A Poet's Prose

I decided that I would blog about how I feel and some personal issues here simply because I don't want the world knowing on Facebook, and I'm pretty sure no one reads this blog. Also, while I have friends I can talk to, after that I feel better for a bit then my mind gets to me.

It's better to just write it, put it out there, and try my darndest to forget about it or accept it.

I just found out that Jamie's ex is staying with his mom in the UK.

While I have no problem with either of them, I have a problem with his seemingly unended relationship with her, via her things in his home (which I helped pack and move 3 times since we dated), and his extended relationship with her family and vice-versa. It's hurtful to know that you are not the only one in someone's heart. It's very painful to have promises not kept and knowing that general apathy is all you will get for the tears you weep.

All I wanted was a completely clean start. That's what I give to anyone I date, that's what I deserve and expect in return. So that things like that don't happen and catch you by surprise.

You do so much for someone, that it eats into your own activities and your life. But you don't mention it because that's what love is - it's sacrifice despite the inconvenience or subsequent trouble. And sometimes, you just want to know it's appreciated - that it was worth it because someone loves you back.

And when said person doesn't show it, it's a blow to the heart, the ego, a slap in the face, all of that - to remind you that you're exactly like that pathetic girl in the movies who hopelessly does everything for the man she loves, only to be spurned, and the everyone in the audience - they can see everything, and they egg her to break up with him, to move on, she's better than that - only she doesn't think so.

The worst thing about knowing all of this is that, although you're better than that, although you can get whomever you want, KNOWING all of this...  Doesn't help a single bit. You're already all in.

You say I only hear what I want to.
You say I talk so all the time so.
And I thought what I felt was simple,
and I thought that I don't belong,
and now that I am leaving,
now I know that I did something wrong 'cause I missed you.

You say I only hear what I want to:
I don't listen hard,
don't pay attention to the distance that you're running
to anyone, anywhere,
I don't understand if you really care,
I'm only hearing negative: no, no, no, bad.
 
And I thought I'd live forever, but now I'm not so sure.
You try to tell me that I'm clever,
but that won't take me anyhow, or anywhere with you.

You said that I was naive,
and I thought that I was strong.
I thought, "Hey, I can leave, I can leave."
Oh, but now I know that I was wrong, 'cause I missed you.

You said, "I caught you 'cause I want you and one day I'll let you go."
You try to give away a keeper, or keep me 'cause you know you're just
scared to lose.

And you say, "Stay."

And you say I only hear what I want to.

Go away, away, you demon in my head
You slithering snake like a vice on my heart
Come hungry for pain; Satiated, depart
Nefarious nobody take my shadow instead

Some people don't realize how lonely it is to be a kid. Everyone looks at you but no one really sees YOU, they just see A Kid. And apart from to your parents, you don't really matter.

Sometimes Most times I feel like that kid. An introvert in an extrovert's world, where you have to play by their rules or you're shy/weird/aloof/cold/ misunderstood/bitchy/strange. Where being yourself isn't an option.

I don't mind going to a club, but can I have juice and stand in the middle of the dance floor and play mind puzzles on my phone? No. I must dance and get drunk and make out with strangers and be loud.

In a room full of people, can I sit at the south-west diagonal corner and watch the interactions and make a story and write the relationships down and leave without arousing suspicion?

Can I call someone because I just wanted to remember how they sound, then hang up without saying goodbye, without that person wondering what's wrong?

Can I just NOT smile, laugh, shake hands, have a wonderful evening, be doing something amazing in my life, good to meet you, how lovely, can't wait to see you again soon, haha you're so funny, oh I do admire you - simply because I really don't want to? And it's not you - don't be silly, how narcississtic of you! It never is about anyone in particular - really, it's me.

They call it being anti-social. That's actually a disorder. Treatable with a healthy dose of psychotherapy and medication.

That's why being an introvert is like being a kid. You know you have to be a certain way, but you don't know why. You do as you're told - how else can you survive in the world where being the loudest and most gregarious and most humourous is the name of the game? Slowly you learn that you must eat with the fork and the spoon, sit up straight, keep quiet when others talk and laugh when a joke is told, when really all you want to do is be naked and run in the rain and push other kids and eat melted chocolate off your hands. And being an introvert, you never really understand - how could you? You're living in a world that sees everything different from you.

