Fine. Give up on me. And blame it all on me while you're at it.

A good handful of over the counter pain meds (not Tylenol, don't worry) and a good long, deep cut, and maybe I'll be OK.

For You

Some years ago I wrote a poem by the same title. The tone of this post, I think, will be rather different. It is me pouring out what I cannot say otherwise; what I cannot get others to understand; what no one will hear.

You, dear ones, are why I am still here. It is you who love and care for me that are the reason for my continued existence. For some time now I have been unable to come up with anything that makes me want to stay. Not even the love I have for you. But knowing the hurt that my death would cause (especially suicide)... that is why I am still here.

I wish I was not.

I'm sorry, loved ones, but that is the honest truth. I pray regularly that God would please erase me from this world; body, soul, and memory. I pray He would make it as if I had never existed. That way no one would be hurt... and I would be free. I have told Him on more than one occasion that, if given the choice, I think I would have opted not to be created in the first place. Not if I knew what was coming. Not if I had known I would spend so much of my time in misery, wishing for death, or just an end, but being unable to help myself along... Because of you.

It is For You that I stay. But I am sorry, treasured ones, it is not something I want to do. I wish most strongly to quiet this earth, this life, once and for all. I have no future. I have no hope.

But I love you all and do not want to hurt you in that way.

And so I stay.

For you.

Shadows - SO very true

"I know about shadows. You just want to be careful they don't grow teeth. Because they can. Then, sometimes when you reach for the light-switch to make them go away, you discover the power's out."

Duma Key by Stephen King (C)2008 by Stephen King

Thoughts Prompted by Frustration ( and a therapist who doesn't know what to do with me)

I'm not even going to try and write 'well'. Stream of consciousness is all you get. Because to be totally honest I'm not sure my thoughts are 'together' enough to 'write well'. For instance, I am not even sure where to start...

Had one of my 'bi-monthly' therapy sessions yesterday. It sucked. Big time. He kept repeating himself for one thing. The same mantra over and over. 'I want to help but you're not giving me anything to work with. You won't come up with any goals.' Blah-blah-blah. Of course the fact that this guy just really doesn't know what to do with a borderline has nothing to do with it. It's all my fault. You want to know how I know that? Yesterday he asked me if I had been doing any cutting. I've been seeing him since sometime mid-May. I can count on one hand how many times he's asked me about cutting behavior. He knows I'm a cutter. Hell, he even saw the scars on my arms one of the times I overdosed and went to the ER. And some weeks ago I went to the ER for stitches. He knew this. He was there (damn hospital called mental health). Did he ask at the next session if I had done any more cutting? Nope. Nothing. Oh no that's not completely true. He did ask how the one was healing. He remained ignorant of the fact that I had another on my left bicep that should have been stitched. I taped it shut instead. I'm pretty good at that actually. So that's how I know.

Last session I had eluded to what is more than likely a diagnosable eating disorder. I didn't tell him much. As I told him yesterday, I'm not done. I want to lose at least another 30 pounds. Anyway yesterday he mentions that if he knew what it was I had been hedging around that might give us something to work on (remember it's all my fault that we're not getting anywhere). I told him that I'd let him know if he guessed correctly but that I did not want to tell him outright. As I've thought about it since I've come up with a couple more reasons for this than the 'I'm not done yet' reason I gave him. To start, as I've told him, I do not like to hear everything. I know it doesn't make a lot of sense but it's the truth. I realized this when another therapist (one I saw while I was at University) was looking at some of my drawings and started to read the description of one (on the back) out loud. No idea. Well, OK, I've got the beginning of a guess but I'm not going to get into it now. The other is similar to one of the reasons I gave him yesterday (I told him I know this stuff isn't kosher but that doesn't help). I'm ashamed. I know better than this, you know? We learned about this stuff in health class in Junior High, in High School, at University. We learned it in several of my psych classes. I would like to say that I just don't care but the shame I feel about it is probably a sign that that isn't true. Also I don't want to talk about it. Again I think this has something to do with the fact that I know better. Having to talk about all that crap, look at it, analyze it, would make me feel so stupid. I KNOW BETTER!!! It gets better still as I've noticed that induced vomiting has become somewhat like the cutting. I have actually found myself thinking 'I want to throw up' very much like I would think 'I want to cut'. I'm not sure but I don't think that's a good sign.

He wouldn't guess. I was the one who pointed out that my behavior at that moment was very borderline (I was asking him why, if he knew I was borderline, he expected anything different than what he was getting. It was during this exchange that I actually had it confirmed by someone that I am in fact borderline. I have the idea that it's not something they like to tell you. To be honest the straightforward affirmation sort of sucked.). He then pointed out specifics. And so he wouldn't give in. He wouldn't guess. If he had guessed correctly I would have felt a little better about him; I would have thought that me might have some small idea of what to do with me. But that's borderline. And so he wouldn't guess.

I found myself experiencing two different emotions regarding his refusal to guess at what it was I was not telling him. The first actually surprised me. I was somewhat relieved, almost glad, that he would not give in to such behavior; that he would not guess. No idea where that came from but it is what it is. The second was more what I expected. I was angry. I had a couple reasons why I did not want to tell him outright (and as I have said I have since come up with a few more). He was getting on me for not having any goals or anything like that, telling me that if I would tell him what it was then there might be something to work on. Also saying things like 'Maybe you're not getting any benefit from therapy' 'Not everyone does well in therapy', etc which honestly had me close to tears a couple times (fine, kick me out, give up on me you jerk). Here I am giving him an opportunity to learn what it is I am withholding (I was pointing him in the right direction; I honestly think he would have guessed if he had wanted to. Hell he might even know and just not be telling me... if he didn't figure it out in the end he's got to be extremely dense) and he won't guess! And yet he keeps at me with this shit.

I dissociated a bit during the session. Just a quick mention because, if anyone reads this and happens to have any knowledge of dissociation maybe you could help me out. Does it sometimes come with any sort of visual distortion? I can't quite describe it, colors and light around the outline of things became at the same time brighter and blurrier. This isn't the first time I've experienced that during a minor dissociative laps. *shrug* Je ne sais pas (I don't know).

An Analogy

As I lay in bed thinking (a sometimes dangerous past time for us all, a regularly dangerous past time for yours truly) it occurred to me that I will never marry; I will never have children. Fair enough. Many people live full and happy lives without the benefit of a spouse and/or children (rug rats, my dad used to say... he probably would have been fine had he not had children). The reasoning behind my... understanding, shall we say, is less simple. Macabre, really. I simply do not believe I will live that long. BPD, depression and a possible (more than likely, really) eating disorder... they take their toll and they give nothing back.

It's not like I haven't tried. The shortest amount of time I've delt with any of these is 6, 7 years (the BPD which fully kicked in around the 21, 22); the longest (the depression) 13, 14 years. That being the case I think I've done pretty well. Trying is so very tiring, though. Especially when you come to the point where you are trying for everyone else more than for yourself. I've been trying for everyone else for what seems like a lifetime... and then some. And I'm exhausted. Like a man drowning in the ocean. Wave after wave pushes him under and each time he claws his way back to the surface he looses a little more. A little more energy. A little more hope. Until finally he no longer has enough of either to keep trying... and he lets go.

It's Not That Big A Deal!!

