Why I Hate My Birthday 

I hate my birthday. It’s taken me a lot of years to realise this. It has always felt crap and then a few years ago I realised: hey I actually really fucking hate my birthday.

Realising that helped.

Unfortunately husband hasn’t got the memo. In fact he thinks I love a big fuss on my birthday, that I like to drag it out over several days, that presents and surprises are important to me. Yes, of course I’ve told him but he says that I’m wrong and that if he didn’t make a fuss I’d be unhappy. Ummm….

So here we have the classic dialectic. In some ways he’s right. Birthdays are supposed to be special days and therefore yes, I would like some acknowledgement. However, it’d be really in keeping with the spirit of the day if said fuss was something I could actually enjoy. I mean, if I was listened to, rather than having BIRTHDAY!!!!! thrust upon me then that’d be great.

A few years ago I started being quite specific with what presents I’d like from the husband. I did this because it really hurt my feelings that he would choose stuff that wasn’t me at all. How can my best friend, the person to whom I am closest to in the whole world get it/me so wrong?! Even now he always buys me Ferrero Rocher chocolates because that is his Mum’s favourite. I like Ferrero Rocher – don’t get me wrong – but it’s not what I want, not what I’d choose and, after 14 years, you’d think he’d have noticed that but you’d be wrong. Anyway I let the chocolate thing go. Chocolate is chocolate so it doesn’t really matter. Husband agonises saying that I need to have surprises as presents. Nope. Again I’ve told him that this just simply isn’t true but again, apparently I’m wrong. 

Whilst we’re on chocolate this is often what sparks the Birthday Argument. The Boy has real issues with jealousy so he will go on and on all day about how he doesn’t have any chocolate. If I share it out (after all I’m desperate to get rid of it) then he will loudly, repetitively and really rather specifically check that my sharing is equal. He will go on and on about how I could divide up the remaining chocolate fairly. He will ask when I’m going to eat it. He will talk about how much he wants chocolate (and how unfair it is that he doesn’t have any), he will want to discuss the healthiness of it. I’m short he will go and on relentlessly. Some years I snap at him. Sometimes I leave the room and cry. It always ends up with the husband shouting at the boy over chocolate I didn’t even want. DON’T  YOU KNOW IT’S MUM’S BIRTHDAY?!

Mum doesn’t want a birthday. Mum wants to be dead. If I had never been born then all of this stress wouldn’t be happening. I was never supposed to be born. My core belief right there – my birth was an accident, a blip in the Universe. By being born I brought chaos, stress and a badness into the world that was never supposed to be. My existence is all wrong. Why the fuck I’d want to celebrate that I don’t know.

Anyway, my parents usually send a gift. This is also unrecognisable as chosen for me. Of course it is because they don’t see me. To them I’m not even a real person, I’m more of an idea. I hate unwrapping their gift. If they have wrapped it at home then it comes with their smells. The smells that make me want to vomit. Happy fucking birthday? What a joke. More often than not now they’ll just randomly purchase something online and send it. This has the added bonus of not having their smell. However it will come without any note. I mean why add a Happy Birthday message that would be a lie right? We all know that day ruined everything but society demands these niceties. 

My parents used to forget my birthday sometimes.

Well, they had a lot on didn’t they? Oh, they deny that this happened but I was sure. Utterly, utterly convinced and I found a photo as evidence. Me, aged 9, wearing pyjamas because it is bedtime. I am posing in front of a defrosted Victoria sponge with 9 candles. Back in the 80s it was harder to get cakes so when they realised they had forgotten to sort one out they went to Asda, stressed the fuck out, bought this frozen thing and then had to wait until bedtime for it to defrost. I absolutely remember this happening. They deny it. The photo confirms it. It’s no wonder I’m fucking mental.
Quite often over the years my dad gets the date wrong. Easily done I suppose. Who remembers the day the first child, their only daughter, was born. Easily done. How selfish I am to want to occupy some brain space. I remember one year he went on holiday with the boys (my 3 brothers). I stayed at home with home. She was drunk and cruel the whole time. The house was dark and had its usual stink of vodka, cigs and piss (ah! There’s no place like home!). Dad rang me to say HAPPY BIRTHDAY! 2 days early as he’d gotten the date wrong again. He said there was a present hidden for me somewhere in the house but he couldn’t remember where. Gee, thanks. Anyway, Mum was so awful that I packed a bag and headed to join him on holiday in a caravan somewhere in Scotland. To this day I have no idea how I achieved this. I must have had money. There was no internet for looking up trains etc. I had to get a ferry. A fucking ferry! I mean, just how?! But I did it. At least two trains and a (fucking!) ferry and I arrived. I had escaped.

