Phoenix Fights

Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….


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ONE FOR THE ROAD #bpd #sex

dr love

Like most BPD-ers, a lot of the time I hurt.

Usually spiritually, emotionally and psychologically.

But now there is a physical aspect to it.

I did a long and boring job the other day, much of it in extensive proximity with other members of my species, chatting, laughing, some even getting in my face, and at the end of the day, when all decended into chaos, with lots of jostling, pushing and shoving, it reminded me how much I loathe human beings en masse.

The situation was intolerable for someone like me.  The only thing that is plentiful in my life is my own space, and the choice of whom I do and don’t mix with, and when I felt my body stiffen with disgust and outrage, I inevitably sank to their level by fiercely and aggressively barging my way out, shuddering with distaste as I escaped into the rainy night.

Strangely enough, at odds with the days events, I was further tortured that night with weird sexual dreams, and when i woke the next day with a sore back, tight lats and a totally locked, inflexible neck, there was a different kind of nagging twinge between my legs, and I was reminded how unused to touch of any kind, especially that of a loving, sensual variety.

This is undoubtably not doing me any favours.

But by the same token, even considering doing something about it potentially opens up a whole new world of doubt, vulnerability and pain for me, so whilst my body might want sex, I want it about as much as I want my next pap smear test.

prostate test

For men, who obviously haven’t experienced such things, it’s kind of like a prostate test I suppose, but with something sharp that has a good old scratch and scrape around when it comes into contact with resisting flesh.

Plus we have to do them every year.

Every.  Year.

Yes?  You there yet?  God.

I used to physically enjoy intercourse, but since my orgasm lessened into a shadow of it’s former self, I can barely even be bothered to walk anymore.

Plus whilst a quick shag up against the wall might afford some genitalia related relief, I think I’m also missing sensual caresses, skin on skin contact, and, horror of horrors, being held.

And that’s even more scary than a pap smear test with a rusty coat hanger.

I don’t feel sexy anymore but more than that, I do not feel loveable in any way, shape or form, plus the thought of being emotionally vulnerable or needy in front of any man sends me into a panic attack to end all panic attacks, because the need for love lurks surreptitiously behind all of these pretenders, and I cannot hope to be able to fulfil this wholly unrealistic desire any time soon.

dr love

To be honest, if I could afford it, I would seriously consider booking a male prostitute to swing by and pretend to love me once a week, in the same way I would (and will) book a massage to fix my traumatised neck.

That said, the thought of someone turning up on my doorstep with a six pack and gelled hair, smirking like Theophilus T Wildebeest would be enough to make me slam the door, and send me hurtling back to my vibrator tout suite.

I have had men come on to me of late, and the next time someone does, I might just call their bluff and do it.

Not at mine because my home is my sanctuary and I don’t want someone turning up unannounced, intruding on my space.  Not at theirs as they might be a rapist cum serial killer and do a ‘Dexter’ on me.

It will  have to be on neutral territory.  Maybe in the back of my car even.

It will no doubt be tacky, grubby, sexually unsatisfying and embarrassing.

But at least I’ll know whether it’s worth all that to my poor, starved, traumatised carcass.

Even it it’s just one for the road, it you will.

Whether or not I have the guts to carry this out is debatable, but I’ll keep you all posted.  In the meantime, pray for me please!

Namaste x


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I GOT TO BREAK FREE

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Sorry I’ve been a bit quiet, things have been very challenging of late.

Not going to bore you with all the details, but those of you who read this pile of piffle that I call my blog know what’s up anyway.

I’ve had to take a deep breath, gather up every fragment of courage I have left and tackle a couple of very scary things in the last ten days or so, but I did it, despite, whilst taking a very humiliating call from my bank one morning, bursting into tears and crying so hard that my nose bled all over my favourite top.

i_8.

Where the fuck did that come from?

