried. I’m not even going to bother trying to draw it because it was too horrible.

Everything is grey. Like, colors are actually not as bright. I fluctuate back and forth between sobbing uncontrollably and feeling numb and apathetic to everything. I feel no joy. I don’t want to do anything, even the things I love like painting. Everything feels pointless and bland. I feel useless, stupid, soggy and just bone tired. There is so much inner negative self talk. I doubt myself with everything, and making decisions takes forever, even something as simple as picking out pillowcases. My life is meaningless and all my success and accomplishments mean nothing. I sleep all the time (16 to 20 hours a day.) I constantly passively contemplate death and suicide but feel too tired and unmotivated to do anything about it. I wish I would get hit by a car or I’d get caught in gang crossfire and die. I stop taking care of myself altogether. I eat super unhealthy, don’t exercise, don’t shower or brush my hair for days at a time and I don’t leave the house. I ignore phone calls and refuse to see anyone other than my husband and my parents.

There is nothing quite as sweet. I am joyful, productive, creative and motivated. I feel intelligent, beautiful and worthy of all the good in life. I love doing things like painting, baking, blogging and swimming. I take care of myself, my husband and my wonderful cats. I hang out with friends and go on all kinds of ridiculous adventures (Carly-ventures I like to call them. We did a day trip out to the forsaken hell-pit that is the Salton Sea, went feta cheese tasting at a Middle Eastern market in La Mesa and ate vegan ramen and conquered two big museums in Los Angeles.) I take care of my business and plan for the future. I still have mini ups and downs but nothing out of the “normal” range. Generally, life is good and even when it’s not.. It’s still not all that bad.

Yes I have been dealing with all this officially for 5 years now, but actually it’s been longer. It’s made me tough, resilient and strong. There are many days when I wish I could just be “normal” all the time but in a way, I’m glad this is my cross to bear. It’s given me a deeper understanding of myself and others that struggle. I’ve been able to love on those that society won’t touch because I’ve been there too. Most importantly, (because I am educated, articulate and loved) I am the exception that allows me to crack the negative stigma that a lot of people hold about mental illness.. And that, my friends, is one of the things I desire most in life.

Catching Up

Hello World. I realize I’ve been on a 2.5 year hiatus. I’ve tried to start several blog posts over this period but either got distracted, unmotivated or just bowled over by the sheer lovely insanity that is life. Due to all these factors, my blogging did not just get put on the back burner.. It got shoved into the smoldering ashes of someone’s outdoor fire pit 3 miles away.

But now I’m back.. and a lot has happened.

I got back surgery to correct my herniated discs.

I traveled to Guatemala to study Mayan culture, art and architecture.

(and discovered my love for cheap Honduran baleadas)

I graduated from UCSD with HONORS taking away a degree in Socio-Cultural Anthropology.

I got married to the most incredible guy in the world, who has literally been with me since before the beginning of everything.

I traveled to Kauai on my honeymoon AND GOT TO PET GOATS!!!

Started my own business creating custom stationery cards and paintings.

I went through a series of trials shortly after getting married (re-herniated the discs in my back, had to get my license reinstated after not having realized that it had been suspended for 3 YEARS, literally getting a cold every other week).

I adopted a mama alley cat and her one surviving kitten and, other than my husband, they make my life purely amazing.

Went through one of the worst episodes I’ve had since my onset, wound up in the hospital again (mania, paranoia, psychosis, depression, anxiety, YOU NAME IT I HAD IT), did 3 months of intensive outpatient therapy and passively pondered the meaninglessness of my bland existence for about 4 months.

Did an overhaul on my meds.

And literally, over night (along with some exercise and healthy eating) I popped out of my dense fog and started to productively enjoy life again.

Since then, I have been getting out into the community several times a week to sell my cards at local farmers markets in San Diego. This is the absolute best thing I’ve done for my mental health since the start of this whole messy process and the cool thing is I’m healthy enough to do it without totally overwhelming myself.

