To date a girl with Borderline Personality Disorder

I don’t use my diagnosis as an excuse for my behaviour, but my diagnosis dictates my personality.  Borderline Personality Disorder.  Bit of a mouthful.  It makes me irrational.  It makes me act impulsively.  I get extreme urges that, from time to time, force me to make decisions that some people may see as unacceptable, and make decisions around my life that I truly don’t want.  BPD heightens emotions, and the actions that surround emotions.  My sex drive can go from needing ten dicks in my mouth one week, to wanting my hymen resealed the next.  I get angry; not just a burst of anger, but a need to hit, kick, verbally hate on a person or a thing.  It makes me throw things, slam doors, force away the people who care.  I have a chronic fear that I am never going to be enough for anyone and that my end game is complete and utter loneliness.  I joke around saying I would be so happy to live alone with a few hundred dogs – I would, but it is only because I am so scared of my behaviour.  I skip through men, have multiple sexual partners, push away those who care because, despite my fear of being alone, I also believe, so truly, that I am not enough for anyone.

One day I hope to be so in control of all of these feelings and emotions, but for now, I think it is only safe for me to barricade myself in my head, and try to win the battle that occurs every waking hour of the day.  If I lose the war, I know my trusty old sharp edged friends will come back into my life.  If I win, life will be successful and I will be in control of everything that is thrown my way.

I really don’t want to lose the war in my head.

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I don’t love you, but I like you

Dear you,

You were a gentleman.  Treated me like I had always dreamt about; kind, generous, witty.  You lulled me into a false sense of security, made me trust you.  For a few hours, I felt like the luckiest person in the world.  I had been used by so many men in the past.  I had slept with a fair few people but felt like it was all I was worthy of.  You took me on dates, made me feel worthy of more than just an ‘easy shag’.  I liked you; I didn’t love you, but I liked you.

I don’t know what is worse; the fact I can’t now blink without your face appearing, or the fact that you don’t even know what you did was wrong.  For you, I was the ‘drunk’ girl, fast asleep, whose bare arse on top of the sheets was fair game.  One warning to stop wasn’t enough.  Waking up with your fingers inside me was enough to scare me.  I opened up to you and told you about the man in Australia who violently sexually assaulted me.  You seemed to understand: “I wouldn’t hurt you; I like you…I don’t love you, but I like you”.  It was enough to make me comfortable enough to get back into bed with you.  I had poor judgement.  One ‘get the fuck off me’ wasn’t enough.  Feeling me struggle against you wasn’t enough.  You are stronger than me, bigger than me.  I was vulnerable and you manipulated that.

Rape is such a difficult word; there are so many different levels of it.  When I was in Australia, it was violent, hair pulling, bleeding fucking.  This seemed worse.  You let me drop my guard, you let me trust you.  I may in time forgive you for you error of judgement, but I will never forgive you for inviting my depression and anxiety back into my head.  I will never forgive you for giving me more external scars to make up for the internal war in my head.  I will never forgive you for making me doubt my entire point of existence in this world.

I hope one day you can understand the issues you have caused, and that if you ever make the choice to have a family, your children or loved ones are never subjected to what you put me through.  I really hope what happened was a drunken mistake on your behalf.  A drunken mistake that will cause me lifetime of misery, but a mistake nonetheless.  If you don’t get charged with rape, I hope you never subject a girl to this again, you gain consent regardless of whether you have already had sex.

Finally, no does not mean yes, and get the fuck off me does not mean please continue.

I am Thriving

It has been a while since I last wrote in this blog, and it is safe to say that a lot has happened.  I had been seeing professionals about my mental health issues, and it wasn’t working.  I used the NHS – although it didn’t help for me, I understand that they do help a lot of individuals – I saw paid professionals, and nothing seemed to be working.

