The toughest decision I ever made

As long as I can remember, I've struggled with some form of anxiety or depression. It started as a young child always getting picked on and never understanding why it is that I always felt like I could cry at any moment. Everyone around me seemed to be able to identify themselves and understand who they were, at far earlier times in life than me. As I grew older, this simple fact became very apparent.
I couldn't ever seem to find my identity, my voice, or who I actually was because I was far too consumed with the fears of daily emotional bullying and attempting to hold it all together. When my family and I moved to Washington in the late fall of 2004, I lost the voice I DID have and got stuck in the darkest hole ever created.
I created it myself, unfortunately. You see, everything leading up to this move, everything I identified myself as wasn't 'cool' or 'normal' or even remotely interesting. I mean, who, in their 'right' mind, skips recess to create a fake newspaper for their private Christian school totaling of approximately 90 students? Who the hell volunteers their time as a 12 year old, to be an office assistant because hanging out with kids was pathetic and uninteresting? Let's also focus on the fact that I was a baton twirler, a dancer, a state freaking champion. I led the damn Disneyland parades! I was smart as shit and years ahead of everyone.

Then I moved. I gave up. I hated everything and everyone. I had no one and no idea of where to begin.
Suicidal tendencies, sneaking out, blah blah blah, the medications started at a young age.
Name the drug, I've tried it; not even the cool experimental ones. I'm talking about the ones that major pharmaceutical companies make a dime off of. Celexa, abilify, zoloft, paxil, bubroprion, trazadone, xanax, kolonopin, you name it, I've had a special relationship with their side effects.

11 years, one failed marriage, a stint in a psychiatric unit, and countless apartments later, I am here, declaring that I am nearly DRUG FREE. I have shed my second skin and have been reborn! Everything is fresh and new and I have NO IDEA who I am. I used to be a writer, a dancer, a twirler, an athlete, a star, now all of those are just past memories and trophies collecting dust in my parent's attic.
This second skin being shed is a painful process, physically and emotionally, leaving me raw and vulnerable. There is one thing that has not changed, however, and that is the dreamer I cannot rid myself of being.

If success were measured by the dreams and hopes in my mind, I wouldn't be a wallflower but a household name.

I have BPD, I am not reliant upon medications or any person to dictate who I am or will be; this is frightening and enlightening to me.

Soul- searching journeys are attended on the weekly, but so are unwavering feelings of inadequacy.

Buyer's Fee

I sold my past today for two $100 bills. 

In case of regret, I can buy it back for $26 more. 

The brick fell on my chest and the tears started to roll.

This is really what it means, to move on, to have control. 

I convulse with sadness as I drive home. 

The same home we shared not long ago.

In the truck ahead sits a young girl about twelve,

perplexed is she by the tears streaming down my face. 

She grabs her sister's arm and points.

I couldn't be any more of a disgrace. 

Who have I become and what have I lost?

Where is the gain in all of this torment?

The city breathes of us, the possibilities. 

The city spreads lies between its teeth. 

What it is to be a human again,

to befriend who I was a year ago;

I don't recognize who that is any longer.

90 days' worth of take-backs and maybe's,

90 nights of gentle reminders that suffering is a choice. 

Transcending.

I still remember grocery shopping for 'grown up' food that day. I knew that my cupboards of Top Ramen and beer were not enough to serve my parents, who had never called me up just to come over for supper before. Nothing really struck me as unusual. It was a beautiful day, we had been living in our huge apartment for a few months now and it was about that time to show that we were grown up and successful enough to serve others. 

But I knew just upon the initial entering into the apartment building, that my littlest brother wasn't with you, but in the car. My parents, you stood, stoic in the doorway, forcibly presenting me with smiles that didn't fit your faces. You seated yourselves. 

I don't remember the words you used. I don't remember  how it was presented to me. But I remember I couldn't breathe. There was a heaviness to my heart I had felt before, but there weren't any neurons firing to put any logic or meaning to it. There was just a really thick, wet, and static feeling in the air that filled my lungs. 

Kevin couldn't do anything at that point, but shake his head and listen as I screamed, collapsing to the floor. 
It suddenly wasn't such a beautiful day any more. It's almost like the sun set instantaneously. 

