{September 20, 2015}   How You Learn to Live Alone

First you fall, then you fly
and you believe that you belong
up in the sky.
Flap your arms, as you run,
every revolution brings you closer to the sun.
You fall asleep in motion, in unchartered
and you wake up with the stars
fallin’ down around your ears.
And when they hit the ground,
they’re nothin’ but stones
that’s how you learn to live alone.
That’s how you learn to live alone.

Bit by bit, you slip away,
you lose yourself in pieces
by the things that you don’t say.
You’re not here, but you’re still there
The sun goes up and the sun goes down,
but you’re not sure you care.
You live inside the false,
till you recognize the truth.
People send you pictures,
but you can’t believe it’s you.
Seems forever since your house
has felt like home
that’s how you learn to live alone
that’s how you learn to live alone.

It don’t feel right, but it’s not wrong.
It’s just hard to start again this far along.
Brick by brick, the letting go,
as you walk away from everything you know
When you release resistance
and you lean into the wind,
till the roof begins to crumble,
and the rain comes pourin’ in,
And you sit there in the rubble,
till the rubble feels like home
That’s how you learn to live alone
that’s how you learn to live alone
that’s how you learn to live alone

Learn to live alone

Read more: Nashville Cast – How You Learn To Live Alone Lyrics | MetroLyrics


Moods. dysregulation, like pleasantly drowning in quick sand, the sensation leaches into you, like that slow pin prick into a vein. You feel that warmth, blanketing like mugginess on a hot day, steaming and settling onto your skin, the poison, velvety caressing into your veins, drawing you down. Each breathe is a sinking , languid melt you don’t want to fight off, it’s easy to slide into that comfort of turning off the pain, the triggers, the hurt, the chaos. Each breath deeper into the warm mud, closing in, safe, terrifyingly safe. Depression is a womb, it comforts and envelopes, seals you off into a space where you’re suspended in hurt and sorrow, all you know, timeless, un-seeing. There is no up or down, around, sights, smells, all you feel is hurt, bone deep hurt, everywhere, out your eyes, in your skin. You’re meant to fight this, don’t sink into the warm cocoon of the sand, don’t slide into the mucus of the womb, because once in, you’re trapped, coming out is a labyrinth of emotions, and days of recovery.

But how to elude the crumbs of safety, come in and we will make you safe, warm, turn off that outside world, to hell with working through all the pain, let it welcome you, let’s revel in it, become it, and lose oneself in it.

I know I don’t want this but I am just too tired to fight all the triggers, they’re all around and I am tired. Each one seems bigger than the next though infinitesimally smaller, crashing in never ending waves and I’m drowning, can I not just drown?  I am tired of swimming, I am tired, and I am tired of people and their pokes and prods, tired of smiling, tired of trying to be me, the smiling me.

So easy to let go, so much easier to find that hole and crawl in, womb, wave, sand, take me to nothingness. Instead, put the training on, the hard hat and back to fighting, fighting all the demons that come within it, inviting me down down down to their opulent palace of oblivion and panacea of anaesthesia.

I will win the fight, again, as always. In the meanwhile, let’s face the pain. Pray its sticks and stones and not knives and bloods.

{May 13, 2015}   Springing Forward

5 months in to the new year and change is in the air, like Spring, there is a sense that there may be a sense of renewal. I get scared to write things down, positive things, like in some way I may jinx it by saying it loud. That there is an almighty evil residing not only inside of me but around the corner that senses positivity and will come down with a mighty roar of Thor’s hammer. It’s been 5 months of step by step, eyes to the ground, one foot in font of the other. I did things for myself, i went away, i took a good girlfriend and got to know her better, i lived in the moment in my happy place, and it’s made a difference. In my low times, i bring up that trip, the sun, the freedom, the immense sense of joy of being somewhere i love and it’s carried me through some hard welling of emotion that have stopped me in my tracks the last couple of months.

It’s been a jigsaw, 1000s of pieces slowly fitting together, many times not fitting and coming back to try again. My emotions are very strong now since I stopped my medication but I am stronger for having the control. I can 95% of the time feel the trigger impulse and squash if not deflect, or realize when i need to duck and hide, retreat.


