Category Archives: support

The blue tinge of pain

Have you felt that crushing, soul deep pain?
You can’t catch your breath, you can’t see, you can’t…anything.

Your hands shake, your world tilts, everything is through a film of a grey tinged blue.

You have that metallic taste on your tongue…

The world never reverts back after. It’s as if the pain has left an indelible mark. You’re more cautious, slower, quieter….you’ve become the prey.

The hairs on your neck stand to attention even hours later, the thing layer of sweat never quite evaporated.

I’ve become prey again.
I don’t know if I’ll become the predator again.

The demons in my dreams are back.
Because the demons in the day aren’t enough apparently.

I woke this morning, and all I could feel was that pain. The pain that had me weeping and wailing by a car in my dreams. Crouched, curled in on myself. I can remember that pain now, over 12 hours later. As if it had actually happened.

Because it did.

People write dreams off, as they should. They don’t predict or tell anything.
But this is exhausting.
This is panic inducing.

Night after night. After fucking night.

I’m in a battle 24 hours a day. My brain hurts. It aches. It’s so loud.

It’s a cross between constant static shock, a pneumatic drill and then….total silence. Total and utter silence.

I don’t know what is more jarring. The realisation that everything around me is silent and white or the relentless pain.

I am fucking Wonder Woman. I am Super Man. I am God. I am a mouse. I am a bug. I am inconsequential. I am everything. Hear me roar. Hear me laugh. See me smile. See my strength.

Because that’s what this must be. This must be strength. This is a fucking testament to battles won, lost and learnt from. This is just my weakening. Not my breaking.

Because soon, oh so fucking soon, I will beat it. AGAIN.

This is just my demons testing me. This is them poking the bear and hoping the bear doesn’t eat them.

I’m not having a relapse. I’m just stressed.

Which obvs….

All full time.

So don’t fucking moan to me that you’re tired. That you haven’t got the time to check something I asked you about. Don’t moan to me that you’re “stressed” because you had to sort an insurance policy out, or because your car needs new tyres, or because you’ve been invited to a social engagement but you’re so fucking tired from your 37.5 hour week.

Fuck you.

Tiredness isn’t a competition. Nor is stress.

But when you can’t even be bothered to listen to me, to listen to me for 5 fucking minutes, to ask how I am ; beyond that fucking compulsory “you ok?” In case you might hear that actually, no. NO IM FUCKING NOT.

But that’s you isn’t it, selfish to your fucking core.
You were selfish when I took my overdose
You were selfish when you lied and made me cover
You were selfish every opportunity you had to not be selfish.

I am the antithesis of you. And fuck me, that’s come at one hell of a cost.

Remember that pain? It’s raw. It’s bloody. It’s not new. It’s the result of years of pain mounting up.

But this, this is my beginning. I’ve acknowledged that now. Even if only to myself. One day you will hear, and you will listen.

You will acknowledge.

But for now, it’s me and my demons.
It’s me and my pain.
It’s me and the nights of not daring to sleep when I’m desperate too.
It’s me and the nights yet to come; unable to sleep because I’ve trained myself out of sleep.
It’s me and the racing thoughts.
It’s me and the waltzers.
It’s me and that goddamn articulated truck.

Lucky me, hey.


My tightrope snapped….

Dance little girl dance.

Spin little girl spin.

Watch the world blur and know….it’s you that’s spinning opposite to it.

This last….while, have been my hardest in a long time. I didn’t even realise until a week ago, that it was so bad. I knew my mood was fluctuating. I knew I was on the waltzers and they were getting faster….I didn’t realise they were about to go into orbit.

But to orbit they went, and they took me with them.

I’ve had a busy, testing few months. I was sexually assaulted in public, I’ve struggled with work, university was so much pressure…I’ve fucked up so many things. And I’ve been paying the price, physically and mentally.

My brain got so loud. So loud. And it hurt. I took painkillers it hurt so much, obviously they didn’t help.

The thoughts were so loud, the colours so bright. It hurt to open my eyes, it hurt to have conversations. It hurt to think.

I had to do all of those things, obviously.

I’m through it now I think. I slept last night  for the first time in months. Which is good because the other day I was so exhausted I sat in the shower and cried.

I’ve gotten out of tune with my feelings. I’ve refused to acknowledge them for weeks and weeks, I’ve swallowed the tears, pushed down the anger, turned away from the pain. All that happens is they sit there, gathering momentum, until it blows. Until someone leaves crumbs on the side, or brushes against my accidentally….and suddenly….I’m broken. I’m on my knees.

And on my knees is exactly how I’ve been recently.

Not that anyone would have noticed. I entered survival mode. I turned beige. I painted my face, and put my hair up. I went to work. I came home. I cooked tea. I showered. I got through.

But that articulated truck of mine, it didn’t stop. It never does, normally I swerve and it misses me, but this time….I wasn’t paying close enough attention.

