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….
Student
Mum
Employee

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.

I fought a dragon and won.

How does it come to pass, that at nearly 30 years of age I am still moaning about the man who fathered me? How am I still not over it?

Background; older brother, older sister and I share same father. Grew up five minutes from him. Never close, got closer during my second pregnancy, and then six years ago he just stopped talking to me. No reason was ever given, and I can honestly say that I have no idea what I could possibly have done.

 

And this is just you and I now, I have no reason to lie do I? If I knew what I’d done that was so awful to be disowned by own father, I’d admit to it. But nope, no clue here.

 

So here I sit, in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon, pretending that “yeah yeah I’m good thanks, you?” in my rainbow jumper pondering, again, why am I such a bad person the man who shares half of my DNA can’t bring himself to look at me?

Sorry, I lie actually, he text me once about three years ago to inform me his mother had died but I needn’t attend the funeral. I responded with condolences and a photo of his grandchildren, who he also neglected to see for the duration of this no contact kick of his.

This week I visited one of my dearest family members, and I knew my father would be there. I was warned. The man stood within touching distance of me, and reader, I felt like fucking Harry Potter sitting in the closet and pretending I didn’t exist. He didn’t look at me. He didn’t speak to me. He didn’t even acknowledge that his daughter was stood there making a cup of tea.

 

I swear my heart broke. I’m surprised you couldn’t hear the pieces shattering and hitting the bottom of my soul.

 

It’s fucked up really. The whole thing. For 20 odd years my mother and father hated each other, but now they have long phone calls with each other about fucking kitchens. My aunt and uncle have him round and talk of him with respect and as if they actually like him. He speaks with my sister frequently, my elder brother constantly. But me? No. Nothing.

 

I swear I’m the goddamn milkmans.

 

But I’m 29, I’m supposed to be over this. I’m supposed to be okay with this shit. I’m a goddamn grown up with my own children.

 

But I think that is the point of it. I have my own children. And I know that for me to disown either of them, they’d have to have committed some kind of unforgivable act. The kind they’d get life imprisonment for.  Not for missing each others birthdays.

 

So why am I even bothering to write about this? I don’t even have the mental energy about this to make it flowery. This isn’t an unusual situation, millions of fathers across the world don’t see their children. I’m not special or unique with this. Okay it’s a bit weird because for 24 years we pretended to have a relationship. But still….

 

I guess it’s because it’s in my fucking head again. I know I have to deal with him again in a few weeks at my brothers wedding.

But it’s not even that really. It’s that everyone chose their side. And it wasn’t mine. I’ve never asked anyone to take sides, but knowing I had someone, anyone, in my corner would have made the world of difference.

 

Do you know who I rang after I saw him? As I pulled over, because it wasn’t safe to drive because I was shaking and my eyes were swimming with tears….no one. I rang fucking no one. I just….squashed that shit down and got on with it. I responded to some texts, I vaped, I drank some water. I turned my music up so loud I couldn’t here my own thoughts. I bit my nails so hard one of them bled.

 

Then I swallowed that lump in my throat and got on with it. Because, that’s what I do. I get broken, I get walked on, and then I shake my head and fucking get on with it. Because it’s me. No one is going to pick me up. No one is going to wipe my tears. Especially not over this.

 

Because they all chose his side. They chose his side when they didn’t ask him what his problem with me was. They chose his side when they make cozy phone calls. They chose his side, when they told me to be the bigger person. They chose his side when he made no effort with us as children. They chose his side when they didn’t condemn his behaviour.

 

But do you want to know why I won that battle with the dragon?

 

Because whilst my heart was breaking, whilst I could barely breathe, whilst my hands were desperate to shake…

 

I didn’t do any of that in front of him. I stood there, in my black dress, with a big sunny smile. I talked normally with my family. I laughed. I joked. And then when I left I spoke to him.

I spoke to him, and before he answered he looked me up and down, as if I was dirt on the bottom of his shoe. And he uttered three words in response.

 

Yes. You. Will.

