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a life ineffable

The Start

I am struggling a bit right now. Or, perhaps not, as I’ve the energy to sit and write a blog post. For me this is a me being myself for once and taking control.

I know I am struggling to be present. I’m struggling to eat well, to exercise, to stretch and to meditate. To be honest I am doing none of those things right now.

I am a stone and a half overweight. I’m stiff. My mind is a constant, ever-changing battlefield. I’m exhausted.

I’m 29, and have so far led quite a colourful life. To sum it up I didn’t have a great childhood – my Mother was completely detached and showed no love, only hatred and anger. I was severely depressed throughout my teens and then my best friend since childhood was murdered when we were 21. This opened my eyes and shook me out of depression. I soon after met my husband and started nursing at university, however halfway through my course a range of mental health issues presented themselves (PTSD, severe anxiety and depression) and so we moved out of area so I could get treatment. I didn’t graduate. My husband went away to work so I went to Vietnam to teach for a year. Due to my health problems and his newly-diagnosed Asperger’s, our marriage had been crumbling for some time and broke down irrevocably once we returned. I also lost a very close friend in the fallout too. My marriage ended late 2014 and I’m still crushed.

On the upside I’ve managed to hold down a job for the last 15 months, I live in a nice little shared house and have a boyfriend. Next year I should have enough money to buy a flat. After months of researching online in an attempt to drag myself out of my sorry state I stumbled upon Borderline Personality Disorder, which was like seeing my life written down for the first time. I don’t have an official diagnosis yet but just by reading the symptoms has lifted a lot of guilt off me and gives me so much hope that I can get better.

I started a blog before when I was diagnosed with the PTSD and anxiety to document my journey to recovery. It gave me peace and lots to do. I hope I can find that again.

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I’m still here

I suppose I should be thankful for that. I’m’ 30 now – a milestone I always looked forward to reaching because by now I had always planned on having that loving husband, those little babies, and that first home together. Needless to say, the week leading up to my 30th was torturous. Not only are none of those things on the horizon at all, I look around and see all my friends with their husbands, houses and babies, and see the evidence that it’s because I’m different and broken.

Naturally I’d say to another person that it’s just a number, and why would you want all of those things right now, and why are you comparing yourself to other people, you’re too adventurous for all that just yet. It’s true, of course. Once I turned 30 I calmed down a bit. It’s a new chapter, a new decade, but for the first time in my life I have no plans and no direction. I guess I could say that I’m lucky to be here at the drawing board, and I’m sure there are people who would love to be in my position. I am lucky.

But I’m also a mess. I’m off work, (for the second Monday in a row) because I can’t seem to handle weekends any more. Two mere days with no plans or timetable where I’m left to my own devices. Friday evening was good. I’d made plans for Saturday. Saturday went well, I wobbled Saturday night. Sunday I was looking forward to a good walk in the forest, followed by a dear friend’s daughter’s 7th birthday party, except I couldn’t face the walk, and although I drove to my friend’s I couldn’t get out the car. I spent the day at home, slurring my words with my brain in a fog because I couldn’t cope with all the emotions of the day. The guilt of missing the party. The dread of having to tell people I was ok when I clearly wasn’t.

I reluctantly agreed to meet with a psychiatrist last week after my Care-Coordinator said it would be good for me to have ‘that conversation’ with them. They psych told me she didn’t believe in labels, just symptoms of different mental illnesses that could be treated with drugs. Right. Well, I happen to believe in my label because it proves I’m not a nasty, evil person, and explains why I struggle and suffer every single day. After about ten minutes she told me I was depressed. I told her I wasn’t depressed, that I had BPD, and that I had been depressed before and this was nothing like it. I said I was suffering from massive abandonment issues, and splitting, that was making my life hell. She again told me I was suffering from depression and anxiety. I explained to her in detail what depression feels like, and what anxiety feels like to me (because I’ve suffered both before), and that this isn’t what I was suffering from. She switched from wanting to give me anti-depressants to mood stabilisers within moments. I told her I didn’t want any drugs at all, and that the last set of anti-depressants I was on kept me in bed for a fortnight as they essentially turned me into a zombie. She told me I was wrong and that they don’t do that. I was stunned! I said I don’t want drugs because I want the proper treatment as should be prescribed by the National Institute of Clinical Excellence guidelines. She snapped ‘they’re just guidelines’.

Well this is just my life, Bitch, and you can stick your meds up your ass. This was the first time I really tried to advocate for myself and I left feeling like a useless idiot. I can only hope that there is an actual person at the end of this 7-month psychology wait, and not another compassion-less robot.

I wish…

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I wish I had the energy or the motivation to come home from work and do anything but exist.