Even more embarrassingly, I couldn’t stop and couldn’t hang up until I’d sorted the situation out.  God it was bloody (quite literally), the operators kept changing to ones with softer/kinder tones and I kept trying to stifle my sobs, sighs and snuffles and grasp back some dignity, but to no avail.  At the end I could almost visualise them laying the phone gently down on the desk and backing away from the hysterical, middle aged madam on the other end, arms in submissive ‘don’t shoot’ position as they edged towards the staff room for a revitalising cuppa.

I just wanted to die of shame.  How didn’t I see that coming?  Yes I did lose my temper and scream obscenities until my throat was sore at the automated voicemail before being put through (as you do), but I honestly didn’t think I was on the verge of full breakdown.

Then I realised; I hadn’t taken my meds for four days. Two day’s of migraine hell accounted for the initial period (as I can’t mix those meds), and I guess the trauma of having to deal with all this shit had caused me to forget to continue afterwards.

I think I sobbed for a good part of the day until it was all out of my system, outbursts triggered by sad real life stories on ‘This Morning’, animals with shattered limbs surviving surgery in ‘The Supervet’, and even that frigging stupid, manipulative Sainsbury’s WW1 Christmas ad where the young, handsome British squaddie gifts his Sainsbury’s branded chocolate bar to his German counterpart during that legendary…(sniff)….Christmas day…(sob)….football match…choke…. 516d7_the-grinch-emotions

FFS.

As my long-time Christmas anti hero the Grinch (Jim Carrey version) once said ‘What is the deal?’

But.

And this is a big but…. ….I hadn’t noticed any side effects and after the howling had subsided, I felt kind of…

….energised.

That afternoon I started to research a new estate agent, applied for a full time job and looked into doing some charity work over Christmas.

This is good, I thought.  Isn’t it?  I knew that I was supposed to talk to my GP about coming off Big Sista S and do it gradually, but hell I was on a roll, and might as well keep going.

Then wouldn’t you know it, some horrible little voice (of the mind monkey persuasion) kept whispering to me incessantly ‘If you’d done this two years ago, you would have saved all that money instead of living off it.  You would have gotten yourself a job, been able to sell your flat and not be on your uppers now, you dumb, weak willed bint!’

Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

Too late for that now.

But it was right, as was Aunty C.  What else can I say?

Then last night when I went to bed, I woke up all writhing and fidgety, and could not get back to sleep.  I don’t know whether it was my long suffering sexuality trying to break through the hazy weakened SSRI barriers whilst I wasn’t looking and demand to be fed, but I swiftly got up, staggered to the bathroom and took a swift 50mg of my drug of choice and went back to bed.

There’ll be none of that kind of behaviour in my bed, thank you very much. Not at that alarming level at any rate.

So I might have to do the sensible thing and come off gradually, if only to ensure that I don’t end up dry humping some unsuspecting pub Santa for giving me a ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ and a festive hug.

You can get arrested for that kind of thing in this country.

And hiding away in a drugged stupor ignoring the inevitable has gotten me into a whole heap of trouble, so I need to break free from my meds and be fully alert and lucid in order to save my miserable ass come 2015.

Even if I have to feel stuff.

<shudders>

Help me Saint Freddie, wherever you are….

Namaste bitches x


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EAR WORM No. 24 – Oasis – WONDERWALL #SHAME #LONELINESS

It’s still a massive trial meeting new people, even through something like meditation.  Because even if they appear flaky or weird they seem to have a life, ambitions and their shit together.  ‘What do you do?’ they ask.  And I’m at a loss re what to say.

Seeing people I used to know fills me full of dread.  Because I’m so ashamed that I haven’t made a success of my life since I last saw them.  And I know most of them avoid me because they have no faith in me, and are embarrassed to be associated with me.  ‘Hows the yoga training/job situation/book?’ they’d ask.  And I’d have to lie to save face.

I no longer want to see those I love either.  Because I’m too embarrassed to not be able to pay my way, go out to nice places or even contribute.  ‘How are you, how are things?’ they’d ask dully.   And I wouldn’t want to answer because they don’t want to even hear a response.

Hah!  Maybe I should make friends with my therapy group after all at least I don’t have to hide anything from them.

