Tuesday, December 13, 2016

A Day With BPD

It felt as if my heart were in a vice; with every breath my chest grew tighter and tighter. I was exhausted, both from lack of sleep and emotional strain. Too tired to attempt to hide the infinite sadness that I was feeling. Smiling felt so forced, so fake and I couldn't manage the effort to make it seem genuine. "Get over it," I thought to myself, "Just stop it. You're being dramatic. Just stop it." I tried convincing myself that it was all for attention, that if I really wanted it, I could stop this feeling and just get on with my day. My head ached with pressure as if I had been crying all night. It reminded me of when I was a child and I wouldn't get my way. I would cry and cry until it hurt too badly to cry anymore and I'd fall asleep, waking up to a feeling of regret and embarrassment.

My rational mind searched for reason, it raced with the events of yesterday that still lingered, making me relive each one over and over. The subtle infliction in someone's voice causing a dismal inferiority to set in, the feeling of judgement, the paranoia that my character was being sullied by a deceptive opportunist and then the terrible sadness when I tell myself these are the symptoms rearing their ugly heads. My inner self pleads with me, "No! You're right! You're feelings are valid!" I thought back, back to the times when I trusted myself, before the gaslighting and self doubt overcame me. I thought of the times I was right, when premonitions were forewarnings and my conviction never faltered because it had validity. I envisioned myself reaching into the darkness and grasping to what little bit of my truth was left, trying to keep it from dissolving any further.

Competing commentaries filled my inner dialogues, depleting what was left of me until my mind gave in and shut down. The infighting was too much, frailty overwhelmed me. In my defeat, I felt ashamed. Ashamed that I wasn't a stronger person, that over the years I had lost the willingness to fight for my well-being. In that moment, I no longer saw in myself someone worth championing for. The avocation no longer came so easily, or at all.

Hours later I finally start to feel back to normal. All those bad feeling begin to fade and by the next day it's like I'm reading words written by someone else. As I read them over and over a sense of remembrance, yes those were my words. Those were my feelings. The tightness, the sadness, all of it too familiar. I don't want to have those days but I do; they are a part of me that I can never release. No amount of medication or therapy will stop them from coming. I can only take solace in the fact that there is a tomorrow and maybe tomorrow will be better.

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