blog, pt deux

This started out as a reply to an earlier comment, but it went three paragraphs long, so I figured… might as well make it another post. My blog and I’ll do what I want!!! >_<

It’s so sad, to lose the joy in writing for yourself. I used to ONLY write for myself. Though not because I was self-conscious, amazingly enough, but because it was something that was just mine.

My family wasn’t very intellectual or creative back then(my little brother has become an amazing artist), and part of the reason was there wasn’t that much I wanted to read at our little bitty library, and my allowance couldn’t keep up with the voraciousness of my reading habits. I used to make worlds that I loved, or fanfic when a show caught me in its pull.

It was the only thing I was confident about, I knew I was good and I wrote what made me happy and I didn’t care one whit if anyone else ever read it. I almost hate him for it, blaming him for making me share that when it ended up tainted. Or maybe I hate myself for being foolish, or letting it become tainted. It was my way to self-soothe, which is way better than cutting or promiscuity (though I have made stupid and reckless decisions about relationships) or drugs, though I would get pretty caught up, not eating or sleeping, while I was writing. My cousin Steven told me earlier that it was amazing that I never became an addict, and I wanted to disagree with him even if I couldn’t explain why I felt he was wrong, and now it finally occurs to me:

I am addicted to my fantasy worlds. My characters and stories and playing pretend, knowing it isn’t real, but something in the back of my head would say, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if just by creating these stories, in another reality they become real?”

Which is weird and I know it’s untrue, but I still liked to imagine that. On that note, yes, I have been playing Bioshock Infinite. But no, this is the way I’ve always thought. It’s kind of amazing to play, and knowing that this sort of thing actually comes to others’ minds.

What if there really were infinite other worlds, each one just a choice away from this one? Heads… or tails? Alive or dead? Left or right?

In my worst dissociative moments, I have convinced myself that I’m in the wrong reality. That something traumatic or just BIG has knocked me sideways and I slipped through some crack and I am living the wrong life. Because so much seems so WRONG.

Like, Nathan is not the man I married. John is not the man I thought I knew. My mom is not the woman she was when I was little… no one is, really.

I haven’t figured out yet if they’ve just changed that much or if I have been blind to everyone this whole time. I don’t know which hurts more: they’ve decayed that much, or that I was so stupid, or even that I’m trapped in the wrong life. They’re all horrible thoughts if you look at them. I’d like a fourth choice now please. Or at the very least, a way back to my real world.

I’ve also decided that I am going to link a song at the end of my blogs (and I may go retcon and edit my earlier ones and add a song to them… yep. I’m going to do that) because you can know so much about what someone is feeling by the songs in their head. So, without further ado- a song about the decaying nature of relationships by a woman with a beautiful voice and soul. The Bed Song by Amanda Palmer

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Into Darkness

****TRIGGER WARNING****

Recently, as I’ve been paying attention to some of the BPD social community postings and message boards, I’ve noted that everyone gives a courtesy warning if there’s something that could possibly upset someone with your same issues. So I am going to follow this now.

The following blog contains upsetting emotional descriptives and triggers, such as terror of abandonment and extremely negative self esteem. I wouldn’t even post it, but I have tried to be honest when I write these, and this is something I could never say aloud in any circumstance, but I needed to say.

Into Darkness



In both the figurative and literal sense, if you think about it. Possibly I have it wrong.

I was watching the second Reboot!Trek and thinking about things that repeat and things that are different from reality to reality and I missed you again. Exactly as I always have, even when I was trying to convince myself to not be afraid of being abandoned, trying not to face the truth that all I have ever been is your dirty little secret because you were ashamed of me. My weight, being poor, being weird, being sick, being BPD and you would rather be with her than me because, really, who would have ever chosen me anyway?

Mandi and Stephen were here, curled up together on the couch, and my main thought was “Don’t let them see what your mind is doing so closed my eyes and templed my hands in front of my mouth and let the sorrow just hit me in wave after wave. Don’t break, don’t break dontbreakdontbrea-

I thought about writing, and how I can’t write anything without wondering if you’ll ever see it, and knowing you won’t because you would never look for me.

