It was unintentional, obviously. I was overcome with grief, for no reason, really, had an episode. I took a razor to my legs, and now I must conceal them under bandages nightly, and daily, cover them with something long, in order to avoid telling anyone, close to me, that I relapsed. The cuts are shallow, but the skin on my legs clings to the muscle. As a result of being skinny, wounds don't heal rapidly. So I've tried to consistently apply antiseptic stuff, whatever I can dig from the unpacked goods, to treat them.
My psychiatrist, after hearing that I've been having more mood shifts, has put me on low dosage mood stabilizers, but I've yet to start taking them. Nobody except for a few close friends on CR and my old blog, knows that I did this to myself. Until now, obviously.
I feel very brittle and weak for relapsing. I also feel like breakdown is simply cyclistic, and it'll happen from time to time. If nearly not so drastically as this. It's still stupid.
I was in a lot of episodic pain, and I ended up slashing my legs as a result. For some time I’d been contemplating it, either that, or ingesting enough pills to give me some kind of ulcer, which is what I was constantly warned would happen to me with my laxative abuse (it hasn’t yet). A combination of factors reassured me, my brain coddled me, my disordered mind, that shitty, shitty mind. It all coaxed me. I targeted my legs. Slit, after slit, after slit, because my legs were wiry enough to use a razor on to harm, and it was accessibly convenient. I was sick of being all alone. That hasn't changed.
Torment by my own thoughts, my own warped mind, that wants me, that begs me, to cling to the past, to cling to whatever I can hurt in avoidance of betterment, if it means that I can somehow feign stability for five fucking minutes in front of a crowd of few onlookers and faceless masses who aimlessly judge me without knowing my actual situation. Nobody fully comprehends that I feel so shitty, nobody fully comprehends what it’s like having the effects of unspeakable torment that’s trailed you since you were a child to the point of childhood memory regression, a forced selective amnesia, and a lasting trauma.
Even if I’ve been living at my father’s residence for nearly two years, it hasn’t stopped me from having breakdowns, it hasn’t stopped me from resorting to self blame, and it hasn’t fully stopped me from sometimes reverting to my old maladaptive coping mechanisms in times of dire stress. The lingering effects of what’s happened to me won’t go away at immediate notice, nor by request, no matter HOW hard I try. And I was redirecting my anger unhealthily recently. My guilty conscious, combined with my situational turmoil, drove me back to relapse. And I wish I could say I was strong enough to avoid it all this time, but I was getting to the point where I wanted to relapse, months ago.
Sometimes, I’m so stony that no matter how much my heart swells, I can’t force tears from my emotionally drained eyes. Sometimes I’ll spend hours crying. I want to be happy for people, eben the people who I’ve had bad blood with to be well themselves, but I’ve somehow felt like even inwardly I’ve misdirected my anger at all of them at one point or another. And the guilt within me there swells to proportionate and uncontrolled size.
I drive people away, it's my profession. I feel like that’s all I do.
A lot of people like to treat being borderline as being more minimal, or composed of only a few traits, to paint it as being one dimensional and incomparable to things like DID or schizophrenic disorders.
As if severe mental illness is some kind of competition, an aspect to be proud of. A year in, nearly, since the confirmation, and I still have no security in this, and in my symtoms, and when my next change will strike. Security fluctuates, one day I'll have assurance and the next I'll be a baffled mess.
Who wants to pit themselves against me in competition? Why would someone want to try and outrank me in derangement or misery? My disorder is my individualized struggle, I’m not treating it as a part of me I enjoy. It’s a part of me nonetheless. Who wants to be mentally shaken to the point where functionality is a chore? I look at these tumblr kids and their self diagnosed disorders and my eyes flame with an uninhibited vex. Who would want to have what I'm stuck with? If they spent a month in my shoes, a week in, they'd be begging and pleading to be transferred back to their own body. It's gotten to the point where the childish nonsense of teenage normality being mistaken for fullblown BPD is not just a nuisance, it's fucking infuriating.
