Tag Archives: personality disorders

crashing

I can feel the wave of intense emotion crashing just behind my skin and I know that soon it will overtake me. Soon I will be choking on the salty water, flooding my airways with suffocating depression.

I know this comes, I know it’s a part of the process. I can only fly so high for so long, but it’s like every time I forget the immensity of it all. I recall thoughts only days ago, “perhaps I’m not so sick”. Then it curls it’s sickening familiar fingers around my chest. I will become lost in this, I forget completely what happiness and hopefulness consists of.

I plead with the shot caller inside my head. Please, one more day? I’ll make it up to you. I’ll stay in bed twice as long this time, I promise. I know this pain is what you feed off of. I’ll give you it all tomorrow, I swear. Trust me.

I’m not listening to myself. My saline behind my eyes burn and the urge to medicate to unconsciousness burns brighter than I remembered it could. I’m losing the battle with my own mind.

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Guilty

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.

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True to my name

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?

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I can’t title this

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. 

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Insecure Girl away!

I’ve been thinking quite a lot since first reading the writers challenge on the daily press. It was something to the effect of an origin story on how you became a writer. I don’t actually consider myself a writer, just a girl with a laptop and too much time on her hands, so I thought it’d be improper to try that out. It did get me thinking of my beginnings as something I most definitely associate with, being mentally ill.

If my mental illness was a super hero secret identity of mine I’d be probably be insecure girl. Insecure girl, able to take your words and twist them into horrible slights directed solely at herself..in a single bound! The first time I can remember these amazing super powers surfacing was in elementary school. I remember being seven or eight and being remarkably paranoid, you know just slightly more paranoid than any other normal seven year old. It was extraordinary how quickly I could convince my underdeveloped mind that every other person in my classroom hated me and was quietly plotting against me. All super heroes need to have an arch enemy, mine just happened to be my entire second grade class. I have not so fond memories of angry outbursts and frenzied whispers to myself that I would leave all these awful people behind and change schools.

I never did change schools. In fact I stayed in the same school from kindergarten until my senior year of high school with roughly the same people I called my villains. Along the way my alter ego came out quite a lot. I barely had time to hop into a telephone booth and put on a costume before I was carelessly accusing friends of devising some sinister plot against me. Every one was a suspect and nobody was save from my wrath.  When my chummy alter ego appeared I lost friends, I started meaningless fights, I cried in bathrooms and cut myself with the metal linings of pencil erasers. My kryptonite was everything and there was no telling when I’d change forms.

So there it is, the origin of my super awesome super power, being mentally ill! My dysfunctional powers include, but are not limited to:

The ability to make everything about myself!

The self esteem of a wet noodle!

The ability to cry and plead for forgiveness after spitting venomous insults only thirty seconds prior!

Amazing vision that only see’s the world in black and white, it’s really useful because everything is either all good or all bad. I don’t have to worry about that useless in between stuff!

A super cool and effective side kick that takes the form of a voice inside my head that constantly tells me why I’ll never be good enough!

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My inspiration is lacking

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.

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Who Am I

I am the petulant screaming child

desperate for your attention and approval

I am clinging, clawing at your soul trying to bring it into my own

I am the volatile protector

cued in to every disparaging remark, ready to pounce with poison tongue

I am angry before I can think, I am unstable

I am a vacant hollow shell

made up of the precise organs, but no self to speak of

I am distracted, distant and lost

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Borderline & Me

I’m going to attempt to describe what it’s like to have borderline personality disorder, for me that is. It’s often been said that BPD is one of the most complicated mental illnesses and no case is ever the same. Borderlines get a bad rap. If you google the words “Borderline Personality Disorder” you will find countless articles that urge you to run from anyone, namely a woman, who has this disorder. The articles tell you how manipulative we are, how you should never be in a relationship with us, how we are all just bitches. Yes, this is a clinical disorder and people are labeling as just being bitches. I have been called a bitch, I have been called a drama queen, I have been called overly sensitive. I have been told I’m faking it and that I choose to feel this way for attention.

This could not be further from the truth. Why would anyone choose to live with emotions so intense you can practically see the lashes form from every minor criticism whipped at you? It’s been said before that having borderline personality disorder is like being a burn victim. That our emotions is so raw and damaged that a small prod will send us into a world of pain and turmoil. I ask you again, why would anyone choose to be this way?

Any little thing could send me over the edge. I don’t have control over my emotions, I actually can’t remember a time I ever did. As a child and a teenager I was moody and unpredictable. I constantly pushed people away just to burst into hysterics asking why they wanted to leave me? I don’t purposely want to hurt anyone, despite the thought that people with BPD are manipulative and dare I say it…evil! Manipulation requires a cold calculating mind that realizes that their actions will harm and drive someone else to do what they wish. When I “manipulate” I am not thinking. I am not thinking about the outcome of what I’m doing, I’m not plotting out how to get my way. I am desperate and I am scared. I’m throwing everything I have and I’m not thinking beyond this next second of torment.

I often feel like there is a deep gaping hole in my chest. I don’t mean figuratively either, I can physically feel it burrowing it’s way deeper and deeper into me. Sometimes I feel like the depression could swallow me entirely, like I’ll just fall into that pit at any moment. Inside the pit there is only hatred. “You’re not good enough”. “No one will ever love you”. “Why do you ever bother to be alive?”. These words penetrate my thoughts every day, they squirm there way into my head and gnaw at my self esteem. They break me down until I’m begging just to feel nothing at all. Anything is better than this eternal self loathing.

I do get to escape sometimes though. See, I’m not always all together there. If you spend enough time with me you’ll notice this. I leave my body a lot, put it on autopilot. I stare at nothing and let myself fall deep back into my head. I don’t feel my body anymore and I don’t feel like I really exist inside of it. This is what is known as dissociation, derealization and depersonalization.

Having borderline personality disorder is like having two perfectly different people making you up. This is often known in the psychological field as “splitting” or “black and white thinking”. Inside me there are three parts. There’s the needy and abandoned child. This child needs constant attention and will do dangerous things in order to attain it. This part of me needs love, it will cling on to you and beg you to give it more and more. Then there’s the part of me that frankly…couldn’t give a fuck. This is the tough side of me, the side that’s angry at so many things for very little reasons. This side of me will become defensive very fast and won’t think of the consequences. This side of me has been violent. These feelings often come with an overwhelming amount of anxiety and hypervigilance. I am aware of any little thing that will allow me express this rage inside me. The third part of me is what most people refer to as normal, but I refer to as numb. There is no emotion in either direction, there is nothingness. People with BPD suffer from something called “chronic boredom”, this is my normal. It is blank, it is nothing.

This is my life with borderline personality disorder, it is not every ones. I started this blog in order to help others who suffer from mental illness, or love someone who does. We are not monsters, we are not “crazy”, please don’t stigmatize us because we have a label.

I have borderline personality disorder, but I am not my diagnosis. I am a loving, sweet and kind person. I want to help others, I want to explore the world and make people happy.

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