Four years ago I was yelled at by the guy I was…what am I doing with him? He didn’t want to date me but he held sway over my time with tantrums and violence. All the abuse, none of the commitment. 

How did I end up in that, again? 

He was unhappy because I posted my feelings on social media. I’ve always posted my feelings on social media. Writing helps me organise my thoughts, tugging away at the threads of them until I know the root and the cause and the intersections. And the great thing about social media is people can read it if they want to, ignore it if they don’t, I get the catharsis and the world keeps turning.

But something in me believed him and slowly, I stopped.

It didn’t help that, in the aftermath of my childhood cat dying, my mother told me she’d resented me since I was a teenager. I went back and wrote over everything she ever said to me with an overtone of “I wish you would just go away”. It made a disturbing amount of sense. 

I was already anxious. Now I approach every social interaction trying to work out the Bad Shit someone is saying about me in their heads, and debating the merit of their compliments with a fractured sense of self worth. It leaves me exhausted, unable to sleep at night staring at the ceiling as something whispers in my brain, “remember when you said this? They must have thought you were really dumb”.

If I wrote about it I could correct myself more. I could organise the arguments, categorize them by their flaws and file them away somewhere; words now occupying data and therefore not worthy of being stored in my brain.

Instead I hide in my flat with my cat. I have three people I trust to want me around. The majority of real life interactions are with support workers who are paid to talk to me. My friendships are played out in video games. And I feel unsatisfied because are the connections even real?

I know how to deal with anxiety by now. Anxiety has been a constant in my life. You challenge the thoughts that are wrong, repeatedly, until your brain realises that the world is not on fire and everything is Fine. It’s uncomfortable for a while but you survive, and then you grow.

But I keep letting myself be comfortable in my pain.

It’s frustrating.


In the Real World

When you broke our relationship, I was trying to let you in.

I’ve built a lot of walls in the last few years. I’ve nearly perfected the art of seeming to be an entirely open book, someone who easily lets people in on the insides of the deepest, darkest parts of their soul as easily as breathing.

But I know that as soon as you dip below the surface, you might realise I’m further away than I seem. There’s a whole maze of walls and towers, and a lot of the doors I think I’ve lost the key to.

Standing in the middle of them, sometimes I see them. Sometimes I can run my hands over their rough surfaces, acknowledging every scar where someone has beaten fists against them.

And sometimes I bury myself away so I don’t have to look at them.

Continue reading “In the Real World”

In the Real World

Emotionally Disengaging

Over this holiday period, I actually did something incredibly stupid.

I came off my medication.

My holiday started on the 17th of December, as the last college week my class had was actually an assessment week, so we didn’t have scheduled class time as all our coursework was in for assessment with our lecturers.

For a variety of reasons I started to forget to take my medications (the biggest being massive changes in my routine throw me) and, despite telling myself I should start taking them before I crash, I kept doing it.

But it lead to a realisation.

I like watching things to wind down. TV shows, anime, cartoons. And there were certain points in them where I could tell the writer was trying to get an emotional reaction out of me, but hadn’t quite done the legwork to make me feel like that. I didn’t care for the characters. And so, normally, it wouldn’t get the emotional reaction the writer was going for from me.

But I was starting to cry.

I knew, intellectually, I had no reason to cry. I knew the writing was bad. I could reason all I liked that I shouldn’t actually be crying. I wasn’t moved.

But I was still crying.

And I’ve been thinking about this on and off for the last few weeks. Over the last few weeks, I’ve put myself back on the medications. I’ve actually done a lot of the legwork I needed to do to re-stabilize myself. Because while I hadn’t fallen into the depths of depression like I usually would, everything was off and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I know what it is now. I couldn’t emotionally disengage.

You see, any other time I could watch the tv-show with the wanky writing and make comments to myself about it. I could laugh about overly-dramatic scenes and the writers failure to make me feel for the characters. Intellectually I could do this still. But emotionally I couldn’t disengage from the characters emotions, regardless of how believable or not they were.

And that’s life for me and many of the other people out there with Borderline Personality Disorder.

There have been times for me when someone, a stranger, has insulted me. And while I don’t know this person, and this person obviously doesn’t know me, I’ve struggled to move past it. What they’ve said, I know, intellectually, has no bearing on me as a person. It was a random moment in someone else’s life where they felt so bad they felt they had no choice but to insult me, and maybe they’ve hit on a sore point or maybe they haven’t. I still haven’t been able to work through it or past it.

So I talk to friends, and they tell me I’m over reacting. I shouldn’t care. They dismiss it as a non-issue because in all actuality it is a non-issue.

But the issue isn’t the insult. The issue is the fact I cannot emotionally disengage from the insult. I can know intellectually that this shouldn’t upset me all I like, it doesn’t matter because it still fucking upsets me.

It’s this inability to reconcile the difference between my intellectual knowledge about a situation and my level of emotional engagement with that situation that, for me, has been a large part of my experience of my disorder.

