Borderline Love

Source: theincompletechronicleI learnt far too late in life that the way we individually experience romantic love is not necessarily how anyone else feels it. Discovering this legitimately confused and shocked me. It has changed the way I now view my past relationships, and has made me much more cautious moving forward with future ones. In truth, I really should have figured it out sooner. I understood that the way we experience other emotions varies dramatically, but for some reason I hadn’t quite gotten there with love. I always believed that the level of intensity I felt while falling, or in love, was naturally reciprocal. That if my heart lights up like a thousands suns when you walk in a room, and longs so painfully for you when you walk away, surely something so intense cannot be felt alone? But the more I’m learning about my emotions and mental health, the more convinced I become that in fact, nobody has ever loved me at the intensity that I have loved them. And that’s not coming out of modesty or self-deprecation. I say that from a place of discovery, that perhaps my version of love is not quite healthy, and is certainly not the norm.

Image result for sexy french depressionAs someone with maladaptive personality traits I tend to experience the world at a much higher emotional intensity than the average bear. I used to call the way I romanticised, obsessed, and wallowed in heartache; passionate. I would think of myself as some kind of sexy, fiery Latina (think Salma Hayek), whose temper just enhances her charm. Whereas in actual fact I think I’m more of the psychotic, murders-you-in-your-sleep type; Erika Christensen in ‘Swimfan’ style (circa 2002. That’s as up to date as my references get).  However, in order to grow I believe I need to be more honest with myself. Ew.

T shirt for MoriartyI’ve heard other people with Borderline Personality Disorder describe their experience of living with the condition as feeling as though they are walking around with third degree burns. This isn’t in relation to physical pain, but rather that they feel emotionally raw, sensitive, wounded, and exposed 24/7. This I can relate to. I rarely experience a healthy balance of emotions. I don’t experience sadness; I skip ahead to debilitating despair. Anger becomes a storm of uncontrollable rage and aggression. Happiness is overtaken by euphoric mania, and love…love becomes an all-consuming obsession.

Afternoon Imagination

Having lived with the condition of “love”, and the disease of addiction, I can honestly say that for me, there is no more powerful drug on planet earth than love. I am a hard-core addict when it comes to falling in love. And just like drug addiction, it is so deliciously moreish, but quickly becomes painful, messy, and completely overpowering. When in love, I have no self-control. I can’t function effectively in daily life, I can’t concentrate for long periods, and I am rarely content. It is simultaneously way too much, and never enough. It’s truly a horrible mess, but fuck me, is it good.

Yummy❣️ @SssyGrlyI acknowledge that perhaps I do not know what “true love” is, and sadly, perhaps I will never know the calm, peaceful version of love that I see those around me enjoy. This thought truly devastates me. But whenever that crosses my mind I just come back to the knowledge that we all experience love differently, both personally and throughout different periods of our lives. I believe that young children who experience, what we adults like to diminish by calling “puppy love”, to be their true experience of love. I believe unrequited love to be just as real as reciprocal love. And I believe that my obsessive, intense, and often difficult experience of love to be valid, if uncommon.

After all it’s just a word. Love. A word we have attached meaning to based on the amount of Hollywood rom-com’s we have watched, or the way in which our parents showed love, or how it felt the first time you heard that one Jewel song that broke you into a million pieces. It’s just one tiny, little, insignificant, life-changing, ball-breaking, mother fucker of a word.

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Love is patient, love is kind…”, is never going to be my mantra. If I am to be brutally honest with myself, I’m more like Lennie from ‘Of Mice and Men’ (another topical reference for you). Suffocating and smothering, stuck to you like a barnacle, in the hopes that the tighter I cling on, the more you will love me back. Unfortunately, like  Lennie and his overwhelming love for his adorable little puppies, who’s little necks were not quite strong enough for his overpowering love and affection; my love ultimately creates more heartache than it’s worth.

İlk görüşte Aşk olması halinde camı kırın

Love has always felt this way to me. From crushes I clung onto with painful longing for six years throughout high school, to men whom I would fall in love at first glance with from across the bar, to long-distance relationships that crossed land and sea. Whether or not someone became significant in my life, it has always begun at lightning speed and hit me like a tonne of bricks. I fall hard and fast. To quote Rhianna, “I’m 0-60 in 3.5”. I don’t know, it’s some kind of fast car metaphor. Just go with it!

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Falling in love with my ex was an unbearably agonising, intensely beautiful, irresistibly mesmerising experience. He was the only person I have ever loved that started as a comforting whisper, rather than a glass shattering SCREECH! Possibly because deep down I knew he wasn’t right for me, or perhaps because it was the most “real” experience of love I’ve had to date, and good things take time. Who’s to say? In any case, falling took a little longer but eventually crept up on me, hitting 10 X harder than ever before. The Kerouac-esk roman candles erupted inside of my heart, brain, and body simultaneously and, shit, I was in love.

#wallpaper #tom #tomandjerry #vintage #edit #filter #iphone #love #eyes #cartoon #fade #cute #sad #meme #mood

Back when I was young, and cared what impression I made on people, I was much better at pretending I wasn’t psychotic. I could stare wistfully at the man of my affections with love in my eyes, and hide the excruciating urge to wrap my arms and legs around him, forcing him to wear me everywhere like a human backpack. My ex and I were as close as two people could physically and emotionally be, but I was still craving more. Always more. It really was like an addict chasing after that first blissful high. I remember constantly wanting to be closer to him. Needing to be closer. Our bodies intertwined, skin to skin, so closely I could feel his heartbeat. Completely open to each other with full vulnerability, completely and utterly absorbed in our individual experience of love, and yet, all I could think about was how sad it was that this was as close as it would ever be. I could feel the love bursting from every cell of my body, but it wasn’t enough because we were still individuals. I genuinely lamented the fact we weren’t puddles of water that could just melt into one another and become inextricably merged forever. That’s truly mental isn’t it? It’s ridiculous seeing your emotions played out in words, because you undoubtedly sound like an angsty teenager writing def poetry, but that is honestly how I felt. I wonder if I’ll ever feel like that again. Part of me so badly hopes I do, but the other half of me is more content without the blurred lines of loving and needing someone in such an extreme way.

With you alwaysNow that I have been single for almost three years, I can reliably say I am a much more content, balanced version of myself when I am alone. I wish I could resign myself to a life of solitude. Purely celebrating friendships (which inexplicably I’m not bad at maintaining), connecting to people through writing and music, laughing with strangers, and occasionally having wild and/or simple casual sex. But I can’t. For better or worse (till death do us part), I believe in love. I adore love. J’adore l’amour! The more I write, the more I find myself exploring the different layers, colours, and textures of love. I find it so endlessly fascinating, and equal parts euphoria inducing and excruciatingly painful.

I believe that the meaning of life (if we simply must have one), is to love and be loved. To that I can hear my psych in my head saying earnestly, “Yes, to love oneself.”. Of course my adult brain knows she is right, that my life would be so much gentler if I put as much energy into loving myself as I do others. However, that is a life-times worth of work, so why not explore the world of lovely, fascinating, crazy, beautiful characters, as a parallel passion project? Falling in love and ultimately breaking my own heart, repetitively… until I die. On second thought maybe I… be right back, *calls therapist*. Help.

Jealousy Quotes : QUOTATION – Image : Quotes Of the day – Description La jalousie / Jealousy (2013) Sharing is Power – Don’t forget to share this quote !At the end of the day our lives are just stories. It’s just art being played out in real time, and that is both stunningly beautiful, and heartbreakingly tragic. At least that is how my dissociative brain views the world. It is almost like looking down a camera lens, and back at your own life (think ‘The Truman Show’). So as pretentious as I know this sounds, it really is how a lot of borderlines or DID’s (dissociative identity disorder) experience life. This in itself can be a catalyst for intense behaviour and acting out. As a child I remember always feeling like I needed to “put on a good show!”, without ever knowing who I was performing for or why. I suspect I was trying to make sense of the dissociative ‘camera in my head’. I think that is partly why I love, and generally feel with such intensity. I struggle to be comfortable within the natural experience of love, because for the most part, love is quiet. It is peaceful and calm, which is beautiful, but doesn’t really ‘play’ well on screen. I do wonder if growing up feeling that strong sense of performance in daily life has effected me more than I know. That’s not to say any acting out is a conscious choice. The anxiety triggered by the fear of abandonment is a major driver for volatility in love. I’m just musing.

