This is Love

It's funny how when you are so close to the edge, you are terrified that you are about to topple off, something small comes along to tell you that the world is not done with you yet.

When I was in year 11, I was horribly depressed. I wasn't sleeping or eating, or even working at that point. I knew that I just couldn't do it anymore. I planned to go home one night and kill myself. But then I got to school one day and this boy had bought me a book. He knew that I loved books and he said it was one of his favourites. This tiny gesture saved my life.

A year or so ago, I had another bout of the blues. I felt horrible. Horrible. Everyday for a few days, the Boy (who wasn't my boy then) sent me a message in the morning for ages. I looked forward to these messages and eventually, the depression passed and I continued living.

Tonight, the Boy knew that I was feeling horrible, and came to my house. He took me out for dinner even though I was barely audible, then took me home. He suggested things for me to do until I settled down and then he hugged me before he left. This is small, almost expected, to some people but to me, this is huge.

This is love.

Proceeding with caution

I can feel the depression lifting. The familiar tingling in my hands, the way my heart beats that little bit faster. Ahh. This is nice.

I know that my life will continue, that there will be limitless possibilities, that I will be able to get up each morning and deal with whatever is thrown my way.

But by the same token, I can just easily be back down there again. I am going to proceed with caution.

Letter to my Mum

Dear Mum,

You were supposed to protect me. You were supposed to keep me safe and keep me feeling safe in my own house. You were supposed to make our house a home and look after my siblings. You were supposed to make sure that they did their homework and showered and went to school. You were supposed to protect them as well.

But you didn't. When you weren't absent, you yelled and screamed and made everyone feel bad. You made me feel guilty for existing when I had nothing to do with that. Why have kids if you can't handle the responsibility of another life? When you were absent, he yelled and screamed and made everyone feel bad. He threatened to kill everyone. He went so far as to sharpen knives in front of me. I hid them every night after that. He once held me down while he was drunk with his legs on my arms until I yelled and screamed that he was hurting me but he still wouldn't get off.

You were supposed to be there for us. You were supposed to let us express ourselves. You weren't supposed to leave me to raise my siblings, I just couldn't do that. Then when I practically failed year 9, you weren't supposed to get mad.

You make me so angry. You can't be nice now. Not after the hundreds of times you and he fought in front of me. Not after all the times you made him bleed, and he made you bleed. Not after the weekly ambulance and police visits. Not after the visits from social services.

I just want to be mad at you. For years, you treated me as a slave, just because you couldn't be responsible enough to run a household. You are selfish and immature and when all your kids hate you, it will be your own fault. You have never given us the time of day, you only spoke to us when you needed someone to love you because you knew that we'd love you unconditionally. But your love wasn't unconditional, was it?

You never believed me when I told you what happened at school, you never cared enough. You played favourites and put me in the middle of your arguments with him. You used us as bargaining chips to manipulate him. So did he.

Fuck you, Mother.

Love,
Your Darling Daughter

Being nocturnal, I have realised..

That it's hard to eat chocolate quietly (damn foil)

That it's hard to type quietly

And that my housemate gets very angry when she is woken by my nocturnal endeavours

That is all.

I need to brush my teeth

So yesterday, I saw the psychiatrist. I woke up way too early, fed the butterflies in my stomach and left, returning to the house to take my meds. Which I keep forgetting. Brilliant. I talked with her for nearly two hours and that's when she came up with the BPD diagnosis. It seems to make sense and while I am terrified, I am a little relieved now that things are clearer and there is something I can do to manage it. She suggested DBT which terrifies me. I am not sure that I really want to admit that I am crazy yet, especially not to a room full of people, which is what DBT is- group therapy. It is something to ponder.

The Boy has been amazing. He listens to me ramble, hugs me when I'm sad, and stays with me when I'm not feeling the best. This is what I imagine love is. He thinks that the therapy will be a good idea but it is still intimidating. Hmm.

I have been restless and jumpy all day. I have too much energy, and it's negative energy. I can do things that I am unable to do when I am depressed but as the energy is negative, it makes it all too easy to act on negative thoughts. But I have plenty to live for- my puppy, my friends (and adopted family), the Boy.

I told my Mum. God. She told me not to let people label me and that she is sorry for everything. She said that we can talk if we want and that she made a lot of mistakes but thought she was doing the right thing at the time (not that that is an excuse, she said). She is being too good about this and I just want to be angry at her for everything that she put me through. For not protecting me from all the fighting and my step-dad's verbal abuse. For those years where I didn't feel safe, where I walked on eggshells, where I couldn't sleep. I don't want to talk, Mother Dearest. I just want to be mad with you.

My thoughts are far too scattered for this to be coherent. Shit. Fuck. Grrr.

My New Diagnonsense

Borderline Personality Disorder.

Huh.

How low can you go?

The Crisis Team have been checking up with me for a few days now. They call almost daily and try to engage me in conversation. Occasionally, it works and I am able to talk about my dog or my day but for the most part, there is awkward silence as they struggle for words and I hear them typing in the background. I know that it makes them uncomfortable but conversation has always been an effort for me when I get depressed. I ask the same questions and go around in circles.

My concentration is appalling. I frequently walk into rooms and forget why I'm there. I open cupboards and stare into them, forgetting what I was looking for. I walked around the supermarket today in a daze, forgetting what I wanted, getting distracted by things that I didn't need. I just wander around, not wanting to see anyone, embarrassed that they will see my depressed shuffle, scared that they will look into my eyes and see the dark thoughts plaguing me.

I am seeing a psychiatrist tomorrow. When Mr. Psych Man called the crisis team, he mentioned that they may want to hospitalise me and this is all I can think about. I hate hospitals, they terrify me. Call me crazy (haha!), call me irrational, I don't care. I do not like hospitals. So staying in one scares the shit out of me. I am also nervous because I don't know what to expect. Apart from medication, what can a psychiatrist do for me that my psychologist can't?

I saw my Doctorb the other day. He increased my meds to 150mg. Due to recent depression though, I keep forgetting to take them and have been taking them at all different times of the day. I can't see how this helps my mood. Jesus hates me, I'm sure of it.



From the much read, much loved Postecret