Oh my good lord, I wish people would just calm down. It's a 7 cm cut (not my longest) that didn't even go through the fat (I know, *ew*) on my arm (not my deepest). It only took 8 stitches to close. And I had no idea I was cutting over something important; it wasn't a suicide attempt. So why in the world is everyone making a big deal out of nothing? It's not like it's the first time I've cut. It's not even the first time I've gotten stitches for a self inflicted injury. And yet I'm being lectured and told things like 'At some point we start making decisions for you' (thank you, mental health *glares *). I had to see a MHP while I was in the ER, I was required to see one the next morning (if I didn't show up I was told they'd show up on my doorstep with the cops), I was asked to check in that afternoon and again this morning! What the hell is wrong with you people? I'M A CUTTER!! OK? I do this! And you know it!

I also got to go to the doctor and get the wound looked at early because the nurse decided that, since the ER folks told me to get it checked in 2 days, Monday was too long to wait. So I sat there for 45 minutes after my appointment started and then talked to a doctor I had never seen before (he was actually very nice, I liked this one) during which conversation I learned that a therapist I had seen at Mental Health was now working at my doctors office AND that he had brought the doctor up to speed! I have NO idea what all he told him and while I really like this particular therapist I am less than happy. I have the idea that he told the doctor rather more than he would have learned from the ER notes or even from my file at the doctors office and that doesn't feel fair. I should be the one who decides who gets all that information, not him.

Finally!!

I stepped on the scale this morning (as I do every morning, evening, and sometimes in between) and it read just under 163. Now it's not my goal weight but it is within the 'normal' range for a woman of my height (just barely but still)! I don't know when I've been this thin. Too bad it's not enough. Too bad I am going about it all wrong. But still, it's happening. I wish very much that it would happen faster though. I'm afraid I've gotten myself into a bit of a mess but... I'm no longer over weight!!

Dead Inside

So bad I can feel it in my eyes. It literally feels as if one look into my eyes and everyone should be able to tell just how Awful I am feeling. But no one will be able to. No one ever does.

Damn I used to write rather better than this *sighs*

One Of These Days...

I tend to have suicidal thoughts on a regular/semi-regular basis. Comes with being Borderline, I suppose. And sometimes (much of the time) I so badly just don't want to be alive...
(this is nothing new to this blog but... *shrug*)

The other day I was taking the dog out and before I put the leash on him I wrapped it around my neck. Nothing serious because at the very least I still had to take him out. The feeling of 'rightness' and calm and such that I experienced when I did it, though, was unexpected and a little unsettling. Especially since I have realized that I seem to be more serious about suicide when a third option is added to the normal pair that pass through my mind on a regular basis. That third option, incidentally, is hanging.

And today (OK not just today but today I think maybe I'm more likely) I am thinking seriously about overdosing on some 'left over' meds that I have. Not enough to kill myself, just enough to do SOMETHING, you know..? To have some sort of reaction. I am someone who self injures anyway (mostly I cut) but that doesn't feel like what I need/want (not sure which it is so much, it feels like a need, I think, but obviously it is not).

*shakes head* I should probably call the crisis line but if I do that they might put me in the hospital and then I wouldn't have my boys (pets) and I especially need the cat. Not having him cuddled up to me at night, especially if I am on a psych ward, would not help me feel better, to say the least.

I might be OK. I might stay safe. I'm just not sure. I'm safe... until I'm not...

Too Busy

Everyone is too busy.

Too busy with the mentally retarded (retarded: the root of which is 'retard' from the Latin retardare, from re- + tardus (slow), for the uneducated who read that as nothing more than a politically incorrect slam). Too busy with the schizophrenics and the schizoids. Too busy with the drug addicts. They're too busy trying not to make you feel as if there is actually something wrong with you (even if maybe there is) or simply too busy going by the books, following the guidelines simply so they can get you out and stop wasting money on you.

Too busy to notice that maybe there is something wrong with you. You may not be mentally retarded or schizophrenic or schizoid . You may not be a drug addict. But there is something wrong, none the less. At the very least there is something wrong.

But they're too busy. Too busy to see. Too busy to care.

Too busy to watch you die..?

Maybe then they will not be too busy.

But then it is too late...

As In Biblical Times...

I curse the day on which I was born. Why did You make me?! Was it only for this hell, this torture?!?! You didn't ask me, I was given no choice. Had you come to me and said 'Listen I'm thinking of creating this person and I was wondering if you were interested. You should know, though, that she's going to experience X, Y, Z' I would have looked at You and said 'Count me out, thanks!' I'm so tired of feeling this way. So tired of thinking these thoughts, having these feelings, these longings. I actually long for my own end. I pray nightly to you that you would erase me from this world, from memory. And each morning I wake, a clear indication of you 'No' answer.

I am angry at you, God. The word 'hate' keeps going through my mind but we both know what I think about that and so we know it is not true. But I am angry (perhaps a little mad as well, heh). I am frustrated. I think it was Paul who was thankful for the thorn in his side. But I am not thankful for mine. It's not like I have just the one. This one, though, is the one that grieves me the most. That creates in me the longing for my own end.

That brings thoughts of ways and means.

Complete and Utter Waste of Time!!

When I come off as antagonistic, obnoxious, that sort of thing, it means something is up (it doesn't mean that I doubt your skills or anything like that, that I am sitting there with a 'What can you do for me; how can you help me' attitude). So ask, for heaven sake, ask! That stupid little depression and anxiety questionnaire isn't going to tell you shit. It's not going to tell you how badly I wish I was dead. It's not going to tell you about the events of Sunday night which have made everything so much more worse. It won't tell you how thinking about it (something I cannot help but do no matter how hard I try to forget it) makes me want to overdose or hurt myself in some other way. It won't tell you that I intentionally cut on my wrist yesterday so that I could hit a vein. It won't tell you that when I hit said vein I reacted with an 'Oh thank God' rather than the little thrill of fear that usually accompanies such an action.

I think I'm gonna take my stitches out later and see about that vein again... God would have done me a real favor if He had just allowed me to die in my sleep last night...

It's Your Fault

So why do I want to hurt MYself. Cut, overdose, hit, whatever, I want to do it so very badly. I hope confession really is good for the soul so at least one of us is feeling alright. Unfortunately if your behavior yesterday is any indication (and I'm not seeing things differently since your confession that you had hoped that we would have sex that night I thought you were simply concerned with how I was doing) your confession was not purely motivated.

I feel betrayed and violated. And yet I am still concerned about your feelings and not my own. I want to hurt myself, for crying out loud. How much sense does that make? I just don't understand... Intellectually I have a good idea (it doesn't make any sense but it is what it is)... but otherwise... *shakes head*

I'm Safe... Until I'm Not

As I lay in the bath, to all appearances (not that anyone is looking at me) out of touch with the world, thoughts of the razor blade, thoughts of pills, tablets, and/or capsules, and thoughts of hanging (it's bad when the third option, hanging, joins the crowd... usually it's just the first two) passed through my mind in a sickening loop and I wonder whether or not I should call the crisis line. I probably won't. I just don't see the point right now.

You see, I'm safe... until I'm not.