I’ve been derailed, and so the climb begins again. The thoughts are getting quieter now. I’ve made some definitive decisions, which always helps. I’ve accepted that this relapse is happening, and it’s time I got into the swing of it. You can’t beat anything if you refuse to accept it’s even happening.

So, here the climb begins. Here….this is where I straighten my back, hold my head high and smile at the demons.

Those bastards think they’ll win. But they won’t. They never will.

They just caught me napping.

Belated, but what you gonna do?

Following on from a recent story line which dealt so well with male suicide, I guess I’ve been revisiting with some old friends of mine.

Friends, demons, it’s all interchangeable right?


Some people would say it’s not healthy to focus so much on what they see as “depressing” or “weird” (usually the same people who post those twee little things on Facebook about Mental Health issues, and conflate depression with feeling sad, or assume everyone who is a dick has a mental health issue, news flash: you can be just be a dick). Personally, I think to pretend they never occurred ; or to shy away from confronting them, is to deny who I am. Denying my history.  Denying my past.

It is not self indulgent to contemplate my attempts of suicide. Nor is it wrong to speak openly about it. One story told, can be one life saved. I do it not to garner attention nor sympathy. Rather, because I’m still processing it, still learning from it. Still growing. And lets be frank here shall we, I never thought I would still be here to do that.

I’m trying to reconcile what I did then, on each occasion, to who I am now. What changed for me to stop suicide being a viable option? What changed in me to allow myself to see a future?

Well, nothing. And yet everything.

I had a child. Ultimately, that’s what it boils down to. When we remove the whole dressing up of the situation, it’s because I had my daughter. I’m a people pleaser, down to my core.  I shy away from confrontation and hurting people. I’d rather be unhappy and displeased, than cause one moment of discomfort to someone else. So how could I possibly bring a child in to this world, and then cause that amount of trauma?

After all; every child is born wanting to love it’s mother. Needing it’s mother. How could I take that away from someone so innocent? I couldn’t cause that child to live with the consequences of my actions. My last suicide attempt came merely weeks before finding out I was pregnant.


That didn’t stop, or change the way I felt though. It merely changed my responsibilities. Changed my direction. It became my beacon, my guiding light out of the maze my mind had become.

But, even to refer to is as a maze seems disingenuous. It implies I was lost. But to be lost, you need to have had an end destination, and know you were off course. I didn’t have that. I had; well, nothing.


In my own experience, on neither occasion did I want to “die” as such. I don’t think my brain processed any thing in such terms. If it had, perhaps I’d have been more aware then, that I was wired incorrectly. I just wanted it to end. The loneliness. The sadness.  The fog. I just wanted it to stop and go away. I wanted the pain to ease. I couldn’t breathe. Every moment was suffocating me. It just wouldn’t go away, and I was so exhausted. I couldn’t get over how strong other people were, feeling like that and continuing anyway. Retrospectively I realise other people don’t feel like that. Now, nor do I. But then, I was so exhausted, to my soul. And yeah, I wanted to not be here. But it was more, I wish I’d never been here in the first place, that I’d never existed. Not that I wanted to die.


Even trying to explain it now, seems impossible. So how did I stand a chance when that feeling was wrapped into every fiber of my being?


And then, even if I had been able to articulate this to people, I know the responses I would have received. I see it now. “It’ll be okay” “We all feel like that sometimes”  sometimes.  Fucking sometimes. “You just need a hobby.”


Which is why I don’t offer those responses. If someone opens up to me, and tries to talk, I sit. I listen. I hear. Then I ask them what they want from me. It is not my place to offer platitudes.


Because that’s what they are you know. They’re pithy little phrases people offer when they have fuck all else to say. When they think they’re helping, but all they’re doing is emphasising how alone you actually are. It’s not their fault. They’re trying to be kind. Trying to help. But they don’t get it. They shy away. Why do you think I’ve not discussed my attempts in the last few years?


It’s a horrible feeling you know. And it doesn’t just happen. The final decision might be a snap choice, but the build up has been there for months, years even. It’s such a lengthy and destructive process. Not only to the victim. But to everyone surrounding them. That guilt others must feel when a loved one takes that step…..but it’s not their fault. It’s not the deceased’s fault. It’s …. well. It’s a blameless thing.


I talk about my current situation, the one with the BPD, a lot. But not so much the suicide attempts. Yet I remember them like flashbulbs. I’m not ashamed of them. I’m saddened I ever came to that point. I’m saddened I nearly took a vibrant life out of this world. I’m saddened I didn’t have the words then, that I do now. I’m saddened that it’s taken far too many years for me to learn a bout myself in this way.

And I’m sad you know, I’m sad for all those other souls that feel like that. Hopefully, they’ll be like me. Be unsuccessful. Learn why they did it, and how they can be healthy and, stable in the future.


I’m pleased, obviously, that I failed both times. But I also appreciate now, that if I hadn’t attempted to kill myself, and goddamnit I meant for it to work, each occasion, I appreciate that it didn’t. I’m pleased I’m here.

I’m happy. I’m happy I’m here, and still annoying people. Happy I failed. And here’s to my future.


