borderlinegirlliveshere











{July 17, 2015}   One Foot In, One Foot Out

Words seem so inadequate at times, when your soul is breaking, stripped, gutted and fighting to stay afloat. Emptiness, so full it threatens to swallow you, make you into nothing, pull you down into the depths of grey. How is it that I can ache so hard from within from emptiness? Shrouded, like an Arab concubine, moving in slow motion through dense fogs, trying to swim out from myself to feel. I am trying to smile, to find fun, to find an emotion outside of loneliness. It’s so hard to even breathe life, to lift the corners of my mouth, to try and spark life in my eyes. It’s not pretend but it feels like pretend, I am trying. Surrounded by humanity but trapped by my mind. I can’t find the exit key, is it time, is it to drop lower to come back up, like a seesaw.

Encapsulated, walking and talking in a sphere of gelatin. Each movement an effort, each word a push, a smile painful. Trying to break out of this jail of an eggshell without shattering. I keep saying “this too shall pass”, what do you want? What does my mind want to let me go back to normal, what do I need to do, what skills should I reach for, what salve do I rub, what means do I take. I feel like I have tried them all.

One foot in hell, the other grasping for a ledge in normalcy. Momentous, the tiny foothold, every small weight is a burden larger than life, minuscule as it may seem. Multiple feathers eventually become a weighted quilt mantled on my shoulders. Trying to juggle them, watching parts of me float silently into the abyss as tears come and go.

Inside looking out while the outside tries to look in, bewildered.



{April 5, 2015}   Fill The Well

Last final days of being away. In this time my heart has expanded, contracted and at times split and spilled over with love and pain. Many memories here, coming back after 3 years. The fear of facing memories of my overdose and my subsequent departure into the wind, with not a word to a soul, had me scared of what my welcoming would be. Would people still remember me, accept me into a community I can call nothing else but home, or would I be an interloper, trying to feed back in after turning my back on many that had welcomed me into their home, their island, as a Belonger.

I was scared, very scared, but part of what this year has been for me is facing my fears, setting my boundaries and doing what is right for me and living through what those consequences, good or bad may be.

There is so much love here, belonging and community, giving that I cannot find in my city life. I walk out the door and I can’t help but smile at the feeling of being part of something, of a bigger whole that takes care of its pieces. Not just a dot in a sea of faces as it is in my “other” home where there is no whole, it’s all fragmented parts, people in lobbies that don’t make eye contact, neighbours that don’t care to make friends, strangers that can live side by side for years and never forge a bond. Acquaintances that are looking for the next best acquaintance to further their needs.

Not that my heart hasn’t yawed open at times here, some memories and misunderstandings are fresh and cannot be solved, and they caused such a tightening I thought I could not breathe. Walk away, I did, I walked away, to know that you cannot be everything for everyone and not everyone will understand BPD and suicide. I lost a friend who did not understand, it hurt, but luckily I had 2 friends to hold me up and walk away.

And old friends, they came out of the woodwork, no questions asked. You’re from here, will always be from here and they cannot wait till I return. That causes pinpricks of sorrow, can I ever come back here, can the 2 lives ever intertwine? So diametrically different that I do wonder if there is a split personality that can make me so able to rotate between both so easy. In no way are they the same, or am I the same. Where am I happier, here, with more people, more love, more belonging. Back in the city, its a handful of few, and when you’re in the crowd, you are no one, no one cares. And in the city you are stuck, maybe not stuck but attached to so few, your boyfriend, your best friend, your sister, but the rest are just faces in the crowd, you cannot reach out and touch someone.

I love walking out the door and running into everyone, walking down the street, shopping, sitting at a restaurant and it could be anyone from the taxi driver to the hotel owner, a celebrity, there is no class here, it’s flat, we are all friends. If you need friendly words and company it’s never far.

