In my feverish attempts to lose weight I’ve picked up running and with this comes the responsibility of buying running sneakers. As I pulled up to the store I knew that she would be in there, and I half hoped that she would and the other half hoped she wouldn’t. As with anything, one half won, and there she was standing outside with a cigarette. We said our pleasantries. I asked how other acquaintances were, how she had been, but we never said her name. Neither of us acknowledged that our relationship was based purely on our mutual best friend who is dead now. We just pretended and I walked on.
Inside I knew the string that connected me to her was always going to be Megan, it would always be something we didn’t want to talk about. I mentioned another friend, she said they hardly talked. I never knew two people closer before. I always knew she was the glue that held every person she knew together, but I guess I’d never thought I’d see the aftermath of that glue dissolving. Sometimes it scares me when I feel like she was never real. I haven’t heard her laugh in so long, held her hand or poured her a drink. It feels like she never existed sometimes and that hurts me. I have to dig deep into my head to hear her voice reverberate off my skull. It’s the only place I’ll ever know it again. Her face is all but gone from my memory, I hungrily stare at the pictures I keep pinned to my door trying to hold it in my brain. It drips through my recall like water through my fingers.
It’s April 15th and on a manic whim I’ve decided to sign up for the blogging challenge on the daily press. I’ve got tons of energy and creativity and it’s about time I focused it in. Also, it’s a lot easier than running which I have also started doing for no good reason at all. I’d rather my brain ache then my thighs. So, the first challenge is to write down three goals for my blog..hold on..wait..I think there’s still some sangria in the fridge..No it’s gone.
Anyway, When I started this blog I had absolutely no intention that anyone would bother to read it, but I’ve since been proven wrong. I began with a hope that I could reach a few people, make a couple nice friendships and at least enlighten one person what it’s like to live every day with mental illness. Since then I’ve become a little hungrier and have more aspirations for this tiny blog. I’d like to grow this blog into a full blown website of my experience with mental illness, my advice for fellow sufferers and their families, and well placed resources.
My plan three goals for this blog are as follows:
I’d like to have 500 followers by the end of the summer.
I’d like to establish a weekly advice post where readers can ask me questions over the week about my experience or questions about mental illness and I’ll answer them publicly.
and finally I’d like to be able to get a real domain for my blog.
My parents have gone out to a movie so it’s the first time I’ve had the house to myself in I’m not sure how long. I’m celebrating with a bottle of sangria and a whole plate of roasted summer squash. I’m feeling very pretty today, not in the sense you think, I feel pretty inside. Maybe it’s the sangria slowly warming me, shedding the neurotic layer that I’m so familiar with. My anxiety is deep rooted in me. It’s ingrained and it’s been learned. Today I feel hopeful though. Things are looking a little brighter, my ideas are a little clearer, I can go a whole day without collapsing halfway through from utter exhaustion. I feel a dull buzzing in my mind and it’s building momentum. There’s a sizzling in my veins, like electrical currents covered in dust. Someone flipped the switch and they are crackling awake slowly but surely. My agitation is growing though, my patience is dwindling. If you get in my way, I will not be polite. I feel ruthless and sparkly. This time I will conquer the world.
Some may say I’m just in an upswing, be careful what you throw yourself into, be careful where you go. It’ll end, it always does.
I say don’t rain on my parade.
I’m not usually an early morning blogger. Hell, I’m not usually early morning person, but this morning when my alarm went off at six am my brain was already yawning and rummaging in it’s cupboards for caffeine. By the time I was in the shower my brain was sitting at it’s typewriter with coffee in one and hand and impatiently tapping it’s desk with the other. My brain doesn’t trust technology, “what has it done for me? I do all the work” it says with an arrogant smile. So, I rushed along my morning routine so I could catch up and be ready to type up all the words my brain was dying to get out.
So now we both sit with coffee in hand. You’re welcome by the way, brain. I was hoping to drop the caffeine, but I guess you had other ideas. I feel a ping in my skull. Okay, Okay. You’re right. Shut up and write.
First and foremost I want to thank all of you who reached out to me last night after my distress soaked post last night. I was indulging in my pain and do so quite often. I soothed my soul last night with a benzo, cartoons and snuggling my stuffed pinkie pie. I essentially revert back to a child whenever my parents tear into me, except I have access to drugs. And I know what drugs are. I guess I can’t completely blame them for getting me stuck in that phase, though their constant drinking and invalidation of my feelings about it didn’t help. I could have pulled myself up and taken control of my life instead of consistently relying on people who weren’t going to be there. I was a child though, how should I know any better? I’m still a child today, but I understand shortcomings better than most. We all have our own demons. My demons follow me every where, my demons are ingrained into my personality. My emotional vulnerability, my child like tantrums. my inability to see the world for anything more than the very good or the disastrously bad. There’s more to my demons than that though, there’s my overflowing sense of empathy, there’s my heartache for every living thing, there’s my love for all things sweet and pretty.
I do accept that I am damaged, but I am not destroyed.
Three hours at the bar, you stumble in after slamming on the door repeatedly even though I told you it was open.
You look at me and tell me I am completely useless. Unwarranted, unprovoked. “Can’t even get off her fat ass” you cackle as you lose your footing for a moment. It doesn’t matter that I got up, that I unlocked the door like you asked, that I told you three times it was open. It doesn’t matter.
This is why I have xanax, This is why I fall asleep with a blade in my bed. This is why I stab myself with needles and punch my head til I swell up and bruise.
This is why I hate myself with every cell I posses.
I hear you laughing now, you saw me cry and it makes you laugh. My emotional instability fuels you, it always has. You both find pleasure in my inability to cope, my sensitivity.