LanaQuote is a tumblr blog dedicated to Lana Del Rey. We specially post Lana Del Rey's quotes and...I am trying to learn to find comfort in the more serene parts of relationship, but as someone who has endured a lifetime of being guided by emotions, and believed that the more extreme the reaction, the more intense the love, this is a work in progress.

Anyway, how hard can it be? Love. After all, it’s just a simple, four letter, harmless, little word…

 

 

 

“Gramma” – Lizzie Grant, AKA Lana Del Rey

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

A.M.E.R.I.C.A.
All I wanna do is play
See the city every day
Pretty party nation

Tell me that you think I’m good
Happy that I make you glad

‘Cause I don’t wanna think I’m bad, Gramma
I don’t wanna think I’m bad

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

T.R.O.U.B.L.E.
Trouble’s what feels good to me
Crazy as since I was three
Now I’m out to get you

But I’d have bet that lately, Ma
And I’m in love with everyone
And I don’t wanna think I’m wrong
Just for feeling pretty

Gramma said she’ll leave the lights on for me
Gramma said the flags are waving for me
Gramma said that somewhere out there there’s a good man
Waiting for me

I wanna be the whole world’s girl, gramma
I wanna be the whole world’s girl
I wanna be the whole world’s girl, gramma

Tell me, do you think that’s wrong?

Don’t cry, honey, crazy girl
Don’t you know you are the world?
Every time you feel unsure
Try to remember what you are

 

The Invisible People

 

I like people who have survived or are surviving. I like people who are open with their vulnerabilities, “failures”, and desperation. I like those that despite the protective layers of armour they have built up around them, their heart still bursts free of their chest like a child that has yet to be hurt. Because when you have been forced to survive against all odds, you truly understand the value of even the smallest expressions of love. It’s not that you will always be able to offer it. In fact, in times of survival, when your tap is completely run dry, sometimes all you can do is take from others. The times I’ve been in survival mode have been some of the most selfish and needy of my life. But that is when you learn the value of a kind face, or a helpful gesture. When you feel completely alone in the world it means everything for someone to see you and not overt their eyes, despite how ugly survival may make you. And I’ve been real ugly.

 I call us, ‘the invisible people’. We are the people society either shuns intentionally or simply forgets. The elderly; tucked quietly away in homes. The epitome of “out of sight, out of mind.”. The homeless; who are almost the polar opposite. They are in your face at the station where you get off for work, they interrupt your night out asking for money so that they might eat, or god forbid, spend it on drugs to feel good for a few minutes. These people are not hidden, but they are not seen. I’m not sure which is worse. I get along with criminals and people who live on the fringe of society. It’s so easy to demonise something we don’t understand but if you have really had to survive. I mean, fight for your own life, or that of your families’, not just for a day, but day in, day out, year after year; it’s much easier to have compassion for those that ‘break the rules’ in order to survive. People with chronic or long-term illnesses are similar to the elderly. Friends will come and offer support at first, but as they start to realise that you are not getting better, and this is a life-long adjustment, it becomes boring. It’s human nature to shy away from situations that make us feel helpless, and being with a chronically sick person usually highlights that helplessness in us. But it means that many of us with chronic illness become more and more isolated, depressed and of course, invisible.

 The final semester of my degree (2016) was probably the worst time of my life. I almost didn’t return, and in hindsight it was probably too soon to be back. The short version is this; my relationship of 7-years had ended hideously, against my choosing. I’d watched my best friend deteriorate rapidly from brain cancer and subsequently pass away. And my father had died unexpectedly in the Middle East, from circumstances I still find suspicious. This was all in the space of about 5 months. I think that would be enough to make anyone snap but add to that my crippling co-dependency, co-morbid mental and physical illnesses, and the fact that I was now living alone for the first time in my entire life; I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I cried so much I didn’t even know where the tears were coming from anymore. The breaking of my heart was a physical searing in my chest, and convulsive gripping in my gut, that I was convinced would kill me. I truly believed I would die of a broken heart, and I am now sure that is possible. Every second I was awake I either had a drink in my hand, a line up my nose, or a pill down my throat. On a “good” day, all three. But I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to sleep through the grief and wake up when it was done…or just never wake up. Either way, I honestly didn’t care. I was not coping, but despite myself I was going to survive.

stoned-in-parisAnd survive I did… by any means. The means of which I chose was drugs and alcohol. Never one to do anything by halves, I did not hold back. Due to an extensive spinal surgery I had in my early 20’s, I had a fairly regular supply of grade-A opiates on hand at any one time. It was a small problem, but manageable, right up until life wasn’t. And therein lies the Cliff’s Notes version of many a drug addict before me. Recreational drug use + ugly bump in life (maybe throw in a mental health issue as well, just for that extra oomph), = full blown addiction in rapid speed. RDU+UB=A². Look dad, I mathed!

Now I'm fucking falling apart and can't fucking breatheWithin three months I went from almost completely weening myself off the opiate pain killers, to getting withdrawal sweats if I didn’t shove something into my nose, mouth or eyeballs in the space of half an hour. Okay, I wasn’t quite at eyeball level. See, there is always further to fall kids! Of course I don’t endorse this as a survival method, but it cannot be denied that without drugs, I wouldn’t be here to tell the tale. Yes, they fucked up my life and health in many ways that will never return to their previous state, but in terms of short-term survival, many days they were the only reason I woke up. Wake up, rack up, snort line, survive (not a bad song lyric actually. Although if you ask 90’s Eminem it probably already is one). This little process would repeat until the day was done or I mercifully passed out. Passing out was the preferred option because then I would get a break from crying, aching, and life-ing.

Freaks • 1932God, I was just so sad. I can’t describe the grief. There aren’t enough sad words in the English language to explain that kind of heartache. Broken. Shattered. Empty. Anguished. Despaired. Tortured. Grief-stricken. Lonely. So fucking lonely. Lost. Agonised. Tormented. Alone. Desperate. Pained. Suicidal.
Put them all together and we are inching closer. I’ve never felt like that before. It was depression, but this was no ordinary depression. This was, end-it-all depression, and it lasted a long time at that intensity. Two and a half years long. So as ugly as I was, and as ugly as the drugs made me, I am grateful for them. They are just one tiny part of my recovery puzzle, but they aided in saving my life.

ViomilaOne of the reasons I resonate so strongly with vagrants, loonies, junkies, and criminals (all said with multitudes of love and affection), is because the only difference I see between myself and them is that I had a supportive family who had the funds, will, and patience to aid in my healing. That is not to be underestimated. There was a moment when my brother dropped everything and drove me to the mental hospital (or as I like to call it; the loonie bin). My insurance didn’t cover my stay there and I had to decide if I wanted to pay the $2500 for a short one week stay, or go spend that same amount of money on street drugs. Two things happened here; 1. If I had been alone I would’ve left, given up on myself and bought the drugs, but I had my brother there to encourage me to better myself. 2. I had the savings in my bank account to pay for the stay. That is a luxury not afforded to many. I may have been a fucking heartbroken, suicidal, junkie, but in that moment, there was no denying I was lucky.

Ladies don't kill, they merely just...interrogate and take away the non-gentleman's breath.

It’s accepted knowledge that people with mental illness are far more likely to develop drug abuse issues, end up involved in crime, in prisons, or living on the streets. Well, I’ve almost got as many mental illnesses as I do fingers, and I was quickly becoming a full blown addict. I was also full of rage, and I was suicidal; meaning I didn’t give a toss about the consequences of my actions. That’s a dangerous combination that could’ve easily lead me to make a seriously misguided decision and ruin the rest of my life.

That's not very nice, now is it?
The grief in me was surfacing as rage. I didn’t know I could be so angry. It was like there was a flame alight inside of me, charring and scolding me from the inside out. I didn’t understand how everyone was walking around so contently while I was on fire in front of them. How could they leave me to burn alive like this! Couldn’t they see I needed their help? I hated them for not seeing it. For not seeing me. My mind was full of violence toward myself and others. But, even though I had given up on everyone, there were still enough people and structures in place that hadn’t yet given up on me.

All-DarksMy psychologist talked me out of ruining my own life on a weekly basis, I had a psychiatrist monitoring my medication, a GP I trusted, and a warm, comforting home to go back to with a loving, if exhausted, family. My mum and brother are my heroes, and I will never forget the last correspondence I ever received from my father. I’d emailed him in the Middle East to let him know I was in the psycho ward (a place I actually remember fondly; a story for another day perhaps). I was unsure how he would respond but he simply replied, “If you had a broken ankle you would be in hospital to mend that too. You are doing the right thing.”. My dad wasn’t always the best with words growing up, but those are some pretty great ones to go out on. Thanks dad.

