{January 25, 2014}   Hello Darkness, My Old Friend

Hello darkness, my old friend,
I’ve come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence.

dark place

My hands are shaking, I can hold them out in front of me and watch them trembling, out of my control. It fascinates me, the lack of control. My body, my mind, but not my will.

It was an effort to force myself out of bed, albeit only to the couch but to me, I felt like I just ran the marathon. Then to preclude myself from going back to bed, I threw all the sheets in the laundry. Not that I can’t easily worm myself back int a hovel of a mattress and uncovered pillows and a duvet.

Listless, I find myself, listless today. It’s almost more pleasurable to shut my eyes and feel the noise, the thrumming of the invisible rubber band against my brain. Between my eyes, a scorpion has its pincers gripping tight with a deadly tail swinging on the other end. Red, everything is red. Does everyone see red when they close their eyes?

It’s insidious how thoughts ambush you. One moment I am innocently thinking of my day and what I’ve done and the track changes so slowly that I only realize almost half an hour later I have moved back into the grey of negativity, looping endless tapes of death, what would happen if I jumped off the balcony? I’d break a lot of bones, not die and be even more miserable. golumFlashes of conversations with my sister of her abandonment brings sadness and disappointment welling. Thinking forward of the nothingness that faces me, makes me want to reach for the pills.  Even the tediousness of making it to the end of the day sets about despair.

My DBT, of opposite action, helps, but my gosh it’s tiring trying to head everything off at the pass. Deflect the ball back into the opponent’s court for a quick breath. It’s far harder to live than die. My phone bill popped into my inbox today and I almost threw up at the reminder that reality was coming for me.

My BFF posted pictures of her and her family in Asia right now and I wish I was there. Escape. All the doctors and psychologists and whomever all want me to stay in my little hell hole, bottom of the barrel and fight my way out, I’d rather take the side exit to denial. Can’t I just have a break, can I have something fun to look forward to? Come back and face the demons after seeing some light. Right now, there’s no light so what am I striving for?

I have nothing that I want to do. There is no impetus to leave the house. It’s cold, it’s boring, and I don’t have a community, what am I getting better for again? I forgot?

I finally got H to leave today, the guilt of him sitting here nurse maid-ing me was driving my guilt far up the chart. Yes, him leaving did reverberate some abandonment, but it’s a twinge compared to all else these days. All I want today is to lie in that bed and talk to myself. It’s so easy to take that step back to darkness, I don’t understand how they think I can look forward to going back to the life I was leading. If anything is pulling me down that is part of it. I don’t know if I can be happier anywhere else, then that trails into can I ever be happy? Which leads right back around to “what’s the point of my life again?”

The sad part is, the only thing I can viably see myself doing is driving to the liquor store for some wine. Numb the fuck out of everything, pop an Ativan and get drunk. It’s all wrong but its better than cutting and that’s option 2. Option 3 is to mindlessly watch TV all day. Option 4 is to just say fuck-all.

Hello darkness, my old friendmetal clown

{January 23, 2014}   1 Step Forward, 2 Steps Back

Confused. Very confused. I suppose that happens after you’ve seen 3 psychiatrists, 1 psychiatric nurse, 2 emergency room doctors and your psychologist in the span of 3 weeks and tried to kill yourself and cut yourself.

That, all that, in itself is a lot of noises, voices, thoughts coupled in with well-meaning friends and family advice.

I saw a new psych today who thinks that on top of BPD, a lot in itself, I could also have depression on top of that. That’s just depressing, no pun intended. So, my medications have been mixed a little to see if it makes a difference, more bupropion, cipralex and trazadone. Yes, I am hoping it works and at the same time I am heaving a sigh of almost giving up. Can it get any harder?

depressionMeeting a new psych is also hard, new everything, start again, how do I compress 12 years into one hour and have you UNDERSTAND me. Then see you in a month and almost start again. I realize this is how psychiatrists work, especially govt run psyches, though when I had my first brush with death, I saw mine almost every week till life turned a corner.

I am still in home jail because I am volatile, to myself, being a quiet borderline and all. I’m prickly, sensitive and my mother poked me with a red-hot poker yesterday which induced a few steps backwards in the hockey pokey dance and involved some broken glass and cutting. I feel like a vibrating energy line loose from its pole, just on the verge of electrocuting.

