Beast and the Harlot

I need a revelation, like the one I got last time I tried to die... then again dieing would be good too. I could go for that. I don't want to be the person I am forced to be for everyone else. Then again if I got what I wanted... what would I be, who would I be? I'm really thinking about doing a take 2 on this suicide thing. My problems aren't going away and they aren't going to either, Borderline Personality Disorder doesn't go away and it isn't cured, it is me and I am it... my brain has been turned into a sickness and now everything I want is sickness. I want things that I can't have. Things that wound those around me.

I need to be with people, it's the only way I can stay normal. I need to feel another human being. I crave things I should not crave and for that I'm a whore. For putting the one that means most to me through so much pain I'd rather die. It's either cheat, or suffer... neither of those I can handle so a bottle of pills seems just as adequate. Don't get me wrong Blog I don't just want to die because I'm a harlot and because I'm a parasite who feeds off of others to sustain myself, no not so much. It's also the hallucinations, the voices, the sickness, the inability to function normally, and knowing that I'll NEVER be truly happy. I'll just coast through life that's the best I can hope for. It's either that or go crazy and fuck who I want drink what I want pop what I want and smoke whatever I want. That's generally how people with BPD live and frankly I understand now why. If all I get is a borderline life why not do whatever the fuck I want to self dstructive or not. I might as well feel  SOMETHING

I'll leave you with a quote on BPD:

“The borderline patient is a therapist’s nightmare…because borderlines never really get better. The best you can do is help them coast, without getting sucked into their pathology…They’re the chronically depressed, the determinedly addictive, living from one emotional disaster to the next. Bed hoppers, stomach pumpers, freeway jumpers, and sad-eyed bench sitters with arms stitched up like footballs and psychic wounds that can never be sutured. Their egos and fragile as spun sugar, their psyches irretrievably fragmented, like a jigsaw puzzle with crucial pieces missing. Borderlines go from therapist to therapist, hoping to find a magic bullet for the crushing feelings of emptiness…And they end up taking temporary vacations in psychiatric wards, emerge looking good, raising everyone’s hopes. Until the next letdown, real or imagined, the next excursion into self-damage. What they don’t do is change." -Jonathan Kellerman