Borderline Personality Disorder - Sort of like a diary

Borderline Personality Fucking Disorder

The best way to start your day is by NOT slashing your skin with a sharp object, not looking for a knive to stab yourself, not drinking the whole bottle of listerine at your sink, not taking a headache pill with coca cola, not taking pills in high amount, not slitting your wrist with a butter knive and realize why it’s called a butter knive and then feel stupd later, not try to stop breathing and hope to die from it, not thinking that eating a bunch of cheetos would lessen your problems and lie to your parents that you have done such things, except for the cheetos part. At least that’s my best way.

I’ve been having a hard time finding the right therapist for the amouunt of money I have. I don’t tell my paarents because they will think that they failed raising me or that they have the shitty genes that make me this way. There’s a social stigma in where I live about all kinds of disorders. I have a friend that has schizophrenia, I met her at a boring waiting room. She died a few months ago, she killed herself. She told me how she was bullied when she was a kid and how her mind is louder in the matter of influencing her actions more than normal people.

There’s been an invisible hole in my chest since one of my dear best friends said:

“This disorder thing is artificial. You make things in your mind if you’re not connecting with god, it’s your own fault to me.” That moment the bitch is lucky I just walk away and not answering her calls, not slapping the fuck out of that acne sploched cheek of hers. My school counselor said it’s normal for teens to go through hard times. But I am not normal teenagers, I am a fucked up teenager.

If some “best friend” can’t understand me, then who the hell can?! I am alone, truly alone. I have no one and nothing behind me. A giant invisible gaping hole in my chest, hurts like hell. Sometimes I wish I can just hate myself to death. But I know in a few minutes or hours I will be fine, myself again maybe, I don’t know if I still have a self, I am a walking talking disorder, not a person. I can have emotion shifts from really sad to ok again in a matter of minutes or hours, unstable. But right now, I’m breaking my rules. I cut.

Rows of red scars soon turn dark, a piece of shard glass lying on the floor, I somewhat feel content of what I just done, I’ve cut here and there up and down my arms and I will let people see how fucked up I am inside. How pathetic. I’m pathetic.

“No, you are not pathetic!” My real, one and only left friend yells at the phone. In some degree I’m starting to believe him.

“Put the glass down, let’s talk about it,” His command sounds confused and panic, I should really apologize for being such a pain in the ass for the guy. And a few soothing cheesy motivation get me up from the floor. Standing up strong enough for the next few hours or so. I know I’ll be down again, really down again about everything. Sometimes I see things, like some sort of flashback when I go down again. And I can’t help it. I can’t fucking help it.