I wish I still had hope. My hope died about 3 or 4 weeks ago, during, or possibly shortly after my most recent crisis. I always knew I’d be up and down but I’ve never lost my hope before. But now, I feel resigned to this bleak future, with no hint of a chance of being able to escape it. I can’t see how I could possibly have a hobby, or go back to exercising, or even cooking for myself. I entertain the idea in my mind, but it floats away as quickly as it sets in.

I work to put a roof over my head so I have somewhere to stay while I’m not working, and so that I can run the car that gets me to work which I do so I can pay for somewhere to stay while I’m not working and so that I can run my car so I can get to work….

If I don’t work then I will be homeless, and will end up cold and hungry, which I don’t really want to add on to this misery of existence. All pleasurable things end abruptly, and I am cast back into my fog of nothingness.

I am a fantastic liar. It slipped at the last crisis, and people started getting upset and coming to my house and sending me concerned texts. I hated it, so I’ve set myself back up again. “I’m fine, just waiting for treatment” and “Yeah I’m actually feeling a lot better now”. I hate the attention.

Where do I get this hope from? I’m all alone with my own thoughts, my care-coordinator has only just reluctantly agreed to put me on the waiting list for a psychology assessment (because the wait is so long – apparently it’s better to have no treatment at all…). Don’t mind my scarred hand, or my reckless driving, or my weeks off work, or my manic behaviour. I’ve got a job and can feed myself and can string a sentence together and use what little energy I have to look presentable for my appointments because I go to work straight afterwards – therefore I mustn’t need that much help must I?

I wish I could tear open a hole somewhere in my body and just let my useless organs squeeze out so I can be done with this stupid existence.

I close my eyes and dream of walking slightly too close to the edge of the road, where the wing mirror of a nice, big, fast lorry smashes into the back of my skull, shooting fragments of bone and bits of brain over the pavement. I can then look down on my body twitching as the lights die in my eyes, and I finally settle still with a content smile on my face. It’s over.

I used to dream of a home with a husband and children and laughter and a big dinner table and a herb garden, with our clothes hung out on the line drying in the gentle breeze, and finger-paintings on the fridge. Somewhere quiet and calm, in the countryside where the children can explore the woodland, and where my husband and I could sit outside and share a bottle of wine with our feet in each other’s laps while we read the papers together or play cards. But I can’t have that because I’m unstable. I’m a monster. People don’t want to stay too long around people like me, because I spit cruel words out of my mouth like poison as easy as a person exhales a breath. My soul writhes in hot, burning tar. I’m toxic, and I ruin people and make them feel small and worthless.

As I sit and type this, tears streaming down my face, my boyfriend sits next to me and plays on his phone. So worthy I am of love or even acknowledgement. They all eventually ignore me. Won’t be too long until this one fucks off too I suspect.

So here I sit, wishing I was dead, wondering what happened to that hope.

My little book

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So I’ve definitely been in ‘crisis mode’ over the last couple of months, and the haze has kind of lifted.

I’ve been going to some bite-sized recovery courses as recommended by my care-coordinator which have touched on emotions, self-management, recovery and WRAP (I’ve yet to go to a few more too).

I’ve found them invaluable, and am (slowly) taking steps to manage my emotions (and subsequently, my behaviours).

My favourite aspect that I’ve taken from these courses is that all the control is in your own hands, even down to when people need to intervene. Basically, you write your own rule-book on how you want things to go down if you feel yourself slipping, and if it does get to crisis-mode, everything you do and everything other people do is by your own instruction.

I’m really excited about this WRAP, especially. (Wellness Recovery Action Plan). I’ve not started writing it yet, but I’ve been quite self-aware over the past few weeks and have been jotting down triggers whenever the arise. I’ve also been asking people what I’m like on my ‘good days’ too. Even just having someone else’s draft WRAP in my little book, I have been able to navigate my emotions really well recently, to the point of where I’ve even managed to stick to a severe eating plan and have lost a few pounds!!

In my little book so far I have jotted down all the primary and secondary emotions (because I never really knew what I was feeling before – it was always just ‘bad’). I’ve got a little 4 step plan for when I do feel a little overwhelmed (tea is basically life right about now – and heck does it work). I’ve also set myself a mini-daily tick list of all the things I want to do every day, and I also have to write down 3 things I’ve done which I’m proud of. Following on from these recovery sessions, I also note down my favourite quotes from the facilitators (who have had the same difficulties as me in the past), as they’re really inspirational.

My plan is to observe myself and surroundings over the next few weeks, and crack on with my WRAP in the new year.

For now, my little book is my saviour.

Still being fucked with

Day 2 off work. The guy drove me 2 hours to pick up the ring I threw out the car window the other night. He still won’t tell me how he feels, he still keeps all his cards close to his chest. Why bother driving me all that way?

This is a joke. I can do so much better than this.

Yeah I still keep going back, but I will stop, and it feels like it’s going to be very soon.

Fallout

So in the aftermath of last night I didn’t get to sleep until 3.30 in the morning.

I didn’t go into work, luckily my boss was understanding and says I’d been looking quite down lately anyway. I let a colleague down by not going in. I’ve also text to skip my session working with some primary school kids after work too. My job secondment is up in about 7 weeks and I need to apply for new jobs to stay at the same pay rate, and to avoid returning to my old job which was majorly stressful and for less pay.

I don’t see how I can maintain a good working face like this. Sure, my boss understands why I’m off but I can’t tell my colleagues. I’ll have to say I couldn’t sleep all night. The old ‘bad back’ fail-safe will have to do. Not, ‘I kidnapped by boyfriend and drove for hours into the night’. People would think I was a complete psycho. And I am, in those moments. It terrifies me.

I guess I’m in hangover mode, like a hangover from a mental episode. Shame, grief, guilt, disgust.

I got my letter today to sign up for an assessment with the psychologist at the Community Mental Health Team. I also rang up this self-help institute and booked onto a few courses which my care-coordinator suggested. It still feels weird having a care-coordinator, like I don’t feel like I need one because I’m ‘normal’, apart from the 60% of my life which is in utter turmoil.

I guess we’re all just normal, broken people. When I thought I was on the real side of normal, I looked at those under mental health care in a different light. Like these people were just crazy and out-of-control, and under a totally different mindset altogether. But it’s not like that. I feel normal, but just with broken parts that keep inviting themselves into my life to fuck things up.

I want to get better.

What am I DOING?

So I cracked and called the guy, but instead he texts to finish with me. I ask him to come round to get his stuff, he doesn’t want to come over for 45 minutes. So I drive to his house and wait until he gets into his van, he sees me and gets into my car. He couldn’t come sooner because he had to finish his Fifa game (I learned from his housemate).

He says he wants to finish because I deserve better and because he keeps letting me down, and he won’t change. I question this as the only change I want is for him to meet my psychologist and learn more about BPD because he hasn’t bothered understanding me. Turns out he’s been taking my insecurities to heart too, another result of not bothering to understand my BPD. But no, he doesn’t want to go to counselling, but doesn’t know why.

This flips me over the edge. Ignored for 4 days, dumped by text and no good reason for it – and not even having the decency to explain why you don’t want to make this work.

So I lock the car doors and start driving, refusing to turn around until he gives me a proper explanation. I drove for hours. He tried to get out the car a few times but I’d hold him in. Around 2am I pull in to a dark, unlit track somewhere I don’t even know. He pulls out his phone and I notice he’s downloaded a couple of dating apps and I just absolutely lose it. My voice is hoarse from the screaming and sobbing. I’ve got scrapes on my hands where I punched everything inside my car. I vomit out the car door. How can he do this to me? How how how how?

As luck would have it my car battery dies and we wait for a passer-by to jump start the engine, and then I drop him home around 3.15.

This guy is the worst thing for me. He brings out the worst person inside of me. He’s treated me the worst anyone has ever treated me.

So I drop him off, tell him it’s over and walk out of his life forever.

 

 

HahahahahahahahahHAHAHAHA. What a fucking JOKE. No – I don’t do that at ALL because I’m FUCKED IN THE HEAD. I actually say we’ll go to counselling again. This guy rips my heart out and stamps on it and I just keep going back for more. I’m that annoying girl I once met who constantly complained about her boyfriend yet did fuck all about it.

I can’t let go. I would hack my own fucking hands off if it meant I could escape from this, if this writhing fucking BPD didn’t make me so DESPERATE for companionship. I disgust myself. I have zero self-respect. I’m not even going to tell anyone what happened – because I hear the words coming out of my mouth the way they do.

The thing is, I left my husband because I believed I could find better, and deserved better. I was stronger then (didn’t know I had BPD, mind…), and now two years later I’ve witnessed all the scum this world has to offer. Did I get anything better? You can bet your ass I didn’t. So. Do I want to venture out again? To waste another year of my life sifting through the shit just to find another guy who’s gonna absolutely crush me??

When I left my ex, I was full of hope that good things were out there for me. I thought life would get better, I thought I could take control with my head held high. I had aspirations and hobbies and I was interesting. Now I’m just this pathetic shell of my old self.

If I could only turn off my emotions for about 6 or 7 months, perhaps I could find my way out of this mess.

I’m nearly 30, and all around me my friends are settling down in their comfortable relationships. Everyone is pairing off and curling up in their warm houses together. I never wanted a big job or lots of money or a big house. I was just a kid who was left to somehow grow up by herself, ignored by a horribly unloving and abusive mother.

All I ever wanted was little family of my own, so we could all love each other properly, and the Dad wouldn’t leave and the Mum wouldn’t flip out and thump her 5 and 7 year old kids for being funny, even though the same joke made her laugh the day before.

Just want to love and be loved. That’s literally it. Everything just falls in to place after that.

Can I go to bed yet? 

It’s 6.20 and I’ve had my microwave meal-for-one. Now I’m glancing at the time to see if it’s reasonable to go to bed.

Cant even be bothered to be awake with this ache. Missing a person who literally doesn’t give two shits about me. Haven’t heard from the guy and not seen him since Saturday morning. I’m guessing it’s over then? 

I have abandonment issues and emotional disregulation, but sure just drop out of my life for 4 days without a word. What a knight in shining fucking armour you are. 

The Physical Bit

tumblr_mam8vqr13o1rgafc4o1_500It’s amazing how my emotions hijack my body. During times of pain, and loss, and longing, my heart feels as if it’s expanded into my entire chest cavity and throat, trying to burst out. It’s uncomfortable, like something huge is stuck, something that needs to be ripped out through my mouth. The ache is so painful I can feel it, and I have to fight the urge to thump myself hard in the chest just to shift it somewhere else.

It makes it’s presence known. I can’t focus on people around me, I just sit and marvel at the fact I’m still able to breathe with this thing within me. It feels like a thick, slimy, sack – but inside are a thousand of me screaming and crying and holding myself. Thousands of me struggling to catch my breath through the tears, thousands of me vomiting because my staggered breathing has disturbed my stomach. Thousands of me clawing at my chest to stop the pain. A thousand pairs of red raw eyes pleading for anything to end the grief.

It’s like hearing thousands of me sobbing through a muffled wall. No-one else can hear it, or feel it writhing inside of me.

I sit quietly, ‘mmming’ and ‘ahhing’ to my friend on the sofa. Inside I’m dying.

The funny thing is now I’m home alone, I don’t cry. I can’t shed a single tear. The all-consuming pain is wrapped around my heart. Tethered-in tightly with knots I tied myself.

I wonder if a cry would do me good? Or, if I started crying; would I ever stop? Either way, it won’t happen.

I’ll sit with my knots, fingers barely touching the rough string. I can’t unpick these myself, I only seem to tighten them a little more.

Contact

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Spending enough time sighing and casting my gaze towards the floor lately, might as well photograph what’s down there

So I made contact with the guy.

I am making good progress on myself. After spending the evening with a friend I decided to embark upon a small project to get my ‘editing’ juices flowing, and a little prep work for the business I want to eventually set up.

That being said, I hate not knowing where I stand, so I called him. He said he didn’t want to talk on the phone, only to text. I refused to engage in any conversation this way – it’s pointless. You want to talk? Pick up the phone or come and meet me.

Anyway, he eventually called, seemingly unphased by recent events. I let him know the ball is in his court. I said that I love him, and that I miss him. But I also said his behaviour is inconsistent and his unreliability is starting to wear painfully thin. It’s getting so close to the stage where I’d rather live with the constant ache of being alone, than be in a happy place, only to be shoved free-falling towards misery with no warning.

I can’t cope with all this let down, it’s just breaking my heart. I should have walked away the first time, but there’s this stupid little voice inside that won’t let things be until I’ve exhausted all options. Until I can finally walk away saying ‘I did everything I could – it’s not me’. The other option is if someone meets me halfway, but I’ve yet to see that.

So while my friends and family hold their loved ones close tonight, I’ll sleep alone and weigh up my options.

I’m not deluded, I don’t want massive declarations of love, I don’t want a walkway lit with sodding candles, I just want someone to scoop me up, tell me they love me and that they’ll always be here for me, and that everything is going to be okay.

Fuck sake I just want someone who loves me the way I love them. I’m seeing this shit everywhere – in my friends and in letters and texts people are sending one another.

I know what my flaws are, I know I’m not perfect, I know that in order for me to be a better person I need to go to counselling. It’s a bitter pill to swallow having this diagnosis, and I’m genuinely frightened by what’s in store for me. I don’t want this horrible label, but I’m gonna suck it up and get the fuck on with it. Give me your counselling, give me your meditation, give me your DBT, fuck it I’ll even try the meds again.

I have a care-coordinator for fuck sake! I can’t even coordinate my own sodding care. Talk about dysfunctional. I know other people have way worse problems, but I’m not gonna dwell on that because there will always be people in way better situations too. I don’t want to compare my life to others’, that’s a head-fuck. I just want to be the best I can be.

I also just want to be loved.

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