Someone asked before, People who don't socialise: At the end of their life, do they look back and wish they had made more friends?

Someone answered, People who don't socialise have no reason to 'look back' at the end of their life.

An introvert, to someone of this world, therefore has neither cognizance nor a life of meaning.

So, like I said, it's really a lot like being a kid.

If no one knows who you really are, and you can't be yourself anyway, no one really sees you. So apart from to your parents, You, the real you, I mean... You kind of don't really matter.

Its not that I don't want you to be you, its just that I want to be me. And it makes me wonder sometimes if you as you, and me as me... don't quite make a 'we'.

How does an individual know he or she is going insane?

First, there are the little changes. Changes in character that are mostly blind to the untrained eye start to surface. The only time you notice is when the change is complete, and you see the stark difference in persona staring back in the cracked glass of the mirror. By then, its too late to stop the process - all that's left is to choose to regress/progress (what is the difference?) or stay absolutely still.

You see an easy-going, fun-loving, thrill-seeking girl metamorphosise. A competitive swimmer, leaving all the boys trailing behind, starts to become afraid of water. The girl who sits on a banana boat with her family and tells the driver to go faster so they capsize, avoids any thrill whatsoever. She used to throw her clothes in a pile, not quite caring, because she knows she'll get to it and it doesn't make sense to spend so much time ensuring constant cleanliness - now she sweeps the floor of her room once, twice, thrice; everyday cleaning, everyday worrying.

She was praised for her imagination, winning nation-wide essays, getting on debate teams, garnering a reputation to not be messed with. Making friends, making enemies. Living.

to be continued

It gets better, so they say.
May I politely disagree

Because with each passing second, you slap me in the face
Saying everything reflected in the tears in my eyes
Saying (to me):
You're not good enough
You don't matter enough
For me to want to
I have my reasons
So take it or leave it
Because this is me
And I really don't care

About your snivelling little contrived feelings
No matter how hurt you tell me you are
Or how it means something to you
I won't
Because I can
And I know you'll stay
I don't know the reason
But why should I care
And I'll get anyone I want

But sweetie
Thanks for being the flavour of the week.

Living with it is a constant struggle. Everyday you tell yourself, hey, I'm okay. But you know you're not. And you're not even being pessimistic. You know it in your heart. You know it in your GUT. It wrenches at you and you push it away, telling yourself, look, I'll take it one day at a time. Then one day comes and you get hit. You know its coming because you recognise the calm before the storm. The calm where everything's happy, everything's perfect. You know the calm so well that you don't bother celebrating the possibility that its really just got better. That its not your imagination. That you have finally conquered it.

 

You look in the mirror and you are unsure if you feel like laughing or crying. Totally fucking confused about whether to be happy that you're aware, or sad that you're so aware that you know what's coming next. You pull yourself out of the funk and say STAY HAPPY! THINK POSITIVE! Okay, its GOOD to be aware. Then I can solve it. But that's what you said last time. And you broke your door and the guitar and the computer. That's what you said last time, when you threw out the furniture and tore the curtains and cut yourself 67 times across both arms to beg for the attention you knew you'd be too ashamed to get by showing the blood. So you cover it up, like the coward you are. But now I know, you tell yourself. I won't act out. It will be okay.

 

You turn to the TV, computer, whatever. You obsess about something that doesn't matter, the interests you tell people you have but really can't be arsed about, but had to make up because not too many people you meet can sit for 5 hours staring at nothing and really entertain their own thoughts. You think up new business ideas, send 200 emails in a day, pack your stuff, make phone calls, maintain friendships, try something new, "build character", because you are a High Functioning BPD. That's what they called you.  You are able to work and maintain social relationships perfectly fine, maybe even better than others. Its what you do, who you are, little Miss Perfect. So fucking perfect.

 

You look for a problem all the time, and people think you're just trouble. You're difficult. No, you want to say, I'm not trying to cause a problem, see I'm trying to fix the problems, I mean you can only fix them when you know what they are, right? But they look at you and you know they judge you. You know they are thinking that you're no fun, you're a wet blanket. And you scream in your head, I'm just fixing all the small problems because it lets me focus. It lets me do some good. So let me with my little details. Leave me alone to fix this. Instead of focusing of the huge problem that is the disease eating at me every single day.