I am my family’s biggest joke. Look at her, face stained with saline. Look at her with her self esteem puddled around her feet.
She will never be as strong as us and for that reason, she is nothing.
I don’t think you’ll find many people as absolutely psyched that the weather is finally in an upswing. It’s been so fickle here I began to worry Mother Nature was a borderline, but actually she’s just a bitch. I’ve been trying my luck at getting a tan since I’ve heard from a few sources that I look “sickly” and “discolored”. It’s not by choice, people!
I’m struggling a bit with my weight right now. I don’t know how or when, but all of a sudden I’ve been hit with ten extra pounds. I seem to actually lose weight in the winter and gain it in the spring and summer. I’m holding back the urge to just take a butcher knife to stomach. I know, that’s absolutely extreme, but I think it’s clear by now that I err on the irrational and extreme side. The correct way to go about this would be to work out, stop stuffing my face and learn to give a shit. That’s way more difficult of a thought for me than carving myself up. What does that say about me? Of course this has to happen to me when I finally get the chance to do some modeling.
Alright, enough of my whining. I really do complain an epic amount, now I feel like I wasted your time if you just read that. If I could send you all three dollars in exchange for your lost time.
I have been a very inconsistent blogger, this I know. You can’t hold it against me though, I am very upfront about my short comings.
I have allowed myself to wallow in my depression for the past few days. Some may say that is unhealthy, but I find it’s important to let myself indulge in my misery or else I will constantly be anxiously fighting it and losing. I just need to succumb sometimes, let it wash over me. I have immersed myself enough for now and I am now ready to clear my head of negativity.
There has been some minor setbacks on my road to success and I am attempting to not let them overcome me. I have this voice in my head, I suppose it’s me. I’ve heard it referred to as negative self talk and it’s a bitch. We all do it, we curse ourselves a little after having that second slice of cake. When it comes to people with borderline personality disorder we do it so often and so viciously that it becomes more reality than our subconscious mind. When the stress becomes too much, as it had this week, a voice berates me on a constant loop. “You are not good enough” “You should just kill yourself” “Grab that razor and punish yourself, you don’t deserve to be happy”. It’s not pretty and it’s hard to control. It depends how badly I’ve fucked up, though my definition of fucking up is anything at all. I am astronomically hard on myself and I know it shows. If my outsides reflected my inner struggled I’d be covered in lashes and contusions. You’d see every little mistake I’ve made magnified tenfold on my self esteem, what little there is.
I am trying my best to go easy, I am trying my best to love myself. How do you go about minimizing self hatred that’s been boiling under your skin for two decades?
As I read back on my post from last night my initial reaction is embarrassment and guilt, but I know those are not the right feelings. When I first started this blog I said I wanted to show people what it’s like to have borderline personality and those moments, those are important. I am very very hard on myself, and I allow myself so little joy.
I am happier today and clearly, I am still here. I know it doesn’t always seem like it, but I am ferociously proud of how far I’ve come. I have been an addict, I have tried to commit suicide and I have been violent with people I love. I am here today and I can say that my whole heart is open.
Today has been a bad day to be a woman with BPD. I’m well aware there are plenty of men with borderline personality, but god damn it when I get my period all hell breaks lose. My hormones exasperate all my symptoms, especially my absolute hatred for myself. I’ve spent an entire day picking apart every inch of my flimsy substance.
Not to mention how I felt after I read this article. Please, read this with care. It is an absolute piece of trash and completely degrading to mental illness and the entire female gender. It made me feel low, lower than low. I know that it’s all just hateful slander and I know I’ll never meet these men and they will never know how wonderful of a person I can be. But then there is the much louder voice in my head that reads so many of those lines and know I’ve been that girl. I have hurt people. I act like a child. I am unstable. Maybe they’re right.
I am an absolute bummer right now. I can’t promise myself I won’t use destructive coping measures, but I will do my best to use the least harmful. I wish I could just be fucking happy for an extended period of time. I’d take a week, I really would. I’m so sick of being thrown into a vortex of suffering over every little misstep. I’m going to take a Xanax and make a pros and cons list of why I should be alive. Order calms me down since there is so little of it in my head.
Don’t worry about me.
Have you ever fought back tears so wrought with anger and resentment that they physically hurt your eyes? Do you sometimes feel like the pain inside you could burn down an entire city if you just let go for a moment?
I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today. That’s the best way I can describe it because when you have borderline personality disorder and you wake up on the wrong side of the bed that side is indisputable, literal hell. Everything is skewed from the moment I open my eyes. I don’t see the world with anything but anger and hatred. Nothing looks right, it’s all a cleverly devised plot to make me rip the skin from my skull. The tiniest thing can set me into a whirlwind of revulsion. No, I’m actually lying when I say that, nothing happened at all.
My boyfriend said to me this morning that if I couldn’t stop being so cranky he’d have to take me home. Some of you might see that as rude, but to me I think it’s downright sweet. In actuality what he should have said is, “You’re being an absolutely crazy bitch for no reason so get yourself together or go home”. He’s right too, and I know he is. I know my contempt and my frustration are unwarranted and yet that doesn’t make them feel any less real. A wise friend on here asked me the other day if I knew what she meant when she said she could not keep up with herself. Well here I am, unable to reel myself in. I think it’s worse when you’re cognizant of the irrationality of your thoughts and your emotions. When the anger seething through your brain is unfounded and you know that. It only reinforces the certainty that you are in no way in control of your self or your emotions.
I can’t help how I feel and I fear I never truly be able to. The feeling sickens me to no end.