And I am insanely lucky that something as simple as an anti-depressant medication helps me dial back my feelings and bring my emotional engagement more in-line with my knowledge of a situation. Don’t get me wrong, they are still out of whack. But it dials it back from “completely unbearable” to “okay, I can deal with this if I work at it”.

I know a lot of people who don’t get this relief.

People question as to why, nine years later, I’m still on these medications. Doctors, actual medical practitioners who hold my access to these medications in their hands, have smiled at me knowingly when I say to them I don’t feel I’ll ever be off them (I don’t fucking want to be), and given me the line, “we’ll see”, as if they’re the keepers of some arcane knowledge I don’t and can’t possibly have.

Hell, just this summer a trainee psychiatrist base lined me – took me off all my medication – just to see what would happen. I felt like a child at the mercy of someone else’s whims.I crashed swiftly and hard, and this might have been part of the reason I didn’t correct myself sooner over this holiday period, because I knew a large part of this crash was because it wasn’t on my terms.

Friends do it, too. They look at me as if acknowledging I’ll be on these medications for a long time to come is giving up. What they don’t get is that these medications give me hope. They lessen the severity of a condition that by all accounts, all scientific knowledge, I will have for the rest of my life. I will always struggle with my mental health. I will always have a disorder that I’m fighting with to live a half-way normal, productive life. But by popping a little blue pill twice a day, I trim that fight back to one I have a chance of winning.

Emotionally Disengaging

Every time I try to sit here and write something my mind becomes a blank. I try to think of some way to say what I want to say, to pour out everything going on at the moment, but I can’t think of one. Everything becomes jammed in my brain and I realise I’m fluttering through ideas so quickly that they’re not even fully-formed concepts I can write down, just snatches of feelings or thoughts that are abstract and incomplete, like parts of a sentence.

One idea-turned-monster keeps coming up behind me and swallowing me whole; I’m not allowed to exist. I must stay in my room, I can observe but not interact. I’m a pocket of conciousness in a vast universe. It feels half depressive and half edging into psychosis.

Writing this post is against those rules so I might not be able to publish this. But I need an out. I need another voice in the chaos to stop the rules from binding themselves into place.

I need to get to the doctor so I can get some medication.

But I know if that letter (that I never trusted her to write) isn’t written it’s going to become a more complex process, getting out of this place.

I feel like a failure, being in this place. I should have been better. I should have stood up for myself. My brain chemicals should have fixed themselves. I should be what they want me to be. But I also feel so, so betrayed. What the hell did they think they were doing, leaving me here? Shouldn’t someone know better? Why was leaving me without medication ever a viable solution?

If that letter isn’t written I’m going to ask for a referral back to Nanette. She’ll know what to do and how to fix this. She’ll be angry on my behalf.

I need an out.

Things that make me happy.

I said yesterday I’d post of happier topics. So what pops into what is quickly becoming my new newsfeed?
The American Supreme Court has judged that the constitution guarantees the right to Equal Marriage!
(Ignore the fact that article uses the term “gay marriage” and “same-sex marriage” instead of Equal Marriage).

While yeah, I’m in Scotland (we’ve had “gay” marriage for all of six months now), it’s kind of cool that today we’ve turned another corner towards, you know, actual equality. Now if we could make people call it Equal Marriage instead of Gay Marriage, we’d be on to something.

So  while we’re at it, I thought I’d post some things that make feel that “gay” thing in a whole other way. That’s right. I’m talking about HAPPY! (Hey look I made a really bad joke).

Continue reading “Things that make me happy.”

Things that make me happy.

Leaving facebook at the moment feels a little like moving home. I reach for the scroll bar and start trailing down my newsfeed, looking for interesting excerpts from my friends lives, and feel almost guilty. I feel like I should be cutting down my time on it, in perpetration for eventually being facebookless. It’s been a part of my daily routine for around a decade now; I joined it when it was merely a method of inviting your student friends to the pub after a day of procrastinating in the labs.

I’ve posted on my groups. Said goodbye. Handed over the keys to people I trust. Pointed out alternate methods of contact. It might be interesting to see which friends I maintain regular contact with. Which ones I actually love enough,  and actually love me enough, to make an effort to catch up.

A couple of my friends have shared yesterdays post, which I love. So much so I want to encourage it. I want there to be discussion on this. I followed some of the discussion on one sharing until the overwhelming opinion became that, because I’m nor prepared to allow facebook to mine my data, I’m not paying for the service and should therefore leave. I can see the point behind their opinion. It makes me feel like a petulant child, pouting because they didn’t get their own way.

There was always going to be more than one side to this.

I’m still not sure what’s going to happen tomorrow. Will I log in and be asked for ID, only to refuse and be locked out my account forever. Will nothing at all happen, this week of anxiety becoming nothing more than a drama I’m left to feel like I exaggerated and played up until it became more than it was?

I’ll only really know when it comes.