I dont know what im supposed to do, stay where, do what, see whom, what do I want? One step at the time, I get it, but which path and which direction am I stepping? Am I going to live at my mother’s house and be visited by the psych nurse and another pysch every week, not guaranteed the same person each week, but they are just there to keep me safe, sane and stable. Then go see my psychologist. Then drive 40min to see the new psych I saw today once a month, plus the ones that see me every week, and attend DBT “light” classes once a week also 40min away from town, though without the 24 hour access to the therapists I had w my private program. I am already feeling crazier than the crazy I am. Maybe I should call the 1-800-SUICIDE line.

Safety plan, make my safety plan. And that includes who? It seems like a lot of people, professional people but other than there’s H and… 911 and some sedatives. SAD.

God, I have no idea what to do, why the fuck am I here, this is ridiculous, stupid, a waste of time, and I am miserable. Why does everyone have to be miserable along with me? It feels like playing a game with parts from other games thrown in, so nothing

stock-photo-close-up-shot-of-old-soccer-ball-basketball-baseball-football-bat-hockey-stick-baseball-glove-50956663quite fits together or plays together and you can’t win the game with mixing a basketball with hockey player with a soccer net on an football field. Yes, they’re all sports but which sports team am I playing with?

My head hurts, my heart hurts, my brain hurts and people wonder why I just want to go to sleep, this is so fucked the hell up. 




{January 21, 2014}   Yo-Yo

Yesterday I felt like, or maybe even was 4 people. I disliked all 4 of them. I am stuck in this place where I cannot find the space to go backwards or forwards and I’m twirling, ballerina like, in a stream of consciousness.


No Way Out

The kids left yesterday, leaving me with a sadness and proud they are growing up, but a profound sense of loss that they are no longer my babies, my anchor to this world. For so long they have been my weight, my reason, my light, and I know I will forever love them, but truth is they need me in a different way.

My mind was a disco ball splaying thoughts like a machine gun on the walls. I was over-drive- just stay busy, laundry, cleaning, dishes, folding, fixing. Every tiny thing bothers me, a spot on the carpet, a stray hair, a dirty dish. Somehow I am suddenly OCD, which I am not, but strung so tight with every single turn I am  a crow seeing shiny everywhere. SHINY! SHINY! SHINY!

And when I stop, it’s a grinding, shrieking, body slamming into a wall stop, complete deflation where I  do nothing but crawl into bed and mindlessly watch tv shows to drown out the litany of abuse, loss and pity that won’t stop. My body and my conscious mind wants me to get up, do something, move, be productive but I can’t win, my limbs won’t move and my brain has me in deadlock.

Guilt, oh how we love guilt, we feed on it likes it crack, devouring each tiny bit with relish, poring over it, exalting. I am going no where, my business is rotting, my money is decreasing, my responsible side aches with guilt that though I may want to, I cannot cannot focus enough to be me, be the me that can lock on to something and bang it out. I feel useless, baseless and guilty.

No wonder people think I am fine, even I feel like I should be fine, I look in the mirror and the same face looks but the same will doesn’t. I can’t see that, how can anyone else. I’m wrapped in invisible bandages, broken , burned and bruised but they are as invisible as Wonder Woman’s plane. Image

I am a yo yo, up down, up down, tangled, up down, round and round.

My existence, I don’t want to live to just live, see doctors and professionals to keep myself alive, for what? What is my soul, where is my passion, who am I, what do I want of myself. All these questions but no answers. Psychotherapy helps, medications help, but inside, that fire is out, the peace isn’t in there, the joy of being me, what is that? I want to be me, find the love for me.

I feel frivolous dying my hair, dumb taking my vitamins, fluffing with my exterior, plucking eyebrows, an oxymoron. I don’t give a shit but I do? I want to give a shit inside.

Inside away from the thoughts of dying, the dreams of abandonment and rejection that wake me every morning, the replay of all the wrongs that try and entangle me, the pleasure of pain. I keep working and working to keep them out but they slide in like serpents, coiling, slowly till they are in and I am wrapped. Not till the squeezing begins do I notice, here I am again, and we start our fight to separate.

