Sapped

I haven’t been writing here. I really haven’t felt the drive to. I get lucky now and then and write my fics, but I feel sapped of even that energy right now.

It’s one of them days. I felt my anger hit, and my annoyance skyrocket. The need to cry, and scream, and punch something…for no reason. I have no reason to be having one of my bad days. Yet, here I am. Longing for bed time so I can crawl into bed.

It’s another day of hopelessness and wondering why. Another day of feeling like I’ve done nothing in my 28 years of life besides cause pain, and fail at everything.

Any drive I’ve felt for anything is gone.

Oh, I know it’ll be back. Whether that’s tonight, tomorrow, or fucking next week- I don’t know, and I honestly don’t care.

I have so much anger bottled up, wanting to fucking explode, but no outlet.

I just want shit to stop. I want the memories to fade. I want the short ass temper to chill.

I’m just not that lucky.

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I Make Them Uncomfortable

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The rule of them when speaking about mental illness is simple. You don’t. You keep your mouth shut, slap on a smile, and deal with it behind closed doors.

It makes them uncomfortable. It’s hush hush. They like to pretend that it doesn’t exist.

I make them uncomfortable. Because I’m not quiet. I speak up, and I make it loud. I let the ugly monster show it’s face. I don’t play nice. I don’t put on a fake smile as much any more. I talk about what people want to pretend doesn’t exist. I show them we aren’t what they show on television. I show them that we could be anyone you care about.

Sure, they want us to get help. They want us better. That’s what they like to hear about. They like to hear about how Susan down the street with a rich husband was able to take a nice little getaway for her mental health. They like to hear about the hot guy two cubicles down talk about how jogging helped his depression.

Guess what- we aren’t all Susan. We aren’t all some hot guy at work. It gets ugly. It gets painful. You can’t pretend to want us to get help if you won’t support is.

It’s a lonely road because of our forced silence.

I quit that silence, and people don’t like that. People don’t like to hear that I had a breakdown. People don’t like to hear about how I had a panic attack. People don’t like to hear about how I had a binge last night, and nearly threw up. People don’t want to see the truth.

They want easy. They want the other side of the rainbow without dealing with getting there.

You can’t have it both ways.

I’m an addict. I’ll stand up and say it whether you think that’s a “very personal topic” and “needs to be discussed discreetly”. Well, you can fuck right off there, you neurotypical bitch. Addicts are less likely to get help for this reason. We’re less likely to say we’ve relapsed, or that it’s a rough day and we need, oh, I don’t know? Fucking support??

I suffer (yes, fucking suffer) from more than one mental illness. I won’t fake it like your wife there, pretty boy, because “that’s unladylike” or something. I won’t hide behind closed doors while breaking down alone because society is so damn selfish and lacking in empathy they’re uncomfortable with the concept that sometimes a pill and talking doesn’t cut it.

There’s something I noticed lately. The more I posted about recovery in any way- the less people interacted with me. The more I posted information about things that effect my life in a massive way- the less involved they were in my life.

Smile, don’t be depressed. Do yoga. Exercise. Go jogging. Paint.

But god fucking forbid you talk. God fucking forbid you work on erasing the very dangerous stigma around mental illnesses. Because that would make people come out of their little bubble of ignorance. And they like that bliss.

Pop, mother fucker.

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Having BPD and (not so) last friendships

I know, I know.

I’ve been MIA. I suck. It happens.

Basic updates: Been at damn near rock bottom, had a relapse, was in a crazy good mood, crashed, burned, and now I’m somewhere in limbo.

When I was a kid, I had 3 solid friends I’d see all the time outside of school. My best friends. Who were always there. Brandy, Danny, and Josh. Then I had a ton at school that I’d see all the time. I thought that would always be the case. I was so very wrong.

5th grade was when life pretty much went to hell. I had some friends, but they were conditional. Something I didn’t realize at the time. Now, I’m not claiming that you should stay friends with volatile people. I, however dark, was not. I try to be a good friend, even when I know I’m being a shitty person.

People talk about turnovers at fast food places. Mine’s worse. I get attached quickly, which I know is a BPD thing. Which, I hate saying. People say don’t make excuses. I’m not. I’m making a statement.

If I were to say something is because of my mental illness, I’m making excuses.

If anyone else were, they’re making a claim. It’s okay for them to do, but not okay for me.

I know I’m a bit fucked. There’s no getting around that. I know that I have my issues. I know that I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I know that not everyone will stick around. But, what happens when no one sticks around?

There’s so many things that go through my head when it comes to friendship. And it always lands on the same one.