I was one of the lucky ones. A lot of the people I met who were living on the street could not say the same.

I could no longer relate to anyone at my university. These chipper, healthy, studious, young woman who had goals and dreams to be successful health practitioners (nutritionists) and practiced what they preached. I wore a white coat in the clinic that mocked me as I smoked cigarettes around the back by the bins, and downed my 10th cup of coffee of the day. I was a fucking fraud. My only goal was to get to the end of each day so I could go to the train station liquor store, drink cask wine on the ride home, pass out, and start again in the morning. I related to the men and woman sleeping rough outside the station. We’d smoke together, talk shit and share my lunch. After my dad died I even started filling the pockets of his old jackets with snacks or sanitary products, and handing them out to people in need on cold mornings. I guess I hoped that if I showed someone a small token of love, that maybe it would come back to me. I knew how much I needed it and I didn’t want anyone else to feel as invisible and worthless as I did.

Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt season 3There was a selfish element to it, of course. I saw them, they saw me. It was nice. They saw good in me at a time in my life where everyone else thought I was misguided, pathetic and dark. These connections were incredibly important to me. These people who I saw for a quick cigarette in the morning before rushing off to class, were my friends. They were the people I connected to and I looked forward to seeing each day. They didn’t worry about me like the rest of the world. They had their own shit to worry about. But we appreciated each other in the moment and that was enough. That time in my life was horribly depressing and I’m so relieved to say I have finally turned a corner on it. However, it really helped me learn to be less judgmental, and that every single person has something worthwhile to offer if you are willing to be open to receiving.

… Even that one schizophrenic dude who I was having a perfectly pleasant chat with, until he started earnestly describing how he had just tried to steal a gun from a policeman because the invisible aliens were coming to capture him. I mean they could’ve been, what do I know? They were invisible after all! Ah, what a rare treat he was.*

Image result for e coronaI’m by no means perfectly healed. I didn’t “see the light” and transform myself into a content, clean-living, angelic specimen. LOL! The grief is at a manageable level most of the time now, but of course I still get debilitating waves where I feel my heart crushing in my chest. I still live with chronic mental and physical illness, which naturally brings me down (or up if I’m on a manic swing!). I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not special by any means. Which is great news, because it means that anyone can survive. There was no grit or determination involved. I had nothing left to “fight” with. It was pure endurance. I endured life for as long as it took to survive, and from this place of survival I am now able to work on building a life where I can thrive. I wish I had more advice, as I had desperately wished someone had had for me, but all I can do is leave you with one more quote from my late father, “Just put one foot in front of the other.”. What he meant by this was that as long as we keep moving, no matter how slowly, we will end up somewhere else. Somewhere in the direction of where we want our lives to go. With that I’m learning to enjoy the process over the end goal, and I’ve walked myself out of hell on earth. I am not special. I just survived.

Image result for just keep swimming

*No policeman were harmed in the making of this blog.

 

Life on the Borderline: living with BPD

The other day my favourite human sent me, what was for him, a really simple, throw-away text message. We were texting back and forth for hours, as we do, while simultaneously bingeing on some trashy Bravo T.V. goodness (#lifegoals). Lisa Rinna -I made a comment about the most recent idiotic/impulsive decision I had made and after thorough personal analysis (hours of obsessive torment), I concluded it was probably driven by the total lack of emotional regulation that comes from my, oh! so convincing and always ‘interesting’; borderline personality disorder (BPD). If only blaming all my troubles on mental illness stood up in a court of law… ho hum! It is unfortunate, but the only mental illness I am still worried about being stigmatised for is BPD. So naturally, I must write about it. I have been told that many doctors refuse to treat it as they see it as a hopeless case. I’ve been marked as an ‘un-dateable’, being told “I can deal with the bipolar but NOT BPD!”.  And honestly… I get it. The perception of the condition is that of a selfish, manipulative, highly sensitive, suffocatingly needy, soul-sucking-dementor and quite frankly, that image isn’t entirely wrong (except in my case I tend to feed on the human heart, as opposed to souls. Just a personal preference). It doesn’t matter how I dress up or rationalise my volatile outbursts or ‘irrational’ behaviours (but by golly I’ll try!); like how they stem from issues of abandonment rooted in childhood, or how I can justify the fact that my ‘positive’ emotions are just as strong as the ones that make me act out. Meaning my capacity for love is so great that Romeo and Juliette would pale by comparison! It’s irrelevant, because at the end of the day, I am erratic and unpredictable and that makes people uncomfortable. To 8F4F915C-A13E-4920-94C9-87C80080BB78quote Rhianna, I can go from “zero to sixty in 3.5” and it freaks people the fuck out! I prefer to think of myself as an acquired taste, like foie gras or that fish that will poison you to death if you eat the wrong piece…but mostly it just means I am seen as rather off-putting, dangerous and unnecessarily over-the-top. So, when my bestie casually text me saying “Your BPD is my favourite thing about you.”, the kid got me shook! I don’t think I had ever felt so completely accepted by anyone in my entire life. Okay, I’ll level with you, there’s no denying he is a total fucking weirdo himself, but hey, all the best people are…

You're My Favourite Mistake (Blue) Limited Edition Print, Rebecca Maso – CultureLabel

I’m an open book. If you’ve read any of my blogs you know that I ain’t holding back, but when it comes to my relationships with people, I won’t lie, it’s difficult. I’m difficult. I have many acquaintances and very few close friends. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a riot for a night out! Take me to a party and I will own that shit! Jokes are on fire, I’m looking tight, charm-factor is turnt up, I know how to use words like turnt and lit. For a night of debauchery and fun, I’m your girl! But, as the trail of ex-boyfriends I’ve left behind will attest to, I’m hard work long-term. “Exhausting” is a word I’ve heard a lot. In fact, this isn’t easy to write, as the majority of my brain glitches stem from my intense fear of abandonment. There is the rational fear that reading this could potentially push the few people I hold dear away and prevent me from becoming closer to others. But as someone who knows what it feels like to carry the burden of BPD, I think it’s important to be assured that we are not alone and we are loveable. There are other weirdos out there just like you, who will understand you and see your ‘flaws’ as your greatest superpowers! On a completely unrelated note: PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME! I LOVE YOU! I’LL LOVE YOU TO DEATH!

Love me | neon

If you’re unfamiliar with BPD, a quick google search is sure to scare your thong right off (if I haven’t done that already). But unless you are a truly extreme case, it tends to blend so fluidly into our personalities that we are often simply seen as sorta kooky, dramatic and highly sensitive. The creative type, if you will. As the child of a very charismatic drama teacher and an aspiring thespian in my own right, this worked in my favour a lot of the time. maconmesmileIn primary school my music teacher labelled me “the girl of a thousand faces!”, because I was a different person everyday. Nowadays, I’m pretty sure there is medication for that… However, as much as I could hide my constant need for validation and acceptance as a desire for the performing arts and stage, I couldn’t hide the fact I was still a little odd-ball. Being a sensitive child who showed vulnerability and reacted to said bullying, oh man, I was Christmas, New Years and Hanukah all in one convenient package for a kid with a chip on his or her shoulder! It was like I wore a florescent sign on my head that constantly flashed “if poked, will cry!” and boy did they poke this bear.

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As a kid I was told I was too sensitive, a “drama queen”, or an attention-seeker on a daily basis, both by other children and teachers. I incessantly heard that others felt they were “walking on eggshells around me”. That’s always been a comment that has bothered me. As a kid with limited processing resources (shit, as an adult with limited resources!), all I heard was “your reaction to this event is over-the-top and therefore wrong”. This is a really scary feeling as a child because all we have to process the world is what we are taught and what we feel. But, no one is really taught feelings (or if they are, I missed that class). So there I was, already upset about said ‘event’ (lets say someone threw an orange rind at my head and I felt picked on), but then I start to cry or yell at the perpetrator and I’m told to “get over it” because it’s just an orange rind and I’m “overreacting”. But wait, now I’m confused because to me this reaction feels totally justified!? So now I am doubly upset because not only was I upset about feeling targeted but I’ve just been told that my feelings are wrong. Only now I can’t let it show that I’m upset or stand up for myself, because I’ve just learned that those feelings are invalid. So I end up suppressing my humiliation and confusion until it is no longer possible and it blows up in the next persons face who does or says something slightly off colour to me, causing the cycle to continue. She was not fragile like a flower; she was fragile like a bomb.As a child it is frustrating. As an adult it feels like gas-lighting. But as a bonifide mental person it causes either and implosion or explosion of emotions as I attempt to figure out how to react. What is a “normal” response to this? What is justified? Will I end up gas-lighting myself and allow myself to be walked over for fear of a disproportionate reaction? Oops, decisions times up, BLAM!!! This process essentially repeated itself for the next 20 years to varying degrees of intensity, until I became the all-too cliché substance-abusing, in-and-out of psych wards, unemployed, pushing-30 and perpetually-single (but still highly attractive in that Angelina-Jolie-in-Girl-Interrupted-type-way), gal you see before you! C’mon fellas! Put a baby in me!