 

And that reader, is when I realised I don’t have a dad.

So whilst I’m sad, and I’m hurting. Finally accepting that….means that next time I’m talking of the man who fathered four of my siblings…I won’t get that little pang in my heart. Next time I see him, I won’t get that sinking feeling in my stomach. I won’t day dream any longer, about the day we reconcile.

 

Because there won’t be any reconciliation. He will forever just be, my brothers dad…my sisters dad….my mothers ex-husband. He is no more to me than a stranger.

I fought that fucking dragon. And I fucking won.

 

Yes you will….

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?

 

Why do people never believe you when you say you’re crazy?

 

I’m allowed to say I’m crazy. You’re not. Lets start with that.

I keep being told that “you seem so normal” and “you don’t act like there is anything wrong with you”. Obviously, not out of the blue; that would be weird. And kind of offensive. But in the parameters of a conversation whereupon it is acceptable to make that kind of comment.

But the thing is, I am legitimately crazy. And people trying to rationalise my crazy with well meant, but ill informed, intentions with follow up comments such as “but everyone feels like that sometimes” pisses me off….because that’s the difference, everyone feels like it sometimes, but I feel like it all of the time.

I visited with my psychiatrist this week, for the first time in…too long to be frank. I’ve had the odd telephone conversation, where I’ve requested to come off of the antidepressant. Or where they’ve checked in with me because other, unrelated medication, has been added to my concoction. But I’ve not had a sit down, face to face appointment in too long. But last week I reached out and said, I’m not okay. 

Because, I wasn’t. And I am crazy.

In terms of life, I’ve had a hard, so hard, last 12 months. Half of it has been my doing, a quarter down to other people, and the other quarter, well that’s how life works isn’t it. I’m not saying I’ve had it harder than anyone else, not for one second. But for me, as I wrote ages ago, I’ve had my coping mechanisms tested, and some failed. The waltzers were getting faster, and I had no point of reference.  I had no sense of control. I had nothing but the pervasive feeling of dread and fear. I was running to stand still, but running through knee deep mud in the process.

My thoughts were, at best, haphazard, disjointed and never stopping. I couldn’t breathe. I knew everyone was going to see through the facade and to the fraud I am. I had no belief in myself, no confidence. I was paranoid that people that make decisions that affect my life, were lying to me about the decisions they were making, and indeed lying about how they were going to proceed with the decisions they’ve made. I’ve been insecure, in my looks and my personality. I’ve been convinced that everything around me is just stained glass and it’s all going to come shattering down, in the most beautiful but devastating way.

And I’ve had to go to work, family and friends, and have to convince everyone that I’m okay. Clearly, it was succeeding. No one could see the fact I couldn’t use language effectively, in fact just writing this has taken 14 attempts (it tells you when you hover over “status”). No one could see the obsessive thoughts starting. No one else could taste the metallic taste of fear on my tongue. No one else was witnessing the debilitating panic attacks. No one could see my brain calculating all possible exits, real and metaphorical.

And by no one, I include myself in most of that.

But then, in a rare moment of clarity, it did become clear to me. As I peered into a magnification mirror, pen in hand, ready to circle every flaw that was thrown up at me. It dawned on me. I wasn’t okay.  So it wasn’t the obsessing over the washing up (which was noticed and commented on) or the return to nightmares, or the failing of my Everest that prompted me into action. It was one, red biro pen.

And I fucking cried, I cried until my eyes were so sore it felt like I was blinking over sandpaper, my fingers itching to start nipping the tops of my arms until they bruised, my heart breaking because I’d failed. Me. The person who claims to control her illness, was being brought back into the fold by the devil and hadn’t even realised.

Thanks to all that is holy, that a passing cult leader didn’t notice me…..

 

Anyway.

 

I didn’t self harm. What I did was. I made a plan. I stopped avoiding. I called my psychiatrist and booked the appointment. I told my husband. I spoke to uni. I told a friend. I took my own advice and I reached out.