The city I live in is all about the who’s who and what can you do for me, I don’t trust my back with anyone. I don’t even trust my business partners, I am sure they would throw my BPD under the bus if it served them right. My biggest dread of leaving is going back to that, the constant tension and unease of what’s coming down the pipe next. You can’t run a business without trust and feeling like the other side has your back, for me I feel like it’s N and S Korea, I don’t trust anything and I am not giving anything or sharing anything lest it come back to shame me for my naiveté. It’s all about the bottom line there, it’s not about people, it’s about money. It’s not about feeling, it’s about logic. It’s not me and I feel like a fish in a sea of sharks trying to stay afloat and not ripped apart.

I digress. My heart is happy, my soul is full. I need to take this feeling back and let it buoy me through the next few months if I can. I have done, felt, lived all that I have missed in the last 3 years. I have felt the love, the warmth, the acceptance, and know I can come back and be welcomed with open arms, no judgement. I have a sadness that says, I likely will never return to live, the 2 lives have no intersection point, if I forge one there it never runs perpendicular, and the same for here. So, for now, a day at a time, create a memory box, save some money to maybe come back if the well needs filling.

I am glad I did this, through the insecurity and fear, I faced it, I conquered, and now onwards.



{March 27, 2015}   Standing in the Sun

Happy. So happy tears are spilling down my cheeks as I write these 5 little letters. I am HAPPY (what?). Happy and so scared of when happy goes away. Be in the moment, I keep reeling that line back in to the present, mindful to stay in the emotion of how I am here and now, don’t let the spool get stuck in the rock depths. Marinate in this moment, moments, and commit them to memory for when the darkness returns, make this the light, remember the light.

My hands tremble and water still drains from my eyes, times like these are so fleeting, I can’t believe I am sitting in reality. I haven’t felt this breathe move through my chest, living, life. Outside the window, is beauty, appreciation, perfection, adjectives I see but never understand as applying to me.

I want to wade into the ocean and contribute my salty tears to the conflux of the ocean, wash myself into this peacefulness and join energies with the salve of the water, ensuring when I return, I live in her depths.

For 3 days I have woken up without death sitting on my chest, the breeze coming through the windows washing smiles across my face, the gentle warmth of contentment curling up beside me. It doesn’t matter that it’s just me, i dance around the kitchen in disorganized abandon, laugh at my ridiculousness, talk out loud to the oceans and stars, and close my eyes to nothing but peace, gone are the death threats, plans of pain and the zero sum game. Nights are my friend again, morning my haven.

Unrealistic, of course, crests and troughs is how life works and the rise and fall of the waves outside remind me that I need to grasp every millisecond of this happiness while it’s in my palms. I needed to wipe this home from my mind the last 3 years to move forward, to heal, get well, find help and focus on just living. Living, that’s what I have done, I have lived. Lived to return to life, even for a brief moment in time, because this is life, I forgot, I made her go away, but here she is, in all her glory, smiling down at my sorrowful joy.

The emotions are thunderous, jungle drums beating a crescendo rising from within of warmth, heat, with a hint of fear. Is it fair to be afraid, mirages come and go, don’t get too attached because reality is stronger than fiction. I want to reach a hand out and touch the bubble and see if the walls wobble and pass.

For now, hands off, it will wobble but that can wait. Right now, I need to have my moment in the sun, to bask, glory and absorb every minute of these wonderful wonderful feelings that have been gone and dormant for far too long. Standing in the sun. I’m going to stand in the sun, tears flowing, happiness cascading down, singing my joy to the world and dancing in circles.

Vida.

*SG, we’re standing in the sun.  Wherever, you are are, I’m standing here for both of us*



Really having a hard time finding the light these last 6 weeks, it’s there but its pretty damn weak. I can’t put a handle on why I am convincing myself to keep enduring this misery. Sure, I am doing great, staying strong, just so I can keep this groundhog day of a nightmare ongoing? Truly it is very hard to answer the why each day. And I say the mantras, that “this too shall pass” and the question they always have you ask in class is “what is the worst this could possibly be?”. Unfortunate for me, death seems to be the answer to this one, and to the regular person that’s pretty damn bad. It’s very confusing and I keep anxiously turning each corner thinking that silver lining is going to pop out and surprise me but nope, still wake up each morning wondering why I am still here and why on earth should I make that effort to get up.