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Basically, this very basic example taught me that I ‘lifed’ wrong. That I was wrong. It meant that for the rest of my life I would never feel like I “fit in” which would flip/flop me between feelings of grandeur, like I was the fucking Queen of England…but like, a young, hot version! Or, I would feel like a worthless, hopeless, useless piece of hideous, gutter trash. I was never just, simply fine. To this day I still struggle with this. It has gotten better, but it will always be work because I will always be work. There will never be a time I am not in some form of therapy and working on myself. If that day comes I better be Ghandi-meditating-in-a-cave-in-the-Himalayas-level tranquil because the only other option would be that I would have given up and the reality of that is far to real for many people living with BPD (and other mental illness).

Wallpaper PSYCHO | Galaxy Gran PrimeI recently learned that 70% of people with BPD will attempt suicide at least once in their lifetime and 10% will be successful. What the actual fuck?! I know cancer patients that have better odds than that! The stats for bipolar are similar and if you have more than one mental illness the percentage significantly jumps up again. I believe suicide is such an issue, not only because the condition itself can make average, daily encounters unbearable but also due to misdiagnosis. Most people are diagnosed in their 20’s, meaning they have had at least two decades of deeply rooting in poor coping mechanisms and habits before they can even attempt to heal, which itself is a slow and arduous (some will argue impossible) task. Doctors and Psycho’s alike have usually labelled us with a number of other disorders throughout our youth, like anxiety to explain our intense neediness, depression to understand our insatiable loneliness, and/or bipolar to make sense of our rapidly fluctuating and unregulated mood swings. No wonder all my ex’s individually came up with the descriptor “rollercoaster” for me! And there I thought it was because I was such a fun ride! *wink* Heyyyowwww!

im lost please dont find me

Personally, I have experienced suicidal ideation for months and years at a time. If you haven’t, I am unbelievably relieved for you and if you have, from the bottom of my heart I’m sorry and I am here for you (I mean that, hit me up if you feel alone). It is nothing short of torture. I recently saw one of my doctors and she was so pleased to see how well I was doing because less than 2-months ago I was done. Out! I was about to call the loony bin to check me right back in and give me a vegetive-state-enducing lobotomy! I have worked really hard on myself in that time but even I am surprised by the progress this time around. Today, I can honestly say I feel better than I have in years, both mentally and in regards to the chronic pain and fatigue conditions I live with (which have a cyclic effect on my mental health too). However, I know how quickly things can change. I know how quickly I can be triggered into a reaction that could take me right back to square one.
pinterest: @astheticprints✌︎☾I’m not going to tackle the debate about whether or not suicide is selfish or justified. Not today anyway. I have very alternative views on suicide (and selfishness too actually) and I think I’ve opened enough room for debate in this blog already! Nevertheless, I will say this. Two years ago my mum came into my room after hearing me whaling in agony. These screams were guttural, coming from the deepest pit of my stomach. I have never felt so much pain in my life. The 9-hour, full spinal resection I endured a few years earlier would have been a relief. No word of a lie. This whaling was not a once off. This was every. single. day. for an entire year and I had well and truly surpassed my breaking point. The thread I had been holding on by was long gone. I had lost (to death or perceived abandonment) so many people in such a short amount of time and I was completely and utterly heartbroken. Maybe it’s because of my wavering mental health that I felt it so intensely, I’ll never know, but I have been through cancer, the spinal surgery, addiction recovery/relapse, anorexia, rape, chronic pain and so much mental health bullshit I should have my very own Dr. Phil on speed dial; but heartbreak is the most excruciatingly painful experience I have ever been through.

 ✨ "yσυ dσи'т нαvє тσ รαy 'i lσvє yσυ' тσ รαy i lσvє yσυ." ✨Mum sat quietly at the end of my bed as I looked up at her from behind red, puffy eyes, exhausted from tears, and I begged her to let me die. I was calm now. I explained it all; how it would benefit the family and free me, how I was in such excruciating pain. How I could physically feel my heart tearing apart and my stomach sickly squirming and clenching without a second of respite. How deeply angry I was and how I felt it was cruel to keep me alive when I was in such all consuming agony. Honestly, if I had been a cancer patient I would have been on life support. I was terminal. I can’t imagine what it felt like as a mother to watch the child you brought into the world suffer in that way and be ungrateful for ‘the gift of life’.
Let it be known that my mum is one strong-ass Queen to be mother flipping reckoned with!

First Dance.In her desperation she said the one thing that she knew would work when nothing else would, when not even a mothers’ love was enough, you will destroy your brother.”. What was left of my heart dropped to the floor because I knew she was right. We’d just lost our dad. My brother and I had been best friends our entire lives.
One would not survive without the other. As much as she wanted to, mum wasn’t able to fix my pain but she provided, what mums do best, a little guilt trip (omg JK! Not the time? :/ ), that lasted just long enough to keep me alive and those few words have helped me many times since. I won’t lie, I still fall into extreme depression at times but the decision is made now and there is no going back. I will never commit suicide. As bad as I may get, I will drag myself kicking and screaming to therapists and psycho’s, psych-wards and hospitals. I will allow myself to stay in bed for days and weeks at a time and exist solely on cereal and peanut butter if that is the only way I can work on my number one priority, survival. I will do whatever it takes to continue to find the tiniest little spark of hope inside that has helped me remember myself in the past and launch it into a blazing fire, because I have no other choice. I only have my mum and my bro left and let’s face it, they would be completely lost without me (or at least really fucking bored!)! I may be a nutcase, but I’m sure as hell fun! 

You're interesting

 

*Loss – Referring to loss through both death and relationship breakdowns. To a person with BPD both are perceived as abandonment.

Suicidality in Borderline Personality Disorder – This is a really simple and clear article I found about suicide ideation in BPD for anyone who wants to learn more.

Suicide Helpline – Lifeline Australia: 13 11 14

The Cancer Chronicles: Part 2

NOTE: For this to make sense please first read The Cancer Chronicles: Part 1 here.

the print on my bedroom door (by silvia pelissera - agnes-cecile)
Of all the differences my father and I had, we shared two important things in common; we were both undiagnosed bipolar for most of our lives, and our destructive/obsessive tendencies were idealised as passion and determination. This meant that as an intensely and often irrationally anxious child my fear of failure was fostered and admired, eventually letting it overrule and guide my every move. Sure, this had some positive influence in my life; while all the other high school kids were smoking cigarettes behind the soccer oval, I refused to take a puff for fear of damaging my oh-so-precious voice that was certain to make me millions one day! Mean Girls.By the age of twelve I had already decided I was going to be a superstar, just like Charlotte Church or Britney Spears (clearly prior to their subsequent meltdowns which, ironically, ended up likening much more to my life story after all…). I couldn’t see the value in risking what I believed was my destiny for something as trivial as looking cool. Besides, I would have plenty of time for that when I was selling out arenas world-wide! Of course, as the slightly overweight, boofy-haired, choir dork that I was, I never had to worry too much about my coolness factor getting out of control. On the other hand however, that obsessive drive that constantly simmered inside me, provided me with the “strength” (crippling anxiety) that led to a fierce battle with anorexia. Tell me one more time how it’s a shame because I have such a “pretty face” and I’ll show you another meal I replaced with a Berocca or sugar-free gum (damn, adults can be c*nts)! All this to say that I had a goal (fame, fortune and admiration… obvs) and I was willing to do whatever it took to achieve that. Even proudly starve myself to the bone.