There’s been a village of assistance with my psychiatrist back from maternity leave. I was scared to tell her that i cold turkey stopped my medications because I needed to work through the pain of separation, feel it, hurt through it and beat the BPD bastard so I knew I could live through not just this break up but any others to come, that I had the strength, in me, and just me, no medications, no fall backs. Hallelujah to her for understanding and supporting me and truly if she was around I may not have done it, but now that I have I’m a poster child. My counsellor has been a Godsend, a true godsend. My life is an open book in counselling and in class, i live through a village of guidance, nothing is sacred. I’d rather have it all out there and let’s help me live all together, because that is the point, for me to live, no matter what it takes.

Class gives me perspective in pain, that we all sit in there suffering through this pain of mental health. I am so honoured to be with people who are fighting just as hard with just as much stigma as I face. Judgement, it’s there all the time, from people you work with, unwitting friends, boyfriends, friends, exes. Like my life is a game, that somehow they have a right to weigh in with judgement or comments or think they know. It’s when I sit in class and hear the stories that I realize I am not alone, others face the same judgements and stigmas from loved ones and strangers alike and it gives me the push to ignore the people who want to derail and push my triggers. Don’t judge me unless you are me, I can’t even begin to think I can understand a fellow BPD pain but I can contextualize it far more than anyone else can.

I still struggle and tomorrow is still a scary place, as is next week, next month. There is never a sense of security, i feel the bottom could drop out at anytime. Small steps, forward. At least I know where bottom is and if I have pockets of up, I should enjoy them no matter what as my counsellor says, let myself revel in it for as long as I can.

I felt so guilty for a while of so many things, of finally making that stand that I needed to take time for myself to get out of this town. I’ve said it over and over again through the years, get out every 2 months and yet guilt and shame from others made me feel like i was joy riding rather than doing something for my health. Now that I am alone, and I have done it and seen the rejuvenation, the spring I can pull from, please let me have the strength to continue to defy those that guilt me for doing so.


Work, it doesn’t help, but we all know this, counsellors, psychs, peers, we all know that work and BPD, stress and BPD is like feeding crack to an addict, it helps but it doesn’t help. It gives a purpose but it comes with its strings. It reminds me of being in a batting cage with the ball machine on the fritz, swinging that bat wildly to ensure you don’t get knocked out cold. You score some home runs but it’s not relaxing. My counsellor asked me if I wanted a career, and the truth is, no, I don’t. I have no desire to grow bigger and add-on additional stress or more eyeballs. I’m here because I need to pay the bills but truth be told, if I could leave this town and move somewhere more open and meaningful where i was working and accomplishing but not dealing with the shit race of life, take me there. I need to get out of this town and it’s plastic pretences, fear of transparency and lack of balls. People in this town are all about smoke and mirrors, just get over yourselves and your judgements, wrapped up in a pretty bow of perfection.

Dating, it’s been a hot topic at therapy and group. So, we have all started dating. I say “we” because it has become a dating by consensus, even though it’s just me on the front line. I like it, it’s like having all your friends watch your back and I don’t have to make any decisions on my own and it makes me feel more secure that there is a check and balance built into me. It’s been fun bringing everything to the mental health table every week for group discussion. That word “fun”, makes me cringe most times. This life is the furthest thing from fun. The furthest thing from “happy”. Two most dreaded words I hate to hear people ask me, “are you happy?”, fuck no, but I am alive and I have good moments. Happy, go ram that up your ass, I haven’t found happy in 15 years for more than a few hours.


Dating. It’s meticulous. Dating the correct BPD way, maybe I can start a manual. Everything close to your chest and make sure you put out all the disclaimers and warnings right off the bat, here it is, read it and proceed at your own risk. Makes me laugh. So stressed the first time and now, I don’t care if people know I have a mental health disease. Would I judge someone for cancer, no, I’d empathize. My ex-DBF used to care so much about perception and what people thought that it made me almost ashamed of my BPD and my scars. This is me, through and through, I am not afraid to tell someone what I am and what I have been through, yes I cut myself, you can see it, and I am alive. You have an issue, it’s not my problem, its yours. Second thing, past the warning, it’s not about my health, no day-to-day health or stress sharing, that’s my game and my game alone. I deal with my issues, it stays on this side of the pie chart, dating on the other, the two do not co-mingle. It’s been weird but good, it’s likely obvious I am withholding things but I’ve gotten good at working through my troubles alone or in group or with counselling, no need for a layperson that doesn’t understand to get into the mix. I don’t need another person to handhold my BPD, I have a village behind me for that and some awesome friends to call. Dating stays in the neutral zone, no need to get deep, three’s a crowd, BPD can stay home and join me later.