Im having one of my sleepless nights, my head is churning out scenarios of morbidity at an alarming rate and sleep is not to be had. Tomorrow I have a day off from work. Thankfully. If someone had handed me a revolver today i would have gladly shot myself a few times and enjoyed it. Work felt like nails on  chalkboard all day, and smiling was about as enjoyable as being water boarded.



{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.

Psychosis

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.



Mental health suffers from a major image problem. One in every four people experiences mental health issues — yet more than 40 percent of countries worldwide have no mental health policy. Across the board it seems like we have no idea how to talk about it respectfully and responsibly.

Stigma and discrimination are the two biggest obstacles to a productive public dialogue about mental health; indeed, the problem seems to be largely one of communication. So we asked seven mental health experts: How should we talk about mental health? How can informed and sensitive people do it right – and how can the media do it responsibly?

End the stigma

Easier said than done, of course. Says journalist Andrew Solomon: “People still think that it’s shameful if they have a mental illness. They think it shows personal weakness. They think it shows a failing. If it’s their children who have mental illness, they think it reflects their failure as parents.” This self-inflicted stigma can make it difficult for people to speak about even their own mental health problems. According to neuroscientist Sarah Caddick, this is because when someone points to his wrist to tell you it’s broken, you can easily understand the problem, but that’s not the case when the issue is with the three-pound mass hidden inside someone’s skull. “The minute you start talking about your mind, people get very anxious, because we associate that with being who we are, fundamentally with ‘us’ — us as a person, us as an individual, our thoughts, our fears, our hopes, our aspirations, our everything.” Says mental health care advocate Vikram Patel, “Feeling miserable could in fact be seen as part of you or an extension of your social world, and applying a biomedical label is not always something that everyone with depression, for example, is comfortable with.” Banishing the stigma attached to mental health issues can go a long way to facilitating genuinely useful conversations.

Avoid correlations between criminality and mental illness

People are too quick to dole out judgments on people who experience mental health problems, grouping them together when isolated incidents of violence or crime occur. Says Caddick, “You get a major incident like Columbine or Virginia Tech and then the media asks, ‘Why didn’t people know that he was bipolar?’ ‘Was he schizophrenic?’ From there, some people think, ‘Well, everybody with bipolar disease is likely to go out and shoot down a whole bunch of people in a school,’ or, ‘People who are schizophrenics shouldn’t be out on the street.’” Solomon agrees that this correlation works against a productive conversation about mental health: “The tendency to connect people’s crimes to mental illness diagnoses that are not in fact associated with criminality needs to go away. ‘This person murdered everyone because he was depressed.’ You think, yes, you could sort of indicate here this person was depressed and he murdered everyone, but most people who are depressed do not murder everyone.”

But do correlate more between mental illness and suicide

According to the National Institute for Mental Health (NIMH), 90 percent of people who die by suicide have depression or other mental disorders, or substance-abuse disorders in conjunction with other mental disorders. Yet we don’t give this link its due. Says Solomon, “Just as the association between mental illness and crime is too strong, the connection between mental illness and suicide is too weak. So I feel like what I constantly read in the articles is that ‘so-and-so killed himself because his business had gone bankrupt and his wife had left him.’ And I think, okay, those were the triggering circumstances, but he killed himself because he suffered from a mental illness that drove him to kill himself. He was terribly depressed.”

