Think of all of the little pieces of your personality, of you. Think of all the contradictory parts, the values the interests, the habits. Now imagine that they are a wardrobe. Your job merits an outfit: maybe you leave the party pants at home, and bring along your passion, or your creativity instead. Most people have a few items they might switch up, but generally you know, you have a sense of self, you know your values, your dislikes, your fears, passions. Borderline personality disorder sometimes feels like some asshole with a can of paint and scissors tripped and tripled your wardrobe. Continue reading “Personality (Disorder) Wardrobe”
Last night I woke up several times from nightmares, only I didn’t wake up screaming, I woke up feeling so sad I could never describe it with words. It felt like a piece of me was missing, like I had just lost everything I cared about, and the only way I could feel any ease in it was to hug a pillow. For as long as I can remember I’ve not been able to sleep without hugging a pillow, it helped me feel that I wasn’t so alone. I used to sit awake at night for hours because I felt so isolated, sad and alone; I used to sleep walk, sleep talk, have nightmares, and I did for as long as I can remember. I didn’t know how to soothe myself, and I didn’t know how to make the pain go away, and I was on my own to figure it out.
Continue reading “Sleepless”
Just saying…If you’re family, or you’re not into me talking about sex stop reading now. TW sex talk. And please don’t talk to me about how inappropriate this is, or how gross it is, or judge me, you’re reading the title right? Brutally Honest? Well, this is part of it that not everyone might want to see.
Continue reading “Sexual self-destruct”
Oh Summer. A time that while on one hand great for your mental health because of all the sun and all that, also can be so hard because you’re forced to face other demons. They might be having to wear clothes that might reveal the “flawed” parts, or clothing that reveals scars. Sometimes it feels like a choice between being sweaty gross and uncomfortable, or cooler but still hot, gross, and uncomfortable.
Continue reading “Summer and scars”
Another year older, and I’m not really sure how I feel. I can’t remember if I wrote this, I believe I did, but that when I was a kid I’d say “I’m not growing up, Peter Pans going to get me and I’m going to Neverneverland.”? Part of that was because I didn’t think I’d make it through, I didn’t want to even try, I was convinced that if life got harder than it was then (as I was constantly told), I didn’t want to go through with it. Every year on my birthday I would feel such a sense of panic, and guilt, and confusion. I felt so anxious a lot of the time, the idea of celebrating a life I didn’t even want to live felt selfish.
Continue reading “Its my fault”
I had surgery on Wednesday. This means, unfortunately that I can’t move around all that much. I have four small incisions that vary in size on my abdomen so I can’t do anything involving my ab muscles. It hurts to laugh, bend over, to sit down, stand up, and I found out today, it even hurts to cry.
I never know how to start these. Do I say hi? Howdy? Ask about you though you wont be able to answer cuz this is through text? Anyway, its done now, off we go.
This one, my friends, is going to be dark, heavy, and sad. Warning you now. Also you are not allowed to get mad at me for telling you this: that wont help anyone. Don’t be a dink. Yes, I’ve felt suicidal. So that all being said, if you want to continue reading, take a deep breath, hug your cat, and read on.
A good friend of mine, the other day, compared people to books; I have been thinking about it since. On the outside we can show whatever cover we want, we can change the picture, we can change the size, the dimensions, even edit the little blurb on the back: you can show on the outside whatever you want. No matter what you do, dwhich parts of you you hide away from the world, as you open that cover who you really are is written in all those words on all those pages. Pages that keep getting written every day, and don’t get me wrong, you have kind of a magic spell over the pen writing the words down as you go along, but ultimately a lot of it is out of your control. All we can do is chose how deal with it, how we grow, to embrace our dark pages, those ‘flawed’ pages, and keep trying to write a great ending. Don’t take that to mean you should only be happy for all those pages, because that would be a horrible book. You’d get bored right away, you couldn’t appreciate the good without the bad. You wouldn’t learn that important lesson, or meet that certain someone or whatever cheesy ending is in all those books you read. My own book has its fair share of dark pages, honestly though my book would be more heavily weighed on the dark pages like a Dickens book. (Fun fact, my fave author) A dark book that I have read through and tried to heal and deal with in every way I know how. There are a lot of points in my story where I didn’t think I would make it through to the next chapter, the next page, or even the next sentence. Most of the time I was growing up I didn’t think I’d ever even get this far. When people would ask ‘what do you want to do when you grow up’ a lot of the time I’d say “I wont, Peter Pan is going to come find me and take me to Neverneverland”. On some level, I knew if this was how bad it is to be a kid, I did not want to grow old, I didn’t think I could possibly make it through the pain to get there. I have felt suicidal many many times throughout my life. Even more I’ve thought about how I wish I didn’t exist, I didn’t think I made any difference to anyone by existing, I felt that everyone would be better off without me. Feeling suicidal, you may judge, is selfish. But in those moments, it feels like its for everyone else’s good. I used to walk home from school/choir and walk over the bridge and picture myself jumping off of it in the middle of winter when it would be far too cold to swim. These feelings still happen now and then. I promise you I don’t have a plan, and its not something I would do. Just those feelings of wishing I didn’t exist. I can’t really help them, they’re usually when I’m in a low spot. They’re getting better now that I am doing something I love, and now that I’ve cut out most of those shitty, toxic friends. I am not usually good at asking for help, I’m not good at being direct when I’m in this place, and to be honest with you, even when I was direct a lot of the people I reached out to didn’t help. The last time this happened I lost a friend. I walked around by the water trying my hardest to breathe, to try and ease the intense pain that no words could describe. I texted about 10 people, most brushed me off, some didn’t answer. No one asked if I was okay, no one texted back the next day to check in. It made me feel like I was right, no one cared if I existed or not. That I really am a burden, a broken shell of a person. When I’m in a better place, I know that this monster of an illness can be so convincing with its horrible ‘truths’. I know it can convince you that you don’t belong, that you aren’t loved, that you arent’ enough, that no one cares. I promise you that its wrong. Its so, so wrong. That night I took a picture of where I was standing when I finally took a sip of air (still felt horrible) and posted it on a support group on fb with #madeit. You will too, I promise. Maybe we have met, maybe we haven’t, maybe you’re in some country so far away but no matter where it is, I care. I care you exist. I know how it feels. I promise you the people in your life do too, they just are standing on the wrong side of a two way glass. They want so badly to see you but all they can see is the reflection of the piece of yourself you show so well. They don’t know how to help, help them to know. All I ever really want when I’m in this place is to not be alone. I want someone to say ‘I’m coming to meet you.’ Even if its just to hug me. I want someone to listen, to call me, to just remind me they love me. To ask if I’m okay, and then just validate it. Not to fix me and tell me what I “should” and “shouldn’t” do.