So, step by step, health first, kids next, everything else is tertiary. I say that mantra to myself everyday I step out the door and to work. I know what I need for my health, I’ve made some big changes on my own, so tune out the naysayers and the judgements and stigma and one step in front of the other.

{February 14, 2015}   Alone in this BPD mind

My counsellor asked me yesterday if I was suicidal. Yes, I want to to die, with all my might right now, it is all I want to do BUT I’m not going to. I am suicidal, can I control it. Yes.

Power, someone said I wanted power, that I was on a power trip. It was such a ludicrous thought I realized that person knew nothing about me. Power? I barely can find the days to quit hating myself and wanting to die to bother finding power. I want the power to end it all without putting others in pain, that’s the power that I want. To be let go without the guilt. All these other things I do to live, does anyone truly think I want any of life? Life with BPD is being ruled by one big power trip you can barely control. Jump off that building without ruining my children’s lives, that’s the power I want.

There are days, like now, where to feel good about myself I need to read about myself, to know that what I feel is not isolated, that it is disease. That it cannot be logically fixed and solved. I read about me so I feel better that I am not alone and though I feel achingly alone, there are other people, like me, in pain, aching, just wanting the world to swallow them up, reading.

Loneliness and Lack of Self Worth 

Many people with BPD are isolated from conventional family or friendship situations.  As many people around them do not know how to cope with the sufferers behaviour, they tend to withdraw from their friend or relative.  This leads the person with BPD to feel lonely and worthless.  They already have a very low self-esteem and this makes it worse.  People with BPD are like anyone else, they want to feel loved, but in their case it is more extreme.  Left alone for too long and they believe nobody wants them.  This is mainly caused by rejection at a young age, it is learnt behaviour.  The self-loathing and fear of abandonment also causes loneliness.


Have you ever felt out of control?  Maybe you have felt like you are in a tunnel, no fear or thought of safety for yourself or other.  Detachment from reality, at times, can be how be how someone with BPD feels.  Often they suffer from intrusive thoughts or hear voices.  The only way to describe how it feels to have intrusive thoughts or hear voices is, imagine someone is with you 24 hours a day, imagine this person is saying things like “hurt yourself,” or “the devil is following you, he will take people away from you.”  Often the thoughts or voices will play on the sufferers insecurities.  Some people have other hallucinations or believe they have super powers.  Commonly people with BPD only have mild psychosis but occasionally some sufferers have more severe psychosis.  Mostly they only have psychotic episodes induced by stress.  Think about it, if you go to a party and everyone around you is drunk, and you do not like it, you would remove yourself from the situation, right?  In the BPD sufferers situation, the brain is removing it’s self from the problem which is the persons thinking and thoughts.

Depression, Self Harm and Suicide

Everyone goes through periods where they feel down or depressed.  But for a BPD sufferer it is like that very much of the time.  Also severe depression will flood them from time to time.   How often do you wish you were not alive any more?  Maybe once in your life but most likely it hasn’t ever crossed your mind.  A majority of people with BPD think about it very regularly.  In fact for a BPD sufferer it becomes normal and it can be quite a surprise to them when someone tells them they never think of it.

Have you ever been in so much emotional pain that you’d do anything to relieve it?  Trying to counter act the emotional pain with physical pain is logical if you think about.  It’s like tooth ache, you’d do anything to relieve it.  So one of the reasons a sufferer self-harms if to get some relief.  Another cause for self-harm in a BPD sufferer is self-loathing, they feel so bad about themselves that they feel they need to be punished.  Self-harm is not always a sign of a suicide attempt, it’s just a reflection of how the person is feeling on the inside.

Threats of suicide are common among people with BPD, and it’s also not uncommon for them to make an attempt at ending their life.  Life with Borderline Personality Disorder is ten times harder than for a non-sufferer. Imagine how the constant fear and pain must be.  Suicide threats are like a safety net, “If I really can’t stand my pain any more, then I can escape,” makes sense doesn’t?  If you walked through a bed of stinging nettles you would think of trying to get yourself out wouldn’t you?

