What's worse than feeling all the things too much? Feeling nothing.
Category: Uncategorized
Withdrawn.
My colleagues invite me to lunch, or to go for a walk, but I decline. This little quiet corner of the office is just fine with me. My partner has been doing the shopping. I'm overwhelmed in public spaces.
Bittersweet.
The first few years, I convinced myself that I had somehow become the nightmare momster that many children of a parent with BPD have written about escaping.
Identity.
It's no surprise I sometimes don't recognize myself in mirrors. I'm trying to focus on sharing my story, but I'm dissociating and having a hard time remembering those people inside.
Fugue.
I'm functional, but dissociating. I go to work and do work and go home. It's nearly impossible to go to the store or visit friends. I have the need to exist solely in well-known safe and quiet places. My throat begins to close if I think about any variance from a well-worn path.
Mirrors.
Sometimes I don't realize I've been avoiding my own reflection until I catch a glimpse of it.
Fragmented.
Six. I’m up to six sexual assaults — or instances of serious harassment or exploitation — that I’ve only recalled in the past few years. Nope, seven.
Kidnapped.
When you’re in the partner abuse cycle, you never know which day will end with you having no home, no car, no job, and your children missing.
Death.
"I want to die, and God won't let me." Those were the first words I was able to send across Instant Messenger after an attempt to decongest myself to death.
Diagnosis.
I managed to find a partner willing to put up with my split-second mood swings, who loved my highs and endured my lows. I filed away my BPD diagnosis and didn’t think much about it again for years.
