Tag Archives: rage

nothing is ordinary.

I guess it’s about time I talk about some of the stuff in my life. I’m not yet ready to talk about my own health issues that I am currently dealing with. I feel like putting them out in the open would make it more real. And I’m not ready for that. Yet. So I will pick another topic that has been buried inside me for the last two weeks. I feel like it is eating me alive. And maybe, I hope, that getting it out will help me deal with some of the emotions. Quantify them. Break them open into the sunlight.

I have had thoughts of killing myself for more years than I can count. It is a known feeling to me. It is not out of the ordinary and I have come to know the feeling well. But I have never known the feeling of wanting to kill someone else. Now, please, understand I do not mean that in an absolute literal sense. You do not need to call the police or think that you will see me end up on the nightly news. But, hear me out. These emotions are new to me and I am struggling to find the words for them.

I guess I should start from the beginning. In a story that is not truly mine to tell, but I am a character in nonetheless. I am not a central figure, which is why I have never written about it. But it has become a part of my life and something that can, at times, consume me. As my emotions are not always my own. I’m sorry if this is going to end up being a long post. But I feel I need to get all of this out. Maybe in order for anyone who is reading this to truly understand. Maybe so that I can understand as well where these emotions come from.

The story, well, it probably starts when I was a kid. And my sister first entered my life. I was 8 years old and she was 6. Our mothers became best friends and, in turn, we became family. I have been protective of her from the beginning. I have always fiercely defended her. When I was 10, I punched a 12 year old boy because he would not stop making fun of her, even after I asked him to stop. I have never fought for myself. But I have always fought for her. Always.

Now that you understand that I can jump ahead quite a bit. My nephew’s father was a highly immature man and so he left the picture when Austin was only six months old. Which, in all honesty, was for the best. But as a fairly young mother, my sister was terrified of being a single parent. And so the first man that came into her life, she clung to him as if her life depended on it. In the beginning, I had no real issues with Adam. He was good with Austin and seemed to believe in the concept of family that we had. I didn’t have a good feeling when I was around him, but I chalked that up to me just being protective of my sister and not wanting her to settle for less than she deserved. Adam was quite a bit older than her and had a really good job so I went along with it because she seemed to be happy. At first.

Adam and my sister rushed their relationship fairly quickly and, within a year, they were married. There was just something about Adam that none of us liked, but we put up with it because he seemed to be what my sister wanted. Then, slowly, all of the truth about him came tumbling out. Finding its way to the surface for all of us to see. He was an alcoholic. He was addicted to gambling. He was emotionally abusive. He was controlling. He had nothing to his name, even though he had a six figure income. He hated us. All of it came to light. Slowly, then all at once we began to see him for what he truly was.

I can’t even count how many times I have received calls from my sister in the middle of the night. Hearing her cry breaks my heart. Every single time. I have had to go pick up her and the kids in the middle of the night so that they could get a night of peace at my house. I have held her as she cried. I have listened to her pour her heart out. I have seen the fear in her eyes. The words unsaid in what she does tell me. There have been countless threats of her leaving him. Of her wanting to break free. Of her wanting to get out. At one point she actually did leave him for a couple of months. And during that time, she became the person that I remember her being. Because that was the other thing, while she has been with Adam she has become someone different. Submissive. Dependent. For lack of another word, a victim. But when she left him, I saw some of her independence coming back. Her motivation to have a better life. But it was only short lived. She wanted to give her marriage “one more chance”. And so she returned to him. About a month later she got pregnant with my niece. And that’s when things really went downhill.

My sister then felt that she was “stuck” as she now had another child to feed. And she was completely dependent on Adam. And he, in turn, became even more controlling. The situation became even more of a nightmare.

A month ago there was yet another huge fight and we thought that this would finally be it. That my sister would finally leave. But, yet again, she said that she wanted to give it one more chance. She told me that she needed to know that she did everything she could to make her marriage work. That she wanted no regrets. And so all I could do was tell her that I would support her. But in my gut, I had a bad feeling. I get those sometimes. Just really bad feelings. And I never know where they come from. But they’re there. And I only know afterwards why. And I know now.

A week and a half ago, just as I was getting ready for bed, I noticed that I had four missed calls from my sister. Never a good sign. But it is also something I have become used to as she will do that when they get into a fight. So I called her back a couple of times, but she didn’t answer. I started getting really worried. I called one more time. She answered. Through tears she told me that she would need to call me back as she was with the police. My heart started racing. My adrenaline pumping. Fear raging through my mind. Was she ok? Were the kids ok? What the hell was going on?

She finally called me back. Adam finally crossed the line that I was hoping would never be crossed. To be perfectly frank, he beat the shit out of her. Mostly in the face. Punched her at least ten times. And attempted to strangle her. She was attempting to leave. And he finally did it. He finally had nothing more to lose. And he crossed that final line between emotional abuse and physical abuse.