I was well aware of my addictive tendencies growing up. I’d make silent pacts with myself not to get tattoos, or smoke, and plastic surgery was out for fear of winding up looking like a Real Housewife before they really figured out the secret to good lip filler (no disrespect Lisa Rina, you know I love you)! I remember trying speed for the first time and thinking “Holy fucking, fuck-tits batman!”, (or something to that avail). I loved it so much that I instantly vowed never to touch that beautiful nose candy ever again. I knew there were only so many times I would be able to say no before I would never say no again. Suffice to say, I had a thorough life plan mapped out and being a cancer-ridden junkie was not part of it. Jokes on me I guess…

미르자 @mirzhnaniaaaI was practical with my diagnosis. I never asked “why me?”. I had no time for a pity party. I just wanted to move forward so I could claim my life back and get back on track with the immaculately detailed ‘life plan’ I’d been working on since I was 5. As I saw it, I had already wasted enough time from pain to diagnosis. Now I had to spend another 18-months on the drug trial before I could even think about having the surgery and finally begin the lengthy recovery process. When was I supposed to achieve world domination? A girls got shit to do, damnit! I wasn’t allowed to work anymore as it was too risky for my health, but all I could hear in my head was the incessant tick-tick-tick of time passing me by. I’d gone from working 4 jobs like an ADD kid off his Ritalin, to watching reality T.V. for 9-hours a day. I was loosing the fucking plot.

I desperately tried to tell myself that this was some kind of test to help me slow down and learn to smell those bloody roses enlightened people are always on about. But, in my mind I had been late for “success” since my sixteenth birthday so every second that wasn’t utilised felt like a failure. @allisonnickel2Why sixteen you may well ask? Sixteen is nothing more than an arbitrary number I plucked out of my arse as a kid, when I obnoxiously declared to my father that that would be the age I would achieve the afore mentioned superstardom and/or world domination (either was fine, I wasn’t picky). I stored his bemused smirk in the ‘I’ll-show-you’ compartment of my brain and let it fuel the fire in my pre-teen gut. Because that’s what I needed, more reason to kick my own arse! So at 21, already 5 years late to my utterly delusional and completely imagined concept of success, I was essentially in a constant spiral of rage-jealousy and/or depressive-failure. Here’s a tip kids; have low expectations. Seriously. Can we please stop teaching children that if they work hard they can achieve anything, like we’re fucking accolade cheerleaders? It encourages perfectionist behaviour, cultivates a fear of failure, builds pressure/anxiety and it’s simply not true. In my humblest of opinion…

Vertebrae bones A3 poster anatomical art Human anatomy by PRRINTAlthough a habit I still struggle with today; those reality T.V. marathons did teach me something. When I wasn’t watching Heidi and Spencer (Speidi; for the die hards) on The Hills, I was addicted to Celebrity Rehab with Doctor Drew (I believe they call that irony…). To this day, still one of the greatest shows of its time; not to be outdone by Sex Rehab with Doctor Drew or the classic spin off, Sober House. Ahh, they were simpler times! What I learned by watching Grease’s Kenickie go through his tragic and ultimately fatal battle with opiate addiction on Celebrity Rehab, is such; spinal surgery is dangerous and excruciating, pain killers are addictive and sexy pilates instructors can make you feel better momentarily, but ultimately you will die a slow and agonising death. Shit. With this in mind I went to my next appointment at the cancer clinic armed with questions.

미르자 @mirzhnaniaaaI sat in a sterile room with my father and the head of my clinical trial, who essentially was my dad, 20 years and 30kgs ago. These two autistic nerds talked excitedly to one another about the wonders of modern medicine while I sat there, doing my best imitation of a slightly animated test tube with stuck-on googly eyes. I was worried. I thought back to that first line of speed and simultaneously felt a pang of fear and excitement, which rang danger alarms in my head. I was young but there are parts of me I knew better then than I do today, or at least used to listen to. I just knew if anyone was going to get hooked on pain pills it would be me. I didn’t have time to waste getting wasted! What about my goals? My plans! What’s that saying? ‘We make plans and God laughs’. Years on and “God” is still pissing herself laughing like a mum of triplets in a Zumba class at me! Bitch.

VALLEY OF THE DOLLS PILL POPPING NAILS BEAUTY SHOOT | Jamie Nelson Beauty & Fashion Photographer | September 4, 2015  ❤༻ಌOphelia Ryan ಌ༺❤When the nerd-lingers (or the super-important-men-who-were-actually-saving-my-life) finally remembered there was an actual living, breathing patient in the room, I had the opportunity to ask how most people fair coming off the post-operative drugs, namely the opiates (oxy’s). I was swiftly assured that as I start to heal and feel better I will simply not need them anymore and will naturally wean off. Simple. Natural. Easy… I internally groaned and externally rolled my eyes, knowing that wouldn’t be me and instead I was much more likely to be another fucking Kenickie; wheelchair bound and screaming at nurses in a rehab facility by 50 (flash forward 6 years; turns out I’m way more efficient than Keni and would be found doing this by age 27, never to be outdone). I couldn’t bring myself to push the subject in front of my dad, who innocently suspected I was a majestic earth-bound angel, who radiated purity and bliss. And although he wasn’t too far off, I wasn’t about to shatter his illusion, so I shut my mouth and never mentioned it again.
 By this stage I was starting to get angry at the world. My friends were all at the stage of their lives where they were graduating from their degrees and entering the work-force for their first real adult jobs. Their biggest concerns being where to have Saturday night drinks and if their new colleagues would like them. And then there was me; unable to work, isolated, bored to literal insanity, suffering intense pain and pumped with experimental chemo and pre-surgical pain killers. Not to mention the typical angst an early 20-something feels anyway as they try to spread their wings for the first time to leave the nest, only in my case, them wings done broke! This is where Schmoo and I really leaned on each other. We were two young, fierce and fabulous gals about town who, at this stage, still looked “normal” AKA healthy. We could still function relatively independently and our main disability was everyone else’s inability to understand what we were going through!

Schmoo was always a vison. Just to sit down at our local soup joint she was always dressed like an off-duty supermodel in understated designer clothes, immaculate jewellery and smelling like something I definitely couldn’t afford. I’d sit there in my no-name, see-through leggings that I’d been wearing since I was 14 and she’d just laugh with that whole-body cackle that was signature Schmoo, as she called me a pauper and paid for my coffee. Occasionally she’d let me pay, just to make me feel like the baller I certainly wasn’t. It was appreciated.

 

Every week we would get together and bitch about how our families couldn’t possibly understand us and our friends were so lucky they didn’t have cancer, and basically just vent about the shit-storm that was our lives! love, grunge and sad image on We Heart ItAnd in doing this, we laughed, a lot. These conversations were some of the most cathartic and hilarious of my life. Of course nobody could relate to us! Who the fuck gets cancer in their early twenties and ends up making besties with another cancer-kid?! Nobody, that’s who! We knew that, but we were each others’ outlet. A safe place to release our pain, frustration and vent about everyone and everything that pissed us off. Our socially inept doctors, our mountains of medication that made us rattle when we walked, our isolation and loneliness, our stupid boyfriends who were trying so hard and yet failing so spectacularly, our friends and their “trivial” problems which, in reality, were completely justified but let’s face it, cancer’s hard to beat! Together we would laugh about all the mother-fuckery that had become these lives that we no longer recognised, and in that we found some relief. I can’t imagine going through this experience without my Schmoo. We were two extremely unfortunate kids who found some hope in each other and in that, we were lucky.

you literally make me a mess and i hate it... i lied it's the best thing that's ever happened to me❤️

There used to be this homeless man who would occasionally walk past our soup bar and stop for a chat. Nice guy, if a little kooky. One day he sat down with Schmoo and I and started telling our fortune. He told me I hadn’t yet met the man of my dreams and that Schmoo would live into her 90’s. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case but I believe it gave her enough hope to keep “fighting” a little longer. He spouted a lot of insane shit for about an hour and although we suspected it was 99.9% bullshit we tipped him generously for his entertainment and kind distraction. I hate that word fighting. Like all it takes to beat cancer is brute strength! I’m telling you, if that’s all it took Schmoo would’ve had me beat 100 times over. Nobody fought as hard as she did. Nobody loved life as much as she did! She was just hungry for every experience she could sink her teeth into. I admired that in her so much and I desperately craved that in myself. The girl had 5 brain surgeries over 4 years, spent a year as her own nurse attached to an IV bag that constantly dripped chemo into her veins, had her skull literally fucking cave in on her and was still able to meet and marry the love of her life. That’s right, while she was travelling the world for all the most cutting edge medical treatments available (oh, did I not mention that? Yeah…that too), she was also planning her spectacular dream wedding at the same time! She. Was. Unstoppable. I on the other hand spent most of that time in the foetal position, moaning and discovering how to shovel oxy up my nose. Each to their own I guess!

