The kid next to me smells like pineapples. It’s weird. Pleasant, but weird. I’m at it again, bloggers. Yesterday, when I was driving home from my appointment with Dr. Glover, it happened again. Another apparition, another spectre, (specter? spectre? Just Googled it, that’s the British spelling, I’m leaving it!), another hallucination, another figment of my imagination manifested itself in my car. I was driving and Lucy Mach 2 (LM2 for short since she doesn’t have a name yet. I’m still working on it!) was sitting in the front seat, trying to reassure me about everything Dr. Glover had said. She’d said that this wasn’t anything to be too concerned about right now. That she honestly didn’t know what was going on but that we would keep working on it until we did. It could be organic. I got the impression it could be the medications messing with this crumbling cranium of mine but she didn’t say that outright. Anyway, as I was driving home, a man who looked like Hugh Jackman (because, blogging world, I don’t know if I’ve ever told you but I have the biggest celebrity crush on him. I would absolutely die if I met him!) wearing a white lab coat and a bow tie (I’ve been watching too much Doctor Who) appeared in my back seat. He was lounging with his hands behind his head and his eyes closed. He interjected into the conversation like he’d been there the whole time and scared the pants off of me. LM2, who was sitting in the front seat, turned around and gave him a few high-fives and laughed at his appearance. I didn’t find it funny in the slightest. Then, we proceeded to have a conversation. I held up my iPod so it looked like I was talking on the phone and not to two invisible companions that only I can see. Yea, because that made it so much better. I’ve decided, much to his disappointment, that I’m not going to tell anyone (except Thomas, I blabbed to him) about his appearance. I think people knowing about LM2 is enough. I mean what’s the difference between two apparitions when everyone knows you’re already seeing at least one? But I checked my pulse this morning. I brushed my teeth. I had a conversation with my dad at 3 in the morning because neither one of us could sleep. I did concrete things to let me know I was still here. That this wasn’t a dream and that I’m still grounded in the real world. And Dr. Glover brought up a very good point. They aren’t being bad. They aren’t whispering negative things to me or telling me to harm people. They’re actually doing the exact opposite. The Doctor (I know, so cliche of a Doctor Who fan to be fantasizing about a Doctor-esque character! Don’t judge me! Hell, I need to stop judging myself!) encouraged me to sing in the car earlier, even though I feel I can’t. I like to but I don’t think I can. LM2 has been reassuring me this whole time that this happening hasn’t been a bad thing that, in fact, it’s for the best. They’re positive reinforcement. They make me feel confident and boost me up. Well, except for that fact that I can’t seem to help talking to myself in public. I’ve been carrying a Bluetooth and like I said, talking to my iPod in the car so it looks like I’m on the phone to combat the stares. I don’t like people staring at me. I just want a definitive answer as to why they’re here. Oh! And then today, this morning, when Thomas was skipping with his friends (with parental permission) and I was dropping him off, I saw this girl on the corner. She was built a lot like LM2 but I couldn’t see her face. Except this time I could actually see her. It wasn’t this out-of-the-corner-of-my-eye bullshit (which the Doctor just took offense to. Wait, I just realized, if I email Allister my blog posts for the week, he’ll see this one. Shit! Oh well!). When, I checked the rearview mirror, she wasn’t there. I turned around to double-check, you know, to to see if she was really still there but like I said, she wasn’t in sight. It was really bizarre. This rabbit hole is getting deeper and deeper and I’m really worried it won’t stop. I feel like I’m simulating the Kobayashi Maru from Star Trek. The point of the test is to know defeat. Kirk beat it by cheating. Except I’ve lost my cheat codes. I can’t figure out how to win this scenario. I wish the Doctor were really here. Maybe then, I’d get something done. Sonic screwdriver to the rescue!