So now, here I sit. Re-referred to talking therapy. So much for 28 and all talked out. Self care plans back in place. Mindfulness being employed again (it’s a way of life and I forgot that).

I had to admit to the shrink, that I had failed. That me, the one who was determined to beat the statistics, had been so cruelly claimed by them. That my personal journey had taken me almost full circle.

And as I sat there, and told the good doctor about the last 12 months. As I poured my heart out, all the dirtiest secrets, my deepest shame….as he wrote it down, to keep forever in my ever growing file…two things happened.

I realised I was a goddamn hypocrite.

And the good doctor pointed out, that some things I was describing, that wasn’t even my illness, it was just me being a twat.

Both helped.

I was being a hypocrite. I know what is wrong with me is incurable. I know that was is wrong with me means I need help and support. It means I have to be brave and strong even when I’m scared and weak. I know everything I have to do. I preach it. I breathe it. I live it.

But I’d stopped. I’d gotten so secure and so sure of myself, I’d stopped taking my own advice. I’d stopped being as honest as I had to be.

So here I am, dealing with the thing I hate most. The feeling of failure.

But, to fail, means we’ve succeeded before and we can do again.  So three days past appointment, I might be back at square one. But that’s fine. I know I can get out of this again. This is just a relapse. I will be okay.

And the other thing? It’s always good to be told you’re acting like a twat and you have no excuse, snaps you into being a better person.

 

So here I am. Terrified, tired, mind spinning, unable to utilize language correctly. Dreaming of the worst of the worse. Paranoid that at any minute I’m going to be exposed. Feeling like a fraud.

 

But, as with all things, this too shall pass.

So, here goes battle…..battle god knows what. But it’s still not beaten me.

 

Mental health illness is a cunt of the highest order. And fuck me I’m sick of it. But it’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.

 

And with that, I’m out. Remember, the first step to being okay, is admitting when you’re not.

 

 

 

 

Can I have a do-over?

Or at least that’s what I text my friend the other day.

These last….six months have been relentless. I haven’t been able to catch my breath from one moment to the next. And that has been exhausting.

For someone who requires stability and routine in order to function from one day to the next….the last few months have left me spinning. My very own waltzers have been increasing in momentum….my homing beacon isn’t only just switched off…it’s in a different universe from what I can tell…my swans wings have been flapping almost as hard as my feet have been paddling and still…..the war of attrition has sucked me back in.

I’ve changed jobs, to one that whilst…requires less hours…it requires much more head space and much more mask wearing. I’m on my own for great swathes of the day. That’s a long time to be with my own thoughts.

My very own Everest has beaten me for now. I could see the summit…and then I slipped back too far to reach it this year.

Childcare has been a nightmare, I get that having kids and going to work was my choice. And I did it for all the right reasons. But its a minefield. And mines are detonating everywhere I turn.

There’s been a bereavement…which I found out about…by accident it would appear. Actually there is no appear about it. That’s exactly how I found out.

I’ve had to meet loads of new people. In fact its a prerequisite of my job – forming relationships. The irony of someone like me having to form and build relationships for a job. That’s hilarious.

And perhaps most concerning….I’ve come off my antidepressant.

Not my anti psychotic. We increased the dose of that and removed the antidepressant. At first it was accidentally. In the maelstrom of changing jobs and all the drama that ensued with the big green kitchen company….I forgot to take it. My sleep didn’t change, I woke up in a good mood….so I ran with it…..

The first month was amazing. Everything was fantastic. No withdrawal….no sleep issues…I was happier and more content…awesome right?

Then the second month happened…the nightmares came back, the insomnia came back. I was so tired I cried in a car park because someone snapped at me…I felt physically ill with exhaustion. My bones hurt. I was so tired….but I just couldn’t sleep….and when I did sleep….back to the beginning…back to the violence of past relationships, back to seeing my girls die before my eyes….back to waking up screaming and drenched in sweat…there was just no respite.

