“Those suffering with borderline personality disorder (BPD) have a proclivity for unstable interpersonal relationships. They also …frequently undermine their significant others. An unstable sense of self is characteristic of the disorder…
One study found that those with BPD have a distorted sense of social norms, which impacts their ability to trust or cooperate. When something goes wrong in their relationships, they do not respond in a manner that would repair the damage. By doing so, they limit others from being able to fully cooperate in return.
Frequently these individuals are unable to focus on the feelings of others because their own emotional pain is too great an obstacle. Research has evidenced that women diagnosed with BPD display problematic… patterns of unstable love relationships.”
The truth when it stares you straight through the heart, hurts, hurts down to the hollow of the cavity of your bones, the unrelenting ache in the chest, to the point where pain has left and there is nothing. Nothing can’t be relieved with cuts, with blood, with external flagellation, because it is nothing, you are nothing to hurt. Try as you might, it’s blank, there’s not much of you left to care about, what you even cared about to begin with.
Truth, when you see yourself laid out in someone’s eyes for what you are, what can you do. Truth is honesty and you cannot fault someone for honesty. You want honesty and you need to respect honesty, and as the teach in class, accept and do not judge what someone feels. Of course it feels like you’ve been sliced open and then sliced again to hear that all you are capable of creating for someone is unhappiness and discontent. 4 years and of course I am never going to be able to be what is needed to sustain, if I can’t be that in 4 years, 5, 6, or 7 will not make a difference.
Why is it that I keep thinking that I can sustain a relationship, history is more black and white than my black and white and research is written in black and white. Google “relationships and the borderline” and it’s stark. We breed a nucleus of discontent by how we are and what we are, and like truth, it is not blame or guilt, it’s fact, this is what we are, unstable, chaotic, and an inherent inability to feel properly. We can barely manage ourselves, all the many selves and many voices, how can we manage the outside when we spend 60% of our time managing the inside.
Maybe, for the first time, I have done the right thing, I listened and I heard and I acted with regard not for me but for someone else to be happy. I struggle to find happy, what I think it is, and what arrogance makes me think I can give happiness if I can’t find it for myself.
My eyes and bones ache listening to the words over and over again. The names make me tear up, am I a bitch? Have I ever been called that, it felt like a punch, slap and a kick in the stomach all at once, and the air in my lungs stopped. And once someone has that opinion of you can they turn back around. If my feelings had degenerated that low and someone had acted so badly to warrant that treatment from me, they likely deserved that opinion. Fucking bitch, how awful must I be? Awful, I must be awful.
There was so much revulsion, spittle was flying and that was hate in the eyes. I think for a moment there he hated what I had brought to his life. That no matter what he did, I couldn’t bring happiness. I am incapable, I don’t know how to be better.
I wish I wasn’t trapped. Trapped by children that I love. Trapped to be here for them. Trapped that I can’t just leave this world. I want to be put in a hospice to die. Give me a heart attack, kill me so I don’t have to kill me. Give me a way out without suicide. I don’t want to be here, I serve no useful purpose and I take up space that I don’t even want. If there is a God, why won’t you let me die?I don’t want to go through all this, I am a coward, I don’t want life, I don’t see this as a gift, give it to someone who wants to live, who deserves it. So many people that want to live, that want to survive, that want to beat illness and handicaps, give them mine. FUCK YOU GOD, no wonder I don’t believe in you.
I’ve been looking over the balcony lately, it would be so easy and so quick. But not this balcony and maybe not even floor 12, it needs to be high enough that it would be fatal. The pills they leave to much time, for me, for everyone else. I researched hanging, did you know, that most hanging victims die not from asphyxiation but from their neck being broken? Fun trivia fact. And, when you are hung, your tongue sticks out and turns black, the movies don’t get it right, they make it seem so clean.
It’s going to be a long night. Not of any sorrow as i still can’t feel anything but the whistling in my ears and the numbness in my skin but i know bed will bring nightmares and sweats worse than the tiredness of staying awake.
Numb, at least I have come to numb because the show must go on. Day 1/90.