Lately, my misdirected anger has been the absolute downfall of me, alongside the festering filth that’s sinking to my bowels. I’ve lost lovers, I’ve lost friends, I have lost my sibling for a long span of time, I have even brought forth disappointments in the people who I do fucking trust, my father, my therapist, my psychiatrist, and even strangers!! (My therapist accused me of being bulimic the other week!!) are directing some scorn at me. I’ve been almost hit twice today whilst driving by distracted, piss poor drivers in midsize cars, when I myself already have enough nerve driving after having an accident a few days prior. I don’t want to have to step on eggshells and end with my foot bleeding, inspiring a panic attack, a paranoia, a further fear than what is already deep seeded in me. I’ve even been honked at, walking my dog on a park path near a public road, by some ass in an SUV who I can assume only thought it to be the most hilarious thing ever to try and deafen a teenage girl who is clearly standing there, overlooking the edge of a short bridge, to a short drop into defecated sewage runoff, just trying to think, with a canine by her side. The inconsideration from strangers Who I don’t even know, has driven my sensory issues wild. I began crying for a bit after the horn honking incident. I hate the screech of a car horn nearly as much as I despise being yelled at. Why do perfect strangers aim to antagonize me, and my poor creature of an animal who is there trying to make me feel better, the glint in her amber irises thatre usually focused on squirrelly creatures eyeing my distressed being with great concern.Even my dog treats me better than some holiday neurotics do. Meanwhile, I'm not seasonally neurotic, but a neurotic mess on and off, what seems like, all the time.
It just feels like the whole world is creeping out on a limb to somehow torment me, or, more accurately, my mind is interpreting these independent actions as being somehow related to me, this insatiable and unstable attitude, the fact that I so happen to end up driving behind, in front, and past, the worst suburban soccer mum bitches with no consideration for anything or anyone except how fast they can arrive at their intended destinations, the fact that within less than a five day period, both my sisters car and mine obtained damage.
I feel like I’m just a misfortune walking. That’s what the voices say. I guess I have to believe them. When no one listens anymore, when no one speaks to you anymore for what's supposed to be an allotted requirement of human interaction hours a day, there’s only use in talking to the characters you’ve formed on paper and the sneers in your head.
I'm sorry, all. I tried to be ok. I’m really going to try not to misdirect my anger from here on out and redirect it towards healthier things, but I can’t go back to any kind of hospitalization, especially during the holiday season.
I can’t break my father and sister’s hearts, especially since the latter has finally come around to trusting me once more. I don’t care what my mother thinks. She’s a sorry excuse. I’m a torn narrative and a constantly revised draft. I just fucked up and ripped myself some more. If I relapse again, I may have to take more drastic action.
Until such time as they heal, I will have to conceal my wounds by wearing pants and long skirts, applying bandages and antiseptic when I can overnight, for the sake of faster healing. It’s wintertime, I can get away with it. Until such time as the guilt kills me, I can’t tell the people closest to me, either.
I'm sorry. I'd said that I'd never let y'all down. Nasujima mun is a serious wreck. I've been through a lot in the past few months. Dropped out, ended up procrastinating on my equivalency work after B left me and let me down, and I'm somehow still wallowing in that, since once again, I disappointed myself by falling for a person too hard. But yeah, I guess there's no comeback for me to any kind of tumblr blogosphere or community until I'm stabler.
I did let you down. It breaks my heart.
I hope everyone else's holidays are safe, and I'm going to try remaining normal, having normal conversations, and eberythng. That's what I've been doing as
Far as my online activity has been concerned eben after I cut myself up. There's no point in clinging to this for too long, and a vent is all I need to get out there in order to feel a smidgen better.
The weather outside is frightfully cold, considering the cast of the Texas sun. And I must go on in life. If anything else happens, I promise I'll drag myself to the nearest facility for admittance, but until further notice, I'm gonna have to trust my new mood stabilizers to take some effect.