Then the third month came….the nightmares are less. I still dream. I still have exhausting dreams, but the antipsychs are keeping me….well sane I guess. My sleep pattern is some bizarre version of fucked up. I’ll sleep for 10 hours one night and not at all two nights later. I’m assuming it’s just my body trying to work out its own thing….I’ll ride it out. I don’t want to go back on the anti depressants.

Not because I have anything against them….but because…the benefits of not being on them are now outweighing the benefits of taking them. And thats part of taking control of my own health….learning when I need the boost and when I can manage on my own….

But in saying this….it’s not been all bad.

It’s kept me on my voyage of learning who I am.

I swapped jobs to another role within an international company…and I love it. It pushes me, it engages me…this could be a career. So I’m passionate about it….the big green company job is another post entirely. And one I will be writing, and one I will tag them in. Because that was a soulless,destroying company and hell will rain down on the heads of the management before I’m through with them…..

I’ve maintained some good relationships with people I thought I’d lose over the natural course of time. But now it’s like, because we don’t have work binding us together…we have to make the effort….and that’s nice. It’s reinforcing the lack of scarlet in me at the moment.

The bereavement…I genuinely…I don’t care. And thats not my BPD. It sounds horrible, but the woman who died….she hadn’t engaged with me for years prior to that, and her son – my father, well he was no better. So finding out by accident was a bit cruel, but hey….so what?

 

So overall, no I don’t want a do over. I’ve learnt lots about myself in the last 6 months. I’ve learnt how resillient I am. How strong I am. How I can adapt as needed.

I’ve learnt that actually, I really am in control of my BPD. And that, that’s amazing. Thats real progress. I really love some aspects of my mental health illness… I still love the empathy I have because of it. I really love how it means I can help people. I love the way I see sounds and taste words. I’m fascinated by the way my mind works.

 

I hate the way I don’t have that much control over my emotions. So I’ve taught myself to control how I react to my emotions. Thats a life skill, even neurotypical people struggle with.

 

So fuck it, overall…I’m still winning this battle. Or at least…I’m keeping from being overthrown. And for now. That’ll do.

This kid’s not alright.

So young. Sat on a bench, her short legs just hanging there listlessly, unable to reach the ground. But without engergy enough to swing. Her scuffed shoes just there. 

All encompassing, pervading every facet of my being. Darker than the blackest black. The stuff emo kids can only dream off. So thick it’s a relative forcefield around me. Ironically the one thing keeping me together was the same thing that was destroying me.

Loneliness.

Not the kind that a text from a friend, or a smile from a stranger can help stave off. But the kind where you know you’ll never be free of it. The type where you’re surrounded by people, quite literally, but no one can reach you and, most crucially, you can’t reach any one.

It’s only now, in my stronger self, with my new learnt techniques and medication, that I can look back on my darker times and start pinpointing what the emotions I had were.  I can identify fear well now, that was an emotion I only really felt in my mid to late teens, other periods of my  life seem to be conspicuous in the absence of fear. Sadness, I was never sad, I was always…..melancholy. Sad implies a cause and therefore a solution. Acceptance, not from people, or even myself, but acceptance of the way I was/am (interchangeable at times). Etcetera…I felt happy at times…like on journeys with my step dad to watch the football, or getting a good mark on a piece of work I’d really worked on, or when I completed prose that I felt told the story….

I’m painting the picture of a very unhappy child, but I wasn’t. I was certainly grumpy or crabby or mardy. Now it’s pretty obvious that actually it could have all been avoided pretty easily.

No, I wasn’t unhappy. That darkness I was speaking of? That’s loneliness.

It is only with time and hindsight I have learnt that. It’s still something I battle with now. Which is tedious given the fact from the minute I wake til the minute I sleep I’m with people. And even when asleep, I’m not alone. I’ve got the good old night mares to keep me company.

