2f240ee700000578-0-image-a-53_1449501705474Okay, I know it’s totally a first-world problem but I need more Internet in my life. My mental health depends on it. I can’t stand not being able to write down what I’m saying for the world to see, even if it’s tucked within the megapixels and nonsense spouting out from every other computer on the face of the Earth. It makes me feel better to post it in the ether and walk away. It’s not on a piece of paper for someone to find, for prying eyes. The impersonal nature of the whole thing is enticing to the point that I’m becoming one of those people. I need the Internet again. I need it more than ever. I’ve been sitting in the library for an indeterminate amount of time, watching my future plans fall to ashes around me and I’m completely helpless to do anything about it. Well, at one point I wasn’t, but now I am. It’s too late. The world is turning and turning and I can’t find enough courage to jump off…or jump back on.

Physically, things are what they are. I’m getting monthly injections, waiting for enough time to pass for my doctor to declare that the spinal cord stimulator is our only option. My other CRPS friend had one put in and has thus had a rash of complications. But I remain undeterred. I need this to make my life semi-normal again. Granted, it won’t fix everything, i.e. the inner turmoil that is my brain, but it will sieve off some of the pressure to conform, to walk up the stairs rather than take the elevator. To park in a normal parking spot instead of the handicapped one. And the pain will be over. God, that is what I look forward to the most.

I’m applying for University of Maryland, School of Social Work for the spring semester. Halfway down the application, they ask for three reference letters, none of which can be from family or friends. The problem with this situation? I’ve been so removed from the outside world, even in my academic pursuits that I have literally no one I can contact for these references. One of the professors I did attempt to speak with told me she would be hard-pressed to say anything positive about my work ethic. That’s what I mean when I say I can’t jump back on or jump back off. The world was spinning so damn fast that I lost it, got motion-sick and had to get off. And once I was off, getting back on was seemingly impossible. The hospitals, the medication, all of it threw me so far off the track that once I managed to reassemble a “normal” existence, it was too late. I didn’t make friends, I didn’t establish connections, I didn’t network, dine or have tea with the right people. I didn’t make acknowledgments the way I should have and now my future suffers because of it. I couldn’t see the forest for the trees. Part of me wants to blame myself; if I hadn’t completely lost my shit, this wouldn’t be an issue. The other part of me blames society as a whole. Why do we create these webs of connections that seemingly establish who we are as human beings? What we experience, how we live, what we do on a daily basis doesn’t matter a single bit. Who you know, how you communicate and your ability to manipulate both of those skills is what gets you through life. That’s how we ended up with George W. Bush as President of the United States. My inner turmoil, any sort of insight into human nature and the darkness that lurks in all of us doesn’t matter. What if you’re autistic and lack communication skills? What if you were sexually assaulted as a child and have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder as an adult? What if you fought overseas and return to find your spouse in bed with another person? None of that matters if you can’t speak to your professors, if you can’t imagine yourself as a sexual creature or if you never developed a trade skill. That’s all your fault, according to society. The strength it took to survive those things, the courage, the determination, the struggle of bearing such a heavy burden doesn’t matter if you don’t have a white picket-fence, a dog, kids and are married. The American dream isn’t a dream at all. It’s a spoon-fed nightmare that all of us have been conditioned to want to experience. Despite the hoards of people that flock to fandoms, to conventions, to fetish chat rooms and underground parties themed with coffins and fangs, all of those people are considered abnormal. They’re considered to be the fringe of society. But if everyone is on the fringe, doesn’t that mean we’re all the majority? Doesn’t that push everyone closer, ever inward until the gap is closed and we are all united as a single group of people. Though we may look different, sound different, act different, we’re all the same. It’s like penguins. When the blizzards and snow storms hit the ice caps, adult emperor penguins, waiting for their mates to return from fishing, and waiting for the eggs nestled on their feet to hatch, huddle together in a huge mass of slick feathers. They rotate constantly, making sure that anyone getting hit with the impossibly cold winds on the outer edge of the cluster, experience the radiating warmth in the center. Everyone is cycled through the heat to make sure they all survive the storm, that their eggs survive and their mates return to happy spouses and little chicks covered in down. Why can’t we be like penguins? Why can’t we just wrap each other up and love each other? Instead, I am stuck questioning my very existence because I didn’t establish enough connections in college to receive recommendation letters from anyone. People suck.

