This will be like reading a book from back to front, this is a new blog for me and there is so much pressing to come out now that if I took the time to rewind from start to front I’d never tell you whats happening in the moment. Trust me, the current moments are as dark and twisted as the past so as I bring the past forward we can live in flashbacks.
In the moment I am lying in my bed after a night of much turmoil, trying to pick through thoughts and urges wondering which are mine and which belong to my alter ego, normal nemesis, and resident, psycho, that lives within me. I used to call him Gollum, yes Gollum from Lord of The Rings, that fought a dying battle with his evil twin. Unlike Gollum I haven’t died yet in a fire pit, I have come close a few times through pharmaceutical means and the occasional knife slash, and am still here after many a crawl from the bottom of that dark dark hole of death and despair. But on to the point that I used to call him Gollum, it seems so cliche. I think in honour of this new twisted blog, we will call her Amanda, a nod to Emily Van Camp’s bitter psyche on Revenge (if you’re curious its on ABC).
I was going to pontificate on my current waves of unrest swelling in my chest, but perhaps a brief introduction to the world of BPD is necessary. This is the G rated synopsis:
Borderline personality disorder is a condition in which people have long-term patterns of unstable or turbulent emotions, such as feelings about themselves and others. These inner experiences often cause them to take impulsive actions and have chaotic relationships.
The R rated synopsis is that I am a blend of psychosis, depression and bi polar which makes me very interesting to read about especially given the fact that I am not a stinky druggy with limp hair but in reality a single yummy mummy with a dark alter ego that requires weekly psychiatry, enough drugs to cure Cancer, the need to hide sharp knives and lock myself in the house (some days) so I don’t rampage and take advantage of alcohol, men, money and end up in unbeknownst places to curse the existence of Amanda.
Here’s a snippet that sums everything up from a blog I wrote a few years back.
I’m on vacation, I haven’t left the hotel room in 3 days, I traveled across the country to vacation in self angst, frolick in the surf of depression while sipping sugar rimmed margaritas. At least I wasn’t cliche enough to cry into my drinks, instead I lay on the ground wondering how it could come to pass that, 3 days later, I was still in my pyjamas, laying on the ground when there was a bed, watching reality show re-runs on my laptop and serial cop shows on TV simultaneously and haphazardly attempting to do sit ups to somehow feel like I was worshiping my temple of a body in this time of need.
I am not sure how others handle angst but mine is a roiling hotpot of contradictions. I am not sure hotpots actually roil but being so amazingly muddled as I am it was probably the bargain basement model that got recalled for roiling.
What is there to say? That life feels so much better confined to 600 square feet at the Four Seasons with Mariska Hargitay as my constant companion in the quest for serial rapists while chewing on room service tuna tataki and drinking $5 Fiji water.
I was in a relationship with a wonderful man, who, against my will, is patiently waiting in the wings. It’s been approximately 3 years together, 2 since he asked to move in and 1 since I have started to splinter. I have a fabulous job that would make you green with envy and I travel to exotic destinations that require bikinis and stilettos in the name of work. I also have 2 adorable, charming, well-mannered children who think I walk on water and I drive a Lexus and live in a 3000 sq ft home in the most coveted area of town. I also have a country club membership and I’m skinny with a great shoe and clothing wardrobe. Go ahead, say it, I hate you bitch.
To top it off, how many people vacation angst at the Four Seasons? Can I be the epitome of pathetic? How many people fly first class, take off for a week, say bye bye to life so they can wallow in 5 star self pity?
The one silver lining of all this is I lost 5 pounds and bought a pair of fuck me heels. That should fare me well now that I have no relationship, have sold my house, am quitting my job and am trolling kayak.com for escape hatches from my self inflicted suburbia of perfection.
Who the hell is this bitch, you may ask yourself, as I do numerous times a day.
The song that comes to mind is Bitch, apropos. Loosely and with much liberty it goes, I hate the world today, it’s so good to me but I can’t change. I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m mother, I’m a sinner, I’m a saint. I’m bitch, I’m a tease, I’m a goddess on my knees… I’m your angel undercover. I’m your hell I’m your dream and I’m nothing in between.
I may be giving myself too much credit for the goddess on my knees but it made me feel better so suck it up, how’s that for sexual entendre?