“In my mind
In a future five years from now
I’m one hundred and twenty pounds
And I never get hung over
Because I will be the picture of discipline
Never minding what state I’m in
And I will be someone I admire
And it’s funny how I imagined
That I would be that person now
But it does not seem to have happened
Maybe I’ve just forgotten how to see
That I am not exactly the person that I thought I’d be” -In My Mind, Amanda Palmer
2 things…. oops I mean 3
I bought the book my trauma/marriage therapist suggested, “Stop Walking on Eggshells: taking your life back when someone you care about has borderline personality disorder.” and I hate it already.
The point of the book is for someone like my wife, Aunna, to help her better understand me, the Borderline Monster that I am. Which, 30 pages in… Aunna already does the things they suggest. She’s gentle with me. She and I actually have a very good understanding between us and my rages of irritability and instability. I think I wasted my money. But my therapist wants us to read it. So I will read it. The whole thing. Tear it apart in its offensive descriptions of those with Borderline Personality Disorder. Also to prove to my therapist that I do indeed have Borderline Personality Disorder. You dare doubt me: Anakin Fucking Skywalker?????
Nothing has ever described me so well so much. The way I use sex, and self-harm, and spending… the “cheating” with our open relationship. The fact that I fucked a cis guy just to get my fucking DVDs back (Star Wars dvds, mind you, very important) even though I self identify as a lesbian. (I am not a Gold Star Lesbian, sadly. Had that stupid title ripped away from me when Damien raped me. Thanks.) I even fucked my best friend who I dated for half a year in an attempt at a poly relationship. It was…like fucking my best friend. But he’s a guy, not cis, thank fucking god because I can’t stand cis-guys, but as a lesbian I felt like I was disrespecting his gender by sleeping with him. But we’re good. I hope so at least. He tells me we are good. I love him so much. I’m glad we’re best friends.
What brought upon my BPD? My PTSD? My Borderline Personality Disorder it’s been agreed that it was the emotional abandonment from my mother, the divorce, the feelings of that my parents were leaving my brother and I because we weren’t good enough for them to stay together. Or was it the rape/molestation (fuzzy memories) that happened to me when I was 6 by my friend’s cousin? (I think they were female?) Did that give me Borderline Personality Disorder? I know I have a natural disposition to being sensitive. I know bipolar is hereditary. I know that my PTSD didn’t happen until Damien raped me. Repeatedly. Abused me, beat me, yelled at me, threatened me constantly. My therapist that I miss, Laura, said that I had Stockholm Syndrome. My new therapist, Valerie, doubts I had it. I kinda really hate her the more I think about it.
Valerie thinks that I let Damien rape me. The first time wasn’t my fault. (I mean I was six years old) but that at 15 I was at fault because I chose to be with Damien? What the fuck is with her victim blaming??? She also thinks the third person who raped me is my fault again because I repeated my behaviors of being a target for abusive people.
I’m sorry guys, who ever is still reading this. I still want to use this blog to discus magic, but it’s hard or me to do spells and read tarot when I’m suffering from my disorders. And suffering from a shit therapist.
The second thing…
I think I’m body dysmorphic… or something. It’s all part of the BPD really. But the thing I mentioned previously in my blog post before this. My problem with my weight. And the scary thing that everything around me is suddenly about anorexia. I re-read Loud in the House of My Self by Stacy Pershall, which I forgot that she talks about anorexia and bulimia in it quite a bit. But then my favorite Youtuber, Black Friday, talked about it in a recent video. I made a new friend who has an eating disorder.
I’m scared I’m developing one.
Or is it just the BPD fucking with my brain?
I drank my raspberry mint diet tea for dinner.
Then I binged on Mac and Cheese.
I feel bloated and sick and I want to puke, but I don’t know if I’ll actually do it. But I want to cut. I probably will cut. I have a plan. I’m going to cut ‘Monster’ into my thigh or my arm. I bought new blades today because my old ones are dull.
I bought a book on BPD and blades to cut. What a joke. What a walking stereotype I am.
I forgot to get the cute band-aids I promised my best friend I would get.
I think tomorrow I will properly starve myself, just to see if I can do it. I’m determined. I’m determined to destroy myself. I feel miserable and I want it to be clear.
I want my new therapist to see that I do have BPD.
I want my label acknowledged. I want to be fucking validated!!!
I haven’t drawn in days. I’ve felt too empty to draw. But I’ve been reading, so that’s okay, right? I finished Stranger in a Strange Land by Robert A. Heinlein (loved it) and Loud in the House of Myself by Stacy Parshall. I’m starting American Gods by Neil Gaiman and The Art of Asking by Amanda Palmer (and now Stop Walking on Eggshells, which I’m ready to burn and light a cigarette from the flames.)
Fuck I want a cigarette really bad. I’m trying to be good and stay quit. I know they slowly kill me but I like it? I imagine myself wasting away. But then I remember that my grandpa had lung cancer, he’s in remission with one and a half lungs.
My parents would kill me if I got lung cancer, and that scares me away from smoking more than anything, actually. But the temptation is there. Just one. I have a pack. One won’t kill me. I could watch the snow… bundled up in my Jedi robes with my zune in my pocket, blasting Strung Out In Heaven by Amanda Palmer. That sounds like heaven. I think I’ll do that. But after cutting. Cleaning my cuts and putting Star Wars band-aids on. Then curl up with American Gods or Art of Asking and call it a night.