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God, I remember when this was a thing. This was a multi-day/week occurrence with me. I couldn’t go without sitting in the library and pumping out at least one entry, while writing stories on top of it. But now? Now I don’t write at all. I watch everything. I never read. It’s a shame, really. And I don’t know what to attribute that to. Is it my current relationship with Brendan? Is it that I don’t want to write? Is it that any idea that I do scribble down gets scraped for the next thing until I’m left with a trail of unfinished scripts for the same story in my wake? I don’t know. I do know that once someone spirals down this rabbit hole it’s almost like getting better isn’t in the cards. I don’t care what anyone says about “recovery” and all that bullshit. Because it’s just that, it’s total bullshit. You’re going to have your good days and your bad days just like any other human being, sure. But most other human beings don’t need pills, drugs or the threat of death at their own hand to motivate them into the next tomorrow. I follow a lot of people on Instagram. Some have chronic health problems like me and others have mental health problems (again, like myself). That unspoken view on life we all share was once what was so appealing about following them. When I was depressed, I loved knowing there were other people on this Earth that had experienced the same things I had. But now? I’m not sure if it’s a hindrance, a trigger, I don’t know. I see someone post about the ever-revolving door that is healthcare and I’m inspired to call my doctor and complain about my treatment. I see someone else post about how close thy were to taking their own life a few hours ago and I wonder what exactly I have going for me that I can just sit here with aimless abandon and do nothing. I watch shows and want to know where these characters get their passion, their drive to spend countless hours working for the greater good of someone else. I sit in the library, sometimes watching those shows, and wonder what inspires someone to bring his tutor flowers, or another dude to watch Trump rally videos the entire time I’m here. I used to use this stuff. I used to sit there and attempt to understand the human experience, to write with wild abandon, even if I was only one reading it. Now? Now the only solace I get from my boyfriend, my pathetic attempt at being an adult and my ever empty bank account is sleep. And even that is forced now. To get any sleep of decent quality, I have to drug myself. And once those drugs kick in, it is the greatest thing ever. My mind runs with wild abandon. I’ve even begun to relish my nightmares and let me tell you, that part of my head is a place even Stephen King wouldn’t go. Part of the sleep problem is the fact that Brendan is taller than me, I only have a full bed and the dog and cat insist on sleeping in it too. So, I’m short-changed in the space department. If I stay up, I’m literally up all night because the three of them are taking up so much space that my hips and back end up paying for it. I don’t have an excuse for the rest of it. Laziness? School? I don’t know. But it hasn’t happened. Writing used to be the way I got things out, it used to be the way I processed things, the way I understood the world. I mean, it got to the point that I wouldn’t go anywhere without a piece of paper somewhere on me. I can’t explain how many napkins have idle musings or story excerpts on them. Once, I had no paper, no napkins and a dying light. Still, I wrote in the margins of my wordsearch book until all of those were completely full. The next morning I went back and couldn’t make sense of most of it because in the lack of light, I’d double-backed over my own writing. But it was out. The idea was no longer this virus inside my own head. Now, though, that’s all I seem to have. And the only way to escape them all is to sleep, which doesn’t much work since once I fall asleep, I’m trapped with them. I’m trapped with the gruesome thoughts, the murderous fears, all of it, until my alarm sounds the next morning. And then I wake up, and guess where I am? Back in the cramped bed, in the disgusting house, with way too much to do and no motivation to do it. When I first saw the Matrix, I remember riding to school on the bus (this was in high school, sometime before my license so maybe early 10th grade? 9th even? I’m not sure) and having the same freaky thoughts just about everyone has when they first watch that movie. Is all of this real? Am I in some sort of Matrix? Up until then I’d only experienced one tragedy in my life and created this world of fear and doubt on my own. I was relatively naive at the time and m parents had done a fine job of trying to prevent that from changing. Eventually, the thoughts led to a few story drafts, none of which went anywhere, but the fascination with the storyline changed from utter obsession to mere enjoyment. The possibilities the Matrix creates by questioning our very existence was revolutionary. That’s why that movie is so revered. And in my high school mind, there was some bleak amount of hope that this really wasn’t it. That there was more than waking up, going to school, learning shit I already knew, going home and generally being miserable. Now, though, I sort of feel like Thomas A. Anderson. No, not Neo, the hero of the free minds in Zion. I feel like his Matrix counterpart, the man before Morpheus, the one with his mind still plugged into the Matrix. I’m the one Mr. Smith hasn’t even started looking for because as far as that program is concerned, I’m just another mind plugged into the machine. Sleep is the only time my mind is free. And then, when it’s allowed to roam and fight off society and other radicals, it’s trapped with the Matrix that is my body. I have nothing to do. I’m literally frozen by my own body, stuck to drift through whatever mindset or thought my brain has until the next one appears and the door continues to revolve. Maybe the Matrix isn’t quite the analogy I’m looking for. Maybe it’s Avatar. No, not the Last Airbender with Aang and Katara (though that is one boss show). I’m talking about the blue aliens subjected to human terraforming for some rare mineral on their planet. Jake was a Marine with the loss of his legs. Once a Marine, always a Marine that much is true, but Jake’s body didn’t know that. The only return to the life of walking he was accustomed meant he had to close his eyes and upload his mind to his avatar. When his avatar slept, his mind returned to the shell that was his human body. That’s what I do every single night. I operate this avatar that looks like me, sounds like me and generally shares the same feelings but the only time I actually, truly feel is when I’m asleep. When I’m alone, when I’m sad, all of that is genuine too but if a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, did it fall? Does it count if I’m not sharing the experience with someone else? In both movies, they had someone to share all that with and were the better for it. Me, I have someone to share it with but don’t know how. I don’t know how to do what I want and do what he wants. I don’t know how to function on my own unless I’m on my own. Ask me to share that experience with someone else and it’s like giving the reigns to a blind horse and trusting it to lead me home. I can’t. I just can’t. I guess I’m going from one extreme to the other and back again. I was utterly devoted to Mara, with no thought about laying down my life for hers. There was no doubt in my min that it would have been a loss for anyone else but when it came to her happiness, devotion was the only thing I knew. Then, when we stopped talking, I became a loner. I was literally locked in my room with a subscription to Netflix and unwavering Internet access. I ate on and off, either starving or gorging to the point of topping my own previous weight by nearly half. I absorbed series like there was no abandon and found solace in the sad, the ugly and the beautiful. I found my way out of that hole for a brief moment in the sun. I righted wrongs, I did things I hadn’t thought I was capable of previously and so on and so on. Now, though, I think I’ve scrambled back into the nearest foxhole. I hate it in these things, as most soldiers do, but can’t seem to stop diving for cover the second things get tough. I’m in a relationship with Brendan and find myself compromising on the same things I did with her. I find myself enjoying the moments I have alone more than the moments when we’re together. I want to use my family as an excuse for just about anything. I never do the things I love and loathe the things we do. I always refer to whatever I’m doing as what we’re doing. At first, I took some liberty. I was happy to use we instead of me because it meant I had someone to “we” with but now, now I can’t stand it every time it comes out of my mouth. Now, I’m forced to correct myself for those times I’m not even referring to the two of us and just mean myself. My former empathy has turned to bitterness, my former companion has become my foe and I have no idea what to do.