You left. 
I wept. 

That was the first time I experienced my jaw locking up on me. I would later have more frequent and irritating times with this, discovering that it was a condition called TMJ and mine acted up with the more stress I endured. 

That was also the moment that I remembered moments of my childhood, where I would feel things that I couldn't explain. I felt the air, the energy, the sun, earth, the clouds, the pain; I remember crying for seemingly no reason, because out of nowhere I felt sad and old; I felt broken and tired, the kind of exhaustion my childhood body never felt before. It usually came at night, while I was slipping into slumber. 

As I've grown older, the feeling I experienced that day, that same feeling I couldn't explain as a child, became more defined.  I learned I wasn't just feeling MY emotions, but the emotions and energies of those vulnerable enough to share them with me from somewhere else. 

I guess this is coming from a dark place of uncertainty, but, experiencing your last moments of life under water is also a dark place of uncertainty as well. 

"That there

That's not me

I go

Where I please

I walk through walls

I float down the Liffey

I'm not here

This isn't happening

I'm not here

I'm not here

In a little while

I'll be gone

The moment's already passed

Yeah it's gone

And I'm not here

This isn't happening

I'm not here

I'm not here"

Half mast, half masked

I hang myself at half mast these days
just waiting for the in between to pass
In between the between the sheets
and stolen solemn swears.
This is the last straw

Flushed skin from the passion rubbing again
Oh how I forgot how to be alive
The gentle reminder of my mortality
coming from the invisible bruises you don't know you've caressed.

7 minutes to my front door
and I've never wanted to leave like this before

I hang myself at half mast these days
so you can meet me halfway
Just meet me halfway
where we can pretend to rest in peace
In peace. Peace. Pieces.

A thousand puzzle pieces
a thousand different images
a thousand words to void the image.
I've painted a thousand pictures
I've recited a thousand scriptures.

a blind thought
a blind eye
an eye for an eye
but I, so close, I, damn close
I hang myself at half mast
to change masks
to mask the masses from the blindfolded followers

If a picture is worth a thousand words
what's an x-ray
that shows the truth, the secondary, beyond skin deep
a thousand different excuses
pretended agenda

Body Entanglement

Never before have I seen such hollow eyes
leading to such a shallow heart.
Dark and infected with the disease of envy.
They permeate the mind of those who choose to lose themselves.
I traveled that tunnel once,
With no headlights
Full Speed.
And when the light finally shown
I was tangled by my weeping body
and looking to you, unscathed.
Staring, I knew, in that moment;
you were gone, dead.
And I, granted, a new lease on life.

Fragmented thoughts and a farewell to you.

Today is a fragmented thought
Incomplete sleep sequences
coupled with visitations from the past.
Faces, incomplete.
Dear brother,
I cannot feel your embrace.
I know your face is smiling
and arms extended toward me.
But, incomplete.
I see you and our final farewell.
"Brother."
Written in children's handwriting
with backward letters and improper speech,
rested on your chest, no longer rising with life,
lay a small token of the park you left.
One last breath of life
and my entire being crippled.
I was so selfish.
I am too selfish.
Where have you gone?

The Kinkos of Death: My journey and struggle with BPD Part 2

My life has been a series of trauma, mishaps, medications, failures, attention-seeking ugliness, facades, lies, torture, and fear of the unknown. I can get unglued in any moment where my emotions are even slightly elevated for any reason. For example, crying my eyes out the other night, leaving my home after arguing with my husband, and going from 0-60 in a matter of minutes just because earlier that day I received bad news and it was festering deep inside of me until it ravaged through my blood, bones, and skin and took over my body. The sad part about this is that most of the time I know when I am overreacting; I know when I need to calm down. The truth of the matter is, most of the time, I cannot do so. Through meditation, reading, studying, trial and error, I have been able to "talk" myself out of coming unglued in many situations. Things that may seem like every day downfalls or sadness to you, become almost traumatic for me. That's the ugly part of BPD.

