Living With BPD, Monique's Voice.
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The past that haunts us

Yesterday I fell and I fell and I fell and I kept on falling. From night til morning and morning til night. With each breath I crumbled. I anticipated each word you wrote and I fell. You didn’t acknowledge what I was really trying to say and I was sure that I was the only one who still cared. Who still hurt. I prayed to god you wouldn’t be visiting me in my dreams again and I prayed you would have disappeared by morning. But when I woke up you were still there, curled around my heart.

Yesterday I missed the way you would look at me. I used to know what you were thinking by the speed of your blink. I missed the sounds and the smells of our old life and I couldn’t grasp the concept of one day being your person and then the next day, a stranger trying my best to forget your name. In giving myself to you, in trying to forge a life with you, I ended up losing everything. I lost the days and the nights. The places and faces. My home. I lost it all and I walked away with empty hands and a ragged heart that was barely beating because I wasn’t worth fighting for. These words are so hard to write. I don’t want to write them and I don’t want to make these feelings real, but here I am, writing all the same.

I held everything in and my face smiled and I moved swiftly through conversations and I did as much as I could to appear ‘normal’. Meanwhile I felt so lonely. I felt like a shell of a human being. I felt like I was nothing. That I had nothing. That I had failed and come to a dead end. I cried silently in the bathrooms. I did my work. I kept it in. Nobody knew. I sat on my rug in Wynyard park and remembered the promise you made to me. The promise to forever be my safe place. When the clock struck five I all but ran out of the office and stumbled into the arms of my friends. I cried and cried and cried and I felt the pain I had been holding onto all day. I felt it in my bones, my stomach, my chest, my fingertips. I ground my teeth to stop them from chattering. The chattering always comes when the pain has nowhere else to go. I squeezed myself so tightly and I cried and cried.

I haven’t felt this kind of pain in quite awhile. I’ve had bouts of sadness and despair but this pain was different. This pain controlled me and sucked up every last breath. This pain made my hands shake and it took every living piece of me and bled me dry. This pain made itself at home inside my shell and tried to convince me that it was here to stay, and for awhile I believed it was.

Even in the light of day, I sit here with tears welling behind my eyes and feel as though I never want to love again. Why now? What changed? Why are the dreams coming? Why do I wake up feeling as though you have just left. I can barely re-read what I have written here.

When my mind is a tornado of ecstasy and every person, and everything that I see and touch becomes beautiful, I tell myself that feeling the pain is worth it just to feel what it’s like to laugh and to be a whole person again. But when the pain comes like it has come now, I swear I would give anything to never feel again. I want to open my skull and scrape out the parts that let me feel. I want neither the good or the bad. I want nothing at all because right now, I don’t think I can handle this pain again. Not again. Not like this. Tell me, is this really any way to live?

Last night I felt like giving up. I felt as though I’d had enough. How is it possible to feel such grief? When I’m trapped in this darkness, it’s impossible to remember that this feeling will pass. I can tell my self a thousand times, but they are only words. I lay here in the dark. The white pillows and sheets remind me of even darker days. This day feels equally as dark, even though in reality, it can’t be.

I don’t know why you have come back to haunt me now. I don’t know why you love me and leave me every night. I don’t know why I was born to feel this way.

I stare at my screen blankly. My cheeks and chest ache from pretending to laugh. All I can manage right now is to sit here and pray that this day will end.

This entry was posted in: Living With BPD, Monique's Voice.

by

I am a writer, a lover, a daughter, a sister, a friend, an auntie, a derailed artist, a comic, a traveller, and a person living with BPD. I hope that my writing and my experiences are a reminder that you're not alone. Just one day at a time.

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