I’m still seeing the girl. But she’s quieter than yesterday. She hasn’t been in my head as much. Just as present, still there, still in the corner of my eye but not as talkative. Even now, she’s sitting on this little, three-legged wooden stool (I don’t own a three-legged wooden stool), watching me type with intense curiosity. She’s just waiting. And no matter what I do, I can’t get her to tell me what she’s waiting for. But the more I think about her existence, the more I think I know her. She’s from my childhood. She was my imaginary friend when I was all alone. When my friends had all gone home for the day and my parents had sent me to bed for the night because it was getting late and I had school in the morning. She kept me company and talked to me when I was all alone. I’d forgotten about her until now. She would hold my hand and sing to me. She would have conversations with me that were as vast and expansive as the galaxies that stretch above our heads. She never had a name but I just know this is her. That fierce grip that Borderlines use to cling to people extended beyond my friends of flesh and blood. Apparently, she’s been preserved like a china doll in my psyche. When I was first diagnosed with BPD, I knew the diagnosis was right and I knew I’d always had it. It’s a personality disorder, it develops when your personality does. Something goes wrong and your personality veers left instead of right, following a nonconventional path. Well, mine veered upwards inside of left because I’m miles from the beaten road. But why? That’s my question. Why is she here? Lucy Mach 2 has to have a reason for being here. Is my psyche protecting me from something? Is this deviance from reality a measure of protection from some greater threat? One that I can’t see? What is it? Oh, this is so frustrating. I imagine this is what doctors feel like when they’re sick. Having some knowledge of how the brain works and the inner workings of what happens when someone splits from reality is scary because now it’s happening to you. You can’t control it. You’re on the other side of the fence and for once, the leash isn’t in your hand, it’s around your neck. But when I ask her the simple question (Why?), she simply stares at me with a wide-eyed gaze. I don’t know what to make of it. My imaginary friend was never quiet. She always had a rebuttal, even to the strange things I used to spout when I was falling asleep and rambling about time travel and mutant powers. She was quick-witted and sharp-tongued. But this girl, I don’t know. Like I’ve said, she’s waiting for something. She’s waiting for the right conversation, the right moment, no! It’s like in I, Robot! She’s waiting for the right question! But how do I figure that out? He got clues; he received prompts. I haven’t received any sort of help as to what could be the right question. Oh my God, I’m trying to figure out the riddle of my imaginary friend because I keep seeing her. This is utterly pathetic. I’m bonkers. I had a really long conversation with my dad yesterday about finding myself and growing up. It made me cry, of course. And she was there, the entire time, watching me. I enjoyed it though. I was able to ignore her for a while. I enjoy spending time with my dad. I didn’t used to because of a certain someone (we discussed last night that that chapter of my life is closed so there’s no need to keep coming back to it) but now I do. And today I spent time with my mom. Oh my God, what if that’s the question? What if I’m going to lose them? That’s what that dream was about! What if it was like an indicator of the future? Okay, Lucy, don’t do this. Focus. Breathe. Woo-sah. I see Dr. Glover today. I’ve been debating but I think I’m going to let her read these blog posts. She needs to know the inner workings of this muddled brain of mine and I’m not sure I can effectively communicate what’s going on. It’s almost time to leave. Why am I so scared? That, my friend, is the right question.
I am truly stuck between Lucy and Lucy. Today, when I was driving to Allister’s office, I started to remember a very vivid dream I had (what I think was) a few nights ago. In the dream, my family and I were in my old townhouse and it was on fire. And I mean, engulfed in flames. I didn’t know where my parents were but I could hear them screaming from somewhere in the house. I was a little preoccupied though because a rafter had fallen on Thomas and was crushing him. I was trying to free him but no matter what I did, I couldn’t get the beam off of him. Eventually, Thomas gave up and insisted that I go without him. I wouldn’t accept that and continued to futilely struggle against this enormous hunk of wood. Thomas started to get really pissed at me and started screaming at me to leave the house. Then, before I could do any more, someone grabbed me and pulled me to safety. I couldn’t see their face through all the smoke. When we got outside, there was a white car parked in the street. I couldn’t see in the car but as soon as we stepped outside, the house blew up in a it-would’ve-made-Michael-Bay-jealous type of explosion. The person and I were knocked off our feet and the little white car sped away. So, when I was going to Allister’s office, I suddenly remembered all of this and became ultra-paranoid of every white car I drove past. They were all following me and relaying my coordinates back to some bigger authority. I don’t know what the hell I was thinking but at the time, it made absolutely perfect sense (and honestly, it still kind of does). I saw Allister and told him about it and he thought it was just some residual emotions from the dream because it was so intense. I mean, my family died! Survivor’s guilt, hello? I let it go and we had our session. Then, as I was driving back home, I took the city way (like driving through the city instead of the highway) because I wanted something to drink. I got my drink and started blasting my music. Well, out of the corner of my eye, I felt like I could see someone sitting in the car but every time I looked, the person would disappear. So, I started looking at them out of the corner of my eye. Here’s what I saw: a girl, skinny, with an athletic build, long, flowing curly hair tied up in a ponytail with a few loose curls framing her face. She’s got bright, greenish golden eyes, freckles and the same skin tone as me. I think she is me. She has an accent but I can’t tell where it’s from. Oh yea, did I mention, she talks to me? Yea, I’m fucking talking to a nonexistent girl that I can only see out of the corner of my eye! She’s wearing a purple jumpsuit and tennis shoes, by the way, and she’s waiting for something. She won’t tell me what but she’s here for something. The weirdest part about all of this? Did you connect the dots? I think she’s the girl who saved me from the fire in my dream. I don’t know what the hell is going on but this is getting ridiculous. She’s been here since I left Allister’s office and hasn’t left since. My mom suggested I try to bring her to the forefront of my mind so I could look at her straight on and tell her to leave me alone but she throws up some kind of blockade when I try that. Oh my God, I’ve got completely bonkers. I’m talking about a nonexistent version of myself, a better, dream version of myself as if she exists because I’m hallucinating her. I see Dr. Glover tomorrow which is both a blessing and a curse because this could play out one of two ways: she dismisses it as what Allister said, you know, that it’s my imagination and simply nothing more. Or, she thinks that I’m having some kind of psychotic break and wants to lock me in the loony bin. And I really don’t want to go in the loony bin. Not again. Oh my God, that sounds just as horrible as talking to an invisible girl. I was just about to correct myself and say she’s not invisible; she’s like Peter Pan’s unpinned shadow but what the hell does it matter? I’m completely and utterly mad! The border in my Borderline has split in two and I’m teetering on the wrong edge of the cliff. Alice has fallen down the rabbit hole, ladies and gentlemen. What if she never comes back?
