{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.


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et cetera
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