Little things are helpful, trying hard to be mindful and push them out and focus: yoga, finding that inner strength to push, meditation was hard the first 5 days but today I could feel that though not perfectly I did find a minute where my body glowed and my heart chakras thumped into life. Brief but sweet.

How many me’s can I have tossed in this storm, if I cannot keep them together who on the outside can see. The effort to restrain myself from saying all this is a waste of energy, I stop myself at every turn, watching and carefully phrasing what comes out of my mouth. I don’t want to be that person that constantly talks of their children, though my child is the devil and surely more interesting. It’s exhausting, pretending, trying, smiling, yo-yo’ing, you can paint the outside pretty but the wood could still be rotting inside.

{January 18, 2014}   Suicidal Ideations **trigger**


I tried to end my life 2 Saturdays ago, Jan 4.

Since then its been darkness, emptiness and sadness, sparked with occasional madness.

Right now, I am pretending. Pretending that I am not hollowed with sadness, with no light.

My suicidal ideations come every time I shut my eyes. I am rolling out of the car going 100kmh onto the highway and smashed by oncoming cars, feeling the bones break in my body, the grit in my mouth, the tear of skin and then silence. Sitting in my car, inhaling and exhaling before I push the accelerator to the ground straight into the wall or another variation, right over the cliff. One I die immediately, the other I feel the rush of air as the car tumbles forward and I scream myself to a mangled end. Ever since I cut myself with the broken glass, the image re-appears constantly, how deep, how much blood, how good and all I can think is can I do it again? If I devolve will that be my new cutting of choice, so deep you see the whiteness of the skin before the outpouring of blood. And if I wanted to say good bye, I would take all my sedatives and sleeping pills, do both wrists and fall asleep into the silence feeling all thats bad seep out of me.

I now this isn’t normal.

I feel very much isolated in my mental state, I try and explain and people make excuses for me, they don’t want to hear it, believe it or deal with it. So, after a while, I shut up, clam up, bring it back inside and hold it in and bring out the smiles, the normalcy.

Of course I’m screaming inside, holding back the tears. Today I stood in the elevator taking the cart back down to the basement sobbing so I could get it out before putting the smile back on to go back in the door.

I’m a freak. I’m different.


{January 18, 2014}   Tired of Me

I know everyone is tired of me. The moment I left the hospital and started to look “normal” it was all over, and I knew that would happen, it isn’t like my first ride on the pony. I wanted to stay in the hospital, the only place where people knew my disease, knew how it worked, knew that just because it had been 10 days and I looked “normal” did not mean I was. 



And now, I am back to putting on the face and pretending because that it what everyone expects, may it be H or my mother, actually both. They’re both itching to say “just get on with, you’re fine” which makes me want to break into hysterical laughter. Do you think your mind can go from wanting to die, devolving that far to snapping out of it in 2 weeks and being stable. I guess, if you haven’t been there, you don’t know.


Charity case

I know and that’s all that should matter, so I got up this morning with the resolve to say, OK, it’s just me against me now, and if I succeed or fail it’s on me. I can’t handle the guilt of people looking at me and wishing I would get over it. My boyfriend is so bored and I know he’s just ready to toss it in the air, all he’s doing is torturing himself to be nursemaid to someone who “looks normal”.

So I am going to go home and tough this out solo. With calls to Amy, of course. I have no idea what I will do when her new move takes her so far away from me. She’s the only link that gets me, all of me and I think that loss is going to be a hard one to surmount. It’s a pressure and a trigger but no one has figured that out but me. That just started me crying, the thought is so painful I can’t think about it. 

It depresses me, that an inadequate word, that I don’t have a friend/peer network that wants to understand or even one that I can count on to try. My mother is clueless and will continue to be so, she has expressed that she has no desire to learn. Old dog, no new tricks. H is trying but he can barely get himself to read a book on BPD, if my loved one had BPD I’d have devoured 6 books by now and seen every doctor I know, but that’s me and I can’t be judgemental. My sister is a laugh-off, my support group sister, took off on a 10 day holiday after I tried to kill myself. What a laugh the excuses were. Another pressure and trigger I can’t deal with now. If she had taken the time to read she would know rejection, abandonment and even replay of history were all hallmarks of BPD, but I’m glad she got a tan and now that she’s had her fun she’s all eager to come home and support me, just fuck off, do you think you’ve built any trust in me that you will be there next time?