So here’s where my emotions come in. I want to kill him. No, I’m not going to. But I have so much hate towards him that I can’t even think about it because I can’t control the feeling. Like I said at the beginning, I have always protected her. With no regard for myself. But this, this I could never protect her from. Over the last three years I have listened to her. Tried to give her advice. Tried to get her to see the truth of her situation. But as I looked at the bruises on her face, the bruises on her neck, her eyes almost completely swollen shut, none of that mattered. I had to walk into a back room and close the door so she could not see or hear me break down crying. I have known heartbreak before. But nothing like this. To see her so damaged and broken, it broke me. I could not stop this. And so the emotions course through me. And when I try and think about them, to break them down into their components, I find that I can’t. There is just too much. I have never known anger like this. I am not naturally an angry person. But this, this is something else entirely. I know anyone would have trouble if they were faced with this. But me, I can’t control the emotions. The rage. The hate. The pain. The sadness. It’s all a mess inside. And nothing about this is ordinary.


walking contradiction.

“When you go through the valley. And shadow comes down from the hill. If morning never comes to be. Be still, be still, be still. If you forget the way to go. And lose where you came from. If no one is standing beside you. Be still and know I am.”

“But I will hold on hope. And I won’t let you choke. On the noose around your neck. And I’ll find strength in pain. And I will change my ways. I’ll know my name as it’s called again…So make your sirens call. And sing all you want. I will not hear what you have to say. Cause I need freedom now. And I need to know how to live my life as it’s meant to be.”

Lyrics to my life. Music is my escape. The beat that can put words to my emotions like nothing else can. I am a laid back personality type trapped in the broken life of a person suffering from borderline personality disorder. For most aspects of my life, I take trials and failure with a grain of salt. I try to take the high road in dealing with people. I have never sought to be immature when faced with difficult situations. When my ex left me with just a note on the computer, never returning to discuss the end of our relationship, I never exploded in anger. I never sent passive-aggressive texts. I never sought to fight for my honor as most of my family wanted me to. I never called her out on all of her lies. I simply let her walk. I let her go. In the majority of my life, I am the calm one. The one who sits in the background and enjoys good conversation. I like talking about the difficult topics that most people avoid. Religion. Politics. I try to understand differing points of view so that I can better understand my view on things. I change. I have been changed by factors that I cannot control. I seek to make my life better. I am a happy person with one of the most laidback attitudes you will ever meet. I am a walking contradiction. I view my world through a lens of my own making. When faced with rejection, even if it is a faction that I have created in my own mind, I break. I fight. I burst out in irrational rage. I survive with an unlimited amount of guilt. I fight to take it all back. I am impulsive. I can be responsible. I can be wreckless. I try to keep everything inside of me so that I can keep those dark parts of me hidden. I fail. I wear my heart on my sleeve. At the core, I don’t know who I am. Or what I am intended to be. I try to be what I want to be. But BPD changes me in ways that I will never be able to fully understand. Or change. I react differently than anyone else I know. I have studied my disorder. I have studied myself. I self-reflect every second of my day. But I will never be able to truly understand what I am made of. What resides in the core of me. I am an enigma wrapped in a mystery. A lost soul wandering in the dark. I am laidback. I am impulsive. I am happy. I pretend to be happy. I care too much. I don’t care enough. I am a good person. I am what I want the world to think I am. A walking contradiction.


last night. *caution: may be triggering*

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.


backwards.

Sometimes I get so frustrated.  It’s like I take two steps forward, only to take those same steps back.  As good as I think I’m doing, there’s always a day that messes up the flow.  Today, the anxiety has been relentless.  I feel like I can’t breathe.  And at the same time, I feel like I’m gonna just crawl out of my skin.  It’s so hard to explain that feeling.  Whenever it comes over me, I find myself tightening my fists, tightening every part of my body that I can.  Just to try to get that extreme feeling out.  I don’t know.  Perhaps no one can understand what I’m talking about.  But when it comes over me, I hate it.  There is nothing pleasant about it.  I want to cry.  I want to scream.  I want to curl into a ball and stay that way.  I want to punch a hole in the wall.  I want to slice open my arm, just to feel the pain.  I want to do all of those things, all at the same time.  And the worst part about these days, there’s nothing that caused it.  Most of the time, my mood is directly related to the environment that I’m in.  There is cause and effect.  And I know exactly where my emotions are coming from and I either ride them out or try to rationalize to myself so I can maintain control of myself.  But then there are days like today where it just seems to come out of nowhere.  There was nothing to cause this.  But yet here I am.  And these are the moments where I feel the most alone.  Because I try to keep so much inside.  I don’t want people to know just how close I am to the edge. I keep retracing the scars on my arm over and over and over.  Thoughts race.  I remember.  I remember that moment.  I am faltering.  The abyss is staring back at me.  Please don’t let me jump.