Lovesick – BPD on Day 2

Purging of love by force

Lovesick

Why is it that my words echo with such deep longing and feel so true,

But my actions call to task each syllable, each letter, each sentence,

Make me a liar in my own eyes, and shame me to the one I love.

Why is it that I regret each moment of time that I connect to another,

When I know that it will end in tears, that it will end in sadness, in another broken heart,

Because inside I never seem to change from the disgusting thing I’ve always been.

Why is it that the outside which feels so pure and grasps for grace blessed with integrity is so sweet,

When foulness runs afoot on seconds of impulse, chased spots of purgatory, whims of fancy,

Forever haunting myself with the tastes of beauty that I want the world to see me for.

That I think I can be.

But I deceive myself worse than all the rest.

I can never change.

So it seems.

And only God can forgive me in the end.

For I can never forgive myself.

-S

Geographic Cure for Addiction and Sanity

Beautiful image of Smith Rock

There is always a wild and unpredictable feeling that accompanies a move to a new area. In very rare instances, that area is not an unknown arena but rather a time tested experiential location filled with either positive or negative memories and feelings.

 

With several cases in point over recent weeks which stand out even amongst the 40+ different housing and city changes over the previous 24 months it strikes me that perhaps I am not alone in these occasions.

 

First, New Bedford – a city built originally on the whaling industry and once the single wealthiest in the entire western hemisphere. It was the New York City of its time. Today, it sits as a sprawling and squalid shadow of its former self. A huge portion of the city hovers under the illegal immigrant status, yet both they and their families are able to regularly and quite effectively work over an already overtaxed system in creative and remarkable fashions. Far from an irregular event is it for a young woman to show up at the Department of Transitional Assistance (DTA or “welfare office”) and secure nearly free housing, food stamps, and a guaranteed check on a monthly basis – only to walk out and begin making calls on the newest phone the market has to offer.

 

The city itself is predominantly populated either by the indigent, nearly indigent, or fisherman who fluctuate between those states depending on the last trip and how much was blown on their return to the docks where the prostitutes, drug dealers, and other “entertainment” providers sit with cars at the ready to ensure the checks are cashed promptly and whatever is desired is immediately available at their fingertips. It is one of the densest concentrations of opioid addiction in a state that is under a crises the likes of which has never been seen. The yellow brick road is a literal pavement of syringes, nowhere more than a casual eyeshot in any direction.

 

This finely tuned squalor was where much of the insanity that I ran through following my crack cocaine induced destruction took place. It’s where I lost my wife, my home across the river, had my first new love in nearly a decade before losing her to the grips of heroin and finally seeing what it was like from the opposing side of the table – watching an addict you love destruct, and NOTHING you can possibly do will help. It’s where my best friend went from the consummate and brilliantly arrogant healthcare professional I had met originally became an absolute animal. It’s where I learned how to inject speedballs and began my foray into the truly sickening world of dope.

 

It’s where I went insane for the first time since my years as a teenage meth addict. But as an adult voluntarily living homeless on the streets, refusing to sleep and food in lieu of drugs for days at a time until my body would demand rehydration and yet another trip to the hospital for IVs would begin. New Bedford taught me the real meaning of ignoring tomorrow and living strictly under the immediate need for a fix of any kind. Overdosing and being left for dead under a bush in a bad neighborhood along with the terrible shock of waking up. That there was no light, no memory, no message and just a blackness that was closest to blinking. The initial experience of simply expecting to wake up from death, and the frustration that it seemed that for whatever reason I was not to be permitted such a simple escape from the daily frustration and misery.

 

New Bedford taught me to pawn everything in sight, that material items, even the most sentimental, intrinsically have only a single value – that of cash. If you refused to close out the memory and loss of each component of what you once considered to be your life it would be enough to send you over the edge. I learned to numb even when the drugs were gone and there was only an aching feeling that something was terribly wrong.

 

I learned to expect and understand what would transpire if I called certain dealers who would demand sacrifices of the more physical nature. That there was a way to close it out, embrace the pain as deserved an simply shut down whichever part of my brain should have been screaming no in a vain attempt to preserve a sense of personal value. My first true experience with a jail where no one was there to offer their assistance in easing the situation.

 

New Bedford taught me starvation willingly, arrogance, desperation, abandonment, hysteria, psychotic behavior, willingness to overlook, junkie pride, losing trust, a taste for anger always bordering on violence, loneliness, resignation, degradation, disgust, hatred, shame, isolation, manipulation, lies, betrayal, deceit, hope, disassociation, confusion. It taught me for the first time since I had been in the deepest portions of my meth addiction what it really meant to crave the release of death and how cowardly I was.

 

And I had pride in how my stories always elicited shakes of heads and the inevitable, “you’re fucking nuts man.”

 

So I left.

 

I moved away to program after program, always staying as far as I was able to from a city where it was impossible to walk a street without encountering someone I knew or was known by. Once you’ve been on the news you even become recognizable to those upstanding members of the community who would have had no reason to associate with you other than to comment about how you looked so familiar.

