{November 24, 2013}   NO PINK RIBBONS FOR US

Always Seem To Be Alone 

Why can no one understand how we feel inside, a carcass ravaged by internal demons we have no control over. Sitting, standing, talking and feeling something other than yourself moving through your body, moving through your mind, talking to your mind, while your outside self just stands and smiles and cries and cuts to make it go away.

Why is it we love people but they hurt us by not believing, not believing that it can be true that under our skin lives the devil and we cannot, cannot control all the time the sensations, thoughts, fears, insidiousness that lives within us.

Yet, they see our outsides and think what, that we are faking all of this, that we are moody and mopey. That **** you, under that moody and mopey we are trying to survive and we want you to help us, love us, feel us, just take one small moment of your smug perfection and believe us when we say the pain is excruciating.

Do we need to have spores, sores, cuts and bruises to warrant any sympathy, for you to believe that we hurt more than those cancer patients on days, than the HIV patients that are dying like we are, than the diabetics who crash as we do. Can you not believe we are sick because we don’t have pink ribbons and yellow bands, that donors are not lining up to support our cause, and in that case what we have is a lie? That we make this up FOR YOUR ATTENTION? Who in their right mind wants to die for attention? 

I spend hours counting my pills, imagining the peace I would get if I ate them one by one, feeling the drug course through me till I hit Sleeping Beauty sleep to never awaken again. But I cant die because I have children, i stay in this hell because I have 2 living beings that need me, need me to suffer through hell for them so they can live the happy life I did not get. I take the pills, i do the exercises, i fight through the episodes, I cry through the pain, i curse the demons and I smile and I smile and when I don’t smile, I am upsetting you, you my family, you my friends, you my boyfriend, because then I am not normal and I don’t have a pink ribbon to show you how sick I am. Im melodramatic, I am exaggerating, I am moody, I am childish but never am I sick, can you never see me as sick? Because I hate you, I am sick and no one sees me, no one sees me ever, I am a dying cancer patient in the corner and you feel like you should punish me for over reacting, mental illness, what a joke. Because the only time I will get your tears and your need to help is when I am dead, and then you’ll join the groups, you’ll donate the money, you’ll walk the walk but by then, I’ll be dead, and by then, I wont care. This Sleeping Beauty, once dead, will never return to finally see the sympathy in all your eyes, that, yes, maybe she was sick, and she did need us. 

I am screaming in this corner. I have paced the house, I have felt the knives, I have licked the pills but I don’t have permission to die, I don’t have permission to ******* die because I owe my children life, this bastardized, painful life I live. I want to run the car off the road, ram the knife through my gut, drink down the pills, cut the life cord and finally find happiness and peace.

I WANT TO DIE. I am locked in a room, with no where to go, no voice to be heard, no outlet, no one that can feel this. The only people that know me are the doctors, the hospitals, only they know the pain. Even with the government examining all my medical records and declaring me handicapped my own boyfriend still believes that this is all a figment, that how I am is an act, an act to give him stress, to ruin his projects, to take away from his time, his girlfriend isnt sick, she’s pretending, 30 ******* years of pretending to be crazy, weeks locked up in a crazy hole, yeah, normal people we like to do that, try to commit suicide, try to get locked up, so you can call us moody and mopey and ruin your important projects. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH yes, I am pretending. Pretending to be crazy so I can live off of CPP, which of course he asks if thats what I am satisfied doing? Why don’t I get a job, get a career, work full time, you ******* *******, I CANNOT, last time I did they locked me in a room for a week so I wouldn’t slit my wrists. The next time the sedated me in a hospital for a week I couldn’t move to pee. YES IM LYING, I LIKE LIVING THIS WAY. YOU ******* IDIOT ALL I WANT IS FOR YOU TO LISTEN, TO HOLD ME, not to judge, criticize, tell me everything i do wrong, everything i should do, why my behaviour, my crazy behaviour is inapproprriate and embarrassing to him. 

If I cut myself to release the pain I will be judged. If I sedate myself I will be judged. If I try and explain that I am dying here, I will be judged. What do I do???? I am trapped and I just want to sink into a hole and never be seen again. I want to get hit by a bus, get murdered, be in a life threatening car crash,so if I do die, its not not my fault, and I am not judged.Image

{November 24, 2013}   Till Death Do Us Part

Sitting on a deck overlooking a beautiful beach and waves of undulating water. It’s warm but with the chance of rain, unpredictable, like all of us, but stunning in its rawness and wilderness.

It may be more than 6 months since I have posted. I admit, perhaps I have been buoyed by my ability to regulate that I have lulled myself into thinking I am super woman… again. Not to ever say I forget that BPD is always present but that I get so good at managing or even pretending, I forget that we are, no matter what still ill and fallible.

