I am a good person

I’ve always been empathetic, I’ve seen the good in everyone, and have always refrained from judging others.

I just fell into the hands of the wrong people. People who took my kindness and forgiveness for granted. People who could manipulate me and lie to me without having me question it. People who took my innocence and tried to break my spirit.

Others tell me I’m a good person. Many people have also said many wonderful things about me.

Despite all this, I still remain unconvinced.

If I’m such a good person, why do I have to experience so much pain.

I have no idea who I really am.

I am good and I am bad.

I am proud of myself yet deeply ashamed.

I am happy but so often I get so sad.

I’m a walking paradox

Today is the (second… Or third… Or tenth) beginning of my recovery. After too long without consistent therapy I’ve finally found a DBT therapist I click with. My meds have been adjusted and I’m hoping with all my heart that the antipsychotics will work soon. Because this is hell.

I read through a lot of my blog posts and realized it really has been a tough year. I don’t think I’m good at many things but I can say I’m good at downplaying the status of my mental well-being.

The night I didn’t die

Trigger warning: May be upsetting to those who have previously attempted suicide or experienced an overdose.

The morning after, I felt groggy and unrested.

Walked downstairs to fill my water bottle. Holding it under the flow of water I noticed my hands shaking.

Stopped the flow of water. Tried to hold the bottle in front of my face, tried to be completely still. The bottle shook violently with my hands.

Walked quickly upstairs, with more urgency. Picked up a pen to write down what I remembered from the night before. Tried to write down my symptoms. My writing was unrecognizable.

Pulled clothes off the end of the bed. Struggled to dress. Struggled to pull my shirt over my head. Struggled to stop the shaking for long enough to put on pants. 15 minutes later.

Called my housemate who had a car to drive me to the hospital. No answer. Called the boyfriend.

“I’ll be right over. 30 minutes.”

Sat on couch, hands shaking. Pulled out phone and messaged other housemate.

“Can you please stay with me until my boyfriend comes to bring me to the hospital? I’m afraid I might have a seizure.”

My shaking hands and now blurring vision slowed me down so much, it felt like ages to type.

Realized I would need my health card and insurance. Walked up to my room, and my shaky hands pulled out a key. Fumbled to unlock the door, only to jump back, muffling a scream.

Spider. The size of my hand. Crawling up the door frame, twitching, ready to jump. Stood there in a panic for what felt like 10 minutes.

Finally opened the door and jumped back, anticipating the spider. Nothing. Looked closer and it was gone. Hallucinations.

Sat on the couch waiting for an eternity. Sporadic bolts of strong electricity would bind me to my seat. Completely paralyzed. Uncontrollable shaking. Electricity. Paralyzed. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Watching spiders rise up from the carpet and crawl towards me before melting away.

“I always thought you were a little too well adjusted,” jokes the housemate.

Nervous laughter in agreement. “Jokes on you,” I say.

Boyfriend arrives. I can’t move. Pulls me up and walks me to the car.

Arrive at hospital. At reception. Try to speak, but my throat is paralyzed. Boyfriend completes registration.

When I can speak, all I can say is, “my hands feel so heavy. They feel so heavy. I can’t hold them up, they’re rocks.” Boyfriend encouragingly picks up hand to show that they aren’t heavy each time.

Feel like melting into the floor. Eyes roll back in head. Vision readjusts. Electricity. Paralysis. Tears that I can’t wipe away. My hands – they’re too heavy.

Dissociation. Slips out of body. White light. Fear. I’m going to die here. I’m going to be buried here, thousands of kilometers away from my family. Will they ship my body back? Will they fly it back?

I slip in and out of my body again. I’m calm and at peace. Complete serenity. Electricity. Fear returns.

Try to speak to the nurse but I’ve lost all speech. I’ve lost all movement. My soul keeps slipping out, I can feel it.

Fear. What if they shame me like last time? I cry. “Please don’t get mad. Please believe me,” I think as loud as I can.

She speaks to me and I see her far away. Don’t close your eyes. I wasn’t even trying to die. I just wanted to stop the pain. Regret and fear.

Later. I’m back in my body. The psychiatric nurse sits with me, so gentle and kind. Relief.

She tells me I’m lucky. I well-exceeded what should have been a lethal dose.

