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{April 30, 2012}   Orgasm of the Skin

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Sometimes and some days the world goes by so fast I feel suspended in a vortex that continuously spins and when I set down my mind is still spinning but the world is standing still. My head hurts, I’m struggling to orient and I am exhausted wishing I was still spinning because the stop is akin to slamming into a brick wall with my engines still gunning but the wall aint budging.

It’s time for the red zone, my period, in about 2 weeks, and this is the cresting wave leading up to it, sucking all the debris in before it crashes on to shore and dissipates. I’m swimming up the wave, surfing it, which is a monumental task.

Normal BPD days I need to be aware and conscious. I check my temperature when I wake up. Depressed, overwhelmed, overly excited, agitated and I manage to circumnavigate my day with my training relatively well if all factors are even. Enough sleep, not too much stress on the plate, stay groomed, have enough social interaction, touch base with the support team, keep the reins in tight. It’s funny how people have no idea how every decision I make is thought through to see where and what triggers might click and whether the decision is mine made rationally, emotionally, reactive, whether it will tip over my nicely placed dominoes into a domino cascade of hell.

So, most days it’s good, PMS days it’s navigating a battlefield, I am so strongly focused on everything I do and say, I walk around with a constant headache and a blur of exhaustion. Someone bumps into me it’s a study in concentration not to scream at them, walking through the mall is feeling like Indiana Jones in a pit of snakes, and every tiny bit of annoyance is multiplied to a sensation of being pricked by needles and wanting to smack someone. Alcohol helps, helps dull the edges into a bit more of a fuzzy coating. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not swilling alcoholic but during these days a glass a day is additionally medicative in addition to the drugs.

I was changed to Cirpralex 6 weeks ago, it’s meant to help with this week but since I normally can’t remember the weeks once done I have no idea if it is or not, all I know is that I feel gross and want to walk around the streets dressed in sloppy black sweatpants with stringy hair scowling at people. Every evil female insecurity that could exist to plague womanhood I feel. Fat, greasy, pudgy, wrinkly, pimply I am convinced I am all of the above. I haven’t looked in the mirror for 2 days. Not to say that I feel depressed or sad, I’m just gross, slug like, tired and this is just far too much work for 3 days of blood. Who came up with this equation, let’s feel like crap for a week to bleed for 3? If a hysterectomy didn’t automatically age me 10 years I’d be in line. I did try taking the 3 month birth control pills, where I only got my period 4 times a year, and it was GREAT for the BPD PMS but sucked for the break through bleeding, weight gain and the bloating. I am close to considering it again… 

This probably wasn’t a stable time to be reading other blogs because I came across one brilliant article of a woman describing her cutting, which she hadn’t done in years, akin to myself (OK, not years but maybe a year), and even then it was tiny). I’ve had a few close moments in the last year but have always found the mental fortitude to make myself walk away or walk out of the scene.

But it reminded me of how good it feels, sad that they come across as pleasant memories but cutting is pleasant. The pain that drives someone to cut is unimaginable, words cannot do justice to the internal pain that wells up under the skin and in the brain, pulsating like it’s alive, crawling through your veins and behind your eyes, that you want to tear your skin out to get the release. I used to feel like pins were pushing up from underneath my flesh unable to escape, my throat would be tight, the tension coiled so cold and hard the only salvation was to pick up that knife and slice. And the heaven of feeling the coldness of the blade, the trepidation and the guilt locked in a battle, the stillness stifling the air and then the cut, like a violin bow against the string, magic. Watching the blood steal out, leaching with it all the pain, the more blood the better the high, and then the fervor increases to cut and bleed out more and more, before guilt could walk in, before reality thought to find me or come home, till spent. Though left with bleeding scarred limbs, the pain, its blissfully gone, cutting doesn’t hurt, you can’t even feel it compared to the rage inside, and the external pain is a welcome relief that’s controlled, an orgasm of the skin that puts me rest.

Namaste. No worries, no cutting ahead.

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