Last night I broke down. I have a phobia of throwing up or feeling nauseous (emetophobia) and it occasionally gets really severe. It affects what I eat, where I eat, and I have a fear of germs because I’m terrified of getting the stomach flu. Well, last night I surprised my girlfriend by making her dinner. When she was making herself some tea before we went up to bed she discovered that some of the cups that were in the cupboard weren’t clean. I immediately freaked out thinking that I hadn’t run the dishwasher like I thought I had and so I had accidentally put away dirty dishes. One of the dishes had contained raw chicken and so I began panicking that we would get salmonella poisoning. My girlfriend battles with emotional issues of her own and so she got upset with me for freaking out. Which is pretty much the worst reaction you could have to me. It only causes me to freak out more and get angry. I can usually contain my anger pretty well, I’ve become fairly good at it over time. And I know that when I have those surges of emotions they will fade after a while so I just keep it in because I know it’ll eventually go away. But sometimes I lose that battle. Sometimes I just let the emotions overtake me. And I don’t really know it’s happening until it’s over and I look back on it. But in that moment, those emotions are my reality. I can rationalize what I’m feeling. It feels right. We fought over really nothing. But at the moment, I couldn’t hold back my impulsive emotions. My girlfriend eventually left the room and went into the spare room. When someone does something like that, it causes me to panic. I think they’re gonna leave. That they’re never coming back. Doesn’t make sense, I know. Sometimes people just need a little space for a while. I can rationalize that in my brain. But in that moment, my impulses take over. I can’t control my actions. In other words, I freak out. To an extreme. I started yelling things that I knew I did not mean. But I couldn’t stop myself. I went back to my room and grabbed one of my pocket knives and practically had to talk myself out of cutting into my thigh. I guess it’s a triumph that I didn’t give in to my desire to cut. Yeah, that’s great and all. But it took every ounce of energy I had to fight it. I sat there bawling my eyes out and spun the knife in my hand. The coldness of the blade felt amazing against my skin. To be honest, I have been struggling with the desire to cut for the last couple weeks. I want it so bad. What’s wrong with me? I don’t know how I kept myself from doing it. That’s not a triumph to me. That’s not a success. And the worst part about the whole thing? Fifteen minutes later we had reasoned with ourselves and were fine. Just like I knew in the back of my mind we would be. After that initial surge of emotion, I knew everything would be ok. But I can only tell myself that now looking back on it.
But what that moment did is reaffirm to me that I’m still so broken inside. I can sit here and say “Oh the meds have done wonders. My therapy is really helping. I feel great.” But really, I don’t. I’m not okay. I can still find ways to sabotage the relationships in my life. I cause the pain that my rational brain prays that I don’t have. Everything is still just a complete mess inside. The meds just numb me so that I don’t feel it. But it’s still all there. Just lurking, waiting for the opportunity to come out. I am my own worst enemy. And it’s never going to go away. People have told me that I like to play the “victim”. Or that I use my BPD as an “excuse” for my behavior. But I don’t want to be a fucking victim. I don’t want this. And I don’t use my disorder as an excuse. It just us what it is. I try so hard to be normal, but I don’t even know what that means anymore. No one understands. No one. And I don’t know how to explain it any better than I already have. I never really thought about how numb I feel. I just think that being numb is so much better than feeling too much. Because, well, it is. This is better than what I was six months ago. But I’m not better. Not even a little bit. It’s just a lie to myself. Everything is still there inside. I’m still the same person I was six months ago. Broken as ever. Fuck.