Survivors guilt is a real thing. I generally find existence extremely difficult. I’ve got a brain with a few faulty wires that prevents me from regulating my emotions, so I’m basically a constantly swinging pendulum, my body is the Queen of the malfunction and I live in a fairly perpetual state of existential crisis. Yeah, I’m a blast! I can’t tell you how may times I looked at my Schmoo and wished we could trade places. Give me the terminal brain tumour and let her live the fabulous, travel, adventurous, wildly sexy, exotic foodie, life that she would have lapped up! But it wasn’t the case. I don’t know if I believe in meant-to-be’s and what not but I do know that if Schmoo was in my position, if she had been the one to survive, that she wouldn’t waste her second chance pissing around like a depressive little twat. What she would do is exactly this. She would write. She would write about her exeriences great and small and rather than be egotistically driven for world domination and fleeting Lindsey-Lohan style fame, she would want to make an impact. She would want to place her stamp on the world for something meaningful. So… here’s me doing just that*!

* Originally I wrote “Here’s me trying” but I instantly heard the Schmoo in my head saying “Trying!? There’s no such thing as trying! Just do it girl!”. She didn’t do anything by halves and wouldn’t accept it from anyone else. She was the most inspiring person I’ve ever met and I’m lucky that I have her voice in my head everyday, continuing to push me, encourage me and elevate me to have the best life imaginable.

Love you Schmoo and so much love to the Schmoo Clan, both family and friends.

 

 

The Illusion of the Other Woman

betweenpeaceandhappiness.blogspot.mx

Who is the ‘other woman’? This enigmatic creature that exists eternally alone, untouchable, perfect. A complete and utter illusion of the men that have imagined her into existence. I’ve been her, maybe you have too. I’ve craved the unwavering stares of lonely men like a drug and in my most vulnerable periods it was the only way I was anything resembling alive. In their wildest dreams, fantasies and desires, that’s where I lived. That’s where I existed. And if I wasn’t there with them in all my, thinly veiled, beauty and intense magnetism, then I was nothing. I disappeared when their backs were turned and they were no longer validating my very existence.

A girl of this nature is, in a word, repulsive to single men. Sure, there is the initial intrigue of watching her flit around the room without a care, as if she doesn’t know you’re watching (trust me she knows and she cares a lot), but as soon as they scrape the surface, if they have any brains at all, they will run. And fast. This girl is terrifying. She requires energy, patience and more kindness and understanding than is often deserved. This is usually sniffed out quite quickly and who’s willingly walking themselves into this atomic spiral? Enter, Mr. Attached. Okay, let me pause here for both dramatic effect and a disclaimer before the trolling gets completely out of control. I am not referring to all men in relationships. The happy, content ones will look at this girl and praise baby Jesus himself that they have a stable Queen on their arm! However, these are not the men she/I/possibly even you, will meet. The men that are willing to blind themselves enough to bypass the sad nature of the situation and welcome the illusion (or delusion?) are, for whatever reason, discontent. In this newly manifested “dream girl” I imagine, they see the wild, unpredictability of their youth that at once will get you in trouble but is also irrefutably exciting! She can be whatever they want her to be, the only limit being their imagination.

 

fucking love you

 

箱男(girl) aka.robot

A sweet boy once took his illusion of me and turned me almost whole. Like Pinocchio, I was almost a real girl! He kept me safe with him for years. So much so that I almost believed I knew who I was, but eventually the illusion, of course, must fade. For him first and then subsiquently for me as I became more blurry in his imagination. He was different. The love grew slowly with him. It wasn’t like cupids arrow to my heart; an explosion of unavoidable passion in a single glance like the others who came before him. I thought perhaps that made it more real. Maybe it does. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular so he didn’t have an image of desire to project onto my blank canvas. I was created slowly and delicately. When he left he took all of me with him. Not by choice of course. I had just made it far too easy to float away with the men that came and went. In an evening you’re limited in how much can be taken from you, but over months and years… well, it becomes much more dangerous. He had taken slowly. So slowly that I hadn’t even noticed. I had gone from feeling like a lost child when left alone to completely empty, a black hole. I was less than before. I was antimatter. I’ll never forget the worry in my psychologists eyes as she said the words that had been thought but never uttered aloud, “It’s like you don’t exist if you’re not being seen.” She was right of course. Being seen was one thing, being wanted another, and being loved…well, being loved was the goal.

Catherina/Hancock @faddishfashion

I collect stories. Experiences. I say “yes” and never “no” just to see where I end up. To find out what happens in the next chapter. I follow the action when most intelligent people would run the other way. I take risks when the outcome is 90% likely to end in devastation, and usually does. I risk it all, all the time, to collect a tiny piece of your life and place it inside mine. I’ve done great things saying “yes”. I’ve achieved more than I ever imagined I could and I’ve also put myself in situations that nobody ever should. Some people call me brave, but it’s far more basic a driver than that. No, what drives me is fear. A fear that if I don’t collect stories that I won’t have stories to tell and without stories, who am I? I’d like to think I have collected enough now. That maybe now I can get used to boredom, or as the enlightened may know it, peace. But peace comes from balance and stability and all I’ve ever known are highs and lows, black and whites, on or offs. I’ve never had a lasting glimpse of moderation in my life. It’s like imagining a colour that doesn’t exist. Where do you even begin?

Screen Shot 2018-03-01 at 8.50.25 pm.pngStory telling is all I’ve ever known. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do. Even as a small child, before I’d collected much of anything at all, I would reflect. I would sit and think deeply until I was in emotional agony, feeling too much at one time because I’d thought myself into a pain spiral from a moment I’d created in my imagination! To this day I do this. I stare out windows. I reflect. No, I brood. I see myself, seeing myself so that at least someone is. I live eternally in this Truman Show-like film in my head, pretending that the world is watching, waiting for the action to begin! It’s always SHOW TIME! The pressure is insurmountable but the thought that there is just me, sitting in this cafe alone, hugging a mug of coffee and staring out a window at the weather, without an audience…well that’s fucking terrifying.

high on Cloud 9
“You don’t exist if you’re not being seen”, those are some potent describing words and I’ve heard it all; crazy, intense, volatile, passionate, obsessive, possessive, needy, fun, insane, confident, selfish, unpredictable, sexy, slutty, provocative, too much, narcissistic  masochistic, funny, fragile, complex… I’m sure you could add some of your own to the list! I think of myself more as a kind-of light switch. On or off. Lighting up the room like sunshine bursting in or completely sucking the life out of it with my intense darkness. Everything or antimatter. All, nothing.

A mulher começou a reparar, sem querer reparar, que estava a desfazer-se e que o homem se limitava a observar. Para dar espaço. Os homens precisam de espaços, não será o primeiro a pedir-lho, logo ela ajustará conforme o que for possível, mas desta vez está vez a desfazer-se, a perder peças, pedaços, a deixar rasto. Alguém? (imagem ncontrado em feedly.com com o nome Static incisionFrom the outside I look unstable and unbalanced but it’s kinda quirky and fun if you keep your distance. On the inside I feel like I’m in an episode of Black Mirror and I’m stuck inside a robot version of myself that the world has the ability to switch “on” or “off” and I just have to sit and wait to be shown what they want from me. I have no choice. No control. To you I am here or I’m not. To me I am seen or I am invisible, and invisible is torture. Invisible is screaming to be seen in a soundproof room. Invisible is the world holding your heart in their hands and squeezing just tight enough that it won’t stop beating and relive you of your suffocating madness but won’t release you for fear of loosing their dancing monkey. Because when they eventually switch me “on” you best believe I will perform! I’ll perform for my life for fear of being switched “off”. I will sing until I lose my voice, dance until my feet bleed and love like my life depends on it… because it does.

Retro Comic Art | Vintage Comic | ArtImagine your version of hell. What scares you most in the world? Maybe it’s spiders or snakes or the dark. Maybe it’s death or cancer or losing someone you love. Maybe it’s burning in an eternal fire pit. That’s invisibility to me. Searing, white hot burning with split second flashes of relief as someone throws a bucket of ice cold water in my face. But instead of water it’s a text, a “like”, a compliment on my outfit, some loser checking out my arse or laughing at a terrible joke. I believe if you were to diagnose it you might call it dissociation, wrapped up in abandonment-based trauma and then sprinkled with a little narcissism for good measure. For me it’s just coping with existence.

(Open rp, be the girl on top. My point of view. I'm an angel and she's a demon) I looked at her, a cigarette clutched gently in her hand. "You see" she whispered "there's two types of people in this world. Those that do bad things, and those who have badSo, I am born to be an illusion. Unwrapped for a night but never explored. Girls like me, we will walk into the room with a completely manufactured eire of confidence about us… and leave that very same room, once everyone else is gone, completely empty, alone and once again… invisible. Because ‘he’ knows, as I do, that none of it is real. That ‘she’ is a mirage and as soon as he comes close enough he will be engulfed in whatever pain has stripped her of her ability to be anything but all of his deepest desires in the single moment he decided to look her way. But unlike him, this knowledge doesn’t free her. She remains frozen in time, just waiting, hoping, praying to whoever-the-fuck that he or someone… anyone, will switch her “on” and please, this time, for the love of God, don’t switch her “off”.

fuck...

