And, I know I hurt you. God, I hurt you. I am ashamed of myself. The words I used to tear you down. Dear, I broke your heart. I can’t change the past. I can’t take back what has been done.
I know I will make it up to you. I will live the rest of my life making it up to you. I will worship your body. I will appreciate you. I’m so sorry for not appreciating you enough.
Dear, I’m so proud of you. Fuck, you’re stronger than anyone I know. You’re stronger than me.
I will hold you up. I will be your strength when you need it. I will clap and cheer when you stand on your own. I will be right there. Right by your side. My hand will hold yours tight. I just want to hold you.
I’ve fucked up. I’ve ruined you. I’ve dirtied the most beautiful piece of art there is. I’ve broken your trust. Too many times. I’m so sorry, dear.
I know these words may fall flat. I know there’s a chance you will toss them aside. To be honest, you should. After what I’ve done. It’s not you who doesn’t deserve me. It’s me. I do not deserve you. You are far too bright for me. Your light shines through the darkest times. You are too good.
I don’t deserve your good. I don’t deserve your passion, your dedication. I don’t deserve your grace and forgiveness.
Today, my coworker and I were talking about our mental health and our pets. We both agreed: our animals have kept us alive.
To be honest, there have been so many times I’ve fallen very far. Many times my thoughts were so warped, I wanted to kill myself.
But, my cats have been my saviors. It may seem silly. But, it’s true. Yes, family and friends would be devastated. Crushed. Broken even. But, in my case, my cats are the only ones that depend on my care.
They need me to survive. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t let them suffer alone in our home, my body crumpled somewhere in the corner, with their tummies crying out.
It even seems sad to me. That at times I truly believe the only ones that need me are my pets.
When I first chose this image to represent my social presence, I hadn’t fully realized how fitting it was. You see, I’ve struggled with my emotions all my life. When I was younger I would have outbursts of anger, frustration. Mostly from family bullying. Over time, I grew to hold those in. With this came more frustration, but also mental mutilation. Why did I feel this way? Why was I angry? What did I do to deserve this? I knew people who struggled with depression and anxiety. It wasn’t until late middle school/early high school that I realized the impact of anxiety. It wasn’t until college that I acknowledged my own depression. I started treatment. Yet, something felt off. I felt incomplete. Not that my depression and anxiety complete me. But, they give me understanding. And here I was, still confused. “Maybe you have a personality disorder.” This was said to me in bitterness. My gut twisted at the words. Not just because they sounded hurtful, but because they may be true. And, they were. When I started research Borderline Personality Disorder or Emotional Intensity Disorder, I couldn’t believe how fast things snapped in place for me. Things I had thought, said out loud…examples I’ve given were quoted word-for-word. At first I felt a surge of relief. I found the answer. I didn’t have to be confused anymore. I could put a finger on it. But, then came the rush of uncertainty. Who would want to be described as someone with a personality disorder? How does that even sound? It sounds like someone who is fucked up. I’m fucked up. What a surprise! Fuck that shit though! I’m not anymore fucked up than the next person. I’m beyond creative. I feel so deeply it’s a flaw. I’m giddy with excitement one moment and suddenly plunging into suicidal thoughts the next. I’m a mess. Borderline has such a negative connotation to it. Even I fall pray to its stigma. I have to keep telling myself it’s a good thing I figured this out. It’s a good thing I’ve got this diagnosis. But, it doesn’t feel good. Not all the time at least. People say Borderlines are manipulative. They feel no empathy. They don’t know how to really love. These are legitimate things I’ve heard to describe BPD. And, I’m sure that is the case for some people with the diagnosis. That doesn’t make them bad though. I’m not bad. I may think manipulative things. I can differentiate those from considerate thoughts. But, I don’t voice those. I have that self control. I will not twist things to hurt someone. Make someone stay. Even if I desperately feel it’s the only solution. Because it’s not. I say bullshit to not knowing how to love. Just because someone has attachment issues, insecurities, trauma responses, doesn’t mean they can’t love. Love is not something so easily defined. And, if anything, I empathize too much. I regularly put myself in others shoes. I want to know how they may feel in a situation. And, that often consumes me. I often put them first. Put their reaction and feelings before mine. And then I become bitter about it. And then I hate myself for not putting myself first. And, it’s just a terrible, endless cycle. But, this is just me. And maybe I’m fooling myself on these ideas too. Maybe I’m in denial and I am one walking poster child for mental illness. Either way, what a beautiful, fucked up, disaster I am.