I used to ask for a chemistry set for birthdays and Christmasses. However I was never given one as my parents told me that I didn’t really want one. Ummm…ok. One chemistry degree later…god, I am so fucking sick of people telling me who I am. It’s no wonder I have no sense of self and instead was given the gift of a personality disorder. No, I really didn’t want that!

Birthday parties were a no go. Obviously. Who would I have invited anyway? Friends weren’t really my thing were they? Or certainly that was something else I was brought up believing.

Anyway, you get it. I hate my birthday.

This year to navigate the upset I’ve provisionally planned out the day. Apparently this is quite demanding? Well, I’ve only done it to try and minimise the upset and arguments and to try and take pressure off of the husband. Sigh. How is it that I’m so misunderstood? 

And there’s the food of course. I’m having a bit of a difficult time with food at the minute. I certainly don’t want to eat loads but heyyyyyy it’s your birthday so you gotta! No, no, no thank you. Please don’t make me explain. Again I’ve planned somewhere for lunch where I’ll be happy with the food (oh how demanding!).

Fortunately no one outside of close family ever remembers my birthday. I say fortunately but yes, it hurts. It’s not unknown for husband to buy a card from the kids and then forget to write it. I’ll find it, still in the cellophane and tidy it away.?I most likely won’t even get texts from the 3 brothers I raised. God, I hate my birthday.

So, I guess I do want a little fuss. I want the people that I love to show me a little bit of extra love and to help me enjoy the day, as I want. 

On the plus side it’s only 24 hours and then it’s done…until next year.

What he doesn’t ask

He doesn’t ask if I’m ok.

Instead, he asks if I’ve taken anything. I haven’t. I can’t blame him for asking that I suppose…but… I wish he would ask if I was ok. Maybe he doesn’t need to. He knows I’m not ok, hence the ‘taken anything’ question, so maybe he thinks there’s no point in asking. 

It’s such a shame because it feels like he doesn’t care. He obviously does. Obviously. Thing is that it feels like he cares more about his to-do list than my wellbeing. “Have you taken anything?” feels like his way of asking “are there other things for me to have to do” (on top of all the other things…and not because he wants to do these things…) I feel like a spoilt child. 

Ten minutes earlier when he arrived home I asked if he was ok, he coughed something. This cough means ‘I’m not fine but we won’t talk about that because of you‘. Sigh. This isn’t how I want our relationship to be, so I tentatively said he seemed tense. His words: “I’ve just arrived home and I’m trying to assess what I need to do”.

Right. Whatever. Sorry for existing. Perhaps  I’ll just crawl in a hole and die?

It’s not like I’m fucking useless. I’ve done so much today. I was up before 7am to clean up the puppy mess in the kitchen before the family came down. I took pup on a walk. I had a shower. There was a huge stress vet emergency with the puppy this morning and I dealt with it. I also generally tidied up. I did a lot of online stuff that needed doing and required information and passwords (not easy with a broken brain). I fixed the hoover. I cleaned the window sill. I cleaned the carpet over and over. I vacuumed. I handled my son coming home with two friends. I conversed with one of said friends’ father. I made myself dinner. I sorted out dishes/dishwasher and cleaned surfaces in kitchen. So tell me this – why am I painted out to be fucking useless?!?! I’m not useless. Sometimes I struggle. Ok, quite often I struggle but I also achieve so much. Why is that never celebrated? Why is it only the deep sigh and what he needs to do?

I very nearly snapped back was he looking for an opportunity to call me stupid? After all, when I actually did overdose that’s what he did; he called me stupid, asked me who was going to take our son to football and left me to ring my own ambulance. I’ve been over this a lot with various mental health people and they always urge me to see it from his point of view. I don’t know why because I can already see it from his point of view given that BPD comes with the buckets of empathy. I must admit though I do struggle to get my head around his concern for our son’s football training over my own survival sitting there with a lethal overdose inside of me.

No matter.

He said to me this evening “I feel like you analyse everything I do and say as soon as I arrive home!”. Hmmm. I suppose I do, a bit. I mean he refuses to be open about how he feels so I’ve got to try and suss it out. I couldn’t resist a dig in reply so I said “it’s called hypervigilance and is a pretty standard part of PTSD…” Then I gave up. DBT tells me to not make things worse so I left the room and came to bed. Yes, I caved in and came to bed. You’d think I spend my life in bed as he talks about it every day. It’s actually very rare that I come to bed now. Yesterday on top of general functioning I ran 4 miles because, y’know, I’m so weak.