Withdrawal from Others

Many people with BPD have times when they withdraw from the world.  They stop working and socialising.  If you were hurt by something you would try and avoid letting it happen again, wouldn’t you?  So this can be why someone with BPD may become distant and unresponsive to friends and family.  In most cases this withdrawal doesn’t last for more then a few days, weeks or months, but in some sufferers it can last much longer.  When withdrawn the sufferer will feel depressed and isolated.

{February 5, 2015}   Yes. **trigger**

I read an article about a woman who leapt to her death from the top of a parking garage a few months back, she was depressed among other things, and she left behind a care package, on the roof, for everyone she cared about. People have many reactions when they read a story like that, sadness, horror, pity. I was jealous. I didn’t want to admit it and I massaged my feelings for several days, and I am, I am jealous. I’ve wanted to do the same thing many times, looked over my balcony, assessed how high would be high enough not to be left a quadriplegic. Looked for places out of the way so I wouldn’t scare someone coming down or make a mess. Hit someone’s car, or even hit someone period. I know all the spots on the highway that one can take their car off and over a cliff. Some people daydream and plan bucket lists, my bucket lists consists of ways to die. And its not morbid, I get frustrated that I think these things, but I also know they are part of me, I am wired for self destruction. I am jealous, because I want to get away and at the same time I have these two amazing beings that though don’t always stop me from coming close to the edge, still keep me trying and working and learning and fighting, even though I despise most days of having to do so.

I want to be selfish, every fibre in my being wants to be selfish, and get away. Get away from being invisible, for fighting to have people believe, to get away from being lonely inside even when surrounded by people. To be sad when laughing. Very empty on this island when you’re a freak that looks normal. Stigma, a word that is getting more gravitas lately, there is so much stigma and it pushes someone like me into a corner into a wall with no exit.

Do you know how much trauma it takes to make your brain want to shut itself down in protection. Try looking it up. A lot is laughable. Do you know how much it hurts after your brain does that and how bewildered, frightened and unstable you feel. Take away 12 hours of memory. And then, leave that person alone, alone to sort it out, alone to feel rejected. Bring them home from the hospital guilt ridden and confused and leave them alone because they look fine. No scars, no cuts, no bruises, no cast, nothing. Nothing’s wrong, assimilate, stop whining, you’re fine, everyone gets stressed and loses their mind.

Stigma. Did I mention stigma. Loneliness. Emptiness. No one can see you. And how do you tell them. You feel depressed and want to see a doctor you need to wait a few weeks till they can fit you in, you get hit by a truck and emergency will take you in immediately. What happens when I jump from that building, will you fit me in then?

Sometimes it takes death for the people around you to understand, to take a stand, to support and then to look backwards and realize how isolated their loved one was. But its too late, for your loved one, but maybe not for others you can then believe. People don’t want to die when they feel well, when they’re happy, when they want to live.

I came home from the hospital post mental trauma. The biggest concern was not for me but for the impression I caused by having a mental breakdown. Stigma. I caused a problem. I was the problem, I made my own problem. I put people out of their way, I somehow exaggerated myself into a nervous breakdown. Then, I was left to piece together my numerous pieces and then lectured on my ineptitude to manage my situation. Pretty much, since i happen to be walking down the street and there are cars, naturally if I get hit by a car, it’s my fault, suck it up, get up, quit your whining and look at the damage you did to the car and the poor driver. You have a concussion and can’t walk, well too bad, you asked for it.  Now drag your sorry complaining ass over and apologize to the driver and pay for the damages. Not to mention the people that now have to come help you. The fact that you’re internally bleeding should not warrant any need to shirk responsibilities because that is self serving and indulgent. Other people are working just as hard under tremendous stress as well, even that poor driver who’s car you damaged so think of him before yourself because even if you were ordered to clean the streets that day, it’s still your responsibility for being at the wrong place at the wrong time and no one cares about your pain.

Stigma. Mental illness. People think we hide behind mental illness. Laughable. You think I would wish this on anybody. You want to see strength, this is strength, living with this everyday, without empathy, is beyond strength. It’s a lonely battle that you’re never sure who you’re fighting for. And when loved ones turn their backs, well that’s when those parking garages seem so appealing. Because maybe when I am dead, they will believe and they will reach out and help someone with an open and understanding heart from their guilt.

Do I feel lonely. Yes. Do I feel empty. Yes. Do I hurt. Yes. Am I alone. Yes. Do I feel stigmatized. Yes. Am I pretending to not be in pain. Yes. Why? Because that’s what expected.