So that’s about it. As always, there have been ups and downs and a lot of inconsistencies but there have been some unshakable glories and a lot of mighty lessons learned. So here’s to hoping the next time you hear from me will be sooner than 3 years from now.

The Goff Family Tamale Tradition

Once a year around Christmas, my dad’s side of the family gets together to have a tamalada. It’s an all day event where we team up to pump out anywhere between 150 to 300 tamales. Basically enough to feed a small village. It’s difficult for me to describe exactly what a tamale is but it’s kind of like a steamed, dense cornmeal thing stuffed with goodies. Here’s some pictures of what they look like.

You don’t eat the corn husk on the outside though. That’d be super nasty.

We’ve been doing this for over 20 years now.. but some things never change.

As chaotic as things may seem from the outside, this is an extremely structured operation and anyone who wishes to be involved must adhere to our very strict tamalada etiquette.

At the start of the day, my mom bustles around the house cleaning things. She will enslave anyone within her line of sight to help with this ritualistic cleansing. At this time we also prep all the ingredients to go inside the tamales.

This is what we put in our tamales:

These ingredients must go on in a specific order, otherwise the tamale magic is made null and everything is ruined.

The order goes- hoja (the cornhusk) masa (mushy corn dough stuff) shredded chicken in sauce, potatoes, onions, olives, raisins, hot peppers and more sauce.

As well as this specific order of creation, each ingredient and the person that commands it has a different social ranking in the operation. Making the masa is the highest position. My grandmother and aunt do this part and are revered as goddesses.

Placing the raisins is the lowest ranking position. Getting demoted to this position is the worst possible insult.

Tying the hoja after the tamale has been stuffed is the last and trickiest job. Because the ties are also cornhusks, they can break very easily so things can get frustrating. Also, if the tamale is stuffed too full sometimes “corrective surgery” needs to be done. My mom does this as well as anyone who is new to the tamalada. It’s an initiation rite.

So here are the social rules of a tamalada:

1) Stake your claim on your station as quickly and violently as possible. You don’t want to get stuck with the raisins.

2) Snack on whatever your ingredient is. Don’t do it too much though otherwise you’ll never be allowed near it again

ex: me with the olives

3) Constantly criticize others on the quality of their operation. Do this loudly.

4) Choose conversation topics that would make other more proper folks cringe in discomfort

ex: relaying in graphic detail the experience of your last colonoscopy

5) Just be generally awkward ex: my dad and uncle trying their hand at twerking

6) Never stop talking. There should only be a moment of silence if the pressure cooker explodes,

blows up the kitchen and people are uncertain of what to do.

This year we had four newbies: My uncle (Jim), my aunt’s “man friend” (Rodger), my sister’s boyfriend (CJ) and my fiancée (Daniel).

All these folks did an exceptional job and thus I shall award them with their ceremonial tamalada names.

“Big Jim Onion-Man”: for an exemplary job at the artful placement of onions

“Rodger Three-Hands”: for the masterful skill he displayed in managing 3 separate ingredients when

some people abandoned their posts

“CJ-dem-peppers-doe”: for dealing with the hot peppers, from the can to the tamale to the table

“Daniel-san the finisher”: for sticking through the full initiation of tying tamales without whining.. too much 😛

Congratulations everyone on another spectacular tamalada year! Eat up.

The Last Year

Holy cheeseballs it’s been a while since I posted about my adventures. Actually.. it’s been over a year.

So here’s a quick update:

 Two herniated discs in my back from a previous injury flared up so adios to exercise.

I completed my first year at a university with quite the stellar GPA.

 

I clawed my way through a particularly nasty manic episode after my meds got switched.

I miraculously leveled out and went to Spain with my grandparents, parents and boyfriend.

 

Daniel and I threw our first Halloween party. It was epic.

 

Except we learned that you can’t mix dry ice and alcohol together. Your drink turns all sludgy.

 

My boyfriend became my fiancée.

 

The Real Deal!

And now I’m planning a wedding!

 

But, in the kingdom if Bipolar disorder, there is always the risk of losing a battle.

