If only death could come so easy, so softly and silently. I don’t think pills work, they take too long, and are effective in 22% of cases. The ratio sux if you want to die and not see all the faces of people who think they care standing by your bed with sad aghast faces, snivelling of why you would do that. Yes, you are there then, where are you now. I know where you are now, thinking I am fine, having a bed day, I will get over it. I don’t need you when I’m in the hospital bed, maybe I don’t need you at all, all you make me do is live this cycle over and over again. Save me, pander me, pat me, hope you’ve fixed me. Then get mad at me, when low and behold, I’m still that sick twisted person inside with the pain and the hurt and the rage that threatens to swallow me, everyday, or have you forgotten, I am still that mess you want to forget exists.


I read many sites today, the quickest, easiest and least messy way to die is with carbon monoxide, except you need an old car, all the new cars with emission parameters take much longer, and my hybrid for sure would take forever, in which case I could read a book and then slumber into oblivion.

Next, slit your wrists, get into a nice hot bath and let life flow out of you blissfully. As long as someone finds you relatively quick you wont be a smelly rotten corpse. It could be art, you could do your hair and make up first and wear a pretty white flowing dress. Just can’t cry or you’d ruin the canvas with mascara smudges and puffy eyes.

Hanging is so ugly but kids do it all the time so how hard could it be?

I’d like to run my road off the cliff, I drive by enough, but I have the fear of not dying being a paraplegic and having more pity eyes on me. Of course, now you’d have no choice but to acknowledge that I am never getting well. You’d have to pander to me, soft pedal, spoon feed but maybe the harsh words would stop and guilt would be reversed, instead of my feeling guilty for being inferior you can feel guilty that I am now in all ways, inferior.

Death, I hear you, your puppeteer and I have some unfinished business this weekend. We’re playing with pain. Running through the fields of loathing. Revelling in being alone and twisted and anguished with no one no one no one to make us feel bad, for being bad, for acting bad, for wanting death.





{April 4, 2014}   Hello Again Old Friend

Crackling and silence… its an unearthly air that starts to surround me as my normal air dissipates ¬†leaving in me a vacuum of loud silence. The hum seems so far away in the recesses of my ears, humming, thrumming, and everything begins to recede inwards, myopic, blinking slowly from a fishbowl. This tension, vibration of my skin as it begins to separate from me, body and soul becoming distinct and alien to one another. Eyes trapped in a body watching, senses, feeling, control not existing. The emptiness is a pounding drum, echoing through the cavities in my body, lights turning on and off. Possession, hello again my old friend. I laid the red carpet out for you, primed my mind to breaking point so you could come in, tired my soul so the doors opened and locked out the world so we could be alone. I want to hate you but I’d rather you took control because I am tired and the devil you know is so much easier than the devils that don’t believe you.


It is the same line rung over and over again, excruciatingly slow on that rotary line, if you don’t look sick, you aren’t and everyone goes back to their norms, including me and you. Hello old friend. Do you want me, take me away, give me that break, understand me. Understand me like no one can, and you love me, love my weaknesses, my fallacies, my faults, my pain. You are truly the only one who loves me in my worst moments, when everyone else closes the door on this illness.

I want to go back into the hospital again, ¬†where confined to a bed and that mental gown, people believe me. Not soft pedal me, not guilt me for being me, not blame me for me, not want me to be something I am not, which is well. I am not well, I am a good sick person, I take my meds, I fight the fight, but I am not immune, its not a vaccine, it’s me trying.

And I have been trying harder than I ever have to only be where… back where we were 6 months ago. Where I was. Surfing websites on the best ways to die. Considering it, thinking it, scared of it, relishing it. I want the noise and the expectations to stop. I am so tired, working to keep this being that’s me safe, safe for you, not safe for me because I could toss this carcass off a bridge today.

Hello again old friend, I am glad you have come to me again. What games we have to play, before you send me away. Our little world, of demons, whores and horrors. Darkness and misery, blood and travesty. Pick up the toys, all sharp and sweet, waiting for the painful pricks.

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


The secret life of high-functioning borderline personality disorder.

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