1. How do you draw lines without crossing them yourself 

Goodbye to the father I never had

Here it is again, that pain. The one I thought I got over. The one that made me cut for the very first time, because I wanted to get rid of his name.

But I looked up into the mirror, blood pulsing, and his eyes were looking back at me. The only thing he gave me, other then pain. 

How is a man supposed to be a father when he isn’t anything at all? Because he never was, and he’s still absent. We thought things had changed, but I guess they hadn’t and I guess they never will.

So tonight as the blood pulses the name away, and the familiar tears sink into my eyes, I’ll remember the manipulation and the hurt. 

And this time I’m going to say goodbye.

I’m wrong most of the time.

Black and white, white and black,

 just so many thoughts I can’t take back. The emotions don’t roll, they run and they swallow. And I run in the opposite direction, and I can’t swallow so spit, and the words they rage out. 

Then I regret. 

Then it starts over

And I’m wrong again

Safe with you

Last night for the first time in awhile my chest rattled with a feeling other than despair

Your hand was pressed against my pillow, and my heart was sitting in your throat. My eyes were stuck in the blue of yours. And for the first time in awhile I was okay. 

The feeling was safe, it’s always safe. When I’m with you, nothing can touch me. Nothing can touch us here. 

And for the first time in awhile it was me and you and nothing more


Though, I don’t normally write blog posts on here (ironic, because it is a blog…) I might be posting a few within the next little while. I want to share my stories, and I want to make you feel less alone. I advocate for mental health, yet I still struggle on the daily. As most advocates do. In my previous blog, I spoke about my struggle with the mental health care system, and my diagnosis with Borderline Personality Disorder. Here, I’m going to go a little more in depth about BPD, and my on going fight with it.

I cycle through emotions daily. My environment greatly affects how I’m feeling. Words, tone of voice, expressions, all of it contribute to my change of emotions. It’s hard and it’s frustrating as hell. Because I cannot control how I feel. I actually can’t. It’s like a tornado, I can see it coming, but I can’t stop it. And it obliterates anything in it’s path. Relationships. I have such a hard time maintaining relationships with people. I’ve lost a lot of friends, and I’ve isolated myself. And a part of me is okay with it, the other part is mad at them, but ultimately I’m mad at myself for being so black and white. There is a switch BPD sufferers have, and it changes from love to hate. Or hate to love. Or it stays on a continual loop of love/hate. So, obviously you can see how that affects my relationships. I also am incredibly sensitive and insecure. I’m a lot to handle. I understand that, which is why I often let relationships fade. I need a push back. If I don’t get that, I’m gone.

“The thing is, I hurt. I hurt deeply these days. And I have for a long time. But something is different lately. Something in me has changed. I’ve become darker. I’ve become more stuck in this feeling of despair. I’m desperate for an out. And I claw for it, or at it. I over medicate, and underestimate. I’ve allowed myself to become isolated, and I can’t stop pushing everyone away. Even him. I can’t allow myself to let him love me, because how could he love me? But I know he does. And it kills me. It kills me how much I love him. And how I can’t change this dark part of me. It kills me that I want to kill me, and that would mean hurting him. I can’t live without him, but I don’t want to live. This ongoing battle is hurting my soul. And it’s hurting everyone around me. So, I smile. I pretend I’m ok, and that everything is getting better.” This is something I wrote when I was feeling poorly. Looking at it when I’m not in that exact frame of mind really shows me the strength BPD has on me.

People with BPD are at high risk for feeling suicidal. The word suicidal has some shame in itself. I hate telling people I am suicidal. It is embarrassing. I don’t know why that is, you know, why do I think that? Is it because I’m being too open, and showing my weakness? I’m unsure. It’s the same with self harming. A lot of it does still have that stigma around it. I mean, people don’t understand that it isn’t attention seeking. Brie Larson’s character in the movie Short Term 12 says it perfectly, “It’s hard to focus on anything else when there is blood coming out of you.” It is the truth. It’s a distraction, a release. And it is a hard habit to kick. Mostly because it’s hard to address and difficult to talk about. I always see positive posts about not judging people because of their scars, but what about fresh wounds? Nobody should judge or be uncomfortable of them either.

I have my black and white side. My dark and light side. The thing is, when I’m dark, I am midnight. And there is no dawn in site. But when I’m light, I’m merely the beginning stages of the sunrise. I’m not completely there. And I might not be there for a long time. I’m okay with that. A part of me is terrified to “get better” because who am I without this? I think that’s the biggest struggle for people in recovery. That’s why relapses happen. But I think that is okay. I can go through periods on the right track, and then crash. But at least I tried, and am still trying. Even though I’ve been close to giving up lately. There’s always something that keeps me going. I’m not sure what it is, but I owe my life to it.





I stained the tub red

I put the blade to my wrist again, for the first time in awhile. It felt good, right. Watching blood drain from my own skin, distracts me from the mess in my head. 

It’s shameful, but it’s hard focusing on much when blood is leaving you. So, again I found myself self soothing in ways that are hardly considered self care. But how can I be kind to me when I hate me?

I just can’t be what everyone wants me to be.It’s simple, all they want is for me to be present, but I’m stuck wavering with ghosts And I’m scared. Scared that he’s leaving. Scared that I’ve pushed him. God knows I’ve pushed everyone else. This makes me float further away, if I’m not here then nobody will need me. If I continue wandering through the empty voids then maybe I’ll disappear all together. And maybe it won’t be such a bad thing.