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I’ve got a million things to do. I’ve already done a million things this morning. And I’m pretty sure my hair is falling out as a result. I don’t even know where to begin. My emotions have been all over the place, from elated to down right depressed. Brendan is suffering as a result. I’m suffering as a result. Like…can you tell that my brain is scattered to the farthest reaches of the wind?

Graduation: I’m trying to graduate this semester. I found out I only need one credit before I continue on my pathway to higher education but, as there are less than 6 weeks left in the semester, acquiring that last credit seems nearly impossible. After spending a day running around from different ends of campus, I found someone willing to adopt me into their independent study course, normally worth 3 credits but since it’s so late would actually amount to 1 credit. Great, right? No. Trying to cram even 1 credit’s worth of work into a 6-week period has turned into pure madness. Graduation is in May, and I have yet to purchase anything for it, let alone actually start the paper that I’m supposed to write. I’ve done a teensy bit of research but between writing a paper for an incomplete course last semester and trying to keep up with the class that I’m legitimately taking, I’m swamped. I even missed a meeting with the professor supervising me this morning while trying to do every other thing I had to do. Ugh. My mom wants me to graduate this semester, I want to graduate this semester, but trying to do all of this in such a short time sort of kills the vibe of graduation. It’s supposed to be a fun, exciting time and just like high school, this is turning into a desperate race to the finish line so I don’t have to deal with it anymore. Just like everything else in life. That’s sort of how I roll but I don’t like it. That’s the actual, underlying problem. I am so short-sighted that I end up doing everything like this. Sloppy and half-assed. I’m sick of it. I’m ashamed of my accomplishments because they aren’t accomplishments. They’re throwing myself across the finish line, despite having quit a million times before. It’s not overcoming an obstacle, it’s not accomplishing a goal, it’s being in the right place at the wrong time. I hate it. And I hate myself for doing it. Every. Single. Time.