I don't see the point in calling and telling someone 'Well, these thoughts keep going through my head. Yeah, I'd sort of like to die; least ways, I'd like to not be alive. But I'm not sure I'd actually do anything. They're just causing me an awful lot of distress is all'. Best case scenario they'd require me to impose on a friend for a night or two (pain in the butt as they have to put up with me invading their privacy, their family, and they'd have to get me back and forth to my place a couple times to take care of the dog and cat). Worst case scenario they'd detain me and the same friends would have to see themselves to my place a few times a day for something like three days to take care of the boys (they might take turns with some mutual friends who live closer to me and do not have kids). So why call if nothing is wrong? If I haven't overdosed or slit my wrists. I've felt like this before and it is miserable but obviously I was safe because I am here writing this today.

Because I am safe... until I'm not.

*shakes head* And people wonder why I don't want to be alive...

Bad Night

I couldn't sleep, but I couldn't leave my room. In the bathroom sat my razor blade. In the living room, more razor blades (hidden away, just in case) and pills, tablets, capsules perfect for overdosing. Honestly today is not much better but I've managed to behave.

I don't want to be, anymore. I honestly wish that God had never made me. I think it rather unfair of Him, actually. He will not erase me from this world, I've asked, more times than I can count.

I do not want to die... I just don't want to live anymore. And it's so very hard existing this way. Living when you would rather not. Functioning when you would rather shut down. Smiling when you want to cry.

And I find it so unfair that He continues to ask it of me; that everyone asks it of me.

Quit Being So Borderline!!

So the shitty program you were accepted in to (and that only after you swallowed XX Tylenol) only allows for 120 minutes of therapy a month (most effectively used in two, one hour slots every two weeks). So today's appointment (first in two weeks) had to be f***ing rescheduled for another week (making it three this time). Who gives a rats @$$, it's not that big a deal. Get over yourself, for heaven sake! You don't want to be Borderline (not like you can make it so simply by wishing but you know, whatever) so STOP F***ING ACTING LIKE IT!!!
--------------------------------------------------------
Such are my thoughts at this moment. Now if you will excuse me I am going to go cut until I bleed profusely and then climb in to bed (after stopping the bleeding so no worries). I apologize for the rant (I get more foul mouthed the worse I feel *blush*).

I don't know who I am any more...

I'm not sure I ever really did...

I know who I tried to be. I know what I came off as. And I have a good idea why. Picture a girl, long brown hair in a half pony, nice, clean jeans, and a simple, maybe slightly preppy looking sweater and you'll have a pretty good idea, not so much of what I looked like (we couldn't have afforded the preppy sweater and anyway I hated wearing my hair that way) but of how I would come off to those who met me. Because when you see that picture in your head you get some idea (I do anyway) of how she might act. That was the sort of girl I was in public, growing up. My dad was always telling me how nice and polite people told him I was... and I remember thinking 'If they only knew... the effort that goes in to it... why I am always so nice and polite' (of course just as often I thought 'If they only knew what he is really like', heh).

I was a horrible child. I inherited my dads short fuse and temper. I was constantly yelling and, if I remember correctly (my memory of my childhood is actually quite poor) I hit, a lot. Now all these things can probably be explained (let's make it easy, get Freudian -which normally I hate- and just blame my dad because that's the majority of it anyway) but that doesn't mean a whole lot. I was a horrible child. Thankfully (I guess) I wasn't such an awful child that I could behave like that and not feel guilt. I tended to, more often than not, feel very guilty after I had blown up. But always after the fact.

I knew this sort of behavior wasn't acceptable public behavior. And I knew people didn't like people who behaved in such a manner. So I tried, with varying degrees of success, to be the 'nice and polite' girl that I believed I should be. And as I got older I think I adopted that, for the most part, permanently. I became the girl with the long brown hair in a half pony, in nice clean jeans and a simple, slightly preppy sweater. The girl who was on leadership for her college church group (I lead worship). Who did everything with that group (all the activities planned, provided she didn't have to work). Who played and sang on the worship team Sunday mornings. For all intents and purposes that was who I was.

And then one day I changed. See, I was that girl, but I was that girl in the grip of major depression (and something else, it seems... I'm Borderline, you see). And at some point the idea that I might hurt myself popped into my head. And I resisted it for a long time. After all, That girl didn't do such things. That girl did what she needed to do and smiled while she did it. And then one day, she didn't. She became the girl who did nothing. Oh she still did what she had to do, and that most often with a smile (one that no longer reached her eyes but one that pleased everyone none the less, one that made them comfortable, made them think that everything was just fine... one that fooled them), but that was it. She quit leadership, quit the worship team, quit everything. She drank too much and hurt herself. She dyed her bangs bright red and pierced her tongue. She wore heavy make up (where before she hardly wore any at all).

Now I am stuck somewhere in between. A college graduate with a psych degree, I am lost. I'm on the worship team again. I rarely drink (just don't want to). My bangs are now the same color as the rest of my hair (I do miss the bright red, though, lol). I rarely wear make up. My tongue is still pierced and I still hurt myself.

But I don't know who I am.

I'm not sure I ever really did.

I Hate This

Going to bed and praying that God erase me from this earth. My eyes become wet (I rarely actually cry) every time I do it, either because I do not really wish it or because I know I will wake in the morning (a clear indication of a resounding 'No' from the Almighty), I don't know which.

I hate that He won't erase me as I ask. I hate that He even made me to begin with.

I hate myself, how pathetic I am.

I hate feeling like this.

I hate it all.

I Don't Know

The winds of change rarely bring anything good with them, here my world, in my dysthymic haze. This haze means I never feel well and over the last few months or so I've felt worse. A few weeks ago I found I had plummeted to the very bottom of the Pit. Now the bottom of the Pit might be preferable to some places. It is safer down there. At the very bottom where no light can penetrate and the very idea of hope is only an illusion I find myself incapable of doing much more than converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. This does mean, though, that I am also rendered incapable of taking my own life, no matter how desperately I may want it. So yes, safety wise, the bottom of the Pit is preferable. But it is also torturous. And for the past three weeks or so I have existed there. Too far down in the Pitt I could not be bothered even to end my own life. But I was no less desirous of the end. The overwhelming desire for my own end plagued my waking hours and stalked my dreams at night. How I longed for the end to come. I prayed nightly that God would please erase me from this world so that I might be no more and others experience no pain from that which I desired most.

This morning was no different then the other mornings. I found my way back to bed after only a few hours up; hours spent on the couch doing nothing. For three hours I lay there with barely a thought in my head. And then I got up and was... fine. But not Normal fine... a confusing fine. Maybe it wasn't so much fine as it was just not as bad, I don't know. But now I'm just an emotional wreak. I rarely cry but I often want to and right now the smallest things cause me to want to burst in to tears. I don't know which I find preferable. I think, as crazy as it sounds, I prefer the bottom of the Pit; at least there I know what to expect. The familiarity of it, at least, is comforting.

*shakes head* I don't know.

There's A Difference

I've got this silly little 'daily mood/emotion monitor for therapy. So far I've only bothered with mood which my therapist wants charted using a number scale. 0 is euthymic, -1 is dysthymic, -2 is depressive, and -3 is suicidal. Conversely +1 hypomanic, +2 is manic, and +3 is basically psychotic, I guess (he tried to dumb it down but I finally had to look at him, remind him that I was a psych major, and ask that he try and be at least a little bit technical because his dumbing it down was only succeeding in confusing me, lol).

Not being bipolar I never make it in to the positive range. Being dysthymic/depressive/borderline I also never make it to 0, and in the past week that I've been bothering with this I have been at -1 only once and that probably should have been a -2 in all honesty.

Today I wrote a note in the margin , the inspiration for the title of this blog entry. So here we go (what follows is an expanded version of my note).