Well fuck it. He wants to make out he does everything then let him. 

I get the sense that I’m being incredibly unfair.

I love him. He is a good man and so kind and caring to me. He just doesn’t get how to support me and that is frustrating for us both. And then there’s splitting. I must be mindful of that love/loathe coin that flips inside of me. I wonder if he thinks he doesn’t need to attend to my emotional needs because that’s what therapy is for? Holy crap I hope not! 

I just don’t know if I can trust my own feelings, thoughts and judgements and that is scary.

If only he’d asked.

I would have told him.

Totally Screwed

I want to vent. I want to rage.

Why the fuck am I in this situation? 

I tried to buy my husband a Fathers Day card from the kids and ended up completely triggered thinking about my own Dad:

Dad you’re my hero”

“Best dad in the world”

And my favourite, “Dad without you I’d be screwed” (obviously with picture of father and offspring screw haha). Yeah that one really got under my skin because yes, Dad, without you I was screwed. Left to deal with the venomous malicious unpredictable entity called Mum. And look! Over 2 decades later I’m still screwed, totally fucking screwed. So screwed I’m nuts. It is with cruel irony that right now my own husband is away in Manchester overnight, one of the places my Dad used to go when he was away on ‘overnighters’. 

So here I am triggered by cards and triggered by the stupid PTSD of being left alone to care for ‘the children’ – sorry, obviously I mean my siblings as I was a child too. How silly of me to forget. How silly of everyone to forget.

I’m not a child now though. I’m an adult and a mother and it is absolutely my responsibility to care for my children. I can’t describe the loathing I feel for myself that I struggle to do this most basic thing. I dropped my daughter off at nursery this afternoon and when I arrived home I opened the front door, threw my keys down, glanced at the staircase in front of me and thought ‘right, now go and hang yourself’. It was as solid and unremarkable an idea as say ‘right, let’s put a washing on’. Clearly I have not hung myself nor do I intend to but it’s difficult managing with such urges. 

I try and stifle all the rage that burns, bubbles and boils inside me. The pressure builds with every demand and the poison leaks out. I snap and snarl and hate myself for doing so. No. I must never hurt the children, must never ever be cruel to them. The slightest look of upset on their faces cuts me so deeply and the rage is accompanied by shame. More shame, like I need anymore of that?! 
And all I can think is how fucking useless I am. I will try to atone by doing lots of housework and being ‘good’. I feel a bit jealous of the kids, they get to go to bed and be away from me whereas I’m stuck with me. I’m so tired. And confused. And afraid; the fear of a little girl in a grown up lady’s body. 

I never managed to buy a card. 


Yesterday I picked my son up from football and another mum said “You’ve lost a lot of weight haven’t you?”. I agreed that I had. “Have you been trying to lose weight then?” she continued. Well, I’ve been watching what I eat so yes a little bit. “Right then. How much have you lost?” She asked. I’m not sure how much weight I’ve lost but I am sure the specifics are none of her business so I just smiled and said “a bit”. She wasn’t to be put off. She started trying to guess. She told me, no offense, but it must be more than a stone because you wouldn’t really notice a stone so it must be a lot and how much was it. Awk-ward. Eventually she gave up and we chatted about dogs. Much easier.

Everyone comments on my weight loss. Mostly complimentary. My mother-in-law, bless her, hasn’t acknowledged that I’ve lost any weight. No, instead she keeps giving me tips: hot water concoctions and Slimming World recipes. I’ll confess these are kind of mixed messages but she means well, I presume.

It’s frustrating as hell being on Quetiapine – a drug known to cause weight gain – and trying to lose weight. I fact I don’t think any more will come off. Nothing significant. I know I can’t eat any less really so here I am stuck, right on the bmi borderline between healthy weight and overweight. Is it so wrong to want to be a healthy weight? Why must everything in my life revolve around the word borderline?!