What is the difference between me and all these people?  Some of them at least must have had a rough start to life, how come they’ve managed to navigate the winding, blinding roads of life and get to where they want to be, or at least some place on the outskirts?

Probably because they’ve either (a) had love and support, (b) are made of sterner stuff than me, or (c) when realising no one is going to help, have got on with it themselves instead of waiting for someone else to save them.

‘Cos maybe, nobody’s gonna come and save me….

God after all, is gonna let me fall….


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DOWN TO ZERO

fox-300

So.

They apologised.

The appointment mix up was entirely their fault and they totally understood why I was upset and why I didn’t attend either session, so I calmed down, accepted it with good grace and went to the next one.

And it was OK despite my embarrassment.  That said I was unable to hide my coldness towards the assistant who fucked up even though I wanted to be more friendly and forgiving.  I still can’t see why she didn’t reply to my texts in a timely fashion, but even I should be able to see that she probably wasn’t trying to be antagonistic or disrespectful.

I say it was OK; I actually find these sessions bone achingly tiring and laborious.  The exercises. The machinations.  The manipulations.  The stupid props and ridiculous cheap felt comfort blankets. The unquestioning trust of the others.

I know that they are trying to help me. But I can’t help but see through it all.

There are revelations, confessions, laughter and even camaraderie.  I just can’t bring myself to feel a part of it.

Shrink No. 2 even tears up sometimes when the others cry because she says she feels our pain.  I try so hard to bite down my suspicion and cynicism, but I watch her watching me, and meet her gaze, unflinchingly dry eyed, as wary and mistrustful as a fox with it’s foot caught in a trap and think ‘It’s all an act.  You’re as transparent as a second rate actor vying for a soap award.  I don’t believe you.  Nice try though.’

I believe that her intentions are good.  I just can’t bear the dishonesty of it all.

Perhaps I’ve been spoiled by the honest one to one relationship I have with Aunty C, my counsellor of seven years.  But I have to acknowledge that despite her respect, tenacity and loving care, there is still something within me that isn’t working properly and I have to go back and work out what it is and how to manage it via a different psychiatric discipline.

Afterwards a group of them congregate in the car park, giggling and bantering, happy and grateful that they got through another painful ninety minutes, and as I try to sneak by, one of them invites me along to go for a coffee with them.

Oh Gawd.

I can’t do it.  I mumble and excuse about needing to walk the session off and head off in the opposite direction.

Fact of the matter is, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to be friends outside of this group, not just for me, but for any of them really.  We are all damaged individuals, and whilst everyone has been kind, friendly and respectful to one another to date, I doubt if it will always be this way.

the_soothsayer_of_pompeii_by_feliks_grell-d5rt8vi

Familiarity breeds contempt as the old saying goes, and I struggle enough having so many people know my shit, and I predict when the day comes that it all kicks off because one of us is forced to confront really painful feelings and failings that we have to take responsibility for, all those lovely familial feelings will shatter into a million pieces, voices will raise (“I thought you were on MY side!”), the air will fill with accusations and recriminations and the loss and hurt will be all the greater.

I for one, bitter old soothsayer that I am, want to survive as emotionally unscathed as possible, so it’s best that I expect nothing by way of friendship from any of them.

On the property front, nothing is moving, hence on the financial front things are rather desperate and I’m struggling to retain the illusion of stability and solvency.  And whatdaya know, Christmas is on the way!

And still I fall.  Down to the ground, down to the ground.

Ho frigging ho.

But I guess that whilst I’m stuck in this situation (well until I’m evicted anyhoo) I’m local to the hospital and can continue with the treatment.

And right now I’m looking for some work, any work to keep the wolves (bailiffs) from the door, and have no choice but to hope for better things to come.

I can’t even bring myself to think of how I’m going to conclude 2014 on this blog and plan 2015, as the more I plan to triumph over my trials and meet the new year in a blaze of glory, the more the fates remind me that I still have so very far to go, and when Sista plans, God rolls around on his fluffy white cloud and laughs his fucking arse off.

But I hope.  And hope.  And hope.