 

Of course wandering through the streets shirtless with blood streaming down your arms from injection sites and asking strangers for needles is not usually considered to be a low profile method to avoid notice either.

 

Aside from the point – I left.

 

Nearly two years later I was offered an excellent job….in that goddamn city. Fresh out of jail, my rationale was that if I maintained several cities as insulation than surely I would be able to avoid the swirling pool of madness that seemed always to draw attempted escapees back in.

 

I was wrong of course.

 

There were a million memories on every corner, a recollection of some obscure event, some half remembered person, a story, an event, a failure, a SOMETHING.

 

Inevitably as always is the case, it became known that I had come back to the area and my phone started to ring again. Even though I was living nearly 10 miles outside of the darkest areas of my past, there was no escaping it. At points of relapse over the previous years there were times when I would willingly spend $75 on a taxi or Uber in order to get to “Brockton by the Sea” (another moniker for Whaling City, or New Beige). Instead of a confident no, it was soon to be a short push into acknowledging myself to be a short bus ride from wherever I needed to be.

 

When the other shoe fell, and the house I was living at asked me to leave, I was forced back into the more affordable region of the Beige – at $500 a month, which was okay despite the fact no running water existed during the walkthrough, sewage had backed up, dishes had not been done in nearly 3-months, a closet was filled with trash bags since the previous week’s pickup had been neglected.

 

But it was okay at the time, because it was affordable and temporary.

 

Even after I saw the Narcotics Anonymous (NA) pamphlet and learned – so I thought – that my new roommate, a remarkably charismatic and intelligent young woman had been in recovery for nearly 8-months. It was thrilling and welcome to be able to share a commonality and bond as we were both working on building up our lives to become more than they had been. There were no qualms about the upfront cash I had given her for my move in, I was back to trusting people, holding onto a naive and woefully childish dream that people were what they said and taking it at face value.

 

Until I was asked not to tell anyone I was living there, and informed that her father controlled her money and I should give him the rent from there on out, and that she really wasn’t working full time, and that the rent was actually going to be $700 as the landlord had vowed to increase it if someone else moved in, and a million other signs.

 

Within three days it was simply volunteered that she was actively using, and that the money I had given her had been spent immediately which was why my presence at the house had to remain a secret. Moreover, would I consider lending a few more dollars and shoot her up since snorting the brown wasn’t cutting it anymore – a fact witnessed when nearly two grams did nothing visibly to change her behavior.

 

She had a dealer that would front and she was into him for several hundred. The issue was resolved initially by introducing her father to her connect and having him pay the difference directly. Than taking in a cat to watch for one of his friends. Eventually the turn was taken as it always is, sexist though it may be, commonly for women and sadly for some such as myself, occasionally for men.

 

The used condom belied the prior night’s lie that it had been a blowjob and nothing more.

 

It was amazing to speak with her father, a man of compassion who had not yet been broken of hope and was convinced that a bottom had already been reached. That if he were only willing to selflessly offer support with rides, money, food, hell – a brand new phone that lasted all of 12hrs before hitting the market – everything would be all right.

 

I saw my mother in him. At least in the earlier years of my spiral.

 

He was likeable, smart, well read, and easy to talk with.

 

His daughter reminded me of myself. A face that was easy to trust, a personality open and quirkily cut with intelligence that wiped away suspicion and confirmed.

 

It was an interesting perspective on how terribly effective what I would consider normal behavior is in ousting others character evaluation and ensuring that there is an immediate thread of trust built. Underneath the easy smile is a raging fire of manipulation and capacity for widespread destruction, emotional scarring, and selfishness.

 

As things fell apart, in retrospect, I have to look at her as a manifestation of what the world must view me as – that’s a painful thing.

 

To shorten this up a bit, New Bedford helped terminate my determination and weaken the walls of resistance i thought were built strong.

 

After so many years away – my family (bless them a million times over) and IIIIMiMiIII decided that it was time to bring me home. Oregon. The one place that called me.

 

3,000 miles from the insanity, the black balling at hospitals and rehabs, from all the connections and memories I was constantly assaulted with. An opportunity to rebuild my passion for life, and reconnect with the individual I was supposed to, and wanted, to be.

 

I nearly didn’t make it. I stepped out of detox with a blood pressure of 170/130, but I had to catch a flight and there was no other option….I took the risk of a seizure, because fuck it – I had one shot to do it, and I wasn’t going to miss it for all the tea in China.

 

At the airport, it crashed in on my (as well as the night at the hotel prior with MiMi). I was going to lose more than just the bad aspects of my life, but the immediate access to the biggest love of my life. I was in many ways abandoning the woman I admire most in the world. Despite my deepest desire to stop hurting her and everyone else that cared I was going to do it again because I was selfish enough to “just go”.

 

MiMi encouraged me to do it as the right thing. That kind of strength is astonishing.

 

I am fortunate to have such an option presented to restart my life, I recognize that.