Avoid words like “crazy” or “psycho”

Not surprisingly, nearly all the mental health experts we consulted were quick to decry playground slang like “mental,” “schizo,” “crazy,” “loonie,” or “nutter,” stigmatizing words that become embedded in people’s minds from a young age. NIMH Director Thomas Insel takes that one step further — he doesn’t like the category of “mental health problems” in general. He says, “Should we call cancer a ‘cell cycle problem’? Calling serious mental illness a ‘behavioral health problem’ is like calling cancer a ‘pain problem.’” Comedian Ruby Wax, however, has a different point of view: “I call people that are mentally disturbed, you know, I say they’re crazy. I think in the right tone, that’s not the problem. Let’s not get caught in the minutiae of it.”

If you feel comfortable talking about your own experience with mental health, by all means, do so

Self-advocacy can be very powerful. It reaches people who are going through similar experiences as well as the general public. Solomon believes that people equipped to share their experiences should do so: “The most moving letter I ever received in a way was one that was only a sentence long, and it came from someone who didn’t sign his name. He just wrote me a postcard and said, ‘I was going to kill myself, but I read your book and changed my mind.’ And really, I thought, okay, if nobody else ever reads anything I’ve written, I’ve done some good in the world. It’s very important just to keep writing about these things, because I think there’s a trickle-down effect, and that the vocabulary that goes into serious books actually makes its way into the common experience — at least a little bit of it does — and makes it easier to talk about all of these things.” SolomonWax, as well as Temple Grandin, below, have all become public figures for mental health advocacy through sharing their own experiences.

Don’t define a person by his/her mental illnesses

Just as a tumor need not define a person, the same goes for mental illness. Although the line between mental health and the “rest” of a person is somewhat blurry, experts say the distinction is necessary. Says Insel: “We need to talk about mental disorders the way we talk about other medical disorders. We generally don’t let having a medical illness define a person’s identity, yet we are very cautious about revealing mental illness because it will somehow define a person’s competence or even suggest dangerousness.” Caddick agrees: “There’s a lot of things that go on in the brain, and just because one thing goes wrong doesn’t mean that everything’s going wrong.”

Separate the person from the problem

Continuing from the last, Insel and Patel both recommend avoiding language that identifies people only by their mental health problems. Says Insel, speak of “someone with schizophrenia,” not “the schizophrenic.” (Although, he points out, people with autism do often ask to be referred to as “autistic.”) Making this distinction clear, says Patel, honors and respects the individual. “What you’re really saying is, this is something that’s not part of a person; it’s something the person is suffering from or is living with, and it’s a different thing from the person.”

Sometimes the problem isn’t that we’re using the wrong words, but that we’re not talking at all

Sometimes it just starts with speaking up. In Solomon’s words: “Wittgenstein said, ‘All I know is what I have words for.’ And I think that if you don’t have the words for it, you can’t explain to somebody else what your need is. To some degree, you can’t even explain to yourself what your need is. And so you can’t get better.” But, as suicide prevention advocate Chris Le knows well, there are challenges to talking about suicide and depression. Organizations aiming to raise awareness about depression and suicide have to wrangle with suicide contagion, or copycat suicides that can be sparked by media attention, especially in young people. Le, though, feels strongly that promoting dialogue ultimately helps. One simple solution, he says, is to keep it personal: “Reach out to your friends. If you’re down, talk to somebody, because remember that one time that your friend was down, and you talked to them, and they felt a little better? So reach out, support people, talk about your emotions and get comfortable with them.”

Recognize the amazing contributions of people with mental health differences

Says autism activist Temple Grandin: “If it weren’t for a little bit of autism, we wouldn’t have any phones to talk on.” She describes the tech community as filled with autistic pioneers. “Einstein definitely was; he had no language until age three. How about Steve Jobs? I’ll only mention the dead ones by name. The live ones, you’ll have to look them up on the Internet.” Of depression, Grandin says: “The organizations involved with depression need to be emphasizing how many really creative people, people whose books we love, whose movies we love, their arts, have had a lot of problems with depression. See, a little bit of those genetics makes you sensitive, makes you emotional, makes you sensitive — and that makes you creative in a certain way.”