There's a difference between being suicidal and wanting to die/be dead. I suppose that difference is safety, probably the most important concern for the mental health folks. Personally I'd rather be suicidal... wanting to die, longing for death, praying for it but for one reason or another being unable to kill yourself... what unbearable torture. The truth is simply that I am too far down in the Pitt to be suicidal; I now cannot be bothered even to end my own life. But I am no less desirous of the end. I 'long for death that does not come' and feel that 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished'. The overwhelming desire for my own end plagues my waking hours and haunts my dreams until I find I am able to do little else than lay in bed in misery. It's not that the thought of taking my own life no longer enters my own mind; it is simply that I can no longer be bothered. But oh how I wish the end would come. I pray nightly that God would please erase me from this world so that I may be no more and others experience no pain from that which I desire most.

"Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul, to those who long for death that does not come, who search for it more than for hidden treasure,who are filled with gladness and rejoice when they reach the grave? Why is life given to a man whose way is hidden, whom God has hedged in? For sighing comes to me instead of food; my groans pour out like water.What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil."
Job 3:20-26, New International Version

"To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd."
~Hamlet, Act III, Scene I

I Pray, Dear Lord, My Soul To Take...

"Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray dear Lord my soul to keep;
If I should die before I wake
I pray dear Lord my soul to take"

Almost nightly, now, I pray that God would simply erase me from this earth. I don't want to be alive any more. I'm done with this. All of it. There is nothing that I look forward to, nothing that I could not do without experiencing, as long as it means I am finally able to quiet this earth.

I pray, dear lord, my soul to take. Please, God. Please release me...

I'd Like To Give Up Now, Please

I'd like to be done (I am done, really, I just cannot bring myself to do anything about it). That way it doesn't matter that there are student loans to be paid (something I cannot do since I have no money). Doesn't matter that I need information so that I can apply for social security (because the state doesn't want to have to deal with me). Doesn't matter that the powers that be at social security will tell me no (a stressor that I really don't need as my last overdose hase proven that I don't take being told that I'm full of $&!% -a rejection for services- well). Doesn't matter that I am having coffee with my dad in an hour and a half. Doesn't matter that my sister, brother-in-law, niece and nephew will be here in the wee hours of the morning. Doesn't matter that I have family to visit. Doesn't matter that all I want to do is go home and die. Because I will be done.

If I could only bring myself to do that to the people who care about me. Because it is not for myself that I stay alive. If I had my way I would be long gone by now.

If they really understood this hell I'm in they would let me go. I am sure of it. They wouldn't ask me to stay and endure this.

You know I pray for God to simply erase me from this earth (if I'm am erased completely then no one will be hurt)... Apparently He doesn't love me enough to do that...

If the powers that be know this...

Mental Illness Leading Cause of Disability in Youth

Then why in the world did it take two rejections and an overdose before I got the assistance for anything resembling the help I need (the short term benefits program I was finally allowed does not cover the DBT that would be most helpful to me as someone lives with sever depression and takes out strong or unwanted emotion on themselves in less than appropriate ways such as self injury). To add insult to injury I have since been asked to apply for social security, no doubt in an attempt to shift the burden of care from the state to the federal government. I expect they will also tell me no, a stressor that I don't really need right now.

*sigh* I know I'm looking a gift horse in the mouth but at the same time... *shrugs* It's still frustrating...

See? It's not just me...

Job 3:20-26, New International Version
"Why is light given to those in misery, and life to the bitter of soul, to those who long for death that does not come, who search for it more than for hidden treasure,who are filled with gladness and rejoice when they reach the grave? Why is life given to a man whose way is hidden, whom God has hedged in? For sighing comes to me instead of food; my groans pour out like water.What I feared has come upon me; what I dreaded has happened to me. I have no peace, no quietness; I have no rest, but only turmoil."

... And yet... it's not so much that I want to die... I just don't want to be alive any more. Those of you who have been here (I'm sorry) will understand. Those of you who have no idea what I am talking about... praise God for it. I hope you never do understand.

I just want to be done. To cease.

"To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd."
~Hamlet, Act III, Scene I

This could be important...

As I sit here blinking owlishly at my cup of coffee reminding myself that it can do nothing to aid in the waking process if I do not drink it (I am too tired even to do that) I am once again struck by the realization that I do not tolerate fatigue well. In just the last hour the thought that I could over dose on several things I have in my apartment has flitted through my head not once, but two(three?) times (in what is not so much a desire to die but a very borderline -read:unreasonable- reaction to having once again been forgotten/'dropped/or simply ignored). What is more it seems likely that, exhausted as I am I am exponentially more likely to go through with such a rash action (which would land me in the ER -and quite possibly in a psych ward this time- if the little bit of caffeine I have consumed wakes my brain up enough to realize the foolishness -not to mention selfishness what with my Uncle so recently dead- of said rash action).

This could very well be something important to note, not to mention to share with whatever professional cares to know (and at this point it seems that only my doctor might be interested in such a revelation -being overly tired also makes me more impatient and less likely to utilize the 'filter' that I have for such comments-). What to do about it, however, may not be as simple a matter. Surely a sleep aid would allow me to get the rest I need but sleeping pills and such are popular medications to use when overdosing (I have not done so myself, more likely than not simply because I have not had any to overdose with and so have had to use what I had available).

The bright side of this fatigue, at this minute anyway, is that I am not sure I am awake enough even to take the pills necessary to overdose (remember, I have not even finished half a cup of coffee for the simple reason that I seem to be unable to do no more than stare at it)... how I managed this post, I have no idea (except that I feel it could be important and I remember things better when they are written down somewhere I can go back to later).

We shall see...

Why? And how do I make it stop..?

It was something small. Really, I believe the thought went something like this (though not quite as complete... you know how you can have just enough of a thought to get the idea... oh never mind, just trust me): "More things my Auntie and I have in common, and I'm the favorite niece" after which quickly followed "Oh don't be so stupid, like it's a big deal" (I'm not usually very nice or patient with myself). That's it. Nothing huge. And yet the thought that followed hard on the heels of the 'Oh don't be so stupid' thought 'Man, I wish I could cut' (I purposefully did not bring a razor blade with me -I'm away from home this weekend-... hard decision, let me tell you)!?!

Why? It was such a tiny thing and yet it leads me to thoughts of self harm. Now granted this weekend is a little stressful (my Uncles funeral is tomorrow)... but it's like that all the time any more. Something so small and I want to hurt myself. I don't understand this! And it actually makes me feel worse because I know it's unreasonable. I know it's not right. And it brings me full circle again, wanting to cut, wanting to hurt.

I'm so tired of this. I'm tired of wanting to hurt myself over every little thing. I'm tired of the thoughts of self harm and of suicide that plague me on a daily basis. I don't understand this; I don't understand any of it. And I hate it.

So... how do I make it stop..?