So, it’s me and professionals for the long haul and they wonder why I don’t want to live. No one can put themselves in my shoes and see that it’s a pretty miserable experience no matter how pretty I look on the outside. The low moments fas outweigh the highs. Everyone just wants the old Vida back, the face behind the mask because that’s what they’re used to. They will get that back, make all happy again that their lives are back to normal and mine never will be. 

I am still angry to be alive, it’s still burning in the middle earth of my soul. And the thought of nothing to live for but doctors and more doctors and crazy groups feeds that fire like the ring. It’s tamped down, being a good student, but it’s there, always there as an escape. I am smarter this time. Next time it will be done, smarter. They now have my Last Will & Testament, and this week I plan on making a paper copy, notarized.

Blank, blank, blank, all the time. Pain in my chest, the tightening of my throat and the thrumming of my head. I’m a bad orchestra.

Plans. Make myself pretty again, they all want that, put the smile and the spring back. I will do the work but I know it takes months and in the meanwhile I have been pretending for years. Its better than watching everyone struggle to feel sorry for me. Or look at me like I am pretending to be sick, what on earth would I gain from that? Free meals?


Putting on the “face” and smile

In 2010 I tried to commit suicide by ingesting all my pills. I was in a bad place for someone with BPD, a small island and not a soul other than my boyfriend that I had told about my disease. But, for the 3 years I was there, life was good, I was surrounded by everything I loved, the sun, water, freedom, the taste of the sea air and the sight of the most beautiful ocean in front of me every morning and a community where everyone knew my name, it was safe and comforting regardless of my BPD and lack of network. 

Then the tide began to change, my boyfriend became very jealous, angry, loud and possessive, making me feel guilty and claustrophobic at every turn. But, I, in turn, could not leave as I could not see forward enough to stand on my own feet in a time that was turning into a pressure cooker. My work environment that was once a carefree Caribbean workplace started to grow and fill with corporate US employees whose work ethics were more demanding rather than cooperative. Being non-confrontational, I retreated rather than stood up and let the dissatisfaction pile up. And when the tide shifts everything shifts with it, my favourite cousin died, leaving 2 small children behind, my work schedule kept me pinned to the island and unable to attend the funeral which caused a rift of family politics that cascaded down. My sister, in a complete shock to all, gave birth to a Down Syndrome baby, again, I was tied to obligations but her world was falling apart there as was my mother’s. Holding the glue together was becoming more difficult but as BPD tend to do when we can’t face the pain, we bury our head in the ground and hope the pain will subside. That it did not, my pressure cooker continued to grow with a boyfriend with a volatile temper, opposite to my cringing fear of anger and confrontation against me, sending me spiralling downwards into a sense of where else was there to go but to find the bottles of solace and take them, which I did, huddled in the bathroom stall, pouring pills as fast as I could down my throat, hearing my boyfriend rage outside, and praying they would put me to sleep sooner than he would enter the room.

What happened next is as expected, i awoke to find myself, stomach pumped in the hospital, alive and unhappy and as far away from a support system as I could be. No psychiatrist, no psychologist, no friends I trusted with my secret and no family in a country that did not quite understand suicide with nurses that would pass my bedside to console me with the fact that they were going home to pray for my soul.

In 10 days I was released to the only person who knew, my boyfriend, but at this point I had broken down and told a close friend the truth of my hospital visit and asked if I could come stay with them through my recovery. Much to my fear of rejection and abandonment, this sent her into a tailspin, not many people can comprehend an act of suicide and she took the guilt of not seeing it hard and from that point on, though I stayed with them, the strain took over her, and I knew, once I left the friendship was over.  

2 days after leaving the hospital, to which I had explained to work I had had a nervous breakdown, they fired me.