I don’t know what to say so I just cry. I thank her. I leave.

Depersonalization

An invisible hand reached through my neck, cutting my breath short, pulling my consciousness away until it was completely detached from my body.

I could move, but only very slowly.

I could see, but everything was choppy, as if I was looking at a broken screen.

I could hear, but it was like I was underwater. Voices seemed far away and echoed even though they came from right in front of me.

I instructed myself to smile, to move my head every once in a while so no one would know anything was wrong. I robotically carried out these actions when I could.

I sat beside myself and saw the dead, faraway look in my eyes. The blank face. My body swayed unsteadily. I felt nauseas, as if my body was a rocking boat and I was dangling off the edge.

I somehow found my way home and fell into a long and uneasy sleep.

Numb

Disgust. Shame. Hatred. Anger. They pour into my skull with a violent, jarring crash. 

It’s like leaving a loud concert and suddenly realizing everything has gone quieter, more muffled. It’s your ears adjusting to the repeated assault of loud noise. 

I am suspended from my body, like the outline of my mind is a centimetre or two off from the outline of my figure. All perceptions are fuzzier. My vision blurs. I hear sounds as if they’re hundreds of miles away. I can’t feel my body.

I’m not sure whether I should throw up. Or scream. Or hurt myself. Maybe I’m better off like this. Maybe I should find better earmuffs. 

Right now

I hate how you made me feel. I hate how you took my trust for granted and manipulated me, knowing I would always give you the benefit of the doubt. You lied and I would believe you because I thought that someone who said they loved me would never lie to me. I thought that someone who said they loved me wouldn’t push me past my comfort zone, or manipulate me, or violate me the way you did.

You know, for the longest time I blamed myself, as I believe many others in my situation do. I thought I should have put my foot down. I should have ended it right away. I should have said no louder, angrier, more forcefully. Those tears and that quiver in my voice shouldn’t have been there. I should have been stronger and then I wouldn’t be where I am today.

As I moved forward, away from you, I put my walls up and prepared for the worst. I was convinced that everyone I was with after you was just like you. I realize now that all these years and even today,  I somehow still blame myself. I told myself that I’m a bad person, and anyone I’m with will eventually see that. When that happens, I know that their eyes will wander and they will find someone better. I am but a stepping stone that is only there to be used.

I am starting to see now that the problem was you. You were so insecure and afraid that you put me down so I was on your level. You sought validation from other girls and used their attention to inflate your own sense of self worth. You were selfish and greedy, so you always took more and more from me even when I told you I had had enough.

Now I am far away from you and I see how love should be, but somehow I am still haunted by the past. I am told to be mindful and grateful for what I have, and I try my best, but I think before I can heal, I have to process what happened. It’s been 7 years. It’s about time.

Broken spirit

There is no longer passion or excitement in what I do. My spirit and my once inquisitive mind has been broken. Why am I here? Do I even want to do this anymore?

Has anyone else been working towards a goal that they believed in so much only to find that their work was obsolete? That the system they worked for was fundamentally corrupt?

I can’t study. I can’t work. It’s not even a matter of not wanting to work either. I just don’t want to do anything. I have a meeting in an hour and a half and to pass the time I feel like I should watch Netflix or play a game. But I can’t. I don’t want to do anything. All I feel like I can do is stare at the wall until I have to leave. Then go hope and sleep.

I can’t focus. I can’t concentrate on anything. I don’t care about anything. I feel like crying anytime I’m with too many people. The excitement is gone. I think it’s time to do something about this.

Self hatred and BPD

I read somewhere that most psychiatrists don’t like using the term “self hatred” and prefer to descrive a person as having low self esteem. I agree that I have low self esteem, but when things are particularly bad, self hatred is much harsher sounding, which I think fits. 

My self hatred chips away at different aspects of my life. Usually my relationship is first to get hit, since that is a weak point for me to begin with. I’m afraid I will be abandoned. If I hate myself so deeply, how can I ever expect anyone else to love me? And so, usually without me even realizing it, I push and push until they get frustrated with me. This is often achieved by angry outbursts, oversensitivity, accusations based on nothing but my irrational fears, and splitting. 

Right now the self hatred is so bad, I hate myself for even writing this. I’m stigmatizing my own situation, even though I would never think to do that to someone else. I can’t bear to write any more.