A Self Harm Tantrum

I have been dropped. For what reason, I do not know, but I haven't heard from anyone in over two weeks. Now I suppose I could just call and see what is up... that would be the most logical thing to do, would it not? *shakes head* No, I can't do that, I'd just be bothering them (these are my thoughts, by the way, forget the fact that I know they're unreasonable) and besides, I'm not sure who I'd ask for. So instead of doing the logical, adult thing, I turn whatever this is that I am feeling (anger? hurt? I don't know what it is, I only know that it doesn't feel good) inward and throw a bit of a 'self harm tantrum'. Because I am not really 27 despite what my birth certificate might say; I am actually seven and I throw tantrums. Thankfully these are not the sort of tantrums most seven year olds throw, that would be horrifying. I cut. I cut. I cut some more (two different cuts, three separate times). I burned. And the pièce de résistance yesterday was when I attempted to break my arm (dropped my heavy coffee table on it three -four?- times. Fail. Pretty sure it's in tact, but it's painful at least as I got some great bruises from it).

None of it helped though, in the long run. None of it was enough. I still want to do something, something to myself (I can't over dose either, because my Uncles funeral is this weekend... but that keeps going through my head as well). I'm not sure why when I am not upset at something I did but rather something that was 'done' to me. And anyway it's stupid because there has got to be some sort of reason I haven't been contacted in over two weeks. The problem is that the logical part of my brain cannot get together with the rest of me, whatever that is (I usually reference the difference between head knowledge and heart knowledge which is my way of referring to the logical portion of myself and the feeling portion (I guess, I'm not exactly sure what the heart bit is but I'm 99% sure it's feeling)). And the 'rest of me', the feeling part is throwing a bit of a tantrum.

It's just too bad I'm not able to satisfy it.

Random (or not so random), Rambling Ruminations

Really, don't bother reading this one. It's just full of shit anyway. But if you want to, go ahead; watch me devolve...
-------------------------
Ugh, I don't want to cry.Lord, it would be wonderful to just lay down and sob.Speaking of 'just laying down and doing something' how about just laying down and dying?That sounds like a good idea.>.< I could burn, it feels like it requires burning.No, I'm trying to limit my self harm.Well who gives a rats ass anyway?No one that I can come up with right now.And why does no one give a rats ass?Why was I suddenly dropped in spite of the fact that I was told several times that it would not happen? Probably my own damn fault.It usually is.Something I didn't do?That's probably it.After all, I'm an adult for crying out loud, I need to take responsibility for my life and such things.There's that paperwork I didn't get in.I sort of thought that after I heard from that guy in Y- that the stuff the gal in my local office gave me wasn't important any more.It's not like it hasn't been two-three weeks since she gave it to me.She hasn't called.That should mean it's no big deal, right?Except that you're supposed to be an adult, dumb ass, so it's your responsibility.I could cut.No, really, cutting won't do it this time, it really feels like a time to burn.And why shouldn't I, when no one cares enough to bother with me?Oh how wonderfully pathetic you sound, and so very borderline.Maybe I should clear out the bottom of the linen closet and squish myself in there; maybe that would help.God in heaven, I'd like to cry right now.Sure fire way to achieve that, just think about Uncle and the last thing you said to him(he was dead though so does that really count?).Oh, that does it.But heaven forbid you allow the tears to fall.Lord what have you done that you can't hardly cry anymore?Why did you ever think that would be a good thing?Answer:I didn't know I was ruining my ability to cry forever.I guess it goes hand in hand with the stunted displays of emotions I seem to show...whatever I'm trying to say;I can't put it in to words but I know what I mean.Geez, look at that picture.How did I ever smile like that?How do I still manage to smile like that, despite feeling like shit 99% of the time?And what is more, how in the world do people not see right through it?*shakes head*I just want to stop existing, that's all.At the very least I want to cease being aware.Does that make sense?If I knew of a way to do that I'd be all over it, let me tell you.I'd just like to shut down my mind.Put it in sleep mode.Ah to sleep forever; to cease awareness.Hmm, I could over dose.*shakes head*I'm not sure I want to do something like that.I just want to stop.To turn off.To tune out.I don't want to distract from one thing with another.I just want to be.To be blank.To be nothing, save maybe 'here'.I'm probably not making sense but again I know what I mean.Geez I want to cry.I want to cry and then I want to stop.Deep sleep mode.I want to sleep and never wake up.It's not like I want to die, exactly; I just want to stop.Unfortunately dying seems to be the only way to do that.Thinking I need to work more on dissociation, heh.'To die, to sleep, to sleep, per chance to dream, no more';I've not written it correctly but this way serves my purposes better anyway.Well who gives a rats ass anyway...
--------------------------------------------
It's amazing, I could go on... but I won't, at least, not here. In my head it will continue. FML. Job 3:20-26 This passage is not the one we are supposed to focus on, in Job. But here Job and I are in agreement. Here, we understand each other.

Call if you need to talk...

Now why in the world would I do that? I mean really, what is there to talk about? And what could you possibly do to help? My Uncle is dead; he shouldn't be. I feel Awful; same old same old really, just add a dead Uncle in to the mix this time (and a grandmother in the hospital, just recently officially diagnosed with the dementia we all knew she was suffering from). *shrug* I don't have any real idea about what is going on; well, you can't do much about that really. I could make a phone call or two, that would probably help. But if they've dropped me, if they're done with me, if I've once again slipped off the radar then why should I bother them?

No, calling you would not do either of us any good. You don't really want to hear me bitch and moan and as much as I like to help and to listen, if you have something you need to unburden then, well I am really in no shape to oblige right now, I'm sorry.

I Don't Want to Celebrate

My Uncles funeral is in a week. My Auntie told my mom that it is goring to be a celebration and not so much a funeral. After there will be a luau (that's what is taking so long... the funeral will be held two weeks after his death because Hawaiians cannot decide on one pig or two ;) Add a howley (a white individual) or two in the mix and chaos reigns, heh). Wonderful pig aside (Kalua pig... mmmmm, amazing)... I don't want to celebrate. My Uncle is dead and he shouldn't be. We all knew it was a possibility. Some of us more than others (that feeling you get sometimes, you know... I was pretty certain he was going to die... trying to hope that I would be wrong). So you can keep the damn pig and just give me my Uncle back.

I can't even cut today. I've got a great one just waiting to be messed with and I can't. Which sucks because I feel like I want to do something... to hurt... something bad to myself. I know how it sounds, I really do. But that's just how it is right now. Cut, over dose (no more Tylenol though, thanks), burn (no, I very rarely burn and now is just not feeling like that sort of time), beat my head against the wall until I'm senseless (that one sounds best actually because it combines pain and unawareness). But I can't. None of it would be enough (sans the senseless bit). I can't cut enough, not with only two hands and one razor blade. Over dosing won't do it, I very rarely feel any effect from it (at least that's how it was when I did it most). I couldn't burn enough... yes, the head banging seems to be preferable but I cannot guarantee that I could do it enough, hard enough, that I would black out. And that's really what I want. The unawareness.

I don't want to celebrate. I don't even want to exist right now; not in consciousness anyway. How lame is it that I have to? Because I don't. I could figure out some way to find my peace among the blackness of unconsciousness. Except I cannot.

I cannot even do that.

I Watched Myself Bleed *Possible Trigger... slightly Graphic*

Just now. It was a cut I started last night. It's actually over an old scar. And old scar over a vein that bleeds well when nicked. Actually last time it bleed too well and I had to get it stitched. But tonight it seems under control.