For the first time in a long time I’m struggling with depression.

 

So it’s back to the same old routine:

refuse to get out of bed, finally get out of bed to lie face down on the floor,

move from the floor to the sofa, crawl back to the bed and sleep for 16 hours.

 

Plus there’s that crushing anxiety about going out and interacting with people.

Cuz, you know, I might start crying at any moment.

 

But I just keep on keeping on even if I’m moving at a snail’s pace.

Cuz I know it’ll get better eventually. Plus I have so much to live for.

Yo quiero mi Papa :)

I know personal sappy stuff doesn’t go over well in the blogging world but the thing is, I’m a broke college student. And as a broke college student you have to get creative when it get close to a birthday. So I’ll try to make this enjoyable for both you, my reader, and my dad. Cuz it’s his birthday!

 

If you don’t like it, I don’t care cuz this is really for my dad 🙂

REASONS WHY MY DADDY IS AWESOME

1) He shoots down large spiders with a bb gun

 

2) He and a neighbor dude also shoot at other critters with bb guns, and hide when they think they’re gonna get caught

 

3) He calls drug dealers “merchants of death”

 

4) He speaks decent Spanish (better than me)

5) As a kid, he was reluctant about me listening to N*Sync but had no problem with me listening to Maná cuz it was in Spanish. Just for reference, this band has uplifiting songs about:

~Being controlled by a manipulative girlfriend (like a mad dog)

~Indigenous persecution in Latin America

~Sitting in a corner being depressed (and depression in general)

~Broken heartedness

~Getting knocked up by your boyfriend but he doesn’t wanna take responsibility and you’re family will disown you if they find out so you’re trying to decide if suicide is better than abortion

Yep. Listened to that when I was 5.

6) He also let me listen to classic rock. My mom eventually questioned it when I was dancing around the house singing Mississippi Queen. Apparently it’s about a stripper. Again, I was about 6.

7) Before the age of cell phones, whenever he forgot me at swim practice, he’d always make up for it by buying me an ice cream. Made me wish he forgot me more often.

8) He will have fully coherent-ish conversations in his sleep sometimes. My favorite was when I was asking him how to write a haiku he responded with “No honey, Dr. Seuss is dead.”

9) He constantly helped me cram for Spanish and History exams in high school, even if it was at 2 in the morning and he was mostly asleep.

10) Even though he is terrified of heights, he would still do a 70ft rappel and full ropes course just because I was running it.

11) When feeling extremely hyper, he’d take me up to the park by our house so I could run around and chase rabbits and small children with light up scooters.

12) In the past year when I would have an anxiety attack at school, he would come pick me up, no questions asked, and take me out to do something fun. After my third hospitalization, he took a whole month off of work to look after me. Pretty much every day was a “fun day” during that month and while sometimes I wanted to kill him for making me get out of bed, his success rate for getting me out of the house was 100%.

13) Since I’ve joined weight watchers with him to get rid of my Seroquel fat, every time I lose weight he buys me a comic.

14) And last but not least, approximately 22.333 years ago my Mom and Dad’s cooties got mixed up in a Petri dish and WHAMO! I was created (my twin brother too!)

So here’s to you, Dad. God couldn’t have possibly picked a better parent for me. Besos muchos .

❤ Your Little Monkey

PS: Today also marks one year of being hospital-free : )

Spider Season

So I’m not sure what’s going on, or why this is happening.. but there’s no denying it. It’s spider season.

 At first I thought this was just a local event. Weird stuff happens on any college campus. So when I started seeing these freakishly large, radioactive colored spiders hanging of basically every bush and tree, my gut reaction was that it was a bio-chem experiment gone wonky. Like, Spiderman type status. After all, I do live at UCSD. We are known for our science programs.

 

But much to my horror, this was not a localized invasion. I went home for the weekend to catch up with my parents. I was sitting at the kitchen table watching my dad doing some gardening outside when I saw it. The LONGEST single thread of spider web I’d ever seen. It stretched at least 50ft, from the top of the tallest tree in the back yard to our patio table.

