I think it sounds beautiful, the screaming. I want you to keep begging. Even the score between husband and whore. Come! Let me make a man out of you. One all the little boys and little girls can look up to. Scream a bit louder so the neighbors can hear. Fight a bit faster so they can know you feel fear. Because I want to make a man out of you. Society may judge me but they will never stand. You, a pathetic creature, have proven yourself a half man. So yes, let me hear you. Let me feast on your tears. No one will help you because no one else cares.
“I’m sorry” but I do not think she can hear me. Wishful thinking on my part. That this simple taunt could bring her back to me.
“I am sorry’
What a lie. I know that is not how I feel but try as I might, she still will not open her eyes.
I question my motives as I lay a kiss on her lips. Another on her cheek as I think of my reasoning. Before long her face is covered with my unknowing. As if the space on her face will give me all my answers.
“I am so sorry” I lie again as tears burst forth from my throat and I lay a hand on her chest. Another comes to take my place as I slowly walk away.
“I am sorry”
I mean it.
It is not a voice…more of a feeling. A tiny tinge in the back of my head. One that says I am better off dead. One that forces my attention to a blade. I bet it would be heavenly if I gave in. There is no voice. Nor any figure standing over me. It is more of a feeling that I need to bleed. It touches me with such gentle wishes. Catches my attention on some swaying bridges. Just a skip and a jump and it would be over with…done. This voice, no, this feeling, will have won… I think it would be better if it had won.
Share a story that has hurt you.
Something that ripped you to tiny piece and made it as though you didn’t not think you would survive.
Share that story, leave out no details, because I have a feeling this will help you heal.
Realize how much you have conqured.
The painful memories you can’t bear to hold.
Just let them go.
Share me a story if your deepest fear. Tell it all and leave out no details.
We need to see we are not alone.
Have I ever told you that there are days where I can not leave my room. I start to panic at the though of getting out of bed. That something underneath it will grab me or sometime horrible will happen if I sit out in the living room. Time and time again I have to convince myself that no one ia going to bust through my apartment door to shoot me. That every time I hear a car pull up it isn’t someone coming up to harm my daughter and I. It gets worse at night because I can hear and see everything. Someone is always watching. I can feel them breathing as I fall asleep. Some days, if I am not careful, they will even start to crawl there way up my body. During those times I find that I am unable to move. I can not make no sounds. It hurts so bad that I am often to afraid to to to sleep.
Through all of this I can not leave my home without talking myself into it first. There are days when I can walk out just fine and others when I can not even bring myself to unlock the door. I constantly make excuses not to leave, waiting until the very last moment before I go shopping. Even then, I will only go when I have someone else to take me.
I want to be normal. I hate fighting my mind for the privilege to be sane. Some days I feel as though I can do pretty much anything. Crowds don’t bother me as much though I still panic if I get to much attention. The other days I suffer and I am afraid to tell anyone about it. Instead I pretend to be normal. I make up excuses to why I can not leave. I joke with friends about how I am such a spazz and that is why I need them to take me to the store. I will spends hundreds on fast food because, while I can open the door, stepping outside if a different matter.
I want to be normal so much that I do not acknowledge the diagnosis my doctor gave me. I ignore the symptoms and play it off as me being a young mom. I lie and tell people I go places when I do not. I do not want them to worry. But they do it anyways.
I am far from normal and it hurts me every fucking day.
I recently decided to look up books relating to border personality disorder on goodreads. You know, just to get a feel of what was out there. I found a lot of stuff and not all of it encouraging. While there are many books about BPD I found many to be from people who are trying to villainfy it.
One book in particular called it a chaotic hell.
For this very reason I think I want to write my own book.
I am a mother with BPD. I am not perfect and make plenty of mistakes but my daughter is happy. She is full of smile and is the most loving person ever. Sure she gets into trouble as all four years olds do but I do not believe that her life is hell. Choatis yes but not hell.
Still, this does not mean that she will not grow up to hate me.
I can be unintentially cruel at times.
I can be ignorant.
I can spend hours alone in my room crying, yelling at her to get out when she tries to peek into my room.
I can be happy, too.
Endless days of us singing and laughing.
Times when my daughter has to remind me that it is passed her bedtime as I try to convince her to stay up for just “one more game”.
She is four but she has seen so much, to much, of this world.
I want to write a book that shows what BPD is for me. I want to write so that one day my daughter may come to understand even if she does grow up to hate me.
Many of the books are from people who left toxic relationships (friend,spouse,or family) and then turned around to talk a out the hell they went through. Others are from the words of people who were left by someone who died due to BPD and its systems. Very few are from those who suffer from it on a regular basis.
This excludes the medical ones of course.
I always said I would write a book after I have gotten 200 followers. I am getting so very close to that number.
I can only hope that I follow through this time.
CW:Suicidal thoughts, Self-harm, depression and parenting.
My daughter has never really experienced death. The only way I could explain things to her is that when people die they change. Thier bodies break down and they become other. Tress, grass, flowers, but not just plants.
This hurt her of course. She is only four yet I needed to explain why I cried when I held her grandmothers photo. Sure she wasn’t blood but she meant so much to me.
My daughter has little memory of her. Try as I might she has now forgotten her.
There are days I cry cause I know she is disappointed in me.
I explained to my little one that grandma is a flower. A beautiful Daisy just like her. One day I will be a flower as well. I want to be a lily or lavender. Those are among mt favorites.
I get sad a lot. Some days I want to be a flower as soon as possible but others I do not mind the wait. Last night was horrible. I cried a lot as I held my daughter and told her I wished I could be a flower. She told me that she didnt want me to leave. That being a flower wasn’t a good thing.
She denied my request to leave.
I sent my daughter to bed then promptly self mutilated to stop the pain. I learned long ago that I am a terrible person but I love my daughter with all my soul. Instead of cutting like I wanted to, I held a blade against my arm and pressed down. It never broke past the first two layers. I figured it would be enough to ground me but it wasn’t.
So I heated the blade and tried it that way. This time it worked. The pain was glorious and I found instant relief.
I messaged a suicide chatline anyways. The burning faded way to quickly. I had no desire to die but I wanted to hurt. I wanted to be in control of the pain. To channel it to a more manageable location.
I will not lie and say that this was bot a mistake, cause it was. So many things could have gone wrong. In that moment I needed it but I could have done something else.
I know this now.
But it doesn’t take away from the desire to want to do it again.