Auburn

Auburn is my mother,

Maple leaves a mark from home. 

I snuggle in her gentle arms

As she whispers, “You are strong”. 

 

Auburn is an oak tree,

Sturdy and robust. 

Beneath I write some cheesy song,

About the object of my lust. 

 

Auburn colours romance,

But not a one brand new. 

It’s comforting and worn,

Like your favourite pair of shoes. 

 

Auburn was my father,

Rising with the sun for work. 

His briefcase packed with boring things,

 Now I wish I’d cared to look. 

 

Auburn were her lips when she cackled wild and free.

Auburn burnt the paper as she singed a joint for me.

 

Auburn were her eyes,

Right before I closed them. 

I’d imagined they’d be milky,

Like a fish I’d just unfrozen.

A crude thought I know…

But how was I to have known? 

She’d be as lovely as the day we met,

Hospital bed, her throne. 

 

I sit here blonde and ashy.

She liked me auburn haired. 

Fiery”, she told me,

Like she knew me,

Like she cared. 

 

Auburn was my heart, As it broke not it two but three.

And auburn were my fingers, 

Next to hers blue… 

Leaving me. 

 

You are my home

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!

#shopbirdbee #birdbeedetroit www.shopbirdbee.com

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

 

Nostalgia – ‘That’ Guy

This time last year I was getting ready for my trip to Spain. Missin' it like crazy! :(

Definition of nostalgia. 1: the state of being homesick: homesickness. 2: a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition also: something that evokes nostalgia. – Merriam Webster

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

imagem descoberto por 'gabi. Descubra (e salve!) suas próprias imagens e vídeos no We Heart ItA few days ago I had a dream. It was one of those dreams that is felt so viscerally that even upon waking you just can’t shake it. In fact, this particular dream stayed with me all day like a weight on my chest. Now, I am a dreamer by nature. I dream a lot. I have terrible nightmares, beautiful daydreams, and strange fantasies. For better or worse, the majority of my life is spent in my head. But even some of the most gruesome nightmares, or heart wrenching dreams about loved ones passed, haven’t stung me like this.

In concept it was simple; I saw my ex and he told me he loved me. I remember maybe a minute of it, but the sheer intensity, the connection, the detail, that’s what shook me.

i love youI held his strong, comforting arms as he pulled me close. I felt the bristles of his untrimmed facial hair brush my cheek as I burrowed into the crook of his neck. I could smell him. His smell. I had forgotten how sweet, yet earthy it was. Like him; gentle, but grounded. When I looked at him, his blue eyes swallowed me up like pools of water. I could see his every freckle and the deepening crinkles around his eyes. I could see his sadness and his fatigue, but in the way that only I would be able to notice. He was stoic and calm on the outside, as always. I could feel his fingers grip me tightly, keeping me safe and reminding me I am his, but still allowing me space to move and be free. Knowing he could never tame me, and that trying would be futile. He wore his own clothes. His real clothes. Not make believe things I had concocted in my mind. The smell. My heart was aching with a sense of foreboding. Maybe knowing deep down that I was going to wake up. And then he spoke. He said my name. The way only he could say it. The way that reminds you that you belong to someone in the best possible way. The way where you can hear they have said it, let it roll around their mouths and truly felt it thousands of times. It’s not even a name anymore, it’s just you. He gripped my face with his slightly weathered hands, freckled on the backs, with soft palms, and lightly calloused fingers. Hands that have never been raised to me, and only ever brought me pleasure. Hands that know more of my body than I know myself. And he just said, “I love you.”. That’s all he said, over and over. Torturously he repeated, “I love you, I love you, I love you.”. Each time he said it with more certainty, desperate to convince me of the truth behind the words, and with my eyes closed in my nostalgic dreamland, I believed him.

See you tonight.

In truth, he could’ve been saying anything. What he was saying was brutal, but what really stuck with me the whole day was simply hearing the sound of his voice. Three years. That’s how long it has been since I’ve heard that voice. Yet, in the depths of my subconscious, I still know its every nuance. The recreation was faultless. Every infliction and change in intonation that, despite the words being said, would tell me everything about how he is (…was) feeling. Every pause. Every breath between words. The warmth, the timbre, the depth. It was perfect. I was jealous of the words for being inside his mouth. For being part of him. And of all the things he could have said, he chose to say my name. Mine. I felt special before realising my mistake. I’m just a sleepy girl in a room repeating her own name to herself, trying to get it just right. I wonder what my name sounds like from his lips today. I’m sure he wouldn’t even know. I wonder…but I don’t want to know.

The not knowing of the others thoughts leads self to create false world with hopes that never becomeThey say a separation is as painful as a death. For me, this has been true. There are too many significant voices out there that I can never hear again. Voices that have spoken to me before I was even born (my father), and voices of those who have kept me alive with their strength, despite their lives coming to an end. And then there is ‘him’. His voice is still floating around out there somewhere. Saying other peoples’ names with conviction. Avoiding mine. But just like the voice of my father, I will never hear it again. And in his case, I really don’t want to.

Lana Del Rey #LDR #art #This_is_What_Makes_Us_Girls ♡♡♡Nostalgia; a word that paints such a delicate and romantic scene, but in actual fact, is quite cruel. Nostalgia takes (or creates) a beautiful memory and inserts a sense of longing, that by its very nature is unattainable. It is reaching out for something you loved and never being able to touch it again. The nostalgia of my dream created an idealised version of someone who has never existed. The ultimate dream-man, if you will. Whereas in my waking life, this person is demonised as a form of self-preservation. I must make him the baddie in my story or ill never wake up. Why would I if ‘dream-man’ is just a snooze button away? But the truth is that somewhere between these two creations lies some version of the truth. Not a demon, nor a dream. Just a guy doing the best he can. Not someone who could have saved me, or had the presumed power to destroy and break me. Just a guy who entered my heart when I wasn’t quite ready, and overstayed his welcome. Just a guy. 

 

LOL!! Not All The Time But It Happens.. This Girl Talks A Lot Of Shit :)

 

 

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.