Apparently It’s BPD

Despite reading and studying mental illness for all of my adult life, I’d either skimmed over the topic of Borderline Personality Disorder, or I’d simply never heard of it. I suspect I skimmed it, because when I first heard the diagnosis, I instantly thought, oh shit, I have split personalities??? That’s not right!!!

Well, of course I now know what BPD is, and I also know that, had I ever read anything about the illness other than its name, I’d have realized immediately that this is me.

I could’ve written the book on this illness. I AM the book on this illness. How could it have taken this long?? How many counselors and doctors have I seen in the last 25 years?!?! And no one ever mentioned anything other than depression and bipolar ii (which I now know I do not have).

And with BPD, there is hope of learning coping skills and of improving. Somehow. It will take time. But at the moment, fresh into this diagnosis, eating up books on Dialectical Behavior Therapy and mindfulness, I’m still feeling frustrated, in and out of dark clouds of depression and anger. I am so lost in this time and place of transition, and have little sense of purpose, and no idea what my future holds. I have no job. I live in a tiny, isolated, insular community, to which I do not belong. I feel alienated from my husband because of my illness and because of my lack of income. I feel burdensome. Alone. Pathetic. Defeated. Confused. And I have utterly no one to confide in but this blog, lest I cause anyone any MORE burden. Other than raising my children, my life has been an absolute and utter waste. Cumbersome.

I’m not suicidal. I was, a few weeks ago. But not now. I’m just so intensely alone. And I don’t know what to do. I have a tiny, partially reconstituted faith in God. I pray a little, which for me is a huge change. But I could never, ever pray away the sadness. It just doesn’t work, and I’ve tried much harder in times when my faith was much stronger.

I do feel myself drifting into dark waters again, but I think that a long as I avoid alcohol and benzos, I’ll move through this relatively unscathed. But it’s a short walk to the pharmacy, I have one refill left, and sometimes my resolve is next to nil. With this diagnosis, I’ve learned benzodiazepines can lead to suicide in a person with BPD. Which explains a lot. No more little blue pills for me, unless I’m making a conscious decision to end it, which I vow not to do.

It’s exhausting.

I just want to be normal. Well, I lie. I just want to be happy. Big difference.

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Maybe It Doesn’t Help

Asking for help doesn’t seem to be as effective as I advertise it to be. “Ask for help! Don’t go through it alone!” It seems that asking for help just makes people think you are crazy. And makes them think a) they are saviors to your cause, making it about them rather than about the hurting person, or b) they get angry because you’ve lost your marbles and the inconvenience of it pisses them off.

Either way, not what I was expecting. And I won’t ask for help again.

Drown My Sorrow

I could die in this closet tonight and no one would know until tomorrow around noon. Look right through me.

I won’t do it. It’s too mundane and makes too much sense right now. And I know that what makes sense now is crazy. So I won’t follow the crazy. But I am staying in my closet for now.

I’m in the hangers. I have too much. Stuff. Shame. Fear. Anger. Grief. Resentment. Fraudulence. I am never who I pretend to be.

But I do not know who I am, so the pretending is easy. Pens and poems and sadness do not a human make.

Right? Or am I wrong?

Simply Flawed

I don’t enjoy feeling like someone is angry at me, and not knowing what I did. No one enjoys it, I’m sure. It does seem like some people deal with it a bit better than others, though. Water off a duck’s back and such. Wish I could be that way. But instead, I’m a dweller. An over-analyzer. And possibly somewhat paranoid.

Character flaw. Just adding it to the list now. Some days I feel there are just far too many flaws than time to fix them.

I’m tired today, and so grateful it’s Friday. My job is a heavy backpack that I like to sling onto the floor with a clunk once Friday at five rolls around. Then comes the disappointment over those all too high Friday night expectations. I’m not 25 any more. Hell, I don’t know if I was ever 25. I’ve been a mom since 18. On once you’re a mom, there seems to be no age but your child’s.

I’m out of energy, out of motivation, and running out of hope in this dead end high desert disaster. The barrenness sometimes seeps right into me, gets me to the core, and I have to do what I can with books and home facials and online shopping to get to another day.

My life is measured by the delivery of Amazon boxes.

At least it’s something.

An Intro to Melancholia

My life on the high desert. It’s been nearly three years, and I’ve not yet fully acclimated. I’d consider the ocean to be my natural habitat, but this high desert home is dry and acidic. It has its own strange beauty (the deer and the antelope know), and at times it sweeps me away with its vast emptiness and grand, violet-blue sky. But the openness of it is discomforting, disquieting.

There is a book I read in college, Giants in the Earth, about an immigrant woman from Norway, who is led by her husband to the prairies of South Dakota. The vastness overcomes her, and she climbs into her steamer trunk to escape the desolation, to hide from the emptiness, to cocoon.

Sometimes think I’ll climb into my closet, curl up in a back corner in my smallest kitty-cat self, and try to relearn how to breathe.

Instead, though, I play with mineral pigments and soaps, a buy sparkly costume jewelry. I reorganize my writing desk and bookshelves. I watch documentaries and ridiculously embarrassing historical dramas. Anything with jewelry and extravagant fashion.

I like pretty things.

I have blogged for a number of years. So many evolutions have occurred, so many life changes. Reading back makes me tired. I love blogging. There is something so satisfying about writing out the heart, knowing that someone unknown may read it, and possibly relate. And there is something about public writing that holds one accountable, even if the writing is anonymously written, and anonymously read.

This blog is more a journal than anything. I am not here to teach, to advise or inspire. I am not in any position to guide anyone else, although there can be lessons learned from the mistakes I’ve so often made.

Primarily, I am writing here in order to keep my sense of self solid, to hear bones rattling in an empty  house. The high desert sometimes suffocates, and this might be a place I come to breathe.

 

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