I came across Thrive when one of my mum’s friends said they knew one of the consultants.  I was sceptical – how could something cure the demons I’ve been fighting for 6 years? However, after just six weeks on the Thrive programme, my problems had just disappeared.  I put in a lot of hard work, and was supported by my amazing Thrive consultant, Amy.  Over the six weeks, I could see all my past issues just fizzle away until they no longer defined me.  Yes, I have self harm scars visible, but they don’t define me.  Yes, I have been raped, but I am not a victim to it.

I am now going to do my training so that I can help other individuals who have been through similar struggles to myself, and hoping I can be the positive role model that people need to see how amazing life is.

See my video for a more indepth explanation about how amazing Thrive is:

Dear Darkness…

Dear You,

You waited 7 weeks, 7 fantastic weeks, to spring back up on me again. I thought that potentially you had gone, that I could maybe start thinking of going back to work, that maybe I could catch up with friends who mean the world to me, and that maybe I could be myself again. The smiling, carefree, happy self that I have so desperately missed. But no. You wait until I drop my guards down, start trusting myself again, to slime and worm your way back to me. The voice that had disappeared came back with a vengeance; “of course it’s ok to stay in bed all day”; “you definitely shouldn’t talk to your friends today”; “you should definitely pick up the box of tools you hid away with purpose, it doesn’t hurt, I promise”.

Each time you come back, I take you in like an old friend. I welcome you with open arms, and listen to your advice, even if I know that in my heart you are wrong and hurtful, I don’t listen. Your voice is loud and powerful enough to drown my voice of reasoning out. Yours is the one I trust implicitly; the one I wait for when the numbing silence burns my insides away. I have no capacity to say no to you, and at the time, no desire to either.  You’re the lethal friend who only wants me to feel bad, so they can feel better about themselves. Yet, both of them are inside of me. I self destruct like you say I should, but I don’t feel better for it; you do. Each time I give myself another scar, you do a victory dance in my head; you celebrate the fact that you are winning, once more.

Dear Me,

Stay strong. Wait for the next time you get 7 weeks of making up your own mind. Embrace those weeks, those moments. Every time, try your hardest to push it an extra week longer. You are strong, but push harder. Be stronger. Care less for the darkness inside your brain. He wants nothing but to hurt you. He isn’t your friend. He is your worst enemy, the nightmare that attacks you when you are awake. Have the strength to say “not today” to him, and mean it. One day, he will have to get bored of fighting someone who ignores him, right?

What the bloody hell is it?

So far I have had 3 psychiatric reviews and assessments. They have FINALLY given me a formal diagnosis to get on the right pills, having now waited for over a month. So alongside the bipolar, I also apparently have ‘borderline personality disorder’. 

I’m generally pretty good at googling and finding things out that I need to read up on…but I literally can’t find anything substantial to read about it! I get this disorder thrown on my list of things wrong and I don’t even 100% understand what it means. 

If anyone can help me, share a story with me, or potentially have a good link or book, I’d be so grateful. It’s just so damn confusing! 

Enough

Sat on the floor, staring at herself in the mirror, an 11 year old girl made a promise to herself. It was her first day at secondary school, and she wanted to make an impression. Not a bad one, but just so she was never lonely. She promised herself to enjoy every moment of life, not to have any regrets, and to live honestly.

Sat on the floor, staring at herself in the mirror, a 16 year old girl made a promise to herself. She would never cut again. “Just the once” she told herself. She told herself she didn’t want scars all up her arms and legs; she didn’t want her children asking questions about why mummy never wore t-shirts. “Just the once”.

Sat on the bed, staring at the blank, unwelcome wall in front of her, a 20 year old girl was lost. How had it come to this? Stitches keeping her arm closed, stopping her from bleeding any more. Lack of control, anxiety, depression, bipolar; she had heard it all. She had tried to concentrate on the bullshit the nurses were feeding her, willing it to be true. “Everything will be fine” “keep calm, you have friends here to help you, don’t you?” No. No friends here.

Sat in the cafe, the 21 year old was questioning choices. It would be the easiest move right now to quit whilst she was ahead; leave on a low and everyone will question your highs. Struggling to fight the man that controlled her head, she left the cafe, and decided to leave her old life behind.