Are these all the signs of suicide. Yes.

Will I find that building soon. No. When I do will I leave everyone their care package. Yes. Will they feel bad. Yes. Will I feel good. Yes. Will they believe. I hope so. Will they feel guilty. Yes. Will it be too late for me. Yes.

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.

{April 30, 2012}   Orgasm of the Skin


Sometimes and some days the world goes by so fast I feel suspended in a vortex that continuously spins and when I set down my mind is still spinning but the world is standing still. My head hurts, I’m struggling to orient and I am exhausted wishing I was still spinning because the stop is akin to slamming into a brick wall with my engines still gunning but the wall aint budging.

It’s time for the red zone, my period, in about 2 weeks, and this is the cresting wave leading up to it, sucking all the debris in before it crashes on to shore and dissipates. I’m swimming up the wave, surfing it, which is a monumental task.

Normal BPD days I need to be aware and conscious. I check my temperature when I wake up. Depressed, overwhelmed, overly excited, agitated and I manage to circumnavigate my day with my training relatively well if all factors are even. Enough sleep, not too much stress on the plate, stay groomed, have enough social interaction, touch base with the support team, keep the reins in tight. It’s funny how people have no idea how every decision I make is thought through to see where and what triggers might click and whether the decision is mine made rationally, emotionally, reactive, whether it will tip over my nicely placed dominoes into a domino cascade of hell.

So, most days it’s good, PMS days it’s navigating a battlefield, I am so strongly focused on everything I do and say, I walk around with a constant headache and a blur of exhaustion. Someone bumps into me it’s a study in concentration not to scream at them, walking through the mall is feeling like Indiana Jones in a pit of snakes, and every tiny bit of annoyance is multiplied to a sensation of being pricked by needles and wanting to smack someone. Alcohol helps, helps dull the edges into a bit more of a fuzzy coating. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not swilling alcoholic but during these days a glass a day is additionally medicative in addition to the drugs.

I was changed to Cirpralex 6 weeks ago, it’s meant to help with this week but since I normally can’t remember the weeks once done I have no idea if it is or not, all I know is that I feel gross and want to walk around the streets dressed in sloppy black sweatpants with stringy hair scowling at people. Every evil female insecurity that could exist to plague womanhood I feel. Fat, greasy, pudgy, wrinkly, pimply I am convinced I am all of the above. I haven’t looked in the mirror for 2 days. Not to say that I feel depressed or sad, I’m just gross, slug like, tired and this is just far too much work for 3 days of blood. Who came up with this equation, let’s feel like crap for a week to bleed for 3? If a hysterectomy didn’t automatically age me 10 years I’d be in line. I did try taking the 3 month birth control pills, where I only got my period 4 times a year, and it was GREAT for the BPD PMS but sucked for the break through bleeding, weight gain and the bloating. I am close to considering it again… 

This probably wasn’t a stable time to be reading other blogs because I came across one brilliant article of a woman describing her cutting, which she hadn’t done in years, akin to myself (OK, not years but maybe a year), and even then it was tiny). I’ve had a few close moments in the last year but have always found the mental fortitude to make myself walk away or walk out of the scene.

But it reminded me of how good it feels, sad that they come across as pleasant memories but cutting is pleasant. The pain that drives someone to cut is unimaginable, words cannot do justice to the internal pain that wells up under the skin and in the brain, pulsating like it’s alive, crawling through your veins and behind your eyes, that you want to tear your skin out to get the release. I used to feel like pins were pushing up from underneath my flesh unable to escape, my throat would be tight, the tension coiled so cold and hard the only salvation was to pick up that knife and slice. And the heaven of feeling the coldness of the blade, the trepidation and the guilt locked in a battle, the stillness stifling the air and then the cut, like a violin bow against the string, magic. Watching the blood steal out, leaching with it all the pain, the more blood the better the high, and then the fervor increases to cut and bleed out more and more, before guilt could walk in, before reality thought to find me or come home, till spent. Though left with bleeding scarred limbs, the pain, its blissfully gone, cutting doesn’t hurt, you can’t even feel it compared to the rage inside, and the external pain is a welcome relief that’s controlled, an orgasm of the skin that puts me rest.

Namaste. No worries, no cutting ahead.

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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