borderlinegirlliveshere











{May 15, 2016}   A Sigh of Words

Writing, this writing. It’s my saviour, my therapy, my friend in need. I’ve always loved writing, and I seem to turn this way when nothing else can relieve the pressure, each keystroke unknotting a tangle, rubbing a balm on a wound. A sigh of words.

I don’t sleep much anymore. Without alcohol I am in a constant hangover, a throb constant at the base of my skull, an unrelenting tension in my neck and a persistent pain down my left arm. Maybe I should drink, at least I would feel like I got something for this noose of discomfort. 5:30am, I don’t even need to open my eyes to know it’s far too early to be up, thinking. So I write, meditate or make it to yoga, self soothing.

I cannot eat. It’s not uncommon for me. When I am troubled. I cannot eat. It’s not that I don’t want to eat, I cannot physically put food to my mouth. Most people eat their way through things, nibble their way through pain and boredom. Right now, I eat because I know I have to. I am trying myself on a pre made food delivery next week, it is one way I can think of to make myself eat. 7 smoothies to drink in a day, no need to think about anything, make anything, and still make sure I am getting enough nutrients to work and be a mother. Left to my own devices I couldn’t really care less about eating right now, let alone shopping or cooking. One could say this may be why I have the constant hangover from above.I am not OK

It’s only been a few weeks, this too shall pass. Life will move on, projects will come up, new people will cross paths, new loves will form, and new futures will bloom. We have all been here in some capacity or another. I just want to hit fast forward, hold that button down and make time fly. I don’t want to mire in this, why grieve someone that didn’t want you enough to make things work, it seems ridiculous to me.

adoptionThe best analogy is the foster child being picked up from the foster home, not wanted anymore. He’s thinking what was it about him that couldn’t fit in this family, why did they not want him, what’s wrong that they couldn’t make space for him. And I want to say to that inner child, it’s not you, you’re perfect and beautiful, this was not the right hole for you, don’t want them if they didn’t want you, someone else will want you and open their home up to you who truly loves you enough to make that change. Be patient and in the meanwhile, love yourself because that is all that matters. Don’t grieve a family that could not see your beauty.

 

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{May 14, 2016}   Rome

I try not to cry. Then moments, simple moments, happen, where I sit still, and the tears just fall of their own accord. Not even stirred by a thought, but perhaps just the act of being, of being still, gives permission for the walls to come down for a moment, to have a moment of frailty.

I am not frail, I know this.  I’ve been to further depths of despair and unhappiness than most could even dream of bearing and I have borne them. However, I feel cheated by these moments. By these tears. I vacillate between yin and yang, of wanting to burn myself out so I am too tired to feel and in the same token wanting to stand still so feelings can burn through me.

I didn’t want to love someone and not have them love me the same. I didn’t want to love someone who didn’t love me enough to make change. I don’t want to hurt because I loved genuinely. I don’t want to feel sad for myself. I am angry with myself. I don’t want to miss someone who didn’t care enough and I feel betrayed by myself. So I push and I push each day so I can obliterate thought, but the smile doesn’t ever quite reach the eyes and the lips never make complete a smile. This makes me frustrated. I don’t want to be this way.

I’ve been told to do many things. Exercise, form a girl tribe, start dating, work harder, travel, join Tinder, take up a hobby and the list is endless. I truly just want to curl up in bed and let the pain wash over me with as much time as it needs and be done with it. Hurt me till you can hurt no more and leave me. But that, is weakness, it’ll beat me hollow with memories, feelings, sounds, smells of the past, and then anger will kick in with fists and blows. Because, I say to myself, I made the mistake to love without honouring myself and standing up for what I needed.

And I want to say damn it, I put myself here, of my own accord, I didn’t stand up when I should have and I didn’t leave when I should have. I kept trying and eroding and morphing into a person I started to despise, because my roots and foundation were being neglected. I poisoned myself, I know, have known, honour what you need and if someone cannot honour that, you move away, not try and force the situation. I tried to force my needs, water from a stone, put a square peg into a round hole, or actually no hole, there was no hole for me, not even for that damn flag. Rome was already built, Caesar ran the palace. Cleopatra, she left. To create her own special, with Mark Anthony who loved her for she she was and what she needed. She’s not crying.