And whilst I’m at rock bottom in so many ways, I can now look back on my shit fits, re-read my written rants and can see how much I overreact to and blow up over the most trivial of things.  And when I think about how much I have done this for most of my life, especially in the working arena, it makes my face go hot with embarrassment and shame.

Ah the shame.  Is there any end to it?

The only thing I can take from this is that whilst 99% of my life lies in tatters around me, that 1% is awakening, shifting and hopefully flourishing so that I can start from ground zero and build a life worth living for myself.

It just might take years rather than months, that’s all.

Namaste x

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2014/11/04/songs-of-angerfuryrage-1-every-you-every-me-placebo/


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TAKE ME OUT

wolf

Well.

I did it.

I rang my mortgage lenders, hung my head, and rolled over, then closed my eyes, waiting to be torn to shreds.

Or that’s how it feels at any rate.

And although it was what I was advised to do, and in theory the most sensible course of action, I know in my heart that I have sacrificed my last shred of dignity.

Lost job?  Check.

Claiming benefits?  Check.

Bad credit rating?  Imminent.

The thing is that I rang them in good time so that this wouldn’t happen.

But I am such a naive fool.

Because even though I have no bad debts and have not defaulted on any outstanding payments (yet), now that I’ve alerted them to the fact that I may not be solvent for much longer, they are now on red alert.

It also doesn’t help that I have my mortgage, bank accounts and credit card all with the same people, so I’m guessing that using my plastic is going to be touch and go from now on, and that any overdrafts and/or loans will be totally out of the question.

Not that I need or want debt.

It’s just like having that ‘You can stay with us if you’re desperate’ offer which, as I’ve previously mentioned, has not being reiterated of late.  There is no way I want to stay in anyone else’s home, nor accrue debt if I can possibly avoid it.

it would just be nice to know that these things are in place should the worst come to the worst.

Just in case.

But now the final nail is in the coffin of the person I used to be, the person I thought I was at any rate.

You see, whilst I don’t think i have much to be proud of in my life, one of the few things I have prided myself in over the years is that I have been quite sensible with money.  Apart from the occasional splurge (which tended to be on food/wine as opposed to designer clothing), I paid all bills well in advance of the deadlines, paid my credit card off in full every month, and did everything I could to ensure that I would never end up on the street.

A tough working class upbringing by one parent who lived in the pub/bookies and another who scrimped and saved and who feared this above all else tends to rub off on a kid, and I was determined that her fear would not be my fear, let alone my fate.

Funny how things turn out, hey?

You think you know yourself, or one knows oneself, don’t you, until things gradually fall away.

Your job, your business, your ethics, your social life, your dignity, your pride.

Maybe this is what is meant to happen to me.  Maybe I’m being tested.

On the plus side, there isn’t much else I can lose right now.

Apart from my life.

pp31942-spiral-reaper-game-over-poster

And right now, I just wouldn’t give a shit.  In fact in some twisted way, I’d love it because I’d be able to just give in, for real, rent out this shit hole, guilt one of my friends into taking in my boys (with visiting/sofa rights of course cos dying would make me shameless), get the old credit card and just party until all my credit has gone and/or the geezer in the black coat arrives with his big knife thing and drags me off to wherever.  Maybe the place where the other sucker with the white robes should have dropped me off in the first place.

Whatcha say big boy?  We got ourselves a date?  Because dragging me ain’t gonna be necessary.

You don’t even have to wait till Halloween, I don’t want to come on too strong but any night works for me.  Hell, you don’t even have to buy me dinner.  I doubt you’d eat much anyway.

Because, for the record, you don’t scare me, you boney bastard, so quit all that grimacing and whoo-ing and get your skinny arse over here and take me out.

Before the next thing happens.   Because I have a horrible feeling that I haven’t even reached bottom yet.

Incidentally someone is so going to get it in the neck for all this one day.  Because my memory, patience and appetite for revenge probably even outstrips yours.

In the meantime, God please help me endure this life and that which is yet to come.

It’s the fucking least that you owe me.


