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.