 

Then one day you've fixed them. You're done. Suddenly the problems aren't there. And you think, great, its going to be the new year, everything will get better and I will live life normally just like everyone else. I won't have to fight this anymore because there is nothing to fight. But its all bullshit. You know it is. You've been telling yourself the same shit day in, day out. You know that you never fought it before, you know 8 years of therapy only helped you seem alright, seem okay to the outside world. You're a master of yourself, a master of situations, all that cognitive behavioural therapy, hell you're so good could give a class. And your friends think you're so put together. Inside you want to yell, No I'm not, I'm just this good at acting. You are the brilliant actor on stage, adored by everyone, known by no one, least of all yourself. You're so afraid to get off the stage because then what? Who are you? A blank slate. So you find parts to play, loving friend, disgruntled daughter, active volunteer, social butterfly. And with every problem you're solving, the curtain stays open, only today you've solved it all, and the curtains start closing.

 

But you've been here before. You're a high-functioning BPD. You know that you have total control over yourself. Yes, you tell yourself, I will be absolutely normal and not act out and read a book to sleep. You find yourself glancing at the table for the pills you took for 8 years. Pills that wiped your memory clean, left you with barely anything. You know so many people, yet you've forgotten how you met them, what you did with them, what you did TO them. No, you tell yourself, I don't need those stupid pills, they made me even more ill. They prevented me from living my life. You're so fucking aware of yourself, when you were better (when you had a problem to fix), you pre-empted yourself by throwing every single remaining pill away. Because you knew this day would come. And you would not be strong enough to face yourself. Then you shift to positive thinking. COME ON! THINK POSITIVE! This is my opportunity to really get better. You encourage yourself, its been 6 months since the last pill, I've done fine, I'll continue being fine without them, thank you very much.

 

But then you see, its New Year's Eve, you're supposed to look forward to it, but all you can think of is that you are empty. You only know that if you don't act out, don't write a brilliant piece of work for people to praise you, don't create income.. If you just leave the feeling be, its not about acting anymore, its about reacting. And you should stop it. So you stop it. But you're shaking, you get so scared, you know what's next. You know what happens when you don't do something  to distract from the emptiness, the pointlessness. You know its a matter of time before you crack. You've already thought of a few different ways to end it, you know there will be no note because there's nothing left to say, you know even though you say no one will miss you, people will, but you also know they will miss the great actor, not you, because no one knows who you are anyway, not that it matters. And the fact you're scared shitless makes you feel alive, makes you realise you don't actually want to die. You tell yourself, I'll get through this, its just been a tough year, but I should be proud of myself, I did so much, I was brave, I became independent of the drugs and this is all a learning process. That's what you said last time. And you're so aware of yourself, so conscious, its painful. You take a deep breath and say for the hundredth time that everything is fine, you are being melodramatic, just shut it off and tomorrow will be better.

 

There is a tomorrow, but there is no better. Everything is fine, but nothing is ever really fine. And you have gotten so good at repeating the mantras of highly effective people and how to be zen and at peace and all that good stuff, you don't even have to talk to anybody. If only you believed it. So you end up writing a diatribe of what you feel, you want to share with the world how debilitating BPD is. You know you should hide it because its stigmatised and painful and it will make everyone think you're weird and society will use this as dirty laundry against you when the time is right. But you do it anyway because in your gut, you know you want to. And you don't care what happens after. This is supposed to be healthy. I am healthy. 2010 is going to be perfect.

 

-

 

You know people will say, Yes it will be! Stay positive! You're fine! Its all good. And you know you'll say, Thanks for the encouragement, you're such a great friend, what would I do without you. And they'll go away happy, thinking they did good, and you will roll your eyes and feel even worse, completely having reinforced the idea that you are, no matter how many people care, still fucking alone. Oh wait, there are two of you. You and you and you and you and you.. and that wretched, wretched disease.

What am I supposed to say when I'm all choked up and you're still okay