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ANGER IS AN ENERGY

Lord_of_the_Kraken_by_SteveArgyle

I can’t be around people I know right now.

Or, more to the point, people who know me, know about me and profess to love me.

I can’t contain the anger see, no matter how I try.

Even if I keep schtum, it twists my mouth, bleeds from my narrowed accusing eyes, and emanates from my core, surrounding me in such a huge miasma of unvented vitriol, I wonder how my hair doesn’t crackle and stand on end.

And whether they know it or not, they sense it.

You see, I may mock these Schema sessions, but it’s only taken three for them to bust through my ‘accepting’ Zen like veneer, and release the Kracken, and since the last meet, I can’t stop the fury.  My lying, weasel of an estate agent, the patronising sexist caretaker, a faux Facebook friend, Oscar Pistorius, and subsequently ‘alternative’ comedian Jimmy Carr have all felt the rough of my tongue, and I don’t quite know what to do with myself.

Even before I got to the session, I was bubbling and roiling with resentment, and when I remembered that (a) we were being filmed, (b) I’d consented to this and (c) the fucking camera was pointing in my direction, (ironic given that in different circumstances I’m perfectly happy with being filmed), I was absolutely determined to give not an inch.

Nada.

They prompt me, you see.

Gently and with apparent concern (retch), but I’m not having it.

‘How are people feeling today?  Sista, would you like to start?’

‘No.’

‘Ah….’

And everyone shifts uncomfortably in their seats.  It’s quite funny really.  They’re so grateful to be there and desperate to be ‘cured’, but I’ve been here so many times before, that a ball of wool, bits of felt and sympathetic tones cut no ice with me.

They don’t care about us.  We’re just lab rats and something else to put on their illustrious CV’s.

Then they start discussing the ‘Punitive/Demanding Parent’ (close relative to Aunty C’s ‘Bad Parent’ I believe) and that, whilst our parents damaged us, they probably did their best at that time, and when everyone seemed keen to embrace that theory, that is when I cracked.

‘Sorry, I don’t buy that at all.’

Shrink No’s 1 and 2 whip their heads my way and frown.

‘They had a choice.  Even if they had a bad childhood, they could have decided to transcend that experience and give their child that which they missed out on. But they didn’t.  They decided that if they were hurt, why should things be any easier for us?’

One of my fellow inmates pipes up.

‘Yeah, but that was back in the day and they didn’t know about all, erm, all this then?’

I know what she means and I know she means well.  But she’s talking arse.

‘I was dragged up in the North West in the ’60’s and believe me, I know that there was no psychological awareness there when I was a kid.  You were either a looney and to be jeered at, or normal and accepted.  No one knew about this “Good Parent, Bad Parent” malarky that’s for sure…’

And I mime inverted commas with slightly excessive force and more than a touch of sarcasm.

‘…but my cousin took his shitty childhood and did the opposite to what his father did and became the best parent he could, and all his kids absolutely adore him.  See?  He had a choice and decided his kids deserved better.  Our parents chose the other path.’

‘That’s a fair point actually, and yes, this is sometimes the case’ agreed Shrink No. 1, and the others mumble in acquiescence.

Then I notice another girl is crying.

No. 2 is on it.

‘Bella*, what’s that bringing up for you right now?’

‘I don’t know, I’m…’ then she lets out a shaky sigh and meets my eyes.

‘….I….just don’t like anger’ and she shrugs apologetically.

I feel a bolt of shame lance straight through me, and I am silenced.

I know that I scare people sometimes, without even trying.  That said, she should see me when I really flip out.  But to be fair, us BPD’s are hypersensitive and I’m sure she senses the molten fury bubbling under my relatively composed facade.

As if reading my mind, No. 1 pipes up with ‘Please remember that this is a safe place people.  We are here to take care of you and Bella, I know Sista isn’t angry with you or anyone else in the group.’

I should say something.

‘Yeah, honestly?  I think you must be stronger than me if you can forgive and still love your parents.  I’m actually the weak one here.  And I’m sorry if I made you cry.’

Bella rewards me with a watery smile.