Sparks: I’m currently residing in my grandmother’s house, that was previously occupied by a family for nearly 12 years. The patriarch of the family was an independent contractor who worked on estates and accumulated a lot of stuff through his job. Cabinets nobody wanted, furniture that didn’t have a home, that sort of thing. And it accumulated in the house. As we go through and get it ready to sell (it was built in the 30s so his lack of care and the fact that it’s old as dirt does not help anything), we find problem after problem. And most of it can’t be fixed cheaply. Painting, holes in the drywall, problems with the furnace, the (practically) toxic water in the well, it’s all horrible. It’s depressing since it’s my grandmother’s house. It’s got sentimental value, especially for my mom. Her siblings share ownership but don’t seem to share te same attachment to the property that she does. They haven’t helped a lick with the entire thing. It’s upsetting to hear her complain and stress about the house, being powerless to d anything. And then I keep finding problems. My mom is digging herself into this hole with this house and all I’m doing is reaping more dirt on her. It’s hard. So hard.

Body: I lost nearly 50 pounds over the course of the last year. I worked hard, ate clean and felt so empowered in my skin. There were still improvements to be made but it was the happiest I’d ever been with my weight. Well, guess what? I’ve gained it all back. I watch My 600-lb. Life and hate myself because I can relate to what the people are saying. I can understand eating as a stress-relief, eating to disappear, eating to make people stop looking at you, to hide behind food. I hate myself, even for typing it. It’s disgusting. And I’ve started picking my fingers again. My thumbs are bloody and scabbed, and every little piece of skin that tries to grow over gets pulled off. I get stuck, picking and pulling rather than doing homework or completing the task in front of me. I leave a trail of little white flecks behind me because I’m pulling so much skin off. It’s horrible. And as a result of all this hate, I want to cry. I want to cut. I want to express the hatred I have. But rather than change my habits, rather than fix things the way I did before, I’m taking it out on my corporeal form. I’m blaming my body for what I’ve done and it’s paying the price.

I can’t explain what else is going on because there isn’t a direct reason for it. Like I said, my emotions are all over the place. I feel stretched too thin and squished all at the same time. I’ve got lots of homework to do, lots of responsibilities that aren’t really my problem to deal with and finding a way to swim through it all.

This is like a record or something, right? I’ve managed to write twice in the same…year! This year is almost over, actually. I’m not finished Christmas shopping, I still haven’t solved the Internet crisis at Sparks and I don’t have a job. I might be getting another babysitting job in January with one of my mom’s coworkers but for now, I’m a free agent. There’s nothing wrong with that though. It means I get to sleep, and clean, and take care of all the stupid little projects that are around the house. I mean, even now, I’m in the library collecting phone numbers and people to contact to do all the minor things around town that I can’t do. Waterproofing the basement, hooking up a better Internet for all mankind, curing AIDS, ya know, that sort of thing.