I’m listening to Bad Boys II and my aunt cleaning peaches at the kitchen sink. It’s a very tranquil moment. Well, except for the guns and guts coming from the movie. I’m in Virginia because my uncle is dying. It’s a tricky process, one that isn’t fun in the slightest. This isn’t my first rodeo though, so I know what’s going on and what’s expected. That doesn’t make it any easier. We came down on Thursday because they didn’t think he would last through the weekend but he did, so my parents and Thomas went back Sunday. I stuck around because I don’t want to be alone (I’ll explain why in a second) and so that he had some company. I feel like I failed in that aspect though because he was completely alone today except for the company of a nurse, whom he had to force to stay with him. I’m going over there tomorrow to spend the day with him. I’m not sure what I’m going to do all day but that doesn’t matter. Being in his company and making sure he isn’t alone is what matters. The reason I didn’t want to be alone is because of my recent suicide attempt. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to have a house full of medication (some of it is locked up; like all my psych drugs), knives, scissors and other various objects of potential impalement/slicing capability. The idle time is what has always killed me. And being alone in a house full of aforementioned objects, with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company is a bad combination. Until I can pull myself together and figure out whatever I’m doing, I feel like I need a *gulp* babysitter. I’m planning on leaving Friday. I think by then I’m going to have myself together and this Uncle Fish thing will have finally sunk in. That’s my main problem. This thing hasn’t sunk in. It’s sitting on the surface, dwelling, idling, waiting for the perfect opportunity to ambush me and make me depressed. Daddy asked me if I left Willie at home (he named my depression Willie and compared it to an abusive spouse; don’t know if I said that) and I told him I did but I’m not sure. Sometimes I feel like he’s here. I feel like he’s lurking outside, peeking in the windows and watching me, waiting for the right moment. Waiting, just like Uncle Fish’s illness. They’re tag-teaming. They’re going to strike together. And I’m hoping that I’m not vulnerable. I don’t feel like I am. I have the Skills (that’s with a capital S). I haven’t had any Urges (with a capital U). And Allister is a phone call away. But I can’t be sure. How can you be sure you’re not vulnerable? That’s not something you can measure, you know? So how do you know? I’ll figure it out. I’m not going to worry about it. I’m really not. Because with Uncle Fish, I’ve got enough to worry about. I can’t be thinking about myself right now. I am planning a trip to New York City for myself right now. Montreal and I are trying to go on the 7th of June and staying the weekend. It’s going to be so much fun! I’ll finally be able to see the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I’ve always wanted to go there! The gunshots from the movie sound so funny next to the silence of the house. I’m waiting for Kareem, my cousin, to get back so we can go eat some proper dinner. I don’t know what’s taking him so long. I don’t know what’s taking me so long to accept Uncle Fish’s fate. But hey, sometimes things take a long time. Radical acceptance, right?
This is my first remote post. I’m sitting in the little alcove outside my psych class, killing time before it starts. Better I kill time than myself. Something I tried to do over the weekend. I took a handful of Risperidone. Just like that. See, I had gone out to dinner with some friends and afterwards I felt like I’d failed some cosmic test. Like God had handed me a mid-term and I’d totally bombed it. The self-hatred only escalated as I sped home. It snowballed to the point of cutting, which I did. My left arm is now equal to my right. 20 cuts. I felt like there was this ugly monster inside me that had to escape and the only way to exorcise the thing was to cut. So I did. The next day, the ugly was still there, hovering over me like some dark cloud. It was so thick and foggy that the only way out was to kill myself. And I attempted to do that. Of course, afterwards I felt like a complete and utter fool because I clearly didn’t die. I mean, only idiots fail at suicide, right? But I’m trying to take it as a sign. That I was meant for something more. You know, the usual bullshit they spin you after someone tries something like this. I’m not in the hospital because I refused to go and because my parents think I’m safe. Frankly, I agree. All the medicine is padlocked. I still have my Swiss Army knife (my cutting tool) but I don’t have that urgency anymore. It’s like when you have to go to the bathroom really bad. You feel like you’re going to burst and then when you finally go, you feel so much better. That’s kind of what the build-up to cutting is like. That sweet release of pent-up indescriableness is so tantalizing and numbing and beautiful. And it’s practically impossible to describe to non-cutters. I don’t know. Maybe I do buy into all that crap. Maybe I was meant to survive this. Maybe I was meant to straighten out my demons and figure out what the hell is going on in my head. I think it’s time for that semi-colon tattoo I’ve been thinking about. Maybe that’s what this is. Something that could’ve ended, but didn’t.