I was not sure how much lower I could fall and spent my days drugged and stayed hidden in my dark room, waiting for day to end, night to come and day to end again till my hospitality came to a limit. I was referred to a local psychiatrist who was unfamiliar with BPD, and though the intention may have been there, we did not click and I never felt she made the effort to at show me she cared. And again, the only person I had, regardless of whether I wanted to be with him, was my boyfriend, my sole lifeline. I move into his apartment in a hole of misery, and as I know now, with no tools to bring myself out, lying on the tile floors during the day doing nothing but watching re-runs of The Kardashians and dreading the return of anyone or thing to break my trance.

Somewhere in there, I knew I had to leave and find help, and through some good friends here in Canada who stuck by me on the phone, I booked a flight out with nothing but clothes I could throw into a suitcase. I don’t remember who knew or didn’t, I put on my mask of independence and tried to muster on but with enough sense to re-connect with my psychiatrist and psychologist to lay a path forward. I hate the city I live in, it’s cold, insular with non of the warmth and friendliness of the Caribbean, a clique of people who think they are the nicest people on earth. Canadian Stepford wives.

I wasn’t sure where to start. I have a love-hate with my mother, she loves me to death and I her but she is a glass half full individual who does not handle crisis, who is passive aggressive. I never told her about the suicide attempt. Not the best mesh for a BPD. I was running out of savings fast, it had been months of no work and slow rehabilitation. I still had my boyfriend, if I could call it that at that point. I had very few links and though this was toxic, I could not let go and be alone as yet. I hadn’t told the full story to anyone but a few friends (2) and doctors. But I hated the Skype calls with him and dreaded the phone calls which should have been a glaring clue but I could not cut the cord, virtual as it was, and escalated my toxicity.

Some of my events after this I lose timeline. With my psychologist and psychiatrist we made a plan to move forward and make a base and home here. I was still unemployed but I had a goal, something to reach for, I wanted to make it, to show myself I could create happiness in a town I hated, but I would do this for family, to be with them, to love them. My light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s not till you look backwards, hindsight is 20/20 that you see the ripples that lie under the calm. I made many changes, I moved into a new place, my storage company lost half my belongings to which I had no repercussions not having taken out any insurance. In the time I was away my ex-husband had found himself a new, young, but rather insecure new wife who was no threat to me from that angle but was with my children as she had a new-found joy to be Martha Stewart and the perfect mother to my children. This meant subversive means of cutting me out of school activities and the usual tactics played by women that I have no time or energy for but which required energy. I also needed a job but with the emotional toll of the last few months, it was clear that a high pressure job as I once had was not going to sustain my health, i had to back down if I wanted to put my health and family first.

I went from being Director of Operations making $130,000 a year tax free to being an Executive Assistant making $45,000 less taxes. It was a horrible change mentally and psychologically, a failure. My world was moving backwards not forwards but I rallied myself that my health meant my family. 

I suffered through several episodes through this time, many panic attacks that took me to the hospital convinced I could not breathe.

My mania blew up, the only way I knew to hide was to distract myself, be out, be happy, be consumed or the alternative was to sink.

I found the nerve to leave the boyfriend but it was a hard fought leaving, guilt remained that he had saved my life, and with survivor’s guilt, I know now I wasn’t wrong, I felt like a horrible human being doing it. He came up at Christmas time and it was a comedy of horrors, uncomfortable and filled with spaces of silence and guilt. We tried to take a mini holiday to a ski town for a few days and he spent the days sleeping on the living room floor because I couldn’t bear to be touched. It was the the end which I confirmed by phone shortly after he left.

Life took on a bit of a manic momentum at this point, doctors, kids, work, and going out. I didn’t know what to do with myself. I wasn’t sure if I was happy or who I was or why I was. Things did coalesce as my therapy went on, i went back to yoga and found calm, my children brought joy, work was boring but calm, I had a place to love I liked and i met an incredibly nice man to spend time with. 

Calm before the storm? Outside was fine, I did everything I was supposed to do but inside it I was still that stone cold pit, that morass of pain and voices that I kept shutting out and pushing through. If I stayed busy enough, I could handle the noise in my head and the pain in my gut, the throbbing that never went away. I was living wasn’t I? Doing everything I was supposed to.