It’s like you’re dead. Or you’re Rory Williams and I’m Amy Pond looking at sunflowers and crying without even knowing she’s doing it over a soul mate who had fallen into the crack of the Universe and had never existed.

I’m sitting here now with my teeth gritted tight and my eyes are searing and I feel the tears on my cheeks and it’s a gasoline burning that scars all the way to the genetic code.

At the same time, I realize that the intensity of the hurt that I’m feeling isn’t natural. And that’s the worst thing of all. Betrayed by my broken brain. Tricked into believing in love when it normally would be, what, nothing? I had never even thought… I’m not a  brave person. I don’t take chances. The only time I have ever stood up for myself was getting my divorce, and even that has backfired because I am crippled by the misfiring neurons and imbalanced chemicals and I need someone to be on constant suicide watch because I don’t trust myself to stay alive. Not even actually committing suicide, because that would be an active movement toward something. All I am doing is slipping slowly downward. Down, down, swirling cold and clammy shadows of despair invading my soul and smothering it.

It’s been 341 days.

I remember the last time you walked out my doorway. I leaned my forehead against the screen and wanted you to stay. I told myself to not show the worry and hurt, but to look happy. Let you leave on a positive note, so you will want to always come back.

I told myself not to be stupid. I told myself that of course you’ll be back. That it isn’t the last time. I told myself it wouldn’t be the last time I saw you.

It rises inside me. It hurts. I close my eyes and swallow it down. I will continue to do this until it builds up too much and explodes.

Nothing takes it away. It is a constant. It is always there, the web of cracks in my soul. I hear the damage in my head, so loud and rolling it turns into static.

I will never not miss you. I tell myself I can survive that. Every moment. Every day.

And the really insanely awful thing is maybe-

No. Not maybe. I AM.

I am afraid to get better, because if it is just my BPD multiplying how I feel, the me that was me that had you becomes a lie, like the you that I thought you were that loved me. And I don’t want her to disappear, she’s all I have left now.

What if I wake up tomorrow and she’s not here?

Emotional state: Save Yourself by Sense Field

Scapegoat

My whole life has been a series of things being done to me, and then I just have to get over it. Or I actually have to pay for it myself. The mistake/punishment scale is fracked up, for sure.

For example, my father, otherwise known as the man who donated his DNA to bring me into existence, molested me as a kid. Little kid. Teensy tiny itty bitty kid. I don’t remember it, but my mother and my aunts have told me it happened. Actually, I wasn’t told until I spent two days with him when his dad died and I told mom I would like to get to know him, his wife who I suppose is my step-mother, and my half-brother. And she didn’t tell me, exactly. She had my aunt tell me. Which explained a lot about some of my over-the-top anxieties over relationships and sex, and why I was so afraid of men in general.

There’s more to that, but I’m not up to explaining more of that.

But see, my dad never paid for that. At least, not in any way that I understand, except my mom used that as an excuse to divorce him. She reminds me of that sometimes, that she got a divorce because he did those kinds of things, and also he was pretty awful to her in general. But there’s always this feeling of “I got my divorce because of you” vibe that I’m only partially making up in my own head because she’s bipolar so she spends most of her life blaming other people.

So she divorced him and ended up dating Bob and we moved to Surgoinsville away from all my family and she reminds me from time to time that she did that to get me away from my father, and then other times she laments that she had to move all the way down there and was mistreated and ignored by Bob and his family, and there’s that guilt again. If I hadn’t been molested, she wouldn’t have gotten divorced, she wouldn’t have moved us all the way down in the middle of nowhere, and she wouldn’t have lived with a man who treated her like nothing.

And this is not considering the fact that I was ALSO molested by two of my cousins when I was eight. I have never told her this. I don’t know if it was the shame of it happening to me, or if I couldn’t bear the expression I imagined she would have. I’ve told a few people about it. I told John about it. I told Nathan about it. A few friends I’ve admitted it to. No one in my family. I was eight… but I have always felt like it was my own fault. And it’s scarred me. Always. My fault. If I wasn’t so disgusting, then they wouldn’t have done that to me. And when I was told about my dad, well… if my own father saw that in me, if my own cousins… three people saw that in me. So it’s there, right? We are what others perceive, right? So I must me that.