We all know my back story, I’m 27, had 5 different psychiatrists, 6 different counsellors, 3 psychologists, 2 overdoses, 5 different anti-depressants, 2 anti-anxiety drugs, and now a lovely cocktail of happy pills and none crazy pills, 4 diagnosis’ (Depression, General Anxiety Disorder, Chronic  Anxiety and now Borderline Personality disorder with an addition of dissociative and schizophrenia behaviours thrown in for good measure).

So what does that have to do with the price of fish?

Simple really. As a child, I couldn’t name my emotions. I didn’t understand them. Even now as an adult, I have to focus to see what the cause behind the emotion is. I mean, happiness is easy to determine, as is melancholy. But anything beyond those two, well thats harder. I feel anger, immense anger. But only temporarily, very fleetingly. The only emotions that seem to take hold and stay are loneliness and melancholy.

But admitting to that, isn’t allowed. How can I be lonely when I’m married and surrounded by friends?

Well I’ve figured it out now.

How can you not be lonely, when you don’t like being alone?

Which sounds absurd, because I love alone time. But never silence. I can’t sit in silence. Which is difficult, because too much noise overstimulates me and makes me cranky. But when I’m alone, I have to have music. Always music. It acts as a dampener to my thoughts. I can’t think too much when I’m concentrating on lyrics can I?

I know I’m not the only one who struggles with this. Loads of people can identify with the feeling of being alone when at a party.

My problem is, I can’t take being alone for what it is.

I have to over analyse. I have to over think. The ball of neuroris that is my brain can’t tolerate too long without input from other sources. Otherwise it takes off at a tangent and colours everything green.

Remember, everything has a taste, colour or sound. Thursdays taste of bacon, my teeth itch, lonliness is green.

Back to that kid. That young girl on the bench in her playground. She was eight. Eight. One year younger than my eldest is now. I still remember it. Clearly. As if it was frozen in time, an image I get to replay every day. That young kid. She wanted it all to stop. All to go away.  Her heart hurt, her brain hurt. All she wanted was for it to stop. To stop and end for ever ever.

See, I’ve been battling this for longer than I can’t remember.

I’m okay now. But acutely aware of the fact I’m still in this war of attrition. Knowing that I’m only okay because my medication stop me being anything else. Knowing that too long without the tablets and it all comes back. Knowing that I still don’t have the energy to fight it again. Not yet. I don’t think I ever will.

I don’t have the energy to fight and still be a good mother. To fight and still be a good friend. A good wife. A good person.

But that’s fine. At least I’m honest about my crutch. I’m honest that I need the pills. I’m all talked out. All lessons learnt. All opposing thoughts done. I’ve done the years of therapy, and psychiatry. Time served. I’ve spent over half my life in therapy. Therapy can’t change who I am.

And I am that neurotic mess who hides behind a face of makeup, hard walls, sarcasm and apathy. I am that person who will say something cutting just because she can. I am that person who will always be there for my friends. I am that person who will burst into tears because her hot bread has been toasted too much. I am that person who will learn, learn and learn some more. I will set myself unachievable targets and hate myself for failing. I will always be my harshest critic. I will always be battling my own brain.

Because I have no choice. I can’t be anything but who I am. I can’t be that happy, easy going person I want to be. I can’t wake up in a good mood when I’m coming round from a drug induced sleep. I can’t be that person who always has a kind word. I can’t be that person that other people gravitate to, because she makes them feel good.

 

I’ll forever be that person, that makes most people feel slightly uncomfortable, despite them not even knowing why. I’ll forever be that person who’s more spikey than cuddly. I’ll always be that person, who people think is joking because no one can be that mean.

But, I’ll also always be that person, who is the first to help. The first to offer solace and comfort. The first to empathise. The first, and last, to stop caring.

Me and my resting bitch face, may be unapproachable. We may make people feel uncomfortable.

 

But, something I’ve learnt over the years? That’s usually because in me, they see parts of themselves they don’t like. They see in me, the chance of the battle they will have to face. And no one likes that. No one wants to admit that mental health illness can, and will, attack anyone. They want to think its only the weak. It’s only the lazy.

.

