Crossing The Bridge. 2024.

Hi there, it's me.

I did not mean to be gone for so long this time, but I have been struggling lately just to get on. My mind feels like it is so far gone; it is out of reach. I thought therapy would help teach me tools to pull it back in, but my thought process is so possessed and so full of dark sin. Where, and how, do I begin to siphon it all, filter out all these negative calls I hear shouting at me, as I stare and shout back at these walls? I keep hoping Jesus would answer my call, but my pleas keep falling on deaf ears. I am sure he hears me; I know he sees me. Maybe I am just being selfish, or maybe, perhaps, he is just busy.

I try each day to lift the blanket from my head, I try and look brightly upon each day ahead, but I have a demon who hates to hear me say words of affirmation to myself, words whose definition offers a moment of reflection, on what can be, if I can just change this mindset that is not me, but what everyone else can see. I have become blinded by its tight grip, which confines me to solitude, and I am chained to these walls that now define me. A domicile to most that offers safety and security, to me, all I see is a nightmare that unfolds before me daily, whose impatience will not allow it to wait until the dark of night surrounds me anymore. No matter how hard I try, I cannot seem to remove the discoloured tear that sits at the back of my eye, inside a tear duct that never seems to run dry, like a reservoir deep enough to wash a city. I walk around with a deep tear duct, awash in self-pity.

Therapy, they told me, would help me, but some days it makes me so depressed, I hate everything that is around me, I want a hole in the ground to open up, then swallow me, completely, but in reality, I know deep down, even that won't make me happy, because my mind has convinced itself, that emotion is not available to me anymore. I must keep writing. It lets the demons out. As I write, what I put on these pages weakens their shout that often deafens me. Word by word, their clout slowly erodes away, as my pen recites the fears and things that pull me down each day.

I fear the gray; I am terrified of the black. But how many more times can I keep fighting back? The impact of bpd is so extreme that therapy cannot always keep you on track. Mindfulness becomes a fictitious world of pillows and smiles that only temporarily masks the cries of the inner child's sad eyes. It often just becomes a fake disguise, like a balaclava that shows nothing but lost eyes.

The world hates people with bpd; meanwhile, most of us are standing around shouting, “You don’t understand me”. Please do not leave me. ‘I think they are about to fire me”, and on and on. This disease brings sufferers to their knees; it is a rollercoaster ride that we know will never end. The question is... Should society just send us all to hell, put us in jail, or set us out to sail upon a forgotten ocean whose horizon can never be reached, hoping our vessel becomes beached on a lonely and desolate land? I must confess, maybe that is the answer, it is a cancer I know. There have been times when I was in despair, I tried to cut it out, but they told me in the Hospital it was nothing but a shout-out for help, but I was searching for a root, a tentacle, that I wanted to kill. The suicidal side of me thinks, dam, I should have stood still, I should have dug deep enough until the pain became a thrill. A cold shiver of adrenaline pulsates up my spine, as blade and skin intertwine, and… for a brief moment, in time, the feeling of separation from all the lying, self-loathing, the crying and threatening myself constantly with dying.

This condition must constantly appease its own selfish needs; it makes us scream so destructively at everyone we feel has a negative touch. Those of us who understand this disease know as much. We know it is like a weighted crutch that we swing in an uncontrolled manner, leaving victims who fall behind us confused, damaged, and wondering why. Each tear that we cry…. We are aware has the power to blacken a loved one's eye; those of us who understand why, through therapy and education, also struggle to understand why. We know its origin, some of us, but the power and strength of childhood trauma is so devastating to the mind. I live in a world that’s hard to define, one moment I am fine the next I believe everyone’s is lying, I lie on the floor crying, often dreaming of dying, I have sat at a table wrote my last note crying, only to wake up the next morning flying on motivational inspiring inspirations, mental pictures of artistic creations, singing from a grateful voice “its a great life to be living” while listen to the birds high up in the sky singing, smiling, as the pitch of their voice begins bringing feelings of unstoppable flight, through the air of life that now feels so light, only to wake again, sweating, screaming, ‘I cant keep giving’. Then begins a process of self-loathing…that altogether keeps fueling this hamster wheel, that now, sadly, feels like belonging.

There is a paranoia in the mind that hides behind the letters BPD and CPTSD. It creates confusion, uncertainty, and fear. It grips you, takes hold of you, it consumes every waking moment, and when triggered, it cannot always be escaped from. DPT, talk therapy, and group therapy. I have done it all. Christ, I have even lain down and let psilocybin flow through my veins, trying to gain a deeper understanding of what hurts inside of me. I stretched out my arms and embraced the magical tree, allowing its natural powers to begin healing me. But no matter how many tools I have acquired, sometimes, they are not strong enough to prevent, combat, or control the emotional deregulation that starts to take its toll.

So, I chose isolation, locked away from the world, believing withdrawal and disconnection would curtail the infection that exists within, but all I have really achieved is deepening the pain and fear, uncertainty of where do I go from here, as I sit and listen to the sound of loneliness that I now hear.

B.Pd. I would not wish it on my worst enemy.

PWB 11\24