No. 1 then decides to chime in with ‘Believe me Bella, I don’t think Sista is that angry right now.   Believe me.  I’ve seen her when she’s angry!’

Whaaat?  Thanks Doc.  I’m now the groups very own Incredible Hulk and everyone will flinch if even my top button strains.

I reward him with a mock scathing sneer, everyone giggles and we move on.

But the shame stays with me.  Because the Jolly Green Giant is a mere tantruming toddler when compared to me at large, as I can destroy with my tongue as well as my fists.  And I clearly remind Bella of someone who hurt her very much.

I regularly mourn the fact that I am childless, but right now I thank God that I never reproduced, because who knows whether I would have lived up to my own exacting standards or gone classic ‘Mommie Dearest’.

But the anger’s still there.  If anything it’s worse.

I tried to do the best for myself and kept a pre arranged trip to the cinema with a ‘close’ friend, I haven’t seen for three weeks just to get me out of the flat.

How hard could it be?

1. Buy tickets

2. Small talk till the ads start

3. Watch the movie

4. Drive him to the station

5. Go home

Quite hard as it happens, as after three weeks silence, as went enter the cinema, he mentions that he’d deducted that I’d had a hard time of late from my posts on Facebook.

<yes, but you still kept your distance hey?  funny that….>

I fought to keep control.

‘Honestly Dean?  I really don’t want to talk about it, it’s too depressing.  Let’s focus on what you’ve been up to?’

Great parry.  He filled up the minutes with tales of his full, fulfilling social life until mercifully the trailers started, then the movie commenced.

But oddly my underlying mood clearly seeped into his personal space as unbeknownst to him, his body language clearly communicated his discomfort as throughout the film, he shrank away from me, turned his form in the opposite direction, and even whilst the movie itself was riveting, checked his watch on a regular basis.

When we got out it was late, the pubs were shut so the only option was for us to go to our respective homes.

<not that you’d linger anyway, hey Dean?  skint friends are such a bore and you have much more amusing things to do with your time I’ll bet>

‘Wanna lift to the station?’

‘Please!’

Then it went horribly wrong.

‘So what’s actually going on with your flat?’

‘Oh you know estate agents!  Full of shit until you sign with them!  To cut a long story things ain’t looking good re my great escape and I’m very worried about my future.  How are things at work?’

‘But can’t you rent out?’

<fucking drop it will you? drop it, drop it, drop it>

‘Nooo, because I won’t make a profit and won’t get my rent paid.’

‘So, there’s nothing on the job front either?  Odd because Steve says there’s load of temp work out there right now?’

<shut up, shut up, shut up….>

And then it all comes tumbling out.

‘I can’t move because there are no interested buyer plus it’s unlikely to sell for enough to get me out of this hell hole.  I can’t rent out.  I can’t get a job because I’m over 50, bonkers, can’t do full time because i have to work around my Schema Therapy, and everyone I’ve ever worked with, including my FRIENDS have pretty much distanced themselves from me so would not recommend or help me get something.  If I stay I’m fucked, if I move I lose my therapy.  My bills are bigger than my bank account and I could get repossessed and of course everyone who said I could stay with them is shitting themselves because let’s face it, who wants a depressive and two cats on their sofa?!’

I wink at him mockingly and before he can interject I continue.

‘No one that’s who.  It’s like the Budda says, you can never rely on others only yourself.  I can’t afford to go out and I can’t afford to stay in. My family like my FRIENDS are lying low just in case I ask anything from them and I’m essentially on my own in all this.  There!  Think that covers everything.  Questions?’

And as I take in his shocked little face by the light of the station lamps, I realise I’ve killed off yet another friendship, or at the very least, drop kicked it into intensive care.

‘I erm, well, I didn’t know things were that bad.’

I smile with faux jollity.

‘Well ya do now!’

We stare at each other.

He doesn’t move.

<get OUT of the fucking car Dean>

‘Erm, I didn’t know given you’ve just been a bit distance the last few weeks…’

I feel my mad Joker grin widen even more.