I’ve been exhausted all day, just mental wear and tear. The sedative effect of Quetiapine won’t be helping either. Once dinner had been sorted, and I had built my daughter a scooter I just lay flat out on the living room. I joked to my husband that I could fall asleep right there. He stood over me. He was wearing shorts so I was trying to perve up his shorts. “You need new pyjamas” he told me. I agreed. Mine were all far too big now. He told me that my bum looked tiny in the pyjama trousers I wore last night. I laughed. As if! As he continued it took me a minute to realise he was actually concerned. He told me he had concerns about my eating, he doesn’t know if I eat when he’s at work, he even used the word anorexia. I didn’t stop to tell him that it’s a physical impossibility for someone with my bmi to be anorexic as that might look like too much knowledge. I reassured him about my bmi and funnily enough he told me that he wasn’t concerned now as he’d checked me out in the jeans I had on and, apparently, my butt is big enough to dispel any concern! “Oh right so it turns out I’ve got a fat arse after all?” I laughed but I was confused again. 

Really all I want is a healthy bmi and it frightens me that people are starting to get involved in something that is actually very private to me (she says posting on the internet!) Surely I should be able to choose how, what and when to eat without feeling that this is also something I do for other people? Christ, does even my eating have to be for other people?! 

I wonder if there is any bit of me that is just for me? Now I’m exhausted so I really must sleep. 

Numb, Tired

I don’t feel real or alive. Numb on the outside. Inside I don’t know. Turmoil? Sadness? Fear? 

I’m so tired. Exhausted. Moving is a challenge but a necessary one. I want to escape into a bed fort. 

It feels like everyone can read my thoughts. Everyone can see all my private stuff on my phone. Everyone is laughing at me for being so pathetic. I know this isn’t true but I still feel it.

I considered texting Andy and asking him to try and come home a bit earlier. I wrote the text but didn’t send it. Hes supposed to be having a drink with a friend tonight and I really want him to go because I’m worried he’s depressed. He’ll also start making rules and predictions and put pressure on me so Ineed to get through.

My hands are cold and have pins n needles. I didn’t go to DBT. They rang because it’s so out of character so I told them I was tired.

I am so so tired.

Running v Cutting

I’m still in bed. I have a cup of tea and I’m really cosy. Im also fighting a terrible battle in my head.
I have an overwhelming urge to hurt myself. The image in my brain is of cutting my wrists. Not badly. Just enough to hurt. I don’t want to have to go to hospital or anything. I definitely don’t want any attention for it. No! I just want to hurt myself.

However, I also feel the urge to run. To feel my muscles pushing me along and my breath filling my lungs and then emptying. To feel my heart pounding and my body going ouch! Whilst my brain encourages go on! You can do this! You are free!

A dialectic? Maybe.

So run it is.

Here’s the thing though: everyone sees the run. It is praised and noted in my file as further proof of how well I’m doing. No one sees that I could have just as easily cut my wrist. No one is bothered because I didn’t slit my wrist and that doesn’t feel quite right. It’s like I’m choosing the right thing (which is good) but at the same time making it easier to be dismissed by the healthcare professionals. But I still want to slit my wrists. But no one cares.

I can’t figure it out really. 

Now I’m off out for a run. 


Really I just want to rant; to throw a toddler tantrum.

About what?




I honestly don’t know which particular illness I’m most pissed at. Is it the trying to thread a needle, with my eyes closed whilst riding a rollercoaster fun of my borderline personality disorder? Because that is FUN. Tra-la-la-la going about my day WHOA! I’m super scared! Ok, ok, let’s roll with this, we can do this…tra-la-la-la I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING. Int-er-est-ing, bit of crazy rage going on there…suck it down, cook the dinner and then? Well your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps I’ll become deliriously happy (oh wow life is wonderful!) or maybe I’ll be filled with love, or perhaps it’ll be self-disgust. Who the fuck knows? Not me, not anybody. But, you see, life must go on, responsilities must be met and there just isn’t time for a self-indulgent emotional jacuzzi. 

And it’s exhausting.

So, so tiring in a way, that I really believe, others won’t get unless they feel it too. And it’s frightening being catapulted into extremes. I become scared. I limit what I do in case it happens. I hide away. Please don’t talk to me. I can’t promise I’ll always be able to contain it so it’s best that everyone stays away.

Hell yeah, the BPD is awesome. And by awesome I mean an absolute bastard. I dislike having a personality disorder very much.