I had to face reality that I had run away from the Caribbean to find healthcare here but I had left in a lurch, bank accounts still open, mail boxes, clothes, like I had disappeared into thin air without telling a soul. I needed to go back and close up, finish. I wasn’t ready and now almost 3 years later I still am not. The demons launched the minute I stepped off the plane, I felt like an outsider with the world gossiping about me. You can’t try and kill yourself in a town of 5000 people and not expect everyone to know in 24 hours. Things started out bad from the get go, a friend that was supposed to pick me up from the airport, never showed up due to boat issues, but was never able to tell me, so I waited for 3 hours before making my way across island to try and island hop 2 more islands by ferry to get “home”. I was exhausted and I was still embarrassed and not ready to talk about what happened, I wanted in and out and then I ran into my ex. The shock, the confrontation, the tiredness, my mind shut down and disassociation sank in. It felt like being slammed into a brick wall with no air in my lungs and all my mind could do was split and shut down from the accusations, the tones and all else that came afterwards.

I did what I had to do and I carried on, saw friends, went out on boats, went mildly manic, packed up my things and left, again, just pushing the pain away and living with insidious moods that threatened from every angle to bring me to my knees.

And that it did, I came back to a new hostile worker at my job that took all my fortitude to hold strong but then cry in the bathrooms, the new man I dated found out about my ex and threw me into a tailspin, how do you explain something you yourself cannot explain, money issues started to surface, all the debt I incurred unable to work and paying for medical bills could not sustain with life on an assistant’s salary, the pressure with the new wife and then my ex husband threatening to move our children to a new town, and all the voices in my head knew they had won.

They brought me further than my knees. i cried for 3 days the pain was excruciating, i crawled across the floor of my apartment and writhed from the voices that threatened to splinter me into pieces, voices that talked me into death. I cut myself to alleviate the pain and then cut some more. The fact that I had lost so much control to jeopardize a life I had just started gave fuel to more guilt. I still remember being on the wooden floor in the dark, letting the negativity play a song through my body as I watched from some other place far far away. My mind and body no longer belonged to me, possessed is a new word I have started using and my BPD had possessed me, I was ready to say, take me, you’re right, I am worthless. I lay all the pills on the bed, not believing, I again had come to this juncture of no escape. I had ruined yet another chance at life. My phone kept ringing and it was H, the new man I had started dating, someone I knew there could be a future with that my disease was never going to allow. He had rained guilt on me for my trip and lack of control in the BVI, and my words were useless against his rage, how does one explain your inability to control your mind, he had every right and I stood the abuse, though I begged and cried.

I did not end up taking the pills that night, H gave me a glimmer of maybe there was a chance we could re-build and my children’s faces swam in front me and what would it be like to know your mother had committed suicide. There they all were, my magic bright pills, promising peace and the world outside promising nothing but a will to live and survive. My psychologist pulled through and went above and beyond for me here and I am eternally grateful, I am sure she saved me.

I become fuzzy at the point but I came to a better place, with big changes, again that needed to happen. I couldn’t afford my place and moved in with my mother. H helped me into a 6 month DBT program and I maintained my yoga and the monthly therapy. Life began a rhythm it hadn’t had, I was content and the ability to connect with other DBT sufferers gave me  a feeling of finally belonging somewhere where people understood me. I re-learned new tools and picked up fresh new ones to use, and they worked. The children were doing fabulous, H and I were too and work was ticking along. My episode times stretched, i was able to crack the whip with the demons in my head and keep them manageable. Don’t get me wrong there were still episodes and triggers, I was just able to circumvent some and mitigate others and of course go through some. But they were manageable. I think I can say it was a pretty decent year.

But all good things come to an end, I stopped working and went on EI. Something i never thought I would see myself at the point of, I was a career person!! Successful!  My husband took the liberty of moving to a different city and then moving the children out of school which prompted my moving to a new city, which didn’t seem so bad (but change is bad for BPD, I keep forgetting that), my finances got worse from little work though I did pick up contract work that kept me going. A few months ago I was given disability by the government realizing that I was handicapped mentally. I moved out my my mother’s and was able to find a great little place that feels like home but far away from everyone I know, but the kids. Moving, threw an unknown to me, wrench into things, it disrupted a lifestyle, my exercise stopped, due to funds all my therapy stopped, I didn’t take the breaks I needed, or when I thought I did they weren’t breaks but stress vacations. My children started to grow up and become teenagers and not need me anymore. Pressure started to mount on large responsibilities and then little things grew, kids got sick, Xmas came around the corner, work got behind, and my kettle was screaming on the stove in my head. I should have seen the signs, regular headaches, pain in my body, bad sleep even with drugs, my jaw locked up from stress. 

