I am unhappy with myself right now. I can’t explain what came over me the other night besides that it felt as if another person stepped inside my head and filled it with rage. I remember fighting with my parents, but the exact trigger has escaped me, if I ever really contemplated it at all. Death threats were screamed and accusations hurled. I told them they were the reason I have borderline personality disorder, that raising me in a bar fucked me up.
My mother’s response? “A lot of people are alcoholics now a days, it’s not a big deal”. I don’t remember much after that either besides more blood curdling screams escaping my lips. I barricaded myself in my room, as if they would try to come up and check on me. Spoiler alert, they didn’t. And then it happened. I relapsed. In the past three years I have cut myself maybe ten times. I can’t account for the other ways I harm myself, as those are much more common place. I bite and scratch and tare and bruise, but I hardly ever cut. That night I cut myself six times on my thigh and jabbed a pin so hard into my wrist bone that it got stuck, twice. It’s still sore. I couldn’t really move it for an entire day.
The physical pain is nothing compared to the guilt and shame I feel. Shame that I suffer from such a strong inability to control my emotions. Guilt that I don’t try harder to hang on to my sanity as I watch it slip away. I just let go and let the rage boil my blood til it’s all I can see. Til I have no filter, til I’m spilling out every painful word I can muster up in my convoluted mind.
I wish I wasn’t me.
Have you ever woke up from a night of indulging far too much and sworn off alcohol for good, only to drink the very same night? Have you ever done this for a month straight?
I’m not sure what’s gotten into me. I can be a completely different person for months at time. Though I wonder if the starving addict is truly who I am and the dedicated sobriety is only the fevered dream of a mad woman. Perhaps that stable and put together girl hovering above her books, planning for her future, is only an illusion I maintain. Maintain might not be the correct term, since my mask is perpetually slipping.
I’m mixing medications, I’m finding it difficult to spend a night without a Xanax or a few beers. Most nights I allow myself both, just to be sure I don’t feel a thing. The days aren’t bad, because I wait patiently for the moment I allow myself to lose control. The moment when I let the anxieties slip away, the responsibilities, the care for my well being. My addiction gene is strong, perhaps that’s all it really is. Perhaps I am making excuses for my complete lack of restraint. When does this monster on my back become an issue? One I truly need to address, that answer hasn’t come to me yet. I still wake up every morning and I have been through these phases before. Ones where a sober mind is poison, leeching at my very soul. My blood turns to pessimism and my heart beats only for punishment. I live each morning only to forget each night. I lose my emotions in a muddle of toxins, silencing each doubt with another well placed sip. I sink my anxieties into a crater that lies dormant in the corner of my mind. Each morning they return with full force and each day I become more weary, less able to face them.
I contemplate how many days left in this body I can face.
I wish I had something insightful to pass on to you to tonight, something inventive. To tell the truth, my creativity is descending with each thought my mind manifests. I’ve been experiencing intense feelings, I guess that’s how I can sum it up. My speech hasn’t been normal, I can hardly get a thought out without stuttering or slurring. My mind is racing far too fast for the my tongue to produce the oncoming thoughts. My aggravation is high, I’ve been punching myself, feeling an intense pain inside me. Like I’m ready to explode with an angry energy, not angry in the sense I’m unhappy, the energy just weighs heavy on me. My mind feels like taffy, being pulled and twisted by some unseen force. I can hardly keep a thought constant. That is why I have nothing astute to pass on to those who choose to read my ramblings. I wish to be a poet, I wish to be someone who imparts wisdom on others, someone to be remembered for her kindness and determination to her convictions. I wish to reach you all with my tender palms and guide you through your pain. I take on too much, I gather others sufferance and secure it to mine.
I feel like a wave of madness approaches, the waters lap at my door. Every moment of my life is on the border of pure insanity. I live every breath on the curb of a break down. I wish I had creativity for you all, but I have nothing to give.
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.