BPD vs PTSD

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

About what?

WHAT?!?!

This!

STUPID MENTAL ILLNESS!

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.

But…

…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.

Numb

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

Emotions.

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)

Fine!

I give up.

Fine fine fine. Fucking FINE!

Over reacting?!

I DON’T CARE.

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.

I look better 

I’ve been hearing a lot about how well I look at the minute. This is because I’ve lost a fair bit of weight. I was obese at 96kg (BMI 33.2) and now I’m slightly overweight at 74kg (BMI 25.6). Losing 22kg (or 3st 6lb in old money) is certainly noticeable. I just find it really odd how I’ve been losing weight for months and a months (6 to be more accurate) but it’s only in the last couple of weeks people have noticed.


I mean, I’ve been losing it at a steady rate so it’s not like it’s all just fallen off in a few weeks but now I seem to have reached some point where everyone feels the need to comment. And it’s nice, don’t get me wrong. To be getting compliments is lovely but it just seems weird. Why now? 


I’ve been working at it for so long, logging what I eat every single day – including over birthdays, meals out and Christmas. The first few months were done privately but then I had to let my husband know for Christmas, to help me. Now that everyone is commenting I have to admit that yes, I am watching what I eat. I tell them it’s because my medication can cause weight gain (which is true – quetiapine) and people seem happy with that. I tell them that the weight loss has slowed, that I feel better for losing it and I’m enjoying exercising – all true.

It seems to make everyone happy that I’m smaller now. My husband in particular loves it, commenting and praising my body every day. He always makes sure to add that he loved it before too! When I tell people that I’m still overweight they tell me that it’s fine, bmi is only a guide and I look great. That’s nice of them so I don’t tell them that I really want to lose another 10kg+ (1st 8lb) to be in the middle of the healthy bmi range. Instead I reassure them my weight loss appears to be plateauing. 

I make sure to eat in front of people. Every evening we sit down and have a family meal. These are often calorie busting so I’ll have to eat very little in the day to save up for them. I wish I didn’t have to do this. Yesterday my mother-in-law offered me some home baking; I didn’t want it. However I knew that we were staying for dinner and I’d be wanting to eat less then so to balance it out I accepted the crumble slice and ate something I didn’t want at all so that come dinner time it wouldn’t be so bad that I turned down the bread and the ice cream. I still ate more then that I’d have liked and that irritates me. Losing weight is slow and hard and having to do it in such a way that stops people prying feels very restrictive. I feel I can’t choose to eat when and what I’d like but instead have to eat all sorts in front of people to stop any unnecessary concern. The irony being of course that everyone tells me how good I look! 

Yargh!

And yes I do look a lot better and I do feel a lot better in myself…physically. It sort of feels misleading. People who know I’m ill tell me I must be doing so much better…because I look better. Well, no. Not really. Not at all actually. I still wake up and my first thought of the day is I want to die. But I can’t bear to disappoint them so I agree that it feels much nicer to be smaller – which is true but says absolutely nothing about my mental health. 

I’m the master of the mask. I just can’t help myself can I? I look so much better.

But I’m not.

I feel bad

I feel like I’m tied to reality by fine threads. Sometimes I can pull and reel reality right back in. Other times I worry that reality is going to entirely slip away  from my grasp. Today I’ve veered between these two states uncontrollably. And it’s not even 5pm.

I’m so tired.

I met a friend for coffee at 1030am. As I drove there I was wondering if I should ask her if we were really alive or was this all a dream. The fine threads of reality tugged and jolted me back. I parked up and my feet hit the real ground when I got out of the car and I was back in reality. Coffee went well. I gave my friend a lesson plan (she’s a teacher and had asked for my advice). The lesson plan had come to me in my dream last night so I wrote it this morning. It was pretty good I think!

Then I went to DBT group. I think I might have been in and out of dissociation. I spent a lot of time focusing on objects or closing my eyes. In the break I sat on the floor curled up in a ball. Then I went back in and was sort of ok. Then I wasn’t again.

Home and so tired. Confused. What’s going on? My head hurts. I want to sleep, rest and be cared for. My jaw aches. 

I’m really unsettled by these feelings. Then my dad emailed. It was weird. That doesn’t feel real either. 

I can try and tell my care coordinator tomorrow but I expect she’ll tell me this is normal (for people like me) but it doesn’t feel very normal. I must use all the wrong words. I don’t know the right words but I know I feel bad.