And in me, they see that unfortunately, its indiscriminate. It will take anyone it desires. It will render even the strongest, warmest, move loving of people. And turn them into a shell. It will make them feel that lonliness I live with. It will make them feel like no one around them wants them or needs them. It will twist your own brain so much you can’t trust it. So by extension, you don’t trust anyone.

 

 

Oh. And I’m a total bitch…..

BPD and me…my new realisations.

I appear to be writing more frequently about my BPD at the minute. I’m not having a relapse, but I am acutely aware of it at the moment.

I’m tentatively telling people about it again. Mainly because I’ve been seeing flashes of the scarlet me coming through. But also, because every so often I gain a new level of insight. It’s like all the time my subconscious is working on it, trying to unravel the thread and help me. Help me to know just exactly what is going on inside my head.

Recently I became aware of how even missing a single dose of quetiapine will spark my absurd behaviours and brain whimsy.

My BPD causes me to suffer with dissociation. This means that I have a constant “out of body” experience on my life. Like I’m looking down on whats going on, but I’m not really there. The quetiapine and mirtazpine mean that for the last 18 months that hasn’t happened. Well. Not as bad as it was. See, I have great swathes of my life that I don’t really remember. The mundane things, the day trips to castles, the grocery shopping, passing my driving test….these things happened through a curtain. I could see, smell and taste. But I couldn’t engage properly. It means my recollection of these things is hazy. It’s why I’m in the habit of documenting life through photographs.

My grasp on what I actually look like hasn’t improved. I’m still surprised when I look in the mirror. I still see my self as that ugly sewer rat. I’m sure other people do too. I know, logically, that I’m perfectly average looking. But I can’t believe that. So I cover up the insecurity and low self esteem with makeup and bravado. It’s a tool in my armoury that gets me through.

My paranoia is at an all time low. Unless I miss a dose of the Quetiapine. Luckily, I have a close friend I can rely on to give it to me straight. She soon tells me if my reaction to a situation is within normal parameters or not.

My control over my emotions…well. I’m there. I’ve grasped it sort of. I know how to present a neutral face. I’m still the swan paddling furiously, serene to everyone but hectic underneath, and I still don’t have a homing beacon. But I’ve learnt to put a facade on. “If it’s not okay, it’s not the end”. I get described as “cold”. Which I’m fine with. I’m not. I’m about the most loving, spirited person I know. I’m legitimately batshit mental, I laugh so hard I cry, I get so angry I can’t see, I love so hard my heart hurts. But each, and every single time. “Are you ok” or variations there of, always, without fail get answered with “yeah I’m good thanks”. Because, not only do people not want the legitimate answer, but I don’t know how to give it. How do you respond to “are you ok” with “I’m seeing and tasting words, my thoughts are too loud and I’m over stimulated” which is what my “Im good thanks” translates to. You can’t. You can’t give people that answer.

Which brings me nicely to … yes, I still see words. I still taste them. I see sounds…not in the cool way with colours, but in shapes and patterns. Remember old alacetel phones? The ring tones on them were little red cuboids with rounded corners. Thursday still tastes of bacon.

My self esteem is largely the same. I still use bluff and bluster to get me through most situations. I have a telephone voice I use with nearly everyone. I still ignore most phonecalls. And most social situations. Unless it’s a random spur of the thing. I just can’t handle it.

So have I really come that far in two years? If I still avoid situations? If I still wake up screaming in the night? If I still feel like I’m on the waltzers and want to get off? If I still question everything…why did they say that, why did they look at me like that, are they laughing at me, what do they want from me? I still lie in bed and feel like the words in my thoughts are too loud  and too bright…like I’m hurtling head first into the back of a truck.

I have. I’ve come a long way. I’ve had a job for the last 18months, I’ve maintained a couple of friendships, I’ve helped people. I’ve been good and kind, just because I can. Not because I know it’s the normal thing to do. I’ve stopped getting stuck in the memories that I wish I could rip out of my mind and pour bleach onto.