So why did I intentionally cut so that I could nick a vein? Mmm, I'm not going to get too introspective on that one. Mostly because I already have and the answer... way too borderline for this Reluctant Borderline. So we'll just leave it at that. I cut, I nicked a vein, and I watched it bleed. And the small part of me that is still open to feeling experienced both some sort of satisfaction from the various aspects of it all (watching it pool on my wrist, feeling it roll off my arm, watching it drip...). I think... it's hard to tell, sometimes... sometimes I believe that most 'feelings' I experience are actually just some sort of knowledge... *shakes head* it's hard to explain... anyway that they are not actual feelings... Anyway, another small part of me wanted to do more. Not to die (Lord, I couldn't do that to my family even before my Uncles funeral, for heaven sake!)... *shakes head* I'll not take that thought further.

Did you have to be one of them..?

Really. I mean, if you're going to drop me (your words, I believe, not mine) why not just do it? After all, I expected you to. That's just what people do. And it's not like you haven't done more than your fair share. Frankly you've done more than is required and I do appreciate it. However I think it might be making things worse now. You went to such lengths to let me know that I wasn't going to be left dangling in the wind again... and now here I find myself, adrift, bogged down, and (as much as I hate to say it) 'emotionally fragile' (ugh, I hate that phrase... but it works here so...).

Don't get me wrong, I understand. You have an actual job and some things (some people, I guess) can't always fit in when there are other things that need to be done. A tight budget and such doesn't help matters either.

But understanding doesn't always come with feeling alright about it, you know?

And I'm not gonna lie... it kinda sucks...




This post is very borderline, heh *shakes head* I don't normally allow myself to behave or talk like this... but the internet medium makes some things easier... even being unreasonable, lol

It wasn't supposed to happen this way...

Of course, we all know that there is the risk of death with surgery. However your surgery, apparently, went very well. It was your heart. We were worried, at first, and then prematurely hopeful. And then you were gone.

I love you, very much, Uncle, and I will miss you greatly.

I'm sorry, you want me to what???

I checked my mail this morning. Out of seven pieces of mail five of them were from DSHS. *shakes head* What a mess this all has become. It really shouldn't be this hard. Again, maybe I should become a drug addict... they don't have nearly the trouble getting help that a mentally ill individual seems to have (with the possible exception of schizophrenia and the like... those can sometimes be a very obvious disability). *considers this* No, I think not. I've heard that withdrawal/detox is a bitch. Besides, why would I want to add to my troubles? *shakes head*

The best news I received (note the dripping sarcasm) was that they apparently want me to apply for SSI. I don't know what that means re:my future (assuming I have on). My goal has always been to get this shattered mess that is my life reassembled so that I can once again be a functioning member of society. To that end, I was looking for something temporary. The DL benefits that I was finally (too late, in my opinion, since it only happened after I took 30 acetaminophen tablets) granted are short term (you may reapply every three months, I believe, but at a year they would prefer you to apply for SSI), bonus there. However what they cover re:mental health is quite limited. In town there is only one practitioner I would be able to see and only one type of therapy I would be allowed, that is CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) which in and of itself has shown to be of little help to individuals with BPD and can actually do more harm than good. DL benefits do not allow me to see the individual I know best there (and therefor am most comfortable with) and do not cover DBT (Dialectical Behavioral Therapy) which has shown to be immensely helpful to those who are borderline.

So as to my future... what happens if I am actually granted (not that I'm holding my breath, that would be silly and possibly be labeled as 'suicidal behavior' *rolls eyes*) SSI? Does it mean that I am stuck as someone who is disabled for the rest of my life? That's somewhere around 50 years or so! And I honestly do not believe I am stuck there. I believe that both BPD and MDD, properly treated, can be managed, allowing the individual to lead a (relatively) normal and productive life. The problem here is that I do not have access to the services I need in order to receive proper treatment. So left untreated I could very well be stuck in a state of incapacity. Not only that but given the frequency of suicidal behavior in individuals with BPD (something I have displayed on more than one occasion) it is not that unlikely that I could die prematurely by my own hand.

My point there was this: if I can manage to get my life back together with the help of SSI and the programs deemed necessary (DBT, CBT -which, when done with DBT, can be helpful) will I be stuck as someone who is disabled because I received SSI? Is it something that one is on for life? I had dreams once, you know. I would like to once again believe that they are possible. They were stolen from me some years ago. Will this steal them from me a second time (this time for good?)..? I don't know if I could handle that...

Some Old Poems

These are on my old blog... Most of them are three or four years old but I like them, so I thought I'd share.

For You

I'm dying on the inside, but you can't see
It's O.K.
This act is for you
Every smile
Every laugh
It kills me
But you
Thankfully, you are unaware

Oh, you may notice little differences
My eyes don't hold their sparkle
A smile dies easily on my lips
I do my best to protect you
But it's hard to care for others
When you are dying on the inside

I'll try another day
For you
I'll smileI
'll laugh
As I die just a little bit more

How Smiling can Hurt

It's funny how smiling can hurt
How that simple act can rip into your heart
How one smile can leave you hurting
And Bleeding

To smile
When you hurt on the inside
To laugh
When everything within you is crying out
In pain
And confusion
Is like a secret death
Slow
And painful
And hopeless

The Masks I Wear

I play so many roles
Can you tell
Can you see
What is real

So many in one day
So many people fooled
Then one day I look to find
I've played my part so well
That I am lost

No more can I identify
The feelings that I have
Am I truly happy
Or is it all an act
Do I really laugh
Or am I crying
Beneath this facade

No one can truly know me
Those closest to me
Like others
Are fooled
My true self remains hidden
In the depths
Where even nowI am crying
For I am lost

My Child, My Beloved

My Child, My Beloved
Daily I have watched you
I have heard your laughter
And seen your beautiful smile
I have heard your singing
And witnessed your kindness
I have basked in the glow of your happiness
And treasured the joy you have shown in My creation
I have watched you grow
And delighted in the treasure I made in you

But with the joy and laughter
Have come sorrows

Dear Child, My Beloved
I have watched you hurt
And witnessed your anguish
I have longed to gather you in My arms
And hold you as you weep
I have whispered My love to you
And cried as you have cried
My heart has ached
And My own tears have fallen
As you once again reach for the Blade
Praying the relief will last
Knowing that it will not
And once again you do not cry out
For the healing and comfort I long to give

My child, My Beloved
Know this
I Am your Rescuer
I Am your Redeemer
I Am your Comfort
I Am your Peace
I Am your Father
And I will always love you

The Choice

To give up would be so easy
To give in to the images
To hand control over to the urges
To heed the thoughts that spin in my head
To depart

To continue on would be taxing
To push forward through the pain
To advance, heedless of the pull to surrender
To persist in spite of seemingly overwhelming odds
To linger

The choice
To forsake this earthly body
Or to tarry a moment longer, hoping for a better tomorrow

Please

Please just stop. It's alright for you to give up on all of this. I would. I probably will. After all, it's not looking all that hopeful, is it? Fill out more paperwork and then pay to see a psychiatrist (how they expect me to be able to do that when I am applying for medical/monetary assistance I don't know) or wait another month and a half and re-apply. Both options require me to fill out the same sort of paperwork that I've filled out twice before. And twice now I've been rejected. Twice I've been told that I am full of it. "Of course you can work." say the Powers That Be, "Get off your bum and pull yourself together. We are much too busy helping those that really need our help; the drug addicts, and those who do not wish to work; we simply cannot afford to help you as well."

I don't want to be told 'no' again. And I wish you would just give up; on me and on this whole mess. I feel bad that you are working so hard at this. There is no reason for you to do that any more. Your job is done. Move on to someone else. I don't understand why you're keeping at this. I wish you wouldn't. I'm thankful, really, for everything you've already done. And I cannot tell you why your persistence bothers me... it just does.