“One day this person will walk away, and I’ll see the second it starts.” It’s a pattern that I loathe. And I’m helpless to stop it. I try so hard to cling to someone, to hold them close.

Then? Then the switch is hit. Fuck them. Fuck them for walking away. And it’s in that moment I go from being heartbroken over the loss of someone I loved so deeply…to wishing I had never met them.

People wonder why when they start talking to me, I’m reserved. And I keep a wall up. I know they’re only passing through. I know that within 2 years time if I’m lucky, they’ll be gone. I’ll just be another bad memory.

And when those times happen when I tell them I understand when they walk away, that I can’t even stand myself, and they tell me they aren’t going anywhere, that I break. I fight that urge to believe them, and fail. Everyone leaves. I get that. And I try to remind myself to not get so attached.

And then I do. My therapist is in awe that I’ve been with my husband 9 years. He’s impressed.

While that may be impressive, not knowing how to be a friend isn’t. Not knowing boundaries, not knowing how to not get attached, how to not make them push you away…that’s just sad.

Seeing names of people that were once so caring, that barely even bother with you hurts.

I don’t think people can ever understand the impact that friendship has on me. Both the hope that maybe the one has walked into my life that won’t walk out. And the fear for the day they do.

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Hello, sailor

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I’ve mentioned before how much I suck at relationships. Pretty much of all kinds.

In 2008, I met Anthony at work. He was the one training me. At the time, I was in an emotionally and mentally abusive relationship. Just 2 weeks later, and me and my cat were packed up, and living with him. He’s been through so much shit with me it’s insane.

From day one, our relationship was looked down on. Why? Because I was 19, and he was 42. Simply from them looking at us, they judged. We were called disgusting, people would glare, leave the line we were in, and I’m sure people talked among themselves.

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That’s our very first picture together.

He’s dealt with my highs, my lows, the days where I want fuck all to do with anyone, and everything in between. Talking about putting up with someone, man.

On November 15, 2013- I remember because it’s the day before my birthday- I was finally given diagnoses that made sense. Before then I was scrambling. I told him what my therapist had told me, and he didn’t even blink. He knew life would get harder before it got better. I can barely put up with myself, yet he does it, and has for over 9 years.

For 4 months after my rape, I didn’t hold his hand, I don’t remember kissing him, or sleeping curled up next to him like I had for years before. Not once did he get upset with me. He let me go at my own pace, and still does. I wasn’t big on physical contact before that, and it just made it worse. He understood how it effected my anxiety, and to this day, if I see a man in a military uniform, I freak. We were in a gas station, and about 5-10 came in. I told him I couldn’t do it. He simply handed me the keys, told me to breath, and that he’d be out with our drinks in a minute. He pushes me to be more, but never, ever, does he push me out of my comfort zone.

I can sit here and know with 100% certainty, that if he hadn’t saved me from that relationship, I wouldn’t be here right now. I wouldn’t be alive. He literally saved my life. Still does.

I’m on birth control for migraines. That’s $10.
I’m on thyroid pills because I only have half. That’s $10.
I’m on Trazodone because I don’t sleep well. That’s another $4.
I’m on Vyvance for binge eating. That’s $50.
I’m on Viibryd for anxiety/depression. That’s another $50.

Those all get refilled the beginning of the month. That’s nearly $125 just for me. Thankfully, my birth control and thyroid meds are 3 month supplies. That’s not including my copious amount of doctor’s visits- primary, therapy, and dermatology. One appointment is a $12 copay, plus gas.

It all adds up. I have the worst luck when it comes to health, and he just shifts life to work around it. I’ve spent years saying I’m sorry for things that I had no control over, and I still do. He doesn’t need me to, though. He gets that I get worn out, he gets that I get overwhelmed, and he gets that half the time I can’t even explain to him what’s going on in my head.

I spent ages hiding that something was wrong. I spent years pretending that I didn’t need help. That’s what you do, right? Because being mentally ill is seen as wrong, or dangerous. He’s the first person that’s truly seen me at my worse in real life. My online friends have seen it like that- but never the need to curl up with my stuffed pig, Herbert, put in my headphones, and squeeze my eyes shut.

I’m still fucked in a lot of ways, but I’m better than I was. I don’t feel as broken as I once did.

I’ll never be completely okay. I’ll never know what it’s like to just live without having to plan and overthink, but I have him to help with that. He lets me ramble, and pulls me back when needed.

He bought me a necklace with an anchor and it says ‘I refuse to sink’. He’s my lifeboat.

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Healthier Living

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If you know me, then you know me and energy drinks. They’re my security blanket so to speak. I don’t want to fathom how much I’ve spent on them in the last year alone, let alone from the time that I started drinking them (at 17!). Many times you can find me with a Monster or a Rockstar in hand.