Humor helps

Humor, some say, is the best medicine for your brain. Says comedian Wax: “If you surround [your message] with comedy, you have an entrée into their psyche. People love novelty, so for me it’s sort of foreplay: I’m softening them up, and then you can deliver as dark as you want. But if you whine, if you whine about being a woman or being black, good luck. Everybody smells it. But it’s true. People are liberated by laughing at themselves.”



{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.



{January 20, 2015}   Psychosis is my friend…

Dedicated my yoga practice to me tonight.

I watched some TedX Talks last night and it took me back years (17 years) to when the madness really started. My Gollum, my voice in my head. How controlling and fierce and foreign he used to feel, creeping through the channels of my mind, at times holding on like a vice grip, the seductive innuendoes and outright blatant suggestions of my death, our death, the beauty and peace in it. My uselessness a constant monologue I listened to daily, fought with, screamed with, while living externally. How adept I am at having 3 conversations simultaneously. Second nature now.

And yet, Gollum and I, we still fight, but we’ve mellowed with age and learning, or perhaps I have learned that they way to manage Gollum is to not fight him but to have learned him. Learn that no matter what, he is a manifestation of me, echoing and voicing all my deepest fears and insecurities, letting him/me, scare and frighten me into actions, and believe in exaggerated truths about who I am. He takes the nuggets I hide and exploits them, and because they come from me, buried within, I believe them as they are my worst fears and thoughts about who I am come alive in his voice.

He still talks, always, I don’t know life without an internal dialogue of questions and rebukes. I’ve learned that when I am strong I can turn the volume down, that I can talk him down, that I can listen and not act. Everyday there are the suggestions on ways to die, I can’t drive the highway without the silky suggestions of how easily it would be to go over the rails, I can’t step on the balcony without the push to wonder how quick it would be to jump that edge, or listen to him remind me how good it feels to cut and feel that blood. That I’m useless, stupid, incompetent, unloved, you name it. We’ve grown old together and yes, he can incite me, when I’m feeling weak and sad, the buttons are there to push. He can still push them and he can still reduce me to a ball of misery when I am low. But it’s not daily or weekly, we talk all the time, I’d miss him if he left (i’m quite aware I can’t leave myself), I don’t know my mind without the voice I talk to everyday, all the time, subconsciously, consciously. These days I don’t even realize half the conversations are happening, it’s second nature.

Therapy, time, experiences- psychosis can be tamed and become the enemy you would rather hold close. I can turn him off with meditation, I can turn him off through yoga. I know how to escape if I am losing the fight, distraction is my friend.

There are times I can’t win, when both outside and inside are yelling at me, one fuels the other, conflict is Gollum’s friend. I know I need to walk away, not give him wood for the fire from someone else, I am bad enough! My head has ached a lot the last 2 months, without the pills, neither myself nor Gollum have been tempered and we’ve been eye to eye many a time. I’m not drugged and neither is he. I know we can co-exist, without the drugs, with the learning, my training, history has taught lessons, and god knows i have paid the price time and time again, we’ll never be perfect together, but we’re coming to equal ground.

To the people that have empowered me, believed my psychosis, given me the tools and support to embrace who I am, voices and all, and never doubted me, you have all my love. So few and far between, I can count you on one hand, you never disbelieved, you opened your mind to crazy and always listened, always stood by with words of support and never judged or commanded when I sunk lower than low, sank in and out of depression, raved and ranted, hated, and did nothing at times, lost my mind, lost my soul, lost my will. You’re angels and I hope you stay with me till whenever that end comes.

Namaste.



{January 14, 2015}   All Roads Lead to where??

At a crossroads but all of them are either washed out, barred or have ogres under the bridges.

