So I went quite a bit of time without cutting. But I spent a lot of that time picking scabs because I’m clutzy and scrapped up my knees pretty badly (in my favorite striped stockings.) But last night and this morning I went back to carving “Monster” on my left leg again. Everything had faded and didn’t scar except for the first line in the M. I have this true obsession picking at my skin. Picking at hang-nails and watching the blood line my nail. I love blood. I love watching myself bleed.
I am a monster. My personality is a monster. That’s how it feels having a personality disorder. My bipolar and I are on good terms. It’s medicated and I ride that wave with grace. It’s not gone but it’s there because I am it. No matter how many times people will tell me I am not it, I am it. Fuck the lies. But my BPD and I… we are not friends. It’s why I feel like my friends keep their distance. Why I feel like no one likes talking to me. It’s all so forced. My PTSD is ignored. People talk about being medicated for it and I’m not being medicated for it. Is my PTSD a lie then? Then why tell me I have it?
I stopped going to my trauma therapist. Just as she predicted if I was truly Borderline. Showed her didn’t I?
I stopped going to ACA… I only went to the one meeting but the cost of the books I was required to have??? We don’t have the money for that.
I feel empty of words of things I wanted to talk about the past…month. But I didn’t. I was either too lazy or uninspired. But I’ve been reading a lot. At least I’m doing something, even though it’s curled up in bed or on the couch or in the car with all the driving I’ve been having to do this past month.
My asshole of a Psychiatrist has upped my medication and added an anti-depressant. Effexor. Fuck me, I was under the impression that you don’t put bipolar people on anti-depressants. That it makes them either manic or depressed. I’m depressed. So depressed that I feel like I need to be hospitalized. But I’ve been hospitalized sooo many times now I feel like no one takes it seriously. Let’s see how far I fall before I attempt again. Maybe this time I’ll die. Then maybe they’ll believe me then.
I am in a crisis and no I am too stubborn to self sooth or use any of the DBT skills that I’ve relearned and relearned again and again. No. They feel like band-aids. I know exactly what to do but I don’t do it. I am self destructive. I have no love of life. It’ll be better on everyone if I was dead. You can tell me that these are lies my head is telling me but they scream as truths and drown you all out. No amount of telling me that you love me and want me to live will keep me living. No amount of self help books will keep me breathing.
I guess I’m just lucky I have no plan right now. I just am willing myself to waste away as I sit here at my computer staring off, keeping my fingers busy. Or as I lay in bed, surrounded by cats as I try to sleep so I don’t have to face the nightmare of being awake.
Truth of the matter is that I’m being triggered by Damien constantly through my waking hours. Every thing reminds me of him and the pain that people aren’t grasping. It wasn’t a one time rape while I enjoyed every other sexual encounter with him. It was a rape. Another rape. A continuous rape until I was stuck with him believing that only he could love me. So I loved him. Because I was scared into loving him. Hating every time he touched me but running to him to be touched because he utterly convinced me that no one else would ever love me. Punished by him every time I hurt myself because I was scared.
I felt so alone.
And some how I still feel so alone even though I do have true love. The mental disorders makes me feel alone and I need to fight it but I just can’t any more. I just can’t. I’m sick of swallowing a handful of prescribed pills twice a day and one in the afternoon. It’s ripping up my insides. Upsetting my stomach. My eyes hurt. I’m taking medication to help with the side effects of the other medication.
I’m told that I’m psychotic. Then I’m told I’m not.
I’m told that I’m severally mentally ill. Then I’m told I’m not.
What am I? Why am I?
Take me seriously!
Stop telling me lies!
Let me have my fucking choice to end my life god damn it. Why is having control over my own life such a crime?
Why is hurting myself, which I use to release the tension of my suicidal idealization such a crime.
My choice. My body.
Oh but I know how much that’s a lie. My body belongs to the government which may no longer protect my health and I’ll lose my medications, lose my therapist, and then truly be out of my fucking mind and not held back. Not able to go to the psych ward.
Maybe it’ll be a blessing and I can finally die.