It’s a habit. Every shopping day, we get gas, grab us energy drinks and a snack, get the kids their drinks, and their snacks. I have a bad day, and we have a few extra dollars, he’ll stop on the way home and get me one.

They don’t even give me energy, to be honest. I just like the flavors.

We are working on getting healthier now that his garnishment is over. Many times we would buy what was cheap (and unhealthy) to get as much as we could. Now we can focus more on health.

I know there are things that I shouldn’t eat because of anxiety, I just learned there are foods to avoid for PTSD, and there are foods I should avoid because of my hypothyroidism. There are also foods I should eat. Yet, those lists have been largely avoided. “Life is short!” I would say “I want to enjoy this!” I would cry. Yet, I feel like shit. My mental health hasn’t been improved by this mindset, and neither has my weight.

He’s 52 as of this year, as well. We both want to be strong and healthy for our kids. I sat down and made a list of foods to avoid, and foods to avoid. We’ll work on eating the foods in the house, but only buying limited amounts again for the kids. Anakin is thin, and needs the calorie rich foods, so we don’t really limit him. We do try to focus on ‘hidden nutrients’ in foods, though.

Foods to Avoid:

  • Coffee and other caffeinated drinks
  • Candy
  • Alcohol
  • Hot dogs
  • Sausage
  • Processed foods
  • Fast foods
  • Refined sugars
  • Refined flour

Now, I know saying I’ll never touch these foods again is laughable. I will try, though. I quit smoking, and I haven’t touched cigarettes since. What’s so different about this? Having my husband’s support is a huge help.

Foods to Eat:

  • Turkey
  • Chicken
  • Bananas
  • Milk
  • Oats
  • Cheese
  • Soy (limit for thyroid)
  • Nuts (especially Brazil nuts)
  • Peanut butter
  • Beef
  • Pork
  • Leafy greens
  • Legumes
  • Oranges and other citrus fruits
  • Brown rice
  • Eggs
  • Whole grain bread
  • Tuna
  • Greek yogurt
  • Beans
  • Seaweed
  • Shellfish
  • Berries
  • Cauliflower
  • Kale
  • Broccoli

Changing from an unhealthy lifestyle, to a much healthier one is hard. Sugar is addicting, for one. However, bettering our lives is more important. And how can I want my kids living healthy lives if we can’t do the same?

I’ll still allow myself alcohol for like my birthday, or New Years, but that’s about it.

I just took the last sip of my last Redbull.

Wish me luck, my fellow bloggers.

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Trying

Impulse is something that has always been an issue with me. Not even gonna go into detail on how that’s gotten me into shit in the past. No need.

I’m not the best with money. I didn’t even know ‘excessive spending’ was something that was common along people with borderline personality disorder. Apparently, it is. I do try. I really do. I try to be smart about things. And the truth is, I’m not. I want to spoil everyone around me. I know it’s a flaw.

I’m trying to work on it even more now. I’m trying to be smarter. However, coming face to face on how I fuck up constantly isn’t fun. I put myself down daily. Always have. Then when something comes up that just adds to that, I feel worse. I know that no one is perfect, and that people make mistakes. I totally get that.

When you’re raised with things drilled into your head, they stick with you. For example, needing to do things perfectly, or not making problems. Shit I am pretty good at.

Now I need to suffer the consequences of a shitty coping mechanism that I started who knows when. I need to be an adult and give up on things I really want in order to pay for my mistakes. I want 2 tattoos after I graduate group, and I have to put them off now. I fucked up, and now I have to deal with the negative reactions.

I’m not saying that I won’t whine about it. I’m not saying I won’t get pissy. I will. Part of me never aged past being a child. And that part comes out at times. I whine. I pout. *shrugs*

Tackling all your problems at once is hard. I can’t turn to another ‘unhealthy’ habit to deal with the strong emotions of fixing another.

I can’t eat to deal with money shit.

I can’t shop to deal with facing my binge eating.

I can’t drink to deal with everything. More like shouldn’t.

I can’t cut to deal with strong emotions that I never learned to process.

I can’t get high just to not care.

When you finally come clean and admit that you know that you shouldn’t be doing things, and that you want to get better…you feel guilty for even wanting it for a split second. You feel like a failure for just wishing for one of them for a moment. And then you want one because you feel like a failure.

It’s a vicious cycle.

I know that I’m making progress, but that doesn’t mean I won’t have my bad days. Fuck, I have more of those than I’d like to admit. My mind is constantly going, and it’s exhausting.

