About Me, Life

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.

4k9ge2rod82atqifb1qh

Advertisements
Life

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.

4k9ge2rod82atqifb1qh

About Me

Who Am I?

One thing that seems to be extremely common for someone with borderline personality disorder, is the lack of ‘self’. Something that everyone goes through at some point in their lives. It’s not knowing who you are at the end of the day, and it sucks so badly.

Borderline Personality Disorder and Identity Problems

I know my sexuality, I know how I feel about certain issues, and that’s just about where it stops.

If you were to ask me my favorite color 6 times today. Each time I could say a different color. Who I am as I write this could be a completely different ‘me’ if you had me write this in a few hours.

To anyone who knows me, they might be shocked. One thing I’ve always been ‘firm’ on…is who I am. Which, in reality, was me trying to convince myself. I have no idea who I am, and I haven’t for a very long time. I gravitated towards dark colors as a shield. Black goes with everything- therefor, there was no right or wrong. It can be casual, dressy, whatever. Just as I blend in with those that surround me many times.

Symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder

I’ve discussed them broadly, I believe, but I don’t think I delved into personal details.

  1. Impulsive behaviors– Back in high school, this was me. I smoked in the school bathroom, I cut school, I was involved in some B&Es, and theft. Is that who I am? I always joked that it was simply because it was genetic. That we just attract trouble. Was it really me? Or was I just driven to be impulsive? I take responsibility for my actions, I do. I’m not looking for excuses. I just honestly see those memories as someone else. I remember them, but I can’t recall the feelings. I can picture each event, but placing myself there is another story.
  2. Fear of being alone or abandoned even when the threat is not real– This one is major for me. Ask any of my close friends and they will tell you that a constant message/text they get from me is ‘I think that *insert name* is pulling away’ or ‘I don’t think they want to be my friend anymore’. As a result, I’ve put up with a lot of shit so I don’t lose people. Even when I logically know someone is busy, or having a rough time, I’m terrified.
  3. Dependent of others– I’ve never lived on my own. I depend on my husband 100%. I won’t even try to deny that. I don’t have a license, and even if we did? I’d still wait for him to go with me.
  4. Fear of rejection– Reason #1 that I won’t make a new dating profile. I found one for Anthony and I, and I keep putting it off. I keep making excuses.
  5. Make frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment– I admit that I will push people away. I don’t even realize I’m doing it at the time. I’m just so fucking scared of losing people.
  6. Have a pattern of difficult relationships caused by alternating between extremes of intense admiration and hatred of others– Before my husband, my longest relationship was 6 months. Yep.
  7. Act impulsively in ways that are self-damaging, such as extravagant spending, frequent and unprotected sex with many partners, substance abuse, binge eating or reckless driving– I was diagnosed with binge eating. I’m not an alcoholic, but if it’s in the house, it’s all I want. I’ve made the conscious choice to try to only have it in the house 1-2 weekends a month. There was a weekend at one point when the kids were gone where I was barely sober. I’ve never been drunk, but it does help me relax. I love sex. Not gonna lie. I’ve slept with 13 or 14 people in my life so far, and it never seems to be enough. Is that me craving affection? Is it wanting acceptance? Sex has been a huge part of who I am since I was 15. To the point that I was even more lost than usual when we shifted from 1 kid, to 2. One of whom is clingy AF.
  8. Have recurring suicidal thoughts, make repeated suicide attempts or cause self-injury through mutilation, such as cutting or burning himself or herself– I started cutting myself when I was 14, and it was a daily thing until I was 19. It’s an addiction, and it’s hard as fuck to break. I have some of my scars covered with a tattoo, but not nearly close to all of them yet. Suicidal thoughts happen often, to the point where I just brush them off now. If they get bad, I write it out, and cry myself to sleep.
  9. Have inappropriate, fierce anger or problems controlling anger. The person may often display temper tantrums or get into physical fights– No explanation needed here. I have anger issues.

I’ve kept this part of myself tucked away for so long, away from the eyes of people I know that while reading this they may not know what to think. They may say that it can’t be true. I once told someone- I’m an actress, and life is my play. I have to be.

A friend of mine on Facebook had this to ask:

I’d like to know how you deal with this in terms of being a parent! When A is with her dad for the summer I have a terrible time with knowing who I am when I am not taking care of her. It’s easy for me to just exist as Mom. But when I’m not Mom, I have like, an identity crisis and overall my symptoms of my BPD get a lot worse. Do you ever feel similar?

Which was a fucking good question in my opinion. I rarely see anything besides anxiety and depression talked about when it comes to motherhood. And we need to change that. Many mothers are outside that little box.

I feel more centered, sadly, when the kids aren’t home. I love having them around. I fucking love my kids to death. With them, though, I’m reminded of the mother I wanted to be, and the one that will never exist. I see everything that I’m doing wrong. I’m constantly questioning myself.

When they aren’t home, I move about almost like a zombie, but I can shut down. I can veg and watch true crime as much as I want, or game. I can do everything in my power to take my mind off of everything that goes wrong, can go wrong, and will go wrong.

Every moment I could break. I could have a meltdown, and need to hide it. I don’t want them seeing that. I don’t want them to know how fucked in the head mommy is. They know that I’m ‘sick’, and that my brain doesn’t work right, but I don’t go into detail.

To them, mommy taking pills is normal.

To them, mommy needing a nap is normal.

To them, the house going into chaos now and then is normal.

To them, having days where we all just snack all day is normal.

To them, they will never know ‘normal’. Only some sad variation of it where some days I can barely function enough to parent all the way to cleaning everything in site and making everything from scratch.

4k9ge2rod82atqifb1qh