You read this thinking I am an idiot and I think same. I was devolving and not acknowledging it. H told me one night during an argument that my job in the relationship was to be happy and not burden him with my little humdrum issues. So, I shut up as much as I could, I started bleeding though it wasn’t time for me period. I locked down and I spoke to no one. I couldn’t afford psychology anymore and my doctor was on vacation.

Breaking point was coming. Christmas with not a lot of money is never a fun time. H took me away to a spa for New Year’s which was happiness beyond happiness, it blocked out everything, my mind was able to go blank, though all the pain still moved within me, I had gotten used to bearing it and just smiling. Then the catalyst came, the prick to the balloon. All the layers that had piled up, the drug addicts inside of me, waiting for this moment, got there fix. Over dinner, H made a small minuscule but damning comment about my time in the BVI and that I had essentially “asked for it” and the walls, all the walls crumbled in a tsunami and him not knowing what to do reacted in the way most people don’t know what to do, I was over reacting, I needed to get over it, and he shut down, which threw me into the morass of pain so strong I could have birthed demons, and looking at his stone cold face, I had no where to go but back to the knife which I did, this time deeper and harder than I had ever done and though I was horrified at first, it felt like a rush of opiates coming to me watching the blood pour out. But this time, it wasn’t enough. H had shut down and decided i was a lost case so I wrapped myself up with whatever semblance of sanity was left and took myself to the  hospital to get stitched up before i bled out, not before having thoughts of slicing the other wrist too. 

We rode home in deathly silence the next day and that calm, that scary calm came over me, the one where you know with all certainty that you are done. I mentally went through every loved one and realized they could all live without me, and for the first time, I realized the children could do. There was nothing left, nothing. Why was I running the rat race, hamster wheel, working through this torture everyone never saw and discounted. Clarity was a shining light, this time, I could die, happily. H still maintained his stony silence of anger that I had caused him no sleep and ruined our holiday which even that guilt couldn’t penetrate, I was going to go, none of this mattered anymore, NONE OF IT. We had 4 hours to drive and I put all my finances and my will into place in my head. I planned everything down to a science, to what I would eat, drink, wear and even smell like. It was beauteous, this was good bye and it was clean and organized.

I left H’s place and sat in my car for 2 hours writing out my will. Therein lay my mistake and as I have now learned, do not send your will till after you die and do not leave your cell phone on when people are looking for you. I was headed home, this time even taking calls from people who knew what was to happen, it was my way of saying good bye and hearing their voices, nothing was clearer to me and I knew no matter what they said I had my plan.

The next part I will gloss through, the police alerted by my sister, pinged my phone, found me and took me to the ER where H had the audacity to show up after all his talk about my being a burden, I could have punched him. The last place I wanted to be was stuck back in a hospital relegated to the psych ward that still looked like a place out of the 70s. And the irony, all my family knew that I would rather die than be placed there.

Fast forward 3 days and I am home now, home being my mother’s house watched like 2 year old, this was after 2 previous days being watched by H. To my benefit the hospital had no beds so they had no choice but to let me go. 

How do I feel? Angry primarily. My choice that was thwarted by others. They say abortion is your choice, I believe in that. Death should be your own choice too. You can put your baby to death but not yourself, come on, buck up. Selfish that no one has yet taken the time to really learn how hard it is to live with BPD. Everyone swears to be my support but they know nothing and I still see the incredulity on faces. You like fine… if you like fine, how can their be any pain? Can they think how much pain it must take for me to want to die to end it? If you don’t want to be involved, go away, don’t pretend to care, call the police and then go on with your merry lives not knowing that you have now forced me to climb an unimaginably painful road back up so I can live for your conscience. Fuck you.