‘I haven’t been distant Dean!  You’re the one who said you’d be too busy to do anything for two weeks!  I just didn’t want to crowd you!’

His mouth is kind of moving but the words don’t make it out.

<get. out. of. my. car.>

‘You’re going to miss your train?’

‘OK, yeah, well I’ll….we’ll…’

‘Indeed!’

We air kiss and he opens the door.

‘See ya!’

And I drive away with a feeling of palpable relief, a furious grief and a howl of pain that never seems to end.

Another one bites the dust.

end_friendship111

But still the anger roils and boils.  I need to find a way to vent this shit before I take down entire cities.

I need to forgive the people who’ve let me down so badly.  Or have they?  It’s hard to tell when you’re certifiable.

I could be wrong.  I could be right.

This anger is the only energy that ever motivates me to do anything. Such a shame it’s a force for evil.

If I ever get to harvest it for the good, that’s when I know I can Rise.

But I ain’t holding my breath.

Ciao for now x

* FYI all names are changed to ensure anonymity, even though I blog under a pseudonom.

http://www.oldielyrics.com/lyrics/public_image_limited/rise.html

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/jimmy-carrs-controversial-oscar-pistorius-joke-goes-too-far-at-the-q-awards-9812847.html


7 Comments

I AM THE ONE WHO KNOCKS #BPD #EUPD

aust_tv_presenter_2

The last couple of months or so have been tough.

Apart from the looming financial issues, I’m starting to realise that Aunty C (my counsellor as opposed to my shrink) may have been right about my not being formally being diagnosed (and hence labelled) and just pushing forward and trying to make things work. The trouble is that when you keep trying and keep landing on your arse time and time again, you come to realise that you’re not getting anywhere, and you’re not getting something that you need in order to progress.

And I’ve always been a truth seeker.

The trouble is that sometimes that truth is so frightening and overwhelming that you lose faith in ever being a fully functioning member of society again.

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Given that only Aunty C (and you lot) know the extent of my condition, there have been times of late that I have come very close to confiding in a family member or friend, especially given that ‘the book’ encourages the recruitment of ever loving, uber supportive cheerleaders who shake their pom poms, and chant encouragingly as you tackle life head on, whilst simultaneously battling your demons on the job.  Probably locked in the office loo reading mantras feverishly off a sweaty, creased flashcard whilst praying no one hears you talking to yourself.

But I can’t bring myself to do it, and have to carry the burden alone.  Damn my suspicion, lack of trust and faith in mankind!

But the last week or so has proved that I am right to be so trepidatious, as I have heard casual, damning prejudices slip out of the mouths of, if not my chosen confidantes, people not to dissimilar to them.

The first was at a BBQ where I was chatting to an old family friend who was warning me off a couple that he and some others had fallen out with.

‘Honestly Sista’ he said earnestly ‘stay away from him, he’s a twat and has shafted people more savvy than you.’

‘Really?’ I replied, not wanting to get involved in some willy waving turf war that was really none of my business.  Hell I get myself into shit on a regular basis without even trying. Did Ross really think I needed him dragging me into his personal spats?

‘Really,’ he asserts, drunkenly taking a big swig of warm Pimms, the wet shaft of celery nearly taking his eye out, ‘as for that wife of his, I’d only known her an evening and she tells me she has a personality disorder!  As if she was telling me her star sign!  Or her job!  Seriously, it beggars belief….’

And he does it.  He rolls his eyes and twirls his index finger at his head.  

The universal shorthand for ‘Looney Alert’.

‘Really?’ I murmur trying to bite down the urge to shriek ‘SNAP!’ in his face and watch him redden, squirm and struggle for a response.

But I was saved from my naughty mind monkeys by the host calling us over for hot burgers and chicken.

This same person, I’ll have you know, hardly let’s a day go by without plastering a lovely meme on his Facebook page about supporting people with mental health issues and chiding those who judge ’em, this being one of his favourites:

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What a hypocritical knob, eh?