*shrug* I'm sorry.

I don't put my feet on other peoples furniture

I just don't. My mother raised me right and let's just face it, putting your dirty shoes on other peoples furniture is just rude. Now, if I know the person really well (and I know there isn't any dirt or mud on my shoes) I may ask if it's alright. The other day while hanging out at a friends I got a little anxious and needed to make myself a little smaller (just scrunch up a bit, you know, it can be comforting) and so I asked him. But that is a very rare occurrence (and why I just didn't take my shoes off I don't know).

Random little blog entry isn't it? ;) Don't worry, there's actually a point to this.

I don't put my feet on other peoples furniture. Usually. But since Monday, May 9th (ah, Monday of the overdose >.<) there has been one notable exception. The therapists office. Now it probably helps that I have actually seen this guy in the past, albeit for a brief period of 'crisis counseling' (four sessions I think). So did I ask, as I did with my friend the other night? No, as a matter of fact the first time I did it was the Tuesday after and I didn't even notice I had done it at first. Just drew my foot up on the seat of the chair and wrapped my arms around my knee. He didn't say anything so I didn't bother about it; it was that much more comfortable that way. The next session I did the same thing, almost from word one. Today I did better... at the beginning (get ready for it because the entire point of this blog entry is about to be revealed ;)). I sat down and crossed one leg over the other at the knee and swung my foot; pretty 'standard' for me in similar situations. And for the first bit that was just fine because we talked about pretty innocuous stuff. He told me what he wanted to talk about and asked if I had anything I wanted to bring up. I told him nothing, other than to let him know that I was going to be gone most of next week. He asked why and I told him that this Saturday I was going to go back to my home town for the Pow Wow (there is one every year)and that there was some family stuff in the middle of the week... it just made more sense to stay rather than go back and forth with gas prices being what they are. He asked me what tribe and I told him and we chatted about that for a bit (I thought it was a little strange at the time... now I just think he found a perfect opening and wasn't going to let it get away) before he says something like 'You know, I don't think we've talked about your family. We might have but if he did I just don't have a picture of it.'. Oh good. After I assure him that he hasn't just forgotten, we never did discuss them (it was short-term crisis counseling, that's not something you normally address) he says something to the effect of 'OK, good, so give me a picture, brothers, sisters, parents...' Joyous days. Up comes one foot, the arms go around the knee. See, the gal I talked with on the 9th asked about that stuff (it's generally assumed that people who self injure have some sort of trauma in their past, usually physical or sexual abuse because, most of them do) so I told her a bit: my dad was abusive and being the outspoken child I got the brunt of it. I made light of it as best I could (a lot of shoulder shrugging) and eventually the topic was dropped for other, more immediate and important things (such as whether or not they were going to detain me... they didn't -and heaven and that woman only know why because even this guy told her to send me to the psych ward and he knew me that much better than she did- but I did get to spend the night on a friends couch). I did learn later that she told him that there were 'family issues' of some kind, or something like that, but gave no specifics. But I digress... another couple minutes conversation about family things (mostly parents) and I've got both feet on the chair and wrapped my arms around both knees. I don't put my feet on other peoples furniture. I just don't. And yet out of three sessions with this man (OK, the three most recent) there has not been one where I haven't had at least one foot on the chair as I hugged my knee to myself. I've changed my mind. I don't want to do this, I'm sorry. These folks have been so helpful. Bend over backward helpful. I don't understand it but I really do appreciate it. I just don't want to do this. The goal of DBT is to help the person tolerate intense emotion without reaching for the razor blade (or the lighter or whatever other self harm behavior they engage in). This sort of conversation makes it that much harder. I didn't reach for my razor blade this time (or the candle as on rare occasions I will burn rather than cut)... I came home, ate, and then stuck my finger down my throat (he doesn't know about that bad habit of mine as of yet >.<). *shakes head* That's not much better.

*sigh* How did my life become such a mess?

(Disclaimer: there are supposed to be a couple paragraphs in that one large one... but for some reason blogger won't post it as such... I will admit to being awful with such things as paragraphing but I'll not take the blame for that, lol)

For the Love of All That is Good!

Just be thankful, be happy! Surely it is not that hard?

I am thankful, really. I am thankful, albeit a little puzzled, at how hard some folks at Comprehensive have been working to see that I get some assistance since my OD a week ago (yeah, y'all didn't know about that, sorry *blush*). Just this morning one of them called the Powers That Be and learned that I have been approved for DL benefits (what I have been describing as sort of a temporary disability). This is good news, for heaven sake, and yet when I hung the phone up I burst in to tears. And not happy, thankful tears either. Tears because, good news or not, this is another change. Tears because while it is good it is not exactly what was (is) wanted. Tears because it means more waiting, more wondering, more worrying. It means starting one 'program' of sorts (I guess) now (because even that which was not hoped for is still better than nothing) but still hoping the other funding will come through because that will allow for that which was preferred (which would allow for DBT) which will mean another change.

I'm starting to feel like I'm at sea in a perfect storm (seen the movie? If you haven't you should because it's great... be aware, though, it made me cry and I really don't succumb to tears as often as it sounds)... a boat tossed from one wave to another. Add to that it means changing who I will be working with... it's not that the two aren't nice, in fact they are both very nice. But one of them ticked me off when be made it sound that along with all the other WONDERFUL traits that folks with BPD share another one, in his opinion, was narcissism. And the other one's cute and my age to boot *blush* Oops. That's not exactly helpful either *shakes head at self*

You know, I'd really like a good cry but having managed to stop myself (really before any real crying happened, if you want the honest truth) I don't think I can start up again... I will write now, as I would sign, and that is 'hate hate hate' *sigh* Pour l'amour du ciel juste être heureux, et cesser d'être aussi stupide. Soyez reconnaissants!

The Minutes Tick by like Hours

Why does tomorrow have to be Mothers Day? Why must this be prolonged? The minutes tick by like hours and I feel helpless. I want to do something but I cannot bring myself to do anything.

I simply wait in agony.

Denied

This letter is to inform you that you have been denied benefits. We simply cannot assist you and continue to support the individuals currently in the system1. Nor would we be able to offer social security benefits to all the drug addicts we currently support2 3

You are mentally ill. While we appreciate that this must be difficult for you and while we understand that it is not your fault we did deinstitutionalize for a reason. You will have to learn how to navigate in a healthy world on your own. It is, after all, the least restrictive environment as well as allowing us to spend the money on those who really need the help.

Sincerely

The Powers That Be






1 Many of whom are in the system for the simple reason that they do not want to work. Seriously, my grandma actually had a woman ask once why she worked when she could just be on welfare... this coming from someone in the welfare system
2 99% of whom made a conscious decision to start their drug use, therefore being responsible for their own addicted situation
3 Most of whom will spend the money on more drugs and then go to rehab three, four, five times on the states dime

Will You Remember?

I cling to this slender thread of hope for you
For you I fight the impulses and the urges
I endure this unspeakable pain so that I will not cause you more

But I wonder...

If I lose this battle with myself
If I eventually give in
Will you remember that for so long it was you I put first?
That I put you ahead of myself and the only relief I saw?
Or will you forever demonize me as the selfish person who caused you pain
Because I finally let go of my own?