Another thing I struggle with is trying to figure out what is BPD and what is me. That's why I have to talk myself out of a lot of situations where I might get angry, or leave when I get over stimulated. I seem like a bitch when I do this, but it's the only self soothing tool of a non fatal or detrimental manner than I have come to acquire without the appropriate therapy/medications/assistance. Yes, I've seen counselors, psychiatrists, therapists, whoever, whenever, wherever; whether it be mandatory or by my own will. These people have never lasted very long in my book. Some outside factor may come into play, like a new job with hours that I don't have control over, or just that I don't have the balls to admit that I don't like them and I feel like they are generalizing my illnesses and undermining my feelings. I have done so much reading and evaluating of myself, that my mind moves too fast for my mouth to keep up. This is where the ADD diagnosis came from. But I'm not ADD, I know I'm not. I can concentrate, I can focus, I can be almost lethargic for weeks because of my depression and sleep schedule. These things just are not ADD. But the behaviours, like not being able to say what it is I am thinking in few enough words for my mouth to keep up, or being able to articulate at all because of so many thoughts in any given situation, are characteristics of the ever-popular ADD diagnosis. Because of this, I can't tell the therapists that I know they are wrong, there's much more than what they are seeing, I know exactly where their treatments are headed because I've 1) Done them 2) Know they don't work for me 3)I've researched, trained, and lived psychiatric classes and illnesses for my work and I know the tactics they have and 'hidden' agendas. I know how to get someone to admit something, or to get them to focus on their actions, to get down to the real emotions they are feeling. I know this, I apply it nearly every day in work and with myself. This is not to say, however, that I don't try. I try, damn hard, and when I can speak up, I am almost outspoken and too opinionated. It comes off as pretentious and rude. 

It's the out of balance emotions that make it so difficult to articulate what it is I mean to say or how to say it. I try to get down to an even landing and tell myself I have BPD. It does not define me. I am an adult with goals, dreams, and skills that the world needs more of; I need to work at my coping skills and focus on the tasks at hand in order to BE BETTER and reach these goals. 

You know that anxiety you get when you're taking a huge test? How about the dream where you are standing in a crowded room naked? Or that time that you had a piece of broccoli in your teeth and no one told you, only to figure out that is why everyone was laughing? Were you ever bullied, told you were things you just aren't? These anxieties plague my every day existence. These anxieties keep me holed up in a room for days and  let the dishes pile up. These anxieties also send me out with self-destructive behaviour as well. These anxieties have paranoia attached to them, and a lot of the time, keep me from doing things I want to do because the fear of failure is so great. 

Just to give you a glimpse into how bad these anxieties are, and how insignificant things can be that will send me spiraling downwards into a black hole of ick: I give you the fax machine.

Every week I have to fax my hours to work and sometimes, I don't have a chance to do it at the hospitals or facilities I'm working at; so I trek down to Kinkos. On this particular trip, I didn't have my badge with the fax number to send my sheets to. I turned to my razor sharp memory for the answers. I have a visual memory, and can recall faxing previous documents to this number. I enter the number, it doesn't work. Screeeeeeettchhhh from the fax machine. Shit. I was wrong, AGAIN. I yell at my husband to get his smart phone out and then get mad at him for doing it slowly or searching the wrong words. At this point, I feel everyone heard the dreadful sound of the fax and now thinks I'm incapable of such a small task. I try the other number. Same results. Another number, only this time there's a voice on the other end. Fuck! I'm boiling from the inside out, now and feeling nauseous. A clerk comes over to ask if I need help. Keeping my head down and feeling like a total failure, I mumble "No," and then start whispering profanities I've made up until I start to really get mad at my husband. Bless his heart. One last attempt with some sort of obscure search on the googs, I see the number I recognized. I knew it! I did know the number! I entered that number first! What the fuck?! Stupid machine! I fucking hate this shit. Because when things go wrong, we blame machines. I did know the number. I just didn't push one of the buttons hard enough. That entire time, I felt like I was dying. When I stepped outside, the fresh air couldn't have been cold enough. For this, Spokane, I love you. If I would have been living back home in southern California, I don't know if that air would have been as refreshing. I was a hot pan submerged under cold water at that moment. I was safe again. 

But now, that feeling is associated with that place, and I try every route imaginable to avoid the dreaded Kinkos in the future.

That, my friends, is BPD.