 

 

 

 

Magnet for Trouble

How can I explain the love affair an addict has with drugs and alcohol (or their addiction of choice)? How can something be so intensely intoxicating, even after it has proven just how utterly devastating it can be to that which you cherish most in the world; family, friendships, love, connection? Not only that but it actually feeds the ugliest parts of you and helps them grow. The you that is greedy, needy, selfish beyond reason and destructive beyond care. How can something that literally threatens your life be at once, your safety blanket and your worst nightmare? Well, fucked if I know! But I’d like to explore it…

Smoke on the Water!.I’ve been in a few situations recently where drugs have been used openly and it’s blatantly obvious who is an addict and who is casually partying. The casual partier can leave half a bag hidden away for the next time they decide to get a little wild! The addict however, will not be able to think about anything else until every single line/drop/toke/whatever, is in their blood stream and they have exhausted all options of getting more, more, MORE! The addict is exhausting to be around… and exhausting to be. To quote Pringles, “once you pop, you can’t stop!”

Valley of the Dolls Pill Popping Nails Beauty Shoot Photographer: Jamie Nelson Nails: Julie Kandalec Model: Scarlett AngelinaFor non-drug users or the casual partiers out there it is really difficult to understand just how all-consuming it is for the addict to be around drugs. A non-user can carry a conversation with ease, they can look you in the eye when they are talking to you and they are calm and relaxed whether or not there are drugs in the room or even talk of drugs. I, the addict, on the other hand will be a twitchy, anxious, excited, nervous, mess in a dress! My eyes will be darting around the room, I will be fiddling uncontrollably, I’ll likely be salivating like a rabid dog, I will have no idea of and no interest in what you are saying…and that is all before I’ve even taken anything! That is all from my body remembering (or more likely romanticizing) a previous drug-fuelled experience and pumping me full of a fuck-tonne of adrenaline because someone mentioned the love of my life and he’s somewhere in the bloody room! * Swoons dramatically.* Honestly, I wish I was exaggerating but I have had a belly full of more butterflies and a fuller heart staring at a little mound of cocaine being racked up than I have had for men I’ve dated. Okay, okay I hear you! I don’t have the best track record when it comes to beautiful boys… but let’s just put aside the fact that the gauge on my male quality controller is broken for a moment and agree that an inanimate object should never be more powerful than a human person (as shitty as they may be). Damn, even writing about it now is triggering me and I’m getting all itchy and twitchy!

Elizabeth Ilsley

A couple of weeks ago I was at a party with people I didn’t know very well. All of a sudden I turned to see a girl to my left cutting a little pile of coke into nice clean lines (see, I’m romanticising because I’ve been triggered, ew). I’m talking, if I breathed to heavily I could blow it away (no joke, I held my breath)! It was painful! Every cell in my body was screaming for me to smash my face into that lovely little pile of the devils’ snow and snuffle it up like a wild boar looking for truffles (I know, I’m pretty sexy…). As soon as I knew it was in the room my focus changed completely. I could no longer have a relaxed evening chatting with some new, interesting people. I instantly developed tunnel vision and suddenly my eyes could zoom in and out on the entire room. I knew who had drugs, where they were hidden, how I could get them, how much I could scam off each person, who had the good shit and probably even your dealers’ secret security number (well…almost)! I knew everything there was to know and all within seconds of discovering there were drugs in the house. It’s as if your brain just stops observing the rest of the world and you become so systematic and resourceful. All I can liken it to is how a blind person might develop super human hearing. It’s insane, instantaneous and uncontrollable. If I somehow learned how to hone this skill of resourcefulness I would probably be fucking Einstein 2.0 by now! But instead I’m just a poorly recovering junkie with a magnet for trouble and difficulty saying “no”. Whatcha gonna do?!

glitter pills | Daily Dose

There’s something strange about an addict, in that you literally become cosmically drawn to other addicts. I can’t explain it but it’s a strange phenomenon that happens without even trying. Go to N.A. (narcotics anon.) and you will hear it time and time again. Junkies attract junkies! I never overtly looked like a “junkie”, so it can’t be that. If I did my doctors would’ve stopped ‘dealing’ me my oxy years before things got out of control. I always looked like a sweet, white, middle-class girl from suburbia. But put me in a room with drugs or an addict and we will sniff each other out in about 10 seconds flat. Truly, it’s a talent…


For example, I was walking down the street last week and while looking down at my phone I asked the first person I saw for directions. Innocent, enough right? 5 minutes later he was offering me a gram! That is not a rare story. It might be the person I randomly sit next to at the bar or on the bus. I could be in a city I’ve never been to before, not knowing a soul, and still shit would find me. Without even looking for it! Like…wot da funk? I dunno man, it’s got to be some kind of pheromone thing! If I really try to analyse it, maybe it’s something to do with micro movements. Unconsciously we must recognise the slightest of similarities in each other and find that attractive and familiar. Things like dilated pupils, slight twitches, sniffling, shuffling, chomping, chewing, eye movements and skin texture. Then there are subtle things that are said or done, that to the outside observer have nothing to do with addiction but would be clear as day to another user. It’s a match made in junkie heaven…or hell if you are in recovery like me.

trippy disney cocaine drugs lsd acid psychedelic Alice In Wonderland Drogas psicodelico psicodelia nebulosa alucinaciones nebaBeing in recovery is really hard. The reasons are layered and boring but basically it takes all of me not to use. I’m not too bad if I’m around non-users, but if you shove a cake that reads “Eat Me” under my nose… I’m gonna eat the fucking cake! It’s like asking Hugh Heffner (god rest his soul…) to settle for one pair of tatas for the rest of his life, or Kanye to reduce his self-proclaimed God status, simply to King. It’s probably technically possible…but it’s going to be a struggle and you can pretty much guarantee there will be a fight!
 The only thing that gives me hope in my recovery is overcoming anorexia in my past. It might not sound relevant but eating disorders are another form of addiction and self-harm. I had never experienced anything as mentally, physically and emotionally all-consuming as anorexia was, until I found drug addiction. To me, it feels the same. You slowly and painfully torture yourself with starvation for those rare moments of reward when someone looks at you and says “My are you tiny!”. Every shiver you feel from lack of blood flow and body fat, every period your body skips because it doesn’t have the energy to function properly, every time your friends and family look at you worried because you’re skin and bones; all of this produces such an incredible high that anything else pales in comparison. I didn’t used to be able to walk past a window without “checking” to see if I’d suddenly put on 40kg in the 10 minutes since I last checked. I couldn’t go out with my boyfriend for dinner without starving myself all day and punishing myself with intensive exercise later. I weighed what little food I ate obsessively. I exercised on zero energy until I would cry on the treadmill utterly depleted and desperate for someone to rescue me. I couldn’t look at celebrities or friends or anyone without comparing myself to them and of course, always coming up short. I hated myself. Every tiny, waif-like, inch of myself, but I overcame that. Now, not only do I think I’m smoking hot (I’m also super humble), I’m also getting pretty good at loving myself sick and treating myself with more kindness and compassion. So, if I can live in Italy and eat pasta on the daily without a second thought then I’m convinced I can have a successful recovery from drug addiction. I mean, a year ago I couldn’t imagine a life where I wasn’t shoving oxycontin up my nose every hour on the hour and today, although I’ve relapsed in other areas, I am proud to say I haven’t had a single oxy. Yasssss Queen!

Gestalten | Food Art by Vanessa Mckeown

I will never forget the first time I ate pasta during my anorexia recovery. It was a minuscule bowl of tortellini. I lay on the kitchen floor crying and screaming hysterically because I was petrified of putting it in my mouth. Imagine being terrified of pasta?! Pasta is the bomb-diggity! Finally, I ate it. I whaled some more. My whole family were in the next room ignoring me. They’d probably been told to by some psychologist, but at the time I just thought they were heartless ass-holes (Saaaarrrrry, love you mumma..!). I was fucking furious and full of guilt but ultimately, I was proud. Digestion hurt like a mofo as I felt the pasta crawl slowly though my guts that night as I tried to sleep. It was all I could do to remind myself that this could be a life-changing moment, if only I let it. This was a moment that I would draw strength and reassurance from for years to come and continue to do so throughout this new bitch of a challenge.