And to you, to have found this, you’re at some point of your journey. I promise you, you too can find your stability. It is every bit as bad as you think it is, but I promise you, it can, and will get better.




Why don’t you all just fuck off?

Goady fucker aren’t I?

I’m not sure yet as to who exactly that is aimed at.

It might be aimed at the spectres in my dreams. The ones that are keeping me awake, yet asleep. The ones that have me dreading bed time, yet so exhausted I feel physically sick. The ones that make me relieve my worst memories, my darkest fears and my saddest moments.

It might be aimed at all the people making demands on my time, yet offering me nothing in return. Every relationship is transactional, and I’m beginning to feel the effects of the negative equity. It sucks to be honest.

It might be aimed at the people who have every right to make demands of me, the ones that offer me unwavering love and support, the ones I brought into the world, the ones who pay my wages. The ones I owe. The ones I want to be there for and to love and cherish…but the ones I end up fucking over…time  after time.

It might be aimed at the duo on my shoulder, known to me as rejection and loss. Some people have the devil and the angel. I don’t. My decisions are governed by my fear of rejection and loss.

It might be aimed at the racing thoughts, combined with the racing pulse. Culminating in the ultimate headache and body aches. That articulated truck just won’t fuck off and I really, really wish it would.

It’s definitely aimed at the people who wrote the first ten search results in my latest search for research on BPD.

Emotional vampire, empty martyr, cruel, abusive….all words used to describe people like me.

Even fucking worse was using the term “A Borderline” I am not a Borderline. I am not a fucking mental illness. I am a fucking person, with many many attributes. Call me a cunt, thats fine…I am one. A bitch….a daughter, a mother…etc I am all of these things. I am not a Borderline….anymore than I am the Loch Ness Fucking Monster.

I also wouldn’t say I’m an emotional vampire. If anything, I give off more emotions than I take in. I require a lot of maintenance, and I feed off peoples negativity, but no in a way that damages them. More in a way, that punishes myself. But if people around me are happy, then I’m happy. If people around me are sad, I find ways to alleviate that sadness for them, be it with bizarre riddles, hugs, presents…anything…I just want them to feel better.

I’m definitely not abusive. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I actively avoid confrontation, choosing instead to go without or be uncomfortable in order to avoid calling people out on their bad behavior. I spend my days building people up.

Yes, I can be cruel. Of course I am. By mere virtue of being human, the ability to be cruel comes with ease. But I genuinely don’t think cruelty is my first response, contrary to what google results would suggest.

I am screwed up. I do have a disproportionate negative view of myself. I do need to reengage with therapy. I do take a increasingly strong dosage of medication. I  do keep to the shadows. I do feel deeply. Love, happiness, hope…that stains me to my core. As does the darkness. I tiptoe and dance along a tightrope, never sure which side I’m going to come crashing down on. But it’s my dance and my tightrope. I own that. I find happiness in the smallest of things, I find joy in nothing more strenuous than a rainbow. I find peace in being by the sea….

I am not this carcrash of a human, waiting to hurt and destroy people. I am not this person to be avoided because of fear of me somehow infecting you with my, frankly, bizarre views.

I am messed up, I don’t see myself the way others see me. I don’t see the world in ways other people do. I’m not jaded or full of cynicism. I’m the eternal optimist. Because I have to be. I’ve experienced the worst of what the world has to offer. I’ve been the domestic abuse victim. I’ve been the sexual abuse victim. I’ve been the one who reached out to tell my story, and get the support I needed so badly….and found that there was none when I needed it. Yet still, I look around me and see the goodness in people. See the kindness. Offer my support, my help….when many others would have already turned their backs. I give that second, third and fourth chance.

So why exactly, am I lumped in with the dregs of society? The ones who take out more than they give back…the ones who won’t help themselves let alone other people?

I have fought, endlessly, tirelessly, relentlessly….

I have fought other people. I have fought the system. I have fought myself. I have fought for other people.

And because whilst I have BPD  and goddamn am I aware of that… it’s not all I am. My paranoia, my weird tangenty thoughts, my cyclical moods, my lack of “emotional regulation”, my fear of rejection and loss, my love, my hope, my whimsy….they’re all just facets of who I am.

I am not a borderline. I am not an abuser.

I’m just me….weird, crazy, ugly little me.

If that isn’t enough. If you will still insist on my changing…this is my invitation to you…

Go, and don’t come back. I do not have time or inclination for anyone who doesn’t accept who I am. I do not have time, or patience to convince you that I am worthy. How can I, when I still have to convince myself of that every day.

I do have time to reeducate. I have time to fight for the cause. To fight for people to actually understand mental health, genuinely understand it.

I do not have time to explain, again, that I do not have depression. That I’m not “going through a phase” (it’s been 20 years…I’m fairly sure this is who I am). I do not have time to convince you of what I can’t begin to explain adequately.

But, I will, always, have time to listen and to love. Because that’s who I am.
















































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































































time I wake up?