So I kept schtum.  Mainly because this prick isn’t someone I encounter very often, so doesn’t really matter, but his blatant masquerading as someone who did not judge others less fortunate than him makes me sick to the stomach.  It also disgusts me that a vulnerable individual, like this girl, might have shared her condition with him because of this bullshit propaganda, and he’s now spitefully spreading her secret far and wide.

The utter COCK.

The next encounter took place on Facebook itself, where an ex colleague was having a heated but entirely rational exchange with a female, and when he could not finish the argument he himself had picked, he told her to ‘Leave it!  Fucking bunny boiler.  Have you had your medication today?’

The woman did not reply.  I don’t know whether she has a history of mental health issues or was just disgusted that he had dismissed her thus (or indeed both), but I bet he wouldn’t have spoken to her that way if she had been a man.  And if he did use that forum to ‘out’ and deliberately shame her because she was intellectually out of his league, then I’m really glad that we no longer work together anymore.

The final straw was today when I opened an emailed blog from someone having a go at a ‘sick stalker’ who has allegedly being harassing him and others bloggers, the final line/parting shot being ‘Personality disorders can be so bothersome’.

No.  Shit.

My first thought was ‘I can’t believe he sent me this’ because he only knows me from this blog, but of course the mail out was sent to all of his followers so it wasn’t a personal attack.  It stung though.  And ultimately made me feel sad.  And resigned to my secret shame.

And in many ways I can’t blame him.  As you can see from this earlier post, I had the very same impression of BPD sufferers myself:

https://sistasertraline.wordpress.com/2013/12/18/name-that-disorder-in-one/

But it finally made my mind up that I’ll never share my condition with anyone now.  Because people do judge whether they like it or not, whether they want to or not. And anything outside of depression (BDP, bipolar, schizophrenia etc) is still very unacceptable to the majority, whether it’s politically incorrect to admit it or not.

And whilst I admit to having trust issues, people, even those you love, do use your condition against you.

When I confronted someone over something she did, even though others had witnessed it, she immediately adapted a sickly ‘poor you’ expression, only just stopping short of doing the ‘twirly finger to head’ to those nearby when she thought I wasn’t looking, implying that I was being irrational.

When someone tried manipulate me to do her dirty work and I politely called her out on it, she pulled a similar face, implying that it was all in my imagination.  OMG she didn’t know it was that big a job!  No, of course she didn’t expect me to do it all!  I had totally misunderstood her!

And when someone asked me for a favour/money or to do something I was not comfortable with and I explained why I couldn’t help him, I got the ‘Excuse moi? You’re refusing me?!’ look, the disappointed sigh, and was blanked for about 3 months, just to make the point that he’s normal, I’m loopy and as far as he was concerned, I need his friendship more than he needed mine.  Hey, I should count myself lucky that he hasn’t had me sectioned for my audacity in optimising my free will!

So in sum, in being an out BPD/EUPD, I would be forgoing respect, credibility, my power and pretty much offering my throat to any passing predator, let alone showing them the whites of my eyes.

Fuck that.

So as lonely as it is to deal will this without the help of ‘cheerleaders’, I’m gonna pop my cojones out, man the fuck up and deal with it on my own.

Because I’m not one of you.  I’m one of them.

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And you know what?  If you met me, you’d never even guess.

So that means that me and my kind could be in your vicinity now.  Stalking you, cooking your cottontail and sharpening your biggest, best Sabatier whilst you prepare for a nice soak in your steaming hot tub….

Be afraid bitches; be every afraid.  The blatantly crazy aren’t the ones you should be wary of.

But that’s not the scariest thing of all.

Because when the shit comes down, you know that instinctively it’ll be me you want to turn to.  Because you know I’ve stared rejection, humiliation, isolation and financial ruin in the face, the very things you yourself dread, and I’m still standing.  And when you’re in that dark desolate public hell, who will show up to guide you back out towards the light?  Not your lovely, popular, social climbing compadres that’s for sure.  And you’ll be praying for my unacceptable scary ass to show up.  Whether I do or not remains to be seen.

You see?  Bothersome ain’t the half of it.

Namaste y’all 😉