The semester has finally ended as well and boy, did it go out with the biggest bang it could! I took a history course with a professor I had for Ethics last semester for the sole reason that I liked the professor. I enjoy history, but this class was much more streamlined for history majors than my Ethics course was, although we did discuss a lot of history in that one as well. Hell, we reenacted the Nuremberg Trials. The focus of this course was writing historical analyses. Like I said, not a history major so I’ve never really written papers in that format before. My Ethics course didn’t require papers like that, at least not in such a formal manner so this was totally foreign to me. My professor, that I have the utmost respect for and admire her intellect, gave me an Incomplete as a final grade. I lost it. I went to her office to ask what happened, what I had done wrong and what exactly she wanted in exchange for a real grade. She told me I had tried to pull a fast one on her, that I was trying to get out of writing a good paper because I was a psychology major and not a history major. All in all, she told me my paper was shit and that I was disrespecting her because I thought I could get away with not completing the course requirements. Now, I know y’all don’t actually know me but if you did, you would know that I am not one to cry or one to shy away from hard work. I cried in her office that day. And I mean, cried. I wept to the point that I couldn’t form coherent words or phrases. I was pissed off, not because I hadn’t “gotten away” with something as she kept accusing, but because the hard work I did put in on the piece I turned in was such a shitstorm to her that she made me cry! The cycle just kept going around and around. The more I thought about what had happened, the more pissed and hurt I got. Even Thomas noted that I’m not a crier and that when it comes to constructive criticism I’m pretty thick-skinned. She was not giving me constructive criticism. She was just being mean. I recorded the whole conversation and plan on keeping any correspondence between us until this “I” leaves my transcript. For those of you who have not been in academia rather recently: an incomplete is like a blank space on your transcript. You don’t receive the credit but it doesn’t lower your GPA as if you failed. Instead, at the professor’s discretion, you are granted an indeterminate amount of time to redeem the credit in a way that is also at the professor’s discretion. Basically, the professor has you by the balls until you do what they want. It’s totally bullshit. I was more pissed off at the fact that I’m going through this process again than actually having the Incomplete. I mean, she could have failed me! But she didn’t and for that I am thankful. Though I’m not too happy about having to spend $60 on books on Amazon for a paper. I did this almost every semester when I was at HCC. I would have a mental breakdown and have to either withdraw entirely or take the Incomplete and work it out with my professor. That’s what bothered me. All this way, all this time, all this money…and I’m still fucking up in the worst sort of way. I’m a good writer. That is one thing I have complete confidence in. But now? Now my foundation is shaky. I’m not sure how good a writer I am because I’ve had to withdraw from so many classes, I’ve had to take an “i” in a course that isn’t even related to my major. Frustrated. Angry. Pissed. Hurt. Enraged. None of those begin to cover it.

And then, on top of that, when I went to take my final final of the semester (which was at 10 AM for a 2 PM class), I got an email. All of my emails come to my phone (like 99% of America’s population) so right before the test was handed out, I checked my phone for messages. I had an email on my school account. I swiped it open and it was her. Just the thought of what had happened, her name, her reply, all of it was like a traumatic event all over again. I’m pretty sure I bombed that test because I was so distracted and wrapped up in my head about my history course. My professor for Social Psychology (that was the final I was taking when I was so rudely shoved into an emotional storm) is really nice and has even served as my pseudo-advisor while my school-assigned advisor is on sabbatical. I don’t think she’s so nice though, that she would let me retake the final, completely stress-free and environmentally-safe, without phones and surprise communication with my history professor. That’s asking a bit much.

I just feel so handicapped. When I’m walking with crutches, when I’m using my cane or even my wheelchair, people stare at me. It’s just part of the gig. I don’t like it but I can put on a tough face and take the questions, laugh off the stares and get on with my day. There are certain intellectual topics that I also accept as being part of the wheelhouse I do not belong in. Math, science, things like that are not for me. Never have been, never will be. And I’ve accepted that. Because so much emphasis is put on those subjects though, I’ve been compensating my entire life with useless facts and a superb knowledge of things I am good at. English, writing, history, things like that. For my professor to make me feel stupid isn’t really an accomplishment (I feel stupid a lot actually) but making me feel stupid in something I know I’m good at is a skill. And now I feel so stupid that I can’t do anything. I’ve recoiled so much that I can’t get anything done. I can’t think of anything remotely important without thinking about how I’m doing it wrong or there’s a million better ways to handle it. It’s insane how much one person can affect you.

I’m so sleepy. I took a Oxycotin last night because I was hurting so bad and now I feel like it hasn’t worn off. I’m gonna go home and lie down. And, of course, I look fucking fabulous today but that doesn’t matter because I have nowhere to go.

“Easy Street…Better Get There Soon!”