Abandonment and rejection, our hallmarks, the golden hallows of BPD. Did I see my family at the hospital. no. Did I see my family at home, no. I move to my mum’s house and my sister says she cant see me because she’s going to Tae Kwon Do and then to the airport. Oh ok, I don’t feel rejected and abandoned at all, let me see, you called the police, you did your job and now your life can go on and I can go fuck myself. I don’t need sympathy and guilt, you want to help, help. Pick up a book and find out you just rejected and abandoned the suicidal bitch you saved.

 Right, so where am I now? At a juncture than can go either way. I haven’t found my light yet, my will to be. Since I am alive, though guarded 24/7, the laughable thing is I still need to work and pretend to go on, because, well, you brought me back to reality and reality means survival regardless of whether you wanted to whack yourself. Fun, just what I wanted, to go back to what i was, even more ill equipped and in even more pain.

I think with the right positivity and light i will move forward but I also know a few wrong moves and triggers and I will give up. There’s not a lot of hope left in this body and there are a lot of demons. The scale is tipped precariously towards more bad than good.

As of today, 6:25am, Wednesday, Jan 8, this is my story.

{January 6, 2014}   Running to Survive

i can’t breathe, I physically feel like I cannot breathe, that the air has been sucked out of my lungs leaving a tinny hollow remnant of me thats struggling to breathe. I want to strike rivulets of cuts down my arm, just to feel pain instead of this thumping, gnawing clawing inside of me. Slash and keep slashing till it’s gone, all gone and all that is left is blood and peace, wet, messy and so so calm. 

Im locked in a battle I am not sure who’s fighting, am I part of the fight? Logic versus emotion versus me?I see flashes of normalcy, like riding a bike, its automatic, typing on this computer, working and then I feel hate, hate that I am back here, pretending this normalcy because I am screaming inside, that I hate myself for being here. So I take another go, close my eyes, shove the pain down a bit lower into my stomach, do something inane and emotion says to me, you’re an idiot, you’re hating every minute of this, logic says this is what I should do. Should do for who?? Me? Is this where I come in? 

What do I want? Do I even count in this game, surely we all know I am not in control of this mind. Me just wants it all wiped away, blank, happy, just all of you, go away, let me pretend the world does not exist since you wouldn’t let me die. You’re forcing me to live life, by putting me back in reality, i have to be reality and reality is pain, it’s pain each step of going forward into a life I don’t want, making someone sky dive who’s scared of heights, who’s screaming to be let go but forced forward. You’ll be fine when you get through it, yes, physically I will be fine, mentally, you’re hurting me.

The phantoms pass in and out of my body, I can feel them, sense them come and go. The discomfort in my skin, the curling of my toes, the clenching of my fists and my urge to hit out to make it leave. People think being possessed is a joke, a drama for TV, a little blood curdling screaming, exorcised with holy water and an insane priest wielding a cross. Maybe this is why they started to do that, if I lived that long ago I’d be considered possessed and now be chained to a bed watching spittle come through some holy man’s mouth onto me skin. 

It feels like being pulled in 4 directions, life that is you, emotion mind, logical mind, and then me. my head splinters with cacophony from all sides, a conference call of hate with no moderator. logic mind takes a step forward to be unhinged by emotion then crippled by me and forced on by you, and repeat and repeat and repeat. I am breaking, into tiny pieces of wholly separate parts, none wanting to go in the same direction… yes there is one direction we can all agree upon, if we sleep forever, we will all be silenced and we will no longer wound, harm, hurt, fight and struggle to survive.

How do you convey this, the rest of the world seems so trivial when the answer is being held forward on a golden platter. Die and it will all end, you’ll be happy.

Here I sit, making decisions on what to eat, how to work, what to pay, who to see, who to make happy that I’m not dead  and I want to say FUCK OFF, how trivial is this shit, do you think I took death lightly and now I’m washing dishes and folding clothes?

WHY? People keep asking how I’m feeling, I feel the above, I feel like Ive been mortally maimed to the point of death and not allowed to die. Placing bandages on the wounds, some moments it feels ok, other moments euthanize me, sometimes maybe I can live. 

Back to my hamster wheel of non existence. Keep running dear, we know you’re tired but keep running, we like watching you in your cage. I should be happy I am alive, I get treats, food, affection and then I go back to running, keep running to survive.



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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