 



{May 12, 2016}   Parasite

Pain can be disgusting, its parasitic in its ability to breed and grow within you, spreading like mould into your lifestream, into your thoughts and emotions. Empty and soundless, you wake up day after day with an ache that blossoms and migrates further into places you never knew could feel. I felt my heart crack, with weeds of shame curling sinuously around the beating organ , with embarrassment combing tendrils through the chinks, with the air slowly, slowly escaping. It feels like my lungs are caving inwards, falling into the ocean like an iceberg melting, huge shards, slipping down and away, exploding into the waves and disappearing. I am disappearing, crumpling, wasting. Pain, like I am nothing but a hollow vessel of shame and remorse, with parasites laughing & crawling through my skin, begging to be set on fire, so I may, like the phoenix rise once again from the ashes.

carrionLike a carrion, beetles infesting, hyenas watching hungrily by for the fall of Rome. I can see the remnants of my carcass being picked free, I can imagine every last visual reminder of me is slowly being hunted out, rooted out and stacked, ready to be picked up or given away, because it never belonged. Must be like a game to find what was mine, where it did not belong, flush it out and banish it, waiting for another walk of shame to pick up the leftovers polluting the sacred space. Maybe its better to just throw it away, never have to face the insignificance of my existence within that world again.

I am sure it’s beautiful now, perfect, that’s what makes happiness. Because the perfect hqdefaultshow was all that was ever wanted. At the cost of love, of happiness, of companionship. Not a blemish in site. Not a parasite visible. No carrions or interlopers remain.  I see the landscape, soundless in its sterility, its perfection. The show must go on. Must be Nirvana, I’d never know, never welcomed into the inner sanctum, not perfect enough to be given a fit into perfection A blemish. One you could cover up, push aside, hide away but never remove unless you burst it, spilled it out like a parasite and threw it away.

 



{May 7, 2016}   Interloper

I stood on the threshold, lashes fluttering like butterflies, held upwards to hold the dam of tears forming and building behind the emotions curling and curdling in my soul. My chest cracking from the breath that could not be found, tightened and pinched as the compressions of emotions trolled across my ribs. Sometimes you cannot fight emotion, it opens from the heavens and spears you in its beam of light, so strong you gasp for air and your eyes water from the pain.heavens

What I thought was sorrow was not. I thought I was sad, sad that I was stepping away from something special. But as I dug through the pain and forced myself to part the seas of hurt, anger came. The truth was there was not much special. Special means you leave a mark, a sign, a symbol, maybe a legacy to remind people that you meant something, that like the man on the moon, your flag continues to wave in your absence. I had no flag.

flagMy sum total of existence in what I thought was a home, was relieved of its burden in a mere blink of time. My entire existence, packed neatly and gone in less time than it would take to make that perfect bed. After over a year, my mark was indelible, it was as if I was never there, wiped, erased so quickly, because, as anger pointed out to me, I was never there, never made a mark, never given a seed to sow. I was the interloper. Poaching space and time where allowed, like a scavenger, accepting the bits that were thrown and retreating to the space given.

So anger did come and shame followed close, like lightning to thunder. I was indelible, my physical mark no more than a pencil smudge wiped away. The smudge of myself I wiped away as I carried my belongings as quietly away as they came, as unseen as they always were.

shameShame, my friend, that I allowed my worth to be less than a piece of furniture, a closet, an empty room. That I begged for space, for that mark, for my flag. Waiting in shadows to be promoted above the worth of a physical space, of material objects, of vanity, of aesthetics, that my feelings would be worth more than the image of perfection and order. They were not and the heavens parted and the light shone down with shame. Naked, humility.

And I wondered, thundered, where did I let my self-worth go. As my chest cracked and the dam of tears built. As I stood on the threshold, with my indelible belongings, piteous enough to be compiled in 30 minutes of an hour, fractious enough to fit into a boot of a car. My entire physical worth did not weigh up to the cost of a room and a couch.
But its my worth and I take it back, it may not be anyone else’s treasure but mine, may hold no value, but it’s mine, and it may shame you in your space but it’s mine. So there is no need to guard your space,  because the interloper is gone, not even a hole for a flag remains, not even a whisper of shame.

 



et cetera
Life after BPD

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

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The secret life of high-functioning borderline personality disorder.

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