It continues on to so many other instances. But the one that’s on my mind is my ex-husband. How every time he fucked up, it was my fault. He started taking pills because I was such a bitch so often. How if I’d not been such a wreck he could have handled life better. How from the very first moment we started dating I began pushing him away.

I miscarried in 2001, right after September 11. He was supposed to go into the Air Force before all that happened, even began the process, but changed his mind when I got pregnant. Ten months along, I started bleeding, and the ER said I was fine, but the next day when I went by myself to the doctor, the nurse practitioner did the ultrasound, not saying anything when I was chirping cheerfully about the baby on the screen, and then when she finished she handed me some tissue and told me the baby had stopped developing two weeks before. It hurt. So much. And I felt like my insides were poison. I could sense the dead child inside me, a cold, empty shell, that was sapping my soul from the inside out. I had to have a D and C. It took me a long time to seem to get over that. Some days… I still feel that. I wrote a poem about it. I don’t have it anymore, but it was one of the first ones I shared with the world.

My brain has never been right. It poisoned me. I felt worthless, because what kind of woman can’t carry a child? Things had always been volatile with Nathan and me, but that made our tenuous relationship collapse in on itself. We fought for a year, then he left me on Halloween to move in with his ex-girlfriend he had been seeing behind my back. Just called me and told me he wasn’t coming back. And I begged. I cried. I lost myself. And after about a month I started trying to pull myself back together, and he called and wanted to come back.

And I let him. Because what woman can’t carry a baby AND can’t keep a husband? A worthless one. I wasn’t allowed to be angry or hurt at him anymore about it. It was my fault anyway. If I hadn’t pushed him away, he wouldn’t have started seeing Rory again. If I wasn’t such a mess we would’ve been fine. My fault. My fault. My guilt.

It’s always that way with he and I. My fault. My mistakes. My guilt. I can’t be friends with John because he cheated on Kristi with me. My fault. So I lose my friend, and I can’t be at certain friendly gatherings because they might be there, so, even though I’ve known some of the mutual friends ten years longer than he, even though he made the choice to talk to me when he was with someone else, even though he told me he loved me and wanted to be with me, it’s my fault. My guilt. My punishment. Because what kind of woman would be a dirty mistress? He gets to go on with his life, and I get the punishment and stigma and blame. I can’t talk about it to anyone but one friend, because I brought it on myself. I should’ve known better. And yes, I should have.

I’ve spent my entire life wanting someone to treat me like I’m someone special. No. That’s not right. I’ve spent my whole life wanting someone to treat me like a real person. A woman. A human being entitled to feel her emotions and to be angry and to not be punished for just being me. For being scared of being abandoned, or mistreated, because when in my history have I ever been wrong in that? I’m the pariah. I’m the scapegoat. I’m the dirty mistress. I’m the bitch. I’m not a woman. I’m not loved, I’m a monster.

Memories by Within Temptation

Wide Awake

I haven’t slept.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been awake at this point, I’m delirious and dazed. I want to sleep so badly, but I can’t.

I thought about cleaning. To be honest, I usually suck at keeping house, but ever so often I get in a tangent and then everything is supercleaned, in a “take an old toothbrush to the corners of the floor” kind of way. But I don’t want to.

All I want to do is not feel anything. I’ve cried so much I’m surprised I have any fluids left inside me. When will I start getting over this hurt?

The worst of it is I feel like I was a fool. That I loved him and he felt nothing all along. And I really want to believe it’s for the best, but for now, all I feel is abandoned, betrayed, and stupid. Because if he felt the way he said he did, he couldn’t have done this to me. But he did, so… he didn’t care. And he doesn’t now. I’m suffering, and crying, and shriveling up inside and he’s playing video games, going on vacation, and hanging out with friends like always.

That sounds bitter because it is.

Waiting for the girls to get up. They’re the only sunshine in my world these days. Everything else is bogged down with that black betrayal fog that he left over everything.

Sorry for whining. I get weepy when I don’t sleep.

Has Anyone Ever Written Anything For You by Stevie Nicks