NeilI could have never imagined a life where I wasn’t taking opiates every day or where I could forget something so simple as the calorie count of a green apple. But today I have no idea what anything weighs (not even myself) and I am proud to say I have forgotten all the calories I memorised during my anorexia (must be all the drugs…OMG JK, JK Rowling!!!).  I truly have a passionate love affair with drugs and my addiction specialist told me that my body would forever remember how good they felt and crave that sensation. But what my body doesn’t remind me about are the times I’ve worked so hard on forgetting. The times I’ve woken up next to someone wanting to pull a coyote ugly* just to escape, or the shame of using after months of sobriety and having to start back at day #1 again, or losing friends due to my shitty actions that I can’t even remember…the list goes on. However, once I was deeply attached to and in love with my anorexia as well and now there is nothing appealing to me about starving myself to fit into a dress or a mould that society has shaped for me. So, fuck that noise! I am a ball of mental illness and insecurity so naturally I am susceptible to addiction and self-loathing behaviours, but the more challenges I’m given just provides me with more opportunities to prove to myself that I am the strong, bad-ass bitch I always knew I could be! Watch this space, because if I can do this I can fucking rule the world! Step aside Yonce**!  partition

*The person is so ugly you’d rather chew off your own arm than risk waking them!

**Beyoncé, dah! C’mon, Lemonade is almost 2 years old now…

 

 

 

What is Love: baby don’t hurt me

I’ve spent a lifetime falling in what I called L.O.V.E love but now that I’m well on the wrong side of 25 and my ovaries are starting to scream for fertilisation (haha, gross) I’m asking myself, WTF actually is this “love” thing everyone’s always going on about and have I ever truly been in love? Let me give you some context as to how strange it feels for me to even ask myself that question. From the moment I could walk I was chasing boys. I couldn’t count the amount of times I thought I had been in love. I could fall in love with a cartoon character if he glanced at me through the TV at the right angle (shout out to teenage Simba, I mean daiiimn)! I got Simba! Which Disney Animal Are You?I had my first love interest in 4-year-old kinder when a little blonde, bowl-cut kid named Damian simply existed, O.M.G. swoon! When he wasn’t interested, because he was just completely out of my league and totally dreamy (yes, even at 4-years-old they’d figured out I wasn’t one of the cool kids), I quickly turned my attention to the stinky kid that liked bugs and kept rotten apples in his library bag. “That’s better” I thought, as I finally got the attention I felt I deserved, and err yeah…that’s pretty much been my life ever since!

teenage simba | Tumblr
I’ve spent my life falling for the weirdos because pretty boys only like nice girls. Or as mum would say shaking her head, “You always did bring home the strays!”. This referred to boys, friends, cats, that drunk I passed on the street at 5-years-old and cried bloody murder when mum wouldn’t let me help the “sad man”, and there would be many more sad men to come as I got older and more beaten down by the absurdity of life.

Generally how I look at men...sparkly pretty creatures...I do love glitter :)

Mum calls me an orchid because I need the absolute perfect environment to flourish but once I do it’s beautiful and it’s worth it (isn’t she lovely, she is me wee mammy after all). I tend to think I’m more like an over-ripe peach. I’m too fragile and have always been easily bruised but then life gave me actual things to worry about (rude!) and I kind of just started to rot from the inside out and fall apart beyond recognition…also I smell a bit like stale alcohol. Being damaged helped me see trauma in others like an x-ray to their hearts. Knowing how awful they felt made me want to take their pain away. It took a long time and a lot of personal destruction to realise that just as nobody was coming to save me, I couldn’t save anybody else.

pin ✧ bellaxlovee

In The Hab (that’s how the kids say rehab, der! I got it off a heroin addict so you know it’s cool) we would get told off if we tried to help others. They called it ‘care-taking’ and it’s a problem when you yourself need healing because putting all of your attention into helping another serves as a distraction from helping yourself. Just like on an aeroplane when we are told to put an air mask on a child before ourselves, we are useless if we don’t take care of ourselves first. Well, I was utterly useless because I was trying to save all these broken men and yet, I myself was a feking dead-ass peach! These days I aspire to live a selfish life. I’ll admit I’m still working out how to balance this. Sometimes (often) I take this too far and just become a down right self-absorbed twat, but in general I think I’m better when my primary focus is on self-care. As an addict I can get confused by the difference between self-care and self-sabotage. It sounds as though it should be obvious but to an addict mind that is easily persuaded to the ‘dark side’ it’s a difficult balance, but that’s for another day.

nuclear

I read something recently that has royally fucked with my pea brain and is why I wanted to explore the concept of love. I don’t remember it perfectly but it was essentially saying that we don’t fall in love with a person, we fall in love with the way someone makes us feel about ourselves. In a way, we fall more in love with ourselves via someone else’s view of us. Seems nice, right? Someone sees value in us and therefore we feel more value in ourselves. Hazzah! The problem with this is that as peoples’ actions and words change (because change is the only constant and blah-di-blah-blah) we can perceive their change in behaviour as negative. Maybe they say “Bye, I love you,” every morning as they leave for work and one day they simply forget. It’s a small thing right, and it doesn’t have to mean anything at all, but if all of my love for myself is wrapped up in someone else’s view of me, it can mean everything.

Get busy understanding what makes you happy and strong and courageous and do those things. Don't wait for anyone to validate you. Validate yourself!Addicted @fabiennetaksieAt the start of a relationship it’s easy to get swept up in the love bubble. It’s what makes falling in love so much fun (and addictive)! We all know how it works. S/he says nice things to us, dopamine spikes like a drug in the brain and we call that love. It’s not a negative unless you emotionally crash when that initial intensity fades and you will only crash if you don’t have self-worth of your own, which I didn’t. But that feeling we call “falling in love” is not love. True love is unconditional. That is not a small word. That means whatever they do, whatever they say, however they make you feel, you will love them. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that’s a huge fucking ask! Okay, he eats my last piece of pizza, I’m pissed! But I still love the ass-hole. He cheats on me with my best-friend, kills my cat and eats my last piece of pizza… I’m sorry, but I’m gonna smash a bitch and it’s going to be hard to look him in the eyes and send the prick love!

♡ pinterest // sadwhore ♡With that in mind I’ve been trying to think if I’ve ever had a relationship where I know, unequivocally, that I loved someone unconditionally. I honestly don’t know. I’d love to say I loved my long-term ex unconditionally but I’d be lying. I absolutely loved him, I still have love for him, but more-so I loved that he loved me. I loved that he was there for me. I loved that he accepted my quirks. I loved how he made me feel about myself and when he stopped showing me how he loved me, or rather our relationship changed and I wasn’t getting what I thought I needed, I stopped loving myself. I stopped seeing my worth because my worth was dependent on him. Ultimately this meant I ended up looking for someone else to tell me all the pretty things I needed to hear in order to like myself again. Obvs this didn’t work out as I had hoped (coz dah) and subsequently, shit it the fan and we broke up in the most spectacular (or hideous) of fashions!

// In need of a detox? Get 10% off your @SkinnyMeTea 'teatox' using our discount code 'Pinterest10' at skinnymetea.com.auSo no, I’ve never had a romantic relationship where I unconditionally loved someone. I’ve always wanted or needed something from them, whether I knew it or not. I think most of us function in our relationships that way if we are honest with ourselves. Unconditional love is haaaaaaaard! *Stomps foot and pouts* The only person I know without a shadow of a doubt, I undeniably love unconditionally is me big bro. He’s my best bud and I would do anything for him as he would and has done for me. He’s the one who took me to the nut house when my mind melted into mush, he’s the person who told me without a hint of judgement that I needed to pull up my socks and get my shit together because he could see I was causing myself more harm than good, he’s the kid that whenever I felt hopeless could make me smile, when no one else could. Simply, to be around him I feel a greater sense of calm; a feeling that is not easy for me to access. I feel like whichever personality I may be channelling that day, is enough and accepted. He knows every single ugly, fun, crazy, psychotic, depressive, angry, anxious, wild, boring, tired, sick, lazy, manic, slutty, mentally ill, artistic, talented, aggressive, confident, volatile and selfish part of me and he still loves me. That is unconditional love and if he can choose to love me unconditionally, as difficult as I make it, I will do anything for him in return, including love him no matter what. Nawww…shuddup! * blush*

Now bro, where’s the body? I know a guy that can help ya get rid of it*!

Still from Harmony Korine’s Spring Breakers

*It’s me… I’m the guy.