Take a deep breath, this was a heavy one.
I know I can be hard to be around. Its become a universal truth that few hesitate to nail to the ground. ‘Thank god youre not depressed anymore now we can be friends’, ‘you’re an overdramatic queen’, ‘Im disappointed that you are still the same woe is me selfish girl I knew in highschool’, ‘you’re getting in the way’, ‘youre bringing me down’ (yes those were said to me) They were follow ups after being reassured ‘dont worry i won’t leave you’ ‘i wouldn’t do that ‘ ‘i care about you, you dont deserve that’, ‘i understsnd and have empathy’. I know that I am a different shade emotionally than most, that I can change really quickly, that my darks are really dark and my lights are really bright. But that shouldn’t mean my paint pallate is any less important. But Im told by those that Im close to that Im a little too much. You falsely promised that you will stick by me. I hate you for lying to me. I hate you for causing me to hope that I will finally be loved for me, then telling me that I am the reason you are leaving. When really you weren’t brave enough to give me a chance. A chance to see all my layers, all the parts of me. You didnt reassure me when I started to feel like i wasnt good enough to deserve your time. So then I started to tail spin and you get mad that im upset. I may be brutally honest but its not common that people actually listen, that people dont get scared and run away, calling me names for being a normal fucking human being, with feelings that make sense.
I hate you but dont leave me, because against all odds I still care about you, so much its a weakness. I care so much about everyone I let them get away with anything because “I understand what it feels like to be alone”. I hate you dont leave me because I only hate how you made me feel. Like you punched me in thr stomach then yelled at me for flinching.
As I have kind of eluded to, I have been working on healing my relationship to my body and my relationship to food, healing my digestive system which is all messed up right now. Its hard work, but really important work.
That being said, while I have some days where I feel empowered, at peace with my body, able to love my body, I have some days where I feel just uncomfortable in my own skin no matter what I do. I try to repeat to myself “my size has nothing to do with my worth”, I try and look at myself in the mirror and smile, find things I like about myself. Listen to the voices I’m hearing telling me I’m not good enough, that I’m too fat, not pretty, and try and stand up to them, realize who they are and say “who says”. I do all this, and I still tug at my shirt, I still suck in my belly, I hide myself behind my arms, behind baggy clothes, trying on at least six outfits before I find one I don’t want to die when I see my reflection in them. (“You look too fat in that”) I have empowered moments/days where I wear shorts to yoga, or show my belly, standing in the front row and can look at myself and love what I see. I have days, like today, where I wear shorts to yoga and pull them down the whole class, battling with my clothes, moving them around until I find a position for them that might make me good enough. Days like today I feel like I am the Michelin man, and that everyone around me is thinking things like “why would she even leave the house” “shes ugly” “shes fat”. I feel not good enough, and I feel so much shame I want to disappear into a tiny spec no one notices. Don’t get me wrong, none of this negative hate talk ever goes to anyone but myself. With everyone else I have such a deep and unbreaking ablilty to empathize and have compassion. To the point where it is almost destructive because I let myself be treated poorly at times, by people that had a “good reason”, or who are close to me. I, somehow, have become the exception along the way. For myself, I have so many hateful, shaming things to say. I am trying to change this, bit by bit, and I have come a far way from having eating disorders in high school. Currently at my highest weight, when faceboook shows me photos from two years ago (lowest weight), or having to be weighed by a doctor for surgery, all those voices come back into my head. The same ones I had then, only with more amo. It takes a figurative army some days just to hush the voice into a whisper. I am trying to remember that I had just as much hate for my body when I was at my smallest, and that even if I were on the “greatest diet ever” (which thank god I’m not, I’m learning to listen better to my body, and follow its wisdom) my body might still be the same size. Because other factors effect the size your body thinks it needs to be. Like the large cyst on my ovary, just having gone through the hardest year of my life not long ago, digestion issues, allergies I didn’t know about, stress, lack of sleep. No fucking wonder.
Anyway, I thought I’d share this all with you. As I’m sitting here so much of my mind is analyzing how large my stomach is.
How fucking ludacris is it that sometimes I feel like because I look the way I do, or I am the size I am, I am not capable of being loved because “who could love me looking like this”.
That because I am not skinny that I deserve less, or am not good enough, or hate myself? Its stupid, it doesn’t make any sense at all. But the media, and the family and friend voices weasle themselves in there. I’m trying to listen to what my body wants, and that has helped, its helped me to love my body, and to feel like I’m taking care of myself.
So, for the love of all that is good, don’t make comments about people’s weights that make them feel bad. Don’t tell them “oh this kale is so good for you, it helps give you vitamins, lose weight and grow wings”, Stop. Just, stop. Mind your own business, let them be them and love themselves, without any of your criticism on their food choices or their body size. It doesn’t matter. None of that matters.
Love to you all