and here I sit on a Friday night, almost seven o clock, blissfully aware that I have little to no intimate relations. Not for lack of trying, I promise. I have attempted friendships here and there over the years, they’ve all gone positively normally but for some reason they evaporate. No big blow out, no disagreement, people just stop thinking about me all together. It’s one of the reason’s why I sometimes question if I even exist. If I’m really and truly here, then why is it I’m alone in my room with a bottle of wine and an aching heart.
I’ve all but convinced myself I like it better this way, it makes it easier when no one calls. “I’d get too anxious if I went out anyway” “Being alone gives me more time to work on my writing”. The excuses sound funny after drilling them into my head so many times. It’s better this way, isn’t it?
I’m not alone though, the bottle is my friend. I don’t really allow myself to be truly alone, completely sober and alone with my thoughts. I just can’t handle them. I don’t think I could ever describe to someone how it truly feels to have borderline personality disorder. I often equate it to if you had no skin to protect your precious organs. I have no skin to protect me. So here I am, with a glass of wine in my hand, trying to drown out every emotion.