…I also find myself completely fucked over by the PTSD at the same time. I mean the nasty thugs of BPD and PTSD often go around together so my experience isn’t unique here. Let me tell you, trying to control those unpredictable extreme emotional shifts is made a shitload more difficult by being constantly treated to images of the past. Oooh nightmare! Again? Yes a-fucking-gain. And I can expect one the next night, and the next, and the next… hurrah! Then of course there are the images/memories/flashbacks. How about seeing my mum sneering at me in my mind. Just pops in, uninvited. Like tonight at Body Balance class. Or there’s the sensations – someone breathing on my neck, she’s wrapping her hands round my neck oh god oh god oh god. Meanwhile, outside of my brain (in the real world), as alluded to earlier, life-goes-on. Concurrently. So perhaps I’ll be paying at a checkout or getting my daughter dressed whilst trying to stifle the fear of the prickling on my neck. I’ll be honest, it is spectacularly unhelpful to have PTSD.

The worst bit of the PTSD, for me, is the time travelling though. I can just about manage all the other crap but the time travelling is the final sucker punch that delivers the knockout. The emotions that were shut off all those years ago fire my brain up. My brain tells me that I am 14; that my children are my siblings; that I am alone and it’s too much for a young person. Too much. But it’s all lies, I’m not 14, and these lies are more powerful than any words. They play me like a cruel puppeteer ‘hey puppet, play the part of being 14!’. I fight back against it of course, I have insight at least. I do know that I’m actually a mother in my 30s but I can’t cut those puppeteer strings. I’d describe it as a game but there’s no fun in it. No, it’s rather like some cryptic challenge: behave as a 30 something responsible mother whilst also, uncontrollably, behaving as a 14 year old. 

Yes. I hate that.

So I couldn’t say which symptoms or diagnosis pisses me off the most really. It’s all crap, all of it. 

Fortunately though I look fine. Invisible illness. I wish I could show people a sneaky peek – this is what it’s like! There might be a better chance of understanding. Oh well, a girl can dream. And, on that, it’s time I went to bed for another nightmare. Toodle-oo.


I’ve figured it out. I’m good at problem solving and I used to be really, really good at coping. What changed?


That’s what it was – sodding emotions! When I lived with my parents I didn’t really have emotions. Well, I must have, but I managed to deaden them. I must not cry. I must be strong. And I succeeded. I did it! Sometimes I’d cut myself but not as much as I do now. Somehow I did it: I functioned and it worked. So I know it can be done. I know that I can do it.

And that’s the answer: kill myself emotionally. We’ve been through the whole can’t actually kill myself because of the children thing again and again and again. There had to be an answer and, of course, there is! It’s not appealing but sometimes that’s just the way it goes. 

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and finally began to accept that I have this…thing, this personality disorder. I also managed a bit of self-compassion – I have tried. I have really, really tried but it’s not working this. It really isn’t. I can’t bear the thought that this will be the rest of my life. So this is the answer.

I’m not sure how to consciously go emotionally dead. I mean it happens now in dissociation but that’s not controlled. Probably keeping busy and not thinking about anything that inspires emotion. I can do it. I can look happy, I mean I’m too bloody good at that aren’t I so that bit I’ve got down. 

I felt very sad looking in the mirror. Goodbye.

“I’m not like them but I can pretend” Nirvana, Dumb.

Give up

TW: Self-harm (and a lot of swearing)


I give up.

Fine fine fine. Fucking FINE!

Over reacting?!


Let’s make it 7 weeks of not checking my diary card.

Let’s not see my care coordinator for another month.

Let’s fight for a psychiatrist appointment and then get given a half hour check up instead of a proper assessment.

Let’s deny my ESA claim and send me to a DWP assessment which will inevitably result in refusal of my claim.

And let’s criticise me for over reacting or catastrophising or self-harming or, y’know, actually being fucking right ALL THE TIME. 

I hate them all. Always banging on about my life threatening behaviours. What a joke. An absolute joke. How am I supposed to take anything they say seriously when they say one thing and their actions are something different.

I’ll just crack on and do it my way. Cheers. 

I don’t want to hear any reasonable, logical arguments. Wise-fucking-mind can PISS OFF. 

If, at any point, anyone wants to give-a-shit then I’ll be here just trying not to destroy my children by my sheer fucked-up-ness.

Oh, and did I mention? FUCK YOU (not you reading, general them as you)!

The End.

Morning has broken

Good morning!

I want to be dead.

Same old, same old.

Got to be a good parent this morning though so activity scheduling it is.

How to stay present? How to stay as a mum? I’ll have to use all my skills. By the time I drop her at nursery this afternoon I’ll be exhausted. I’m tired already and there’s 5 hours ahead. Then I’ve got a one-to-one with Monica. Night-mare.

I already feel like a failure. Because I am.

But I’ll try and we’ll get by.