My feelings of running away have re-surfaced, running to eternal sleep or running to anonymity, they seem to be the same, with option 1 the easier of the two. The work involved is making we weary, the vigilance, the carefulness, yes, when I am good, it moves along nicely on the tracks but I get tired of all my checks and balances of trying to be that perfect BPD patient. I am tired of patting myself on the back and giving myself the gold star for making it through, holding my hand, juggling the pieces, making it to the end of the day without thoughts of blood, death and  flagellation. Sometimes, I think it is to make me happy, but in truth its to make my family happy, my boyfriend happy, my friends happy, they want to see smiling, happy, of course shes not crazy me. Deep in their minds, they still dont get it, im never happy, im just healthy enough to have pockets and days where hell hah not come knocking, happy for me is when I dont feel like dying, thats laughter and joy. 

i hated my children yesterday for making me live, for saving them the eternal pain of having their mother die, of saving them from this life I lead in case my death triggers what they may have in them genetically. 

MY BF railed at me yesterday because I was mopey and moody. I am not sure what he wanted me to say to me him. Laugh hysterically because that didn’t even scratch the surface of what was going on. I just survived 3 weeks of barely falling off the chopping block, or onto the chopping block. I came here, to sun and waves to try and come down the ladder, the precipice I was standing upon that I stayed on, I didn’t jump. And if I could break into hysterical laughter on this page right now, I would. If he spent more time watching and learning instead of condemning me he’d maybe have seen the pain creeping through every pore, my sleepless nights, all my nightmares and sweats, the lack of energy, the need to find closeness, down to the fact that my physical body was repelling itself with maladies, the addict trying to come off the BPD edge.

Projects, everything is a project, every inanimate item, job, thing, piece is an important project, but not people, unless they are people you want to impress and then we can go out of our way to kowtow to every need, every air-conditioned, ass wiping, diet coke drinking whim, but the ones closest to you, fuck them, 10min is not even worth the time to spend in a day because there are projects. How does it feel to be sub relegated to being less important than a shed, a sink, a faucet. It feels like shit, as I shiver and sweat, trying to smile, asking for time, asking for 10 minutes to just talk to me, yes, it would make me want to die. I’m not worth much more than 5min or even less than a piece of tile that needs to laid ont he ground. That’s where I see myself standing with my BF whether it be here or at home, projects, to which I fall somewhere close to the bottom.

If I ever bring it up I get a tirade of my ungratefulness, not an understanding that this is an emotion I feel. I can’t talk, because talks snuff me down to grovel between the soles of a shoe and the ground, there is nothing right about they way I think or feel, I am wrong and I am ungrateful and I am not sick, its a figment in my head, I make it up, I need to suck it up, if we just listened and learned from him we would be perfect, I would be perfect, not sick and wasting his time in how much effort he needs to put into me. I dont even talk to him anymore about how I feel and hurt, how the episodes have been crippling, I shut up, the last 3 weeks at home while he was here working on his projects, I didn’t breathe a word of my days in bed, in case I got in the way of his projects by making him waste time about worrying bout my fake illness. How I almost died finishing my last show.

I need to get up and work, find a way to support myself, create a business, look to my career. Name me someone with BPD that can barely work, yet he thinks that if I push aside this figment that I am sick I can be him, be superwoman, I’ll be saved, get a job, support yourself, work hard, and then maybe I could finally drive that car off the edge of the cliff by feeding my BPD but it would make him happy, IM NORMAL, isnt normal pretending to smile and always agreeing that everything is OK, because if I want my boyfriend thats what I need to do, never be sick, never tell him, never bother him, because he has far too many other projects, projects that dont involve people, projects that when I am dead and his brother are dead and his parents are dead, hell have all the sheds and faucets and containers and lawyers and acquaintances to keep him happy. What the fuck happened in his childhood to make him this way? Its not about people, its about material objects and obligations, not love. I am an obligation, his brother is an obligation, his parents and family are an obligation, when do you want to just be with us because we are people that care and love you? Just be, just stop and just enjoy the moments, be in the moment. Thats all I want from you, just enjoy the moment we do have, everything else, it’ll still be here, this house, itll be here 100 years from now when I am dead. All your obligations at home, they will always be there, but I will not.


et cetera
A Forgetful Traveler

Remembering the world one blog post at a time

Life after BPD

Life after Borderline Personality Disorder; making a life worth living through love, laughter, positivity and Dialectical Behaviour Therapy

Bi-polar parenting

Thoughts and ideas

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