I feel good about my mental person but I am despising my life around it at the moment. Unfortunately, these two roads will cross at some point. I want to enjoy the fact that my head feels strong right now, for however brief amount of time that may be. But I don’t because I am irritable, cross and feel like I have ants and people crawling all over my ass, under my eyelids and in my ears and mouth.  All I do is work work work work and work. My saving grace is I love the industry I am in, but my bosses are starting to make me want to suggest they find someone better for their job. For pete’s sake, rather than fucking me from all angles everyday, 12 hours a day, find someone that can get the job done in 30 hours with minimal pay a week that’s a super spreadsheet, sales superstar, forward thinking, business planning, do-it-all superwoman, it’s not me.

evilboss

I am going to see my counsellor soon and I think I am going to just ‘fess up, it may cost me my disability and assistance I need but I need someone to talk to about the 70 hour days, the pressure, pressure and lack of self time and life breaks. I am not supposed to be working at all, let alone at this maniacal pace. I think part of the reason I have been able to push through is I stopped taking the meds so the mania could kick in and keep me going. But, history, good old history, which I do not want to repeat is a knock knock knocking at the door, this almost killed you twice, it can do it again honey.

It’s not worth it. I know it’s not. I don’t see my kids, I don’t see my sister, I don’t talk to my best friend, I have no time to get anything personal done, bills aren’t getting paid, I haven’t seen a doctor/shrink/counsellor in over 2 months, I have no time for classes, I am too tired to talk to my friends or give them what they need, my relationship is gone, no time for any hobbies, no planning which I love, my partner is mad, no breaks, not even enough pay.  No, it’s not worth it.

I didn’t ask for this. What I wanted to was a job I could do 30 hours a week, maybe 3 days, even weekends is fine, see my friends, my family, take the time off when needed, get to yoga, meditation, do BPD classes and connect with other BPD folks, time for side projects I like, have a life with not so much worry.

Work-Life-Balance-Sign-post-by-Stuart-Miles

Things got far out of hand last year: my best friend had a nervous breakdown at work and went into a depression, another friend spent 6-8 months dying slowly and terribly. My aunt died which didn’t affect me so much as my mother. But people don’t see these things. I’m an emotional being. People come first, family come first. Right now, all everyone cares about is work comes first. It’s not me yet I am trying to curl myself into it because of responsibility and PRESSURE and hating that all other parts of my life are getting chopped off like limbs from my body. I may be strong but now I am strong, hateful, alone and pointless. I’m not crying and whimpering in a depression but neither am I seeing a future or even a light in the next while.

What’s the point? If I don’t have any of the loves, creatives and emotions that keep me buoyant, it brings up the age old BPD question of, why am I here? I am not here to work 70 hours a week, be crawled over with gnats and raked through with a comb and hate getting up in the morning and spend my nights sleepless and my days tired. ab963c4b4cbaa8981d2e5523741a-660x518

I have been trying to get to yoga these days, it’s like running a triathlon to fit it in and costs me more time staying up to get what I couldn’t get done while at yoga done which wrecks any happy happy joy joy that may have come out of it. I enjoy myself in the moment, its my hour to hour and a half of no noise in my head and then as soon as I step out the doors the alarms start ringing non stop and I start running. Sometimes I wish I could stay seated after the class is over and stay there for an extra hour and savour the bliss, swallowed by the peace and quiet of post practice where my mind feels like a glowing pulsing orb of positive energy.

I am a yucky person. I am. I don’t like the outside me. I am cross, grumpy, and I feel myself biting my tongue to not lash out at people. That BPD anger part of me, without the drugs, is very prevalent in the back of my head. I want to say “FUCK OFF, IF YOU DONT LIKE IT DO IT FUCKING YOURSELF!” Yes, exactly like that, sadly, true, it runs through my mind when I am face to face, on the phone, on emails, text, it itches to come out. Where I used to feel the pain of sorrow and loss, now I can feel that itch of anger in my throat that burns hot. I had to hold back the reins very tight today and finally just stopped answering calls because I knew I would just tell her to fuck the hell off.

leaderfunny

Well, spent so much time writing, just lost my window of getting to mental health and some drugs for tonight. Time to go rummage under the sink and in my handbags for old pills. I know I have some somewhere in the bloody house. When it rains it pours pills and people are hiding them from me, when I want them, where are they?



{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



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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