Snow ballSo…this week has been rather eventful. And it’s been swinging both ways. For some reason, my anxiety has been through the roof and my OCD has been spiraling out of control. I’m constantly cleaning and straightening things up, even when I’m not in my own house. It’s like I’m the Energizer bunny. I can’t stop moving, no matter what I’m doing or where I am. Even in the shower, which is usually my safe haven, I have to be dancing. This energy makes my mom happy because I’m cleaning but she knows that’s a fine line to walk because I’m becoming obsessive. And it’s not just about that. It’s about my weight too. I’ve lost 50 pounds since April and I plan on keeping it off. Being able to fit into my size 16 jeans was like the best feeling I’ve ever experienced. I like being able to shop in my own closet for clothes that are smaller than the ones I’ve been wearing for the last 6 months. But Dr. Glover (my psychiatrist, in case you forgot. It’s been a while) increased my Lamictal (for picking/cutting) and my Seroquel (for the anxiety and depression), which she casually mentioned might cause weight gain. Of course, to her, that doesn’t mean anything. To me, it means back into bigger clothes, eating more, hating myself more…it’s just an ugly cycle that I’d rather not repeat. Coupled with my anxiety, it’s led to constantly weighing myself, obsessively watching what I eat and constantly worrying about what I look like in my clothes. And then, when I sit still, when I slow down because there’s nothing left to clean, nothing left to do, the bottom falls out from underneath me. I am dropped into this dark abysmal place, where I can’t see anything, where I can’t breathe, where I can’t think of anything but no longer existing. I can’t help but think of terminating myself. And it’s exactly like that. Usually when I think of ending my life, it’s sort of this dramatic, operetta-type deal. I imagine the whole scene. But when this place swallows me, it’s not that…emotional. It’s cold and calculating. I am not important enough to have such a grand farewell. I don’t deserve to have a standing ovation upon my passing. I need to exit stage right like a shadow, like the set designers that organize the props for the next scene, dressed in all black and invisible to the crowd that is enthralled in the show going on around them. I go out more like a candle, than a 4-alarm blaze. But as soon as I’m up, as soon as I’m running around, doing things, occupying myself, I’m fine. It gets even better though. BPD has very distinct behaviors, just like every other personality disorder. And now that I am aware I have BPD, I can more easily recognize those behaviors. And lately, they’ve been rearing their ugly heads like snowflakes in winter. I can see myself doing it, I can see myself being manipulative and bitchy. I can see myself being defiant and switching between all-or-nothing. I can see myself behaving in this way that I’ve worked over a year to not behave in. And all of a sudden, it’s not working. It’s almost like I’m a third-party observer. I see what I’m doing, I realize how I’m acting, but I can’t stop myself. It’s greedy, and shameful and horrible. And the snowball keeps turning…I beat myself up for being a bitch, for being fat, for being energetic, for being on Earth. And the holidays are extra weird for me because I’m not used to going broke buying Christmas presents for people who aren’t family and treat me like dirt and then having to do the same thing in 2 weeks because it’s their birthday. Speaking of which, I did something the other day that even surprised me a little bit. I messaged Lexi on Facebook (since you can do that without being friends with someone) and apologized for being a horrible human being. We’ve been texting/talking ever since and we’re working through it. I had to recount my story for the millionth time but like I told her, that is my cross to bear. In order to repair the relationships that were severed by my stupidity, I’m going to have to tell that story a million more times. It’s good to know that I have someone like that playing on my team again. She was always a better friend than Mara ever was. But even with this type of healing going on, even with her hopefulness for the future of our relationship, I’m still dealing with the problems mentioned above. I’m still trying to figure out why I had a meltdown half an hour before my pinning ceremony last night and told my mom I wasn’t going to go, then completely changed the planned outfit and wore something totally different. I’m still trying to figure out why I was super conscious of what I ate for breakfast but then pigged out at lunch and am super worried about dinner because I’m supposed to be going out with Dick to eat tacos or something. Oh, and then there’s the problem with him. He lives a good bit away, which has been a strain on our relationship but it hasn’t been a major factor. We always seem to work things out. But lately, because my moods have been, well, BPD-ish, driving that far and committing to something that long-term (even though it’s only a few hours) is really hard. And even getting him to come out here and then sending him home after an hour or 2, would be really ridiculous! This relationship is literally the best I’ve ever been in in my entire life. My parents like him, I like him, I think his parents like me. I can see myself marrying him. I don’t want this to end but I don’t know how to get around this little snag. Because, of course, it’s my problem. Things are always my problem. It’s never someone else’s. And, of course, that’s a BPD standpoint. Things happen to me, not because of me. That’s the shit I’m talking about. I just sort of slip into it and by the time I realize I’m doing it, it’s too late. The behavior has started and it’s too late. The gasoline has been poured and the match is lit. I just feel so out of control. I don’t know how to stop it. I’ve been diligently taking my medicine; that’s never been anything I’ve struggled with. But this inconