Ah, shit. Now I’m back to the original dilemma of not being able to vent on here because it comes out wrong and people misunderstand it, and having nobody else to talk to unless I break a promise. But I need to talk. All of my other words have been wasted on someone who didn’t appreciate them in the slightest.
I switch feelings on and off with just one little flick but there’s clearly still something bothering me. ‘I want to write a love story,’ I said. ‘Take my hand and let me feel something again, let me get my head all messed up.’
Perhaps I should just be as honest as people believe me to be. Perhaps there’s something of value in that. Perhaps it’ll fix the misunderstanding caused by reading things in the wrong order, and of me assuming that the things I said were put into context by words you’d surely already read. Perhaps not.
It’s difficult when you can’t admit something to yourself. It makes it impossible to admit to someone else.
I don’t like admitting my mind is broken. I can’t even say it straight; I can hand-wave it away and tell you everything I know but it’s from a very detached perspective. I don’t like the label – a lot of people hear borderline personality disorder and think I’m going to be a manipulative bitch; someone who threatens suicide when I don’t get my own way and makes everyone’s lives hell.
I don’t ever threaten to kill myself. I’d be too scared that someone would just hand me a knife or point me to a bridge. That’s how laughably low my self-esteem is. I can’t even personality disorder properly.
It’s ‘borderline’ because it used to be a diagnosis for the borderline psychotic; it wasn’t a personality disorder, it was a mental break. It wasn’t completely losing touch with reality, it was just closing your eyes to it for a while so you could scream your lungs out. It became a personality disorder when psychologists created tidy little boxes to fit people into and you get thrown into this one if you meet the criteria in their diagnostic manual.
Actually, my official diagnosis was ‘Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (Borderline type)’ because it’s given a different name in a different book. Is that any more helpful? Well, no. (‘They’ve rebadged it, you fool!’) That makes it sound like a mood disorder. However, my mood is definitely disordered; today alone I have bounced between being unable to cope to laughing at the ridiculousness of it all to hating myself so very, very much.
To be fair, that’s kind of my natural mood. I feel comfortable when I’m hating myself. I know where I stand. I could spend a whole day happy and then as soon as I try to go to sleep my brain will conjure up images of all the people it feels the need to compare me to and I’ll lie there wondering if my life would be better if I were nicer to people, or wore more makeup and better shoes, or got more skinny – or less skinny, I don’t even know what I’m meant to look like anymore – or weren’t so rubbish at everything I do… and there’s no way of fixing this.
I do a good job of hiding the crazybrains most of the time. Most people are surprised when they find out. It’s usually only when they see the cuts and scars that they realise that something is horribly wrong. And then I’m exposed; I’ve overshared and now it’s clear how much of a disaster I am. I feel ashamed about how disgusting I am and the spiral of self-loathing continues.
Comfort in words… sentences that will never be spoken again because of the fear that they’ll be misunderstood. I understand. Maybe they were never meant. It’s not like I could ever believe them anyway.
Every so often someone gets through a crack in the armour and they get to see the monster that hides within.
Borderline personality disorder fucks with your thinking. Everything is so overdramatic; you don’t give yourself time to react – something is wrong and it must be fixed there and then so you say anything to make it better… but you’re so bad at reading people that what you think they want to hear is actually what they’re trying to avoid and by the time you’ve figured it out you’re so frantic with panic that you just continue hurtling headfirst into a brick wall because you can’t fucking back down now.
Do you ever get hangover anxiety? Where you wake up feeling like shit and you worry about the impression you gave to the world while you were drunk? The night before you were gorgeous and charming but now that you’ve slept and the booze is still fizzily battling it out with your liver you suddenly start wondering if you said something stupid or hurt someone or did something embarrassing. That’s how I feel all the time.
There is no cure. Therapy relies on the desire to help the self and the awareness of when things are slipping. It’s not easy and not always possible. Once the thought has escaped and you’ve missed the chance to grab it back then all you can do is bite your lip and brace yourself.
I don’t know why I do this. This isn’t even close to being the first time it’s happened. It’s the first time I didn’t ruin someone, though. Normally I’m like a mermaid conducting shipwrecks.
See, I am crazy. I feel like I’m being laughed at; I’m the punchline to a joke I don’t get and he won’t let me in on it.
I’m tired of being completely fucking worn down by mediocre social interactions.
I[‘m] fucked up.
This is why I can’t write in the moment itself; if I had written this before then it would have been engulfed in peculiar emotions that passed through but didn’t stay and were soon forgotten. Like everything else. I have to wait and then analyse it once the storm has passed. I can’t write while I’m still firing lightning bolts at people because they’ll read something I wrote while I was playing with anger but they’ll still be reeling from sadness and love.
Or not. See, the thing that’s bothering me is that I misunderstood so fucking badly. You experience dissonance when you try to hold two conflicting beliefs or thoughts in your mind at once, or act in a way that goes against what you believe. I was experiencing it to begin with: ‘I don’t do this kind of thing’ wasn’t playing too nicely with the kind of thing I was doing, and in order to remove the dissonance I justified it by changing the thought to ‘I only do this kind of thing with a friend I really like’ but it turned out I got the friendship part wrong.
I knew it wasn’t enchantingly meaningful, but fuck… I didn’t realise it was totally meaningless.
That’s my regret. I gave too much away; I showed them everything because it felt important to do so, because they seemed genuinely curious about and interested in and entertained by me, and I have always been so scared of being that open with someone so I wanted to see what would happen. (And I was lonely and in need of validation…) But I wouldn’t have ever let them in on this if I’d realised they were only pretending to care. I can’t take it back because they’ve seen too much and they know too much and now I’m devastated over the loss of something that didn’t exist and embarrassed about how willing I was to give myself away.
I feel so ugly and dirty, it hurts when I breathe. I can feel my pulse in my ears. I’m dizzy but even the heart palpitations can’t beat away the horrible sick feelings of shame and impurity.
Please understand: this isn’t their fault. I just shouldn’t have done it. I thought I understood where I stood, that’s all.
My final desperate attempts to hear some reassurance were denied and, as I sit on the floor in my little shame-spiral, all I’m left with is the voice inside my head whispering ‘What else did you expect, you stupid whore? Wasn’t I right about you?’