I’m always scared of not doing things right. I’m scared of fucking things up, because that’s just what I do.

I go to bed and the house isn’t as clean as I’d like it, I feel lazy. I go to bed and the dishes aren’t done, I beat myself up. I could go on, and on.

I know there’s no ‘quick fix’ for the shit that’s wrong with me. I know that I can’t just snap my fingers and magically be a little bit more okay. I know I can’t avoid things forever. It’ll beat me down more than it has already.

For so long I hid how bad things really were. I was terrified to be honest. I was scared to admit how scared I was. I never told people when I was suicidal. I never told people when I was breaking inside. I never told people when I wanted to throw up because I was so disgusted with myself. I never told people about how I don’t know how to process emotions. Do you have any idea how tiring that is? Having everything on your shoulders, watching everyone smile around you, and you faking it? You smile because you should be happy. You smile because that’s what expected.

People always question what people have to be depressed about. What do they have to be anxious about. Why can’t they just move on from some event. Why do they let memories effect you now?

I wish I could turn off depression. I wish I wasn’t so fucking anxious all the time. About everything. I wish I didn’t let shit from the past bother me. There’s no off switch. There’s no goddamn erase button.

When a neurotypical person tries to tell someone with a mental illness how they should feel, it’s disrespectful. We’d love to be able to be ‘normal’. We’d love to function without medication, or therapy. Some of us can, and that’s fucking awesome! Some of us can’t, and we don’t deserve any less respect than anyone else.

Mental illness has been something that’s been hush-hush. You don’t talk about that. You don’t admit to it. You smile. You fake it. And you deal with it in private. That’s a big part of the problem. The stigma surrounding this. Hollywood gladly uses mental illnesses for a plot point, they gladly make a star anorexic to add drama. The news uses it to explain why white men commit acts of terror.

And then we’re seen as dangerous. We’re seen as unstable. We’re seen as lunatics. We should be locked up. We shouldn’t be parents. We shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t do that.

It makes people like me afraid to come forward. I could have been dealing with this years ago, but everything I saw around me warned me not to. Told me to push it down, and to keep quiet.

I couldn’t anymore. There was so much pressure building inside me that I exploded. I couldn’t add anymore pain or lies to what I was already holding on to. I couldn’t keep secrets that were only doing more harm than good.

In high school, I could walk all over town. Crossing streets, walking in neighborhoods I didn’t know, and hanging out at the park after dark.

I’m 28 years old. I cannot cross the street myself. I cannot be outside my house in my own backyard at night without panicking. I can barely walk in my own neighborhood.

As I get older, the worse I get. The worse I get, the worse I feel. It’s got to stop somewhere.

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I Don’t Know

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Today in group, I knew no one. I had a different therapist, and different people. And still, I opened up. That’s a major improvement for me.

I talked about where my PTSD came from.

I talked about shit I want to forget.

I told them something only a handful of people know.

I gave advice. I spoke without being asked to. The therapist even noted it was excellent advice that he’d never thought of. That made me feel really good.

I’m the only one with borderline personality disorder in either group. So, every time if comes up, doc refers to me. I’m by no means an expert, and I make sure to always add ‘for me’ when I start. I have insight that he doesn’t, as I live it, but man. It’s draining. Thankfully, it doesn’t come up all that often.

Once doc asked why I don’t like going outside. I told him simply ‘there are people out there’.

When the female therapist took over, we worked on some techniques to get us through rough spots. She asked how I deal with being in public.

Her:  When you’re out, what do you do if it’s busy?

Me: I cling to my husband.

Her: What’s your thought process?

Me: I don’t want him to go far…?

Her: But there’s more to it, what is it? Why keep him close?

Me: Because if he goes to far people get close?

Her: Keep going.

Me: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Her: Why don’t you want people close?

Me: I don’t like people being close to me?

Her: But why? What do you think about in that moment?

Me: I don’t? There’s no thoughts going through my head. I just do it. I don’t like people being close.

Her: Why?

Me: ….Because I don’t like people in my personal space?

Like. I get what she was trying to do. But wording things differently won’t change my answer. I want to work through my shit. I want to be a halfway normally function human. I do, but that’s not gonna do me much good. Help me work on the issues we know I have, and I’m pretty damn sure other things will get worked on in the process.

Teach me how to not focus on the shit from my childhood. Teach me how to deal with my anxiety at the core. All my issues are connected- I know that.

I just want to be able to function. I want to have a life. I don’t know what it’s like to not worry. I don’t know what it’s like to be able to just live. That’s all I want.

I start Viibryd on Saturday, and I hope that it helps. Have any of you tried that? If you have, what were your experiences?

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