 

Currently I work serving coffee, beer, and climbing gear at a pay that accounts for a 70% drop. But you know what, I’m happier and more relaxed than I’ve been in years. Climbing again, an old obsession that consumed my life in a very positive way.

 

Sometimes what has to happen is to jump ship and swim to a new shore.

 

Though addiction and mental health issues are not immediately tied to the landscape we occupy, there can be an enormous feeling of relief in leaving behind that memory crusted wasteland to one that offers opportunity to plant new roots in welcoming soil.

 

A geographic is what brought me to New England originally…I arrived with one backpack of clothes. Twelve years later I got off a plane with three.

 

Let’s see where this goes.

 

Much love.

 

-S

Catching Up & Thank You

It’s been quite some time since I got anything put up here. Life has changed rather dramatically over the past couple weeks. I moved coasts, started a far more relaxed job at a local climbing store slinging coffee, beer and gear. Started climbing again, re-entered the program, have been juggling all the variables to get my life together and realize some satisfaction with who I am. I’ve rediscovered passions, happiness, and actually feel like I’m re-establishing connections with my family – something I never really expected to happen. There is the challenge of leaving behind the few very important and meaningful people along with the prospect of seeing my kids any time in the near future.

Sadly, it’s more important that I resolve some of the issues with my BPD and bi-polar which will allow me the opportunity to be a positive and consistent presence in their lives instead of the erratic lunatic I’ve been. Would be nice to not create such convoluted space within my relationships, perhaps even find some peace.

I do have an essay in the works and some other writing pieces which I’m hoping to get finished in the not so distant future.

Thanks for the patience everyone, and the support you’ve shown for this little experiment. I hope life is treating everyone well.

-S

Restored.

Regrettably, today was the first time I delved into the world of Phoebe Chi (PuppyDoc). Words have a certain sensation bordering on synesthesia when their magic is unlocked. This is just a sampling from a remarkably prolific and talented writer that I sincerely hope you will enjoy as much as I am beginning to.

Musings of PuppyDoc

Immortalized
within counterfeit fibers
of a petrified forest
are your sorrows
weighed with silt,
swallowed by shadows
of its own valley,
silenced beneath
the porcelain surface
of a visage pristine.

Banish them.
Let your tears cathartic
burn
these cheeks of mine.
Scour them with scars
of an ancient past
of an ache relived.
Let me bear the dusk
until from the womb,
emerged pure as
the morning dew,
is our love renewed.

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The Stages of Borderline (BPD) – Day 1, Love

Each stage of a relationship with someone who has borderline personality disorder is intense. Love is where it starts.
There’s something special about you,
That smile crashed the walls of casual interest,
A charged promise that THIS TIME the puzzle pieces would fit.
I see you glowing surrounded by a halo of perfection.
You’re a cascade of hot, passionate, intensity,
But even a drop of you soothes until its painfully peaceful.
I need you.
You ignite everything that is Me,
And you tend the flames while I’m purified in the ecstasy of You.
I want you.
In every conceivable way,
Mentally, spiritually, emotionally, physically.
The universe melts away and when you shudder in the moment,
I’m going to give myself to you so we can bathe in dreams from the inside out,
Kiss you softly on your eyelids and hold you as close as I can.
Can you feel it baby?
Love
Allpoetry.com – Original Post

Elegantly Disturbed Haikus #2

Spartan winks tell all, Shirking duty when eyes meet, Spellbound in such deep heat. Tentacles probing, Suction pads across sore lips, Beaks of hardened stone. Crystallize my veins, Wanton hate turn…

Source: Elegantly Disturbed Haikus #2

Addiction Recovery & Borderline Personality Disorder (from PsychCentral)

This is a fascinating and detailed read highlighting some of the specific challenges facing addicts seeking to recovery and dealing simultaneously with a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder (BPD). Great material for anyone interested in the overlapping issues and frustrations in treatment for these two damaging illnesses.

hand-on-glass-for-addiction-and-borderline

PsychCentral Article

Ink Leaks

Spilling ink from your soul.

Loosening around the edges,

With screws tweaked hard until they’re embedded deep.

Frothy blackened ink flows with silkiness,

Out across the indents to smear your tools.

Graceful and petulant the grime shines,

A mirrored tone that shakes each reflection.

Fingers slide off in an impatient rush,

Avoiding the wandering glaze seeping out with each torque.

Whetstone polish to sharpen the blade,

That soldiering behemoth of broken muse will never do as bade.

ink-covered-face

Craterellus cornicopioides

From pseudonymous themselves

Because, are you kidding me. Verbal brain sex without a condom. Thank you pseudonymous #wordplay #poetry #crazy

I had a vision while everyone was sleeping that I would find you where the redwoods met the madrones I was to go there alone six years ago with my perforated medicine water bottle backpack two pape…

Source: Craterellus cornicopioides

NONFICTION — A Day in the Life

Thanks Twisted Sister {Ed. Note — the following is from the writer’s own site, a truly amazing high-speed journey through life.} Throughout the course of my life I’ve experienced the true extremes of the spe…

Source: NONFICTION — A Day in the Life