I explain myself. I explain my idea. I explain my illness. The two men looking back at me stare expressionless. I can see it in their eyes. She’s insane. I feel the anxiety creep in. They’re not saying anything. They both look down, shuffle uncomfortably and move on.
I can feel the abandonment. I’m a lost cause. My face burns and I can feel the tears at my eyes. I’m hopeless and empty.
I’m here so you can help me but yet I feel far more helpless in your presence. I spend the next hour rehearsing what I’ll say to get me the hell out of this group.
I’m so fucking broken. My partner demands to know “what my fucking problem is”. I’m mentally fucking ill and not one of you god damn bastards can help me.
My toes are on the edge. I feel the momentum in my body swaying me back and forth, threatening to toss my body onto the rocks below. I want out. I want out of this hell.
Someone just fucking help me.
The sun rose today. I’m exhausted, I barely dragged myself out of bed. This is probably because I’ve just come off a week long emotional bender and baby, I’m coming down.
That fog has lifted from my brain a little, there’s some clarity around the edges. Unfortunately, my body wants to retreat into bed and recover from a week of beating myself and others up.
I want to float weightless in the ocean. I want the water to fill my ear creating a beautiful, dark silence. This is not what I am, but who I am. I want to catch my breath but the world is still spinning. This is probably depression but it feels nice. It’s a small reprieve from the constant fire that’s been burning inside me . This beautiful nothingness is familiar and comforting.
Today I’m okay with feeling numb. I appreciate the beauty of this dark, sleepy abyss. I want it to hold me and never let me go. I don’t want to be high or low, I want to be zero. Zero thoughts and zero emotions, I think I’ll stay here a while.
At least until my BPD wakes from its nap.
Therapy has me jolted. Her perspective on a recent situation has tipped my reality. As if it needed to be anymore skewed.
I’m just playing devil’s advocate. Your famous last words. What happened wasn’t my fault. I peaked but I walked away. I thought that was progress.
You have to be on meds. For the health of my baby? Possibly born with deformations due to anti depressants? Fuck you. You’re too reactive, you’re not yourself. Congratulations on the progress. What?
I’ll be seeing more doctors. Doctors who will advise me on things they’ve never experienced.
I’m fucking exhausted.
I want a screw driver. I want to take it to the soft spot of my temple and drive it in. I want to dig around, itch my brain.
I want to feel the pop as it breaks my skin, the trickle of warm blood as I push it deeper. I want to slide it across my frontal lobe and scratch at the spot that contains the triggers. I want to smash it up. Annihilate. Obliterate.
Full on frontal fucking lobotomy. Come on baby, give me what I want. Or at least pass the vodka.
I’m feeling very broken today.
I had my interview for the social anxiety group this morning. It probably went as expected but it’s still a stab every time I discuss the extent of my disorder. It was recommended that seek more in depth care for my BPD. Being pregnant has thrown a wrench in my treatment plan, I’ve got to seek other therapies now that medication is out of the picture.
I’m trying to remember this is a process but today my brain is all drink copious amounts of coffee while sitting on the porch smoking. Except it’s all bad for baby. This little miracle. Well today it’s not feeling very miraculous.
So I’m just going to sit downtown with my decaf watching the world go by until it’s time for my next therapy appointment this afternoon. Maybe my therapist will offer some duct tape for all these new cracks.
I said goodbye to my friend the Count this week. I’ve found out I’m 6 weeks pregnant and can no longer take Zoloft. I mean, I could, but scary birth defects and all that.
My life has been literal hell. I’ve had family members question my parenting a lot this week, from my partner’s toxic side but still, it burns a little. I want to lash out and scream. I want to throw my middle fingers up at them and walk away for ever and ever, amen.
I interview for CBT next week, so I guess that’s a plus. Hitting that social anxiety group soon too. It’s probably all a good thing but I really don’t want to go hang out with a bunch of people just as fucked up as me.
My anxiety is reaching catastrophic levels this week and no doubt there will be a blow up, so someone say a prayer for me. Insert sarcastic eye roll.