But I’ve also become quite numb. Things that should devastate me…well I can switch off to them. That’s brilliant. I don’t obsess over the negative now. I’ve learnt that my emotions are fleeting. And something that hurts in that second, well, in the next second I’ll probably have moved on from it. Because thats what I do. Ultimately, afterall, BPD is defined by being unable to regulate emotions. Now I’ve learnt thats why I can’t…I’ve stopped hating myself for it. And instead I’ve educated myself on suitable responses to normal , everyday situations.

Have I forgiven the people that have contributed to making me this way? No. I never will. Have I forgotten them? No. Does it consume me still? No.

 

And thats that. That’s why whilst it doesn’t seem like I’ve come far…I have. I’ve come miles. I’m still on a journey with no destination….but now the journey isn’t horrible

 

 

If it’s not the dreams it’s the reality.

Screams rent the stillness of the night. Blackness surrounds, a crushing weight lays on her chest. Wrapped in a prison of sheets, her legs kick as the sweat trickles down her back. The screams stop, the panting begins….on her feet looking for her nearest exit…her mouth tastes of pre-vomit acid, her stomach roiling against the images her mind conjures for her. Memories, half embellished, half true to life…horror movies playing relentlessly whenever she sleeps.
At night, the fears and anxieties she manages to gloss over during the day: they fight back. Whilst she lies sleeping, her conscious mind switches off….none of her defences are there. The armed guards have stood down for the duration. The deflective humour, the scathing sarcasm, the self-deprecation…is all gone. All that is left is her imagination…an imagination that appears to be determined to do what her illness couldn’t: send her insane.
For her dreams, some: they’re just memories. 1080P HD images of her worst times, on an endless loop. Other times; well they’re tricks her own brain plays on her. Her own brain becomes her tormentor (not unlike it is during the day). It plays terrifying fiction videos of half buried bodies down the side of the mountain, each face being someone she loves…Pup 1 …Pup 2….Mum….Sister…and on and on….all the way to the bottom where she’s greeted by a masked man ….. or sometimes, perhaps worse…the dreams….they’re so real she can taste them…and it’s just fear after fear being realised. How many times must she watch her children die?
See, even when I’m sleeping my BPD is against me. Right now, surrounded by trigger after trigger….I’m wondering how I manage to get through it. How I manage to stay one step ahead of the battle and one step ahead of my own mind that is working tirelessly, relentlessly against me. It’s like I’m in a whole other world where I can smell the food….but can’t touch the silver wear.
I fight all the time, especially at the moment…the weather…work…university…everything seems like an uphill fight. I’ll win. I always do. But I can see my behaviours starting to manifest again…keeping exits to my back, or standing in the corner, making hot drinks just for something to occupy my hands, black humour, procrastination…all my little coping mechanisms. And sure they make me odd…but they do something to stem the tide of noise and sensory overload.
Do you know what it’s like to lay in bed with your eyes closed, waiting for sleep and suddenly feel dizzyingly sick as in your mind’s eye your rushing into the back of an articulated lorry and you’ve no way to stop? An adrenaline rush as I lay there doing nothing more than practising mindfulness?
It’s funny really. All my plates are still spinning, yet I can hear them crashing to the ground. The panic is raw in my throat, the blood pounding in my ears…yet still…I’m fine. I’m always fine. Like a swan gliding effortlessly on the surface, beneath it…my feet are paddling madly and my internal GPS system is switched off. I have no homing beacon, so I’ll keep paddling away aimlessly until I happen upon where I’m meant to be. And when I reach there; I’ll take a breath. I’ll stop. I’ll stop to smell the roses.
But in the meantime, my resting bitch face is in situe, I’ll be quiet around people I don’t know, and exuberant with people I do. But all the while my mind is like the waltzers that have been spinning too long and too fast. I’m dizzy and I want to get off.
But as ever this is a journey I’ll never finish, an end I’ll never see. And whilst most of the time, it’s fun and exciting, because hey! Who doesn’t like to be surprised by themselves? At the moment, I’m wading through mud in flip flops.