 

I pointed this out to my dad, and he seemed just as shocked as me. Upon further questioning, I found out my dad had been seeing the same mutant spiders as me, scaling the trees and making webs in the windows. He had taken to shooting them down with a BB gun.

 

Yes. They’re that big.

 

So I did some research. I discovered that the spiders I was seeing were either orb-weaver spiders or garden spiders. Both are terrifying and gross. I also decided that I hate looking at pictures of spiders on the Internet.

 

Orb-weavers look like this.

 

Garden spiders look like this.

 

To me they both look like this.

 

I could never understand why Satan picked a snake to be his representation. I think spiders are much more satanic. At least snakes have 2 eyes.

 

As a result of all this curiosity provoked spider research, I have developed an intense paranoia of walking under or near any vegetation. I will cower into any passing stranger if I have to do so.

 

Strength in numbers right?

 

On the upside, all these creepy critters are right on time for Halloween. Who needs decorations when you have the real thing staring at you with 8 beady eyes through your bedroom window?

 

On the up UP side, it will be winter soon and the cold will kill off all the spiders. I hope.

 

If it doesn’t, I will start using my pepper spray for purposes other than defending myself against creepy, aggressive men.

 

They won’t even know what hit them.

The College Life..

Well, I’m one week in to this crazy life at a “Big Kid College” and while I’ve had more than a fair share of meltdowns over the parking situation..

everything seems to be running rather smoothly.

 

Except my bike. It seems to have a vendetta out to kill me. It’s probably partially my fault too that I didn’t take time to train, feed and love the cursed thing before I left.

 

Compare this with one of my roommates, Autumn. She is, like, the bike whisperer. Granted, she did work at a bike shop up in Stockton. Still, I can’t help but feel a little jealous that her bike seems overjoyed to be used while mine just seems pissed and spiteful.

 

A Moment of Reflection..

I was packing up some artwork to take with me to put up in my dorm room when I stumbled across an older sketchbook. In it, I found this image.

This is where I was one year ago. Its taken me that long to be able to look at some of the things I drew in that sketchbook and accept them as part of my reality.

As I mentioned in earlier, when all this $#!* started going down and I had no idea what or why this whole mental illness thing was happening, I thought a demon had crawled inside my stomach. That’s the best explanation I could come up with. Still somedays I struggle with this delusion, as my therapist calls it.

This obviously uprooted my “solidly founded” Christian faith and I’ve spent the year fighting with, hating and ignoring God and the church as a whole. The church especially.

I guess I’m writing this as a kind of memorial for the past year. It sucked. It was a trip to hell and back. I never want to do it again. But, I also don’t ever want to forget it.

My name, Gabriela, had a lot of different meaning translations. The most common being God is my Strength. Honestly, looking back on this year, where I felt the most distant from him, he never stopped providing me with that extra shove to keep me going. Even through the suicide of a close friend, the death of a best friend’s brother, my three suicide attempts, subsequent hospitalizations, dozens of medication switches and my poppi finally kicking the bucket after 22 years of battling cancer, my God was still with me.

One of the other meanings of my name is Heroine of God. Feels like a lot to live up to when you can barely make it five minutes without wanting to cause some serious property damage. But, I have hope. I didn’t used to be this way so just maybe, given some time, I can overcome this. Or maybe just learn to live and thrive in spite of it. That seems like a pretty heroic feat in and of itself to me. I’d like to think God has more.. awesomely things for me to accomplish but if this is it, I’m ok with that.

I’m Not Perfect

I’m feeling extremely off tonight.

Usually, I try to refrain from posting when I get like this because there’s enough craziness in this world as it is and I don’t feel like I need to heap mine on top of it. I don’t like that kind of attention.

But, I’m making an exception because I want you to know the truth.

I’m not perfect.

So here’s what’s going on. I think they refer to this as a mixed episode. All this is going on in my brain and body… so from the outside I look totally normal. Sort of.