TRIGGER WARNING: To all who might be reading this, I just want to take a moment to inform you that I will discussing some things that may be triggers for some. I want to warn you first so that you have a chance to stop reading now. This story is very real to me and something I need to discuss. But I do not want to make anyone worse for reading it. Consider yourself warned.
It’s really hard for me to write anything right now. I want to just shut down and embrace the numbness that I feel inside of me. But I know that I need to write. Even if I don’t really have anything to say. I need to put myself out there. So. Here I am.
It’s three weeks ago today that I sliced up my arm. I have not written an actual post about that night because I still find it very hard to talk about. I have repeated the main storyline multiple times to people in my life. But it is the specifics that are hard for me. But I promised when I began this blog that I would open up my life to the world. The good and the bad. And I need to honor that. To see inside my head is to see constant mess and confusion and doubt. To see inside my heart would be to see nothing but broken pieces and self-hatred. My outward appearance and what I portray to the world is in sharp contrast to the inner turmoil of my reality. I have been asked before, “what are you thinking?”. And if I were to ever answer that question honestly, you would never believe me. My reality is broken. But it is mine. And that is what I need to share.
It is still amazing to me how quickly that night three weeks ago turned into something out of a bad dream. The night started out with so much promise. But I spiraled so quickly and effortlessly. Basically I still can’t believe it happened. I have cut myself numerous times as just a release for emotions. I would rather feel a physical pain then an emotional one. And the physical pain was my release for emotions that I could not quantify or talk about. But the cuts were always (ALWAYS) minor and on my inner thigh. While the concept of suicide has always been an annoying thought in the back of my head, I have never ever allowed myself to get to that point. Even in my darkest moment, I would never allow myself to lose that much control that I felt like that was my only way out. I always knew that tomorrow would be a new day and that it would be better. But on that night, I lost all control. Due to a combination of alcohol, my meds and outside factors, I lost any semblance of control that I had. In every sense of the word, I broke. And I did not care what I did or how it affected anyone. I just plain did not care. I wanted all of the pain inside to finally stop. And I never wanted to be a disappointment to anyone else again. I no longer wanted to be the burden that I felt I was. So when I went to the bathroom and saw my best friend’s haircutting shears, I just started to slice my arm. And I didn’t stop. I didn’t stop until there was so much blood that the smell of it filled my airways. I didn’t stop until everything started to go black.
Today the scars are healing. And I tell everyone that I’m okay. Because essentially, I really do feel okay. It was like the ultimate release. Not that I ever want to go to that place again, nor do I recommend it, but for me it released every buried emotion. I had always been so scared of what would happen if I gave up and lost control. I constantly worried about what would be if I just, for one moment, let everything consume me. And now, I found out. I don’t carry that fear anymore. Because I know. I know what will happen if I lose control. And, essentially, I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to go back to that place. But in that same breath, I also know that I’m not okay. There is so much about me that is not okay. I am broken inside far more than I ever imagined. And all I can do at the moment is just keep living minute to minute. Try my hardest to keep that control that I need. I need to keep fighting against myself because if I let go for even just a moment, I know that I will return to that place. I know the statistics for BPD and suicide. I do not want to be a statistic. I want to be different. I want so badly to be ordinary by society’s standards. But with that, I want to be different when it comes to BPD standards. I have everything negative inside of me. As hard as I try, I cannot change that. The fresh scars on my arm are proof of that. It will forever be lurking inside of me. Just waiting for me to lose control again. But I refuse. Right now all I want to be is just not another statistic. I want to be different while being ordinary. And if anyone can understand that, then maybe you are one step closer to really knowing me.