Taking Too Long

I know how melodramatic this sounds but this is taking too long, folks, and I'm not sure how much longer I can go. It has been over a week since I signed the correct paperwork for DSHS (thanks SO much, hospital records, for being so picky) and I still haven't heard back from them. I've been rolling down hill at pretty much a steady clip since my incapacity evaluation. I need to know what is next. Will things move forward? Or do I go with 'Plan B'? Because 'Plan B' and 'Plan A' (where things move forward in a positive direction) have been trying really hard to switch places. I seriously cannot wait much longer, not feeling as I do. When you add to that the uncertainty regarding the assistance I am applying for... *shakes head* It's not good.

Dear lord, someone please tell me: yes or no, accepted or denied, another appointment or the pills? Because pretty soon I'm just going to default and it won't be to anything good. Well... I suppose that would depend on your own opinion. Right now it seems preferable to me...

Ah, the melodrama that is my life...

If You Love Me

If you love me, let me go. Please don't ask me to continue as I am. When simply existing hurts. When living life, smiling, laughing, behaving as if everything is fine chips away painfully at my soul. There's not a lot left, you know.

Lord, I hope you never have to feel this way.

Do you know how often I think of death? How I long for a fatal accident? How wistfully I think of sleeping forever? Do you know how many times a day the thought that I might take my own life comes unbidden into my mind? I don't like these thoughts. I don't want them. At the very least they are all small betrayals of those I love. At most they're blasphemous, a 'Screw you, you haven't fixed me yet, bet it's just because you can't' to God.

But I hurt so badly. I'm dying on the inside, slowly, and very painfully. Some days I feel closer than others. And I've done this 'living death' before. I don't want to do it again. Please don't ask that of me.

If you love me, let me go.

The closet. The razor. The pills.

Three different choices, they haunt me at almost every turn. Daily the thoughts torment me. Usually one method per day which I suppose is a small blessing. One day it's hanging. The next it's overdosing. Or exsanguination. Strangely enough bleeding out has actually become the choice I ponder the least. Once my 'method of choice' I now find I lean more toward an overdose or hanging.

But you know what I would most like? I would like these thoughts to stop stalking me. Daily. Hourly. By myself it feels like there is only one way to accomplish that. And that is to choose.

The closet. The razor. The pills

But... I Don't Want to be Borderline

Today I got on the internet to see if I could find a good book about borderline personality disorder. I don't know how to tell my mom and thought that maybe a book might make it easier (perhaps I could just send it to her and not actually have to say the words...). The problem though is that I cannot find one that I like. All the ones geared toward family members and such of folks with BPD make such individuals out to be just awful. Horribly manipulative and disruptive to the family, a strain on family life... There is a lot of talk about how 'different' people with BPD are, as if they are some sort of alien species. How hard they are to live with. How hard the disorder is on the family and friends of people who are borderline. I don't want to give my mom a book that says “Here are some of the horrors you've got to look forward to”. I don't want her to be told how freakish, how screwed up, how 'different' I am.

And I don't want to be borderline.

A Short Contemplation

I had a long drive this morning giving me plenty of time to think. That's not always a good thing, especially when I'm feeling less than stellar (as I was this morning). Still, one of my musings brought a little bit of enlightenment with it.

I was recalling bits and pieces from my incapacity evaluation yesterday and thinking about what I will do if the powers that be at DSHS tell me no, yet again. It brought to mind the time when B- (the psych) looked at me, at some point during the evaluation, and told me something to the extent that, even if i find myself in the place where death seems like the only option there is always another option. Always. What most struck me (after the fact) was how sincere he was. He really believed what he said. What else struck me was how much I don't believe it. Maybe it's not so much that I don't believe it as... I don't know, I don't feel it? I'm OK with dying. And if it happens sooner rather than later, by my own hand or not, I guess right now I just don't care all that much. I probably should feel badly about that, especially when it seems there are a good handful of people out there that do care. But I don't really feel badly about that either.

A Bald Faced Lie

As I said in my last post, sometime around the end of December last year or the beginning of January this year (I'm a little fuzzy right now as to which it actually is) I applied for what is basically a sort of temporary disability. Mid January of this year I was denied. After a recent call to the local crisis line I was encouraged by the good folks at community mental health to reapply. They themselves have actually been quite helpful where this is concerned, actually. Tonight I went to a mental health evaluation as part of my efforts to get the assistance I believe I am in need of. It wasn't a lot of fun, I can tell you that. I actually cried (something I hate doing) when, at the very first, the guy doing the eval said that he didn't think it looked very promising (thankfully I think he became a bit more convinced as we got in to things a bit more). We covered pretty much everything. We even went into border line personality disorder in some detail after I told him that I didn't quite agree with those who believed I might have that particular axis two diagnosis. That was pretty interesting, actually, and how I came to reluctantly agree. We covered depression (major depressive disorder, recurrent) and cutting and suicidal ideation and all of that good stuff. At the end of the evaluation he told me what he would be telling the powers that be at DSHS (BPD, MD, recurrent) and what he would suggest to them (cognitive behavioral therapy -for the depression- and dialectical behavioral therapy/classes -for the BPD-). He also asked me what I would do if they told me no again. I cannot remember what exactly I told him; probably something along the lines that I haven't thought that far yet. That would be the reason for the title of this entry. Because I am 99% positive I know what I will do if they tell me no again. If they take that last small bit of hope from me one more time.

I know what I'll do...

Normal

Funny, the first entry on my other blog bears this exact same title. This entry will prove to be a bit more sedate, I think, and less verbose. You see I don't write the same any more. If I am to be honest I will admit that I am not so sure I can write any more at least, not well. Still, why not? People will either read or they won't, and that's fine. But maybe, at the very least, I will get something out of the process.

So, back to Normal. The topic came up yesterday at what I can only call a 'follow up' appointment. I'm in a bit of a holding pattern, you see. Three emergency room visits and a few discussions with as many community mental health professionals later I am now waiting to see if I can get some help getting some help (sort of a short term social security, for lack of a better way to explain, and I've already been denied once but the people at mental health seem to think my chances are better now... if only I shared their optimism). And in the mean time I've had two of four 'crisis appointments' with a very nice woman who is neither a counselor nor a therapist and I'm not exactly sure what it is we are supposed to be doing (it's entirely possible that the whole goal is just to get me face to face with someone who can judge whether or not they need to worry I might kill myself in the near future). But again, I digress (good lord, the main body of this entry isn't going to be as long as this introduction or whatever it is).

Normal. I was asked if I could remember a time I had been happy to be alive. I thought for a moment and then smiled as I remembered Normal. Now since normal is subjective, as I am sure we all know, she predictably asked what normal is like for me. Unfortunately all I could do was again smile at the memory and tell her that Normal 'is good'. I suppose that is a bit of an understatement. Normal is VERY good and this entry is my attempt to clarify a bit more, if only for myself, what Normal is.

So here goes.

Normal is good. With Normal life is good. There is hope, with Normal, but you don't notice it because there is no need, if you understand me. People rarely think of hope unless they need to. Unless there is some question as to whether or not that hope actually exists. With Normal those small little things don't really get you down. You might worry but it doesn't consume you and it very rarely sticks around too long. Normal... well, Normal is just good. I really cannot explain it any better than that. The memory of Normal brings a smile to my face one that unfortunately leaves all too quickly as I recall how long it has been since Normal has visited... and as I begin to despair that it will never come calling again.