Musings from the Borderlands (BPD)


Tuberculosis in those gasping fits of indulgent wheezes spraying the viscous life goo out in a spray. A misting of not so mild proportions even if the emotional fluid is less clingy initially than blood, it still latches on and shows up in the worst of spots.

The time you decided to gauge your ears and that a pen was the logical jump – pressure couldn’t hold back the infection, or the stable nutrient sludge from leaving a heavy velvet trail down the side of your neck.

Pressure can’t hold back everything, it builds on itself until there’s a raucous and feverish exhalation as the balance shifts and pop there goes the cap.

Just so with love in the quieter stages of a new relationship where urgency tears apart at your genitals, your heart, your mind, and all you want to do is sleep and talk and fuck and cuddle and touch and gaze and there’s a missing component sitting at the back of your mind whenever you’re not around the object of your infatuation soon to beget something more….

It’s an incredible array of emotions that comprise us as people in this world, so much so that the involuntary act of vomiting up a tempest of undigested feels and such onto another can be as easily described in the lead in as something detestable, rather than beautiful.

I know I like to think to that moment when the dam breaks and truest of joys radiates in a way that lets energy ripple its way across the lips and my skin seems to be afire with passionate rightness….love, or anger, sometimes they can be dual sides to the same ride, a peaceful lake to a jet boat ride or some such adrenaline rush.

But man, when I look into those eyes.

I still melt.

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BPD Splitting


If it were to be the way that BPD were,

You’d be a goddess or a demon all cut pure,

In gleaming shards of perfect,

You’d hate with everything,

You’d love without anything in reserve.

There would be no middle ground,

No gray area to be common found,

I’d split your single you into two,

Burn effigy of the one not true,

Until the times they changed again,

And I realized that you were my truest friend.

Thank God you’ve showed me to look beyond,

Hear the words your actions write,

When ears signal music to a different song,

You’ll remain imperfectly perfect,

Beautifully flawed,

Like us all.

Externaphizing


Hoping the jury is out.

I’m coming to the realization that on so many different levels I am either a remarkably calloused and demanding individual or there is a screw truly loose (several more likely) upstairs. It’s the only thing that can, or would, account for such indiscriminate moments of self indulgent burbling and behaviour as leads me to regularly overlook the concerns of those loving figures in my life. Unless I am well and truly an actual certifiable dick.


I’m even finding a flair for it in the fact that I tend to fixate on my own reactions and actions in situations – pre-emptively justifying some flagrant display of asinine “my way or the highway” choice making prowess with a fixated smile plastered in disregard on my face (which I will only later realize to my own chagrin). If I were to explore the world around me, step outside of this little glass room and observe that what I previously represented as fun was actually a brazen push off of my wife’s emotions and verbalized needs (supplanted by my own), irresponsible actions that drained coffers and put us at risk, and a worthless extension of a wonderful day into the doldrums and mire of a night huddled at opposite sides of the van.

Somewhere along the lines there is a lynchpin moment – like when I say, “wow, we are getting along great recently!” Klaxons should go off inside my head that any moment now my own self-destruct sequence just silently clicked on and started down. If I can chase back that singular moment as it happens and repetitiously drill it into my head that this is the moment where a choice can mean the validation of goodwill and genuine happiness being experienced and a continuation thereof, or disaster and a repeat of the same overplayed mistakes once again.

It seems intuitive that anyone would want to sustain positivity and goodvibes that are making themselves felt in an interpersonal dynamic – so why does my brain blank to suddenly and with seeming intent when it comes to taking the basic neccessary steps to do so? I don’t like the burned out husk of joy that is left when I don’t, no one does. If I have to be self serving enough to recognize the discomfort that the miss of that moment will bring to myself in order to identify the external impact that will precede, so be it.


I really hope I’m not just a dick. That would really be terrible.

Stuck


Stuck on,

Wash, rinse, repeat,

Stuck on,

Reading the same page.

Stuck on,

Making the same mistakes,

Stuck on,

Being stuck on.

The Stuff of Stars


Blue Star Banner

The stuff of stars is what she says we’re made of,
Wildly burning out into the nothing behind warming halos.
Waves of ink staining heaven above wrap around them,
They blaze on in resistance.
Never faltering.
Even though they are but a Dot waging war against an endless sea,
Each wails its personal music into the beyond to remind us that we are not alone,
And some of us are even Angela’s.

Smoothed Border Pink Star

A Divorce for the Past, Present, Future


So as something of a preface to the following let me just say that it has been an extraordinary (in both positive and negative ways) period of weeks since I last punched together something to share with the webs’ people. I had a few challenges about a month and a half back which resulted in my being asked to write a divorce letter to my “disease:….but not the quintessential “goodbye forever drugs” – but rather, towards however I envisioned that sickness which had driven me to be were it to wear a physical form. The suave smooth talking salesman, a blundering and demanding gargoyle, a bad ass mans man with a beard, a sexy woman teasing and seducing….whatever form i chose.
Hey baby you sexy thing,
Hey brother you filthy rock star.
Thank you for the stories,
Those staggering rides up with the comets,
Them epic nights rolling without pause into endless days.
Damn but we fucked well and,
Damn we sped past those pathetic sheep on the streets,
Damn we were a fireball of excitement,
A hurricane of insanity.
My sweet goddess of sin,
My destroying titan of hatred.
You blessed me,
You cursed me,
It’s time to walk away,
Sky, John, off with you and your false matrimony,
Off with this slavers collar on my finger,
Just like you spit in my face when the fun was done,
Feel the scornful gaze that your wisdom brought so many I once loved to cast upon me.
Sky, my lovely succubi, take your sinfully beautiful body,
Those promises of impossibly intense bliss that would never end,
Taste the disgust you draped me in before all I encountered.
My gruesome and powerful spirit,
My depiction of remorse,
Of emotion to be understood and chased,
My devil-may-caresofuckitallandwatchtheworldburn charmer,
John, even when you convinced me that I was doing something positive,
Always those that I wanted to hurt the least caught the brunt.
You made loving tantamount to self-inflicted emotional trauma,
Never again.
You both served your purpose, goodbye.
I divorce myself from my past including you.
From the present wherein my personality is lost in yours and all I can see and be seen as is as you made me,
From the future of which I know little,
With this freedom,
I embrace myself again to stand tall and walk with purpose and confidence to something brighter.
Where the voices are new,
The suggestions more pure,
Life lived more passionately instead of intensely.
-S

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

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

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

Becoming a Literary Exhibitionist


Exhibitionism at it’s finest calls for a complete strip down – but like most nudity, sometimes those watching would prefer the clothes stayed on. Authors must dangle and hope the meat on display attracts the eye. Easier perhaps when your life is wrenched from the most vivid hallucinations of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson then run through the Douglas Adams’ improbability drive. Prodded with LSD and electrified glow-sticks into the Minotaur’s lair to play. Surely that would entertain?

This is a lifelong dream, a Purpose or a calling that I’ve never been able to just put ahead of everything else. Please share, and thank you for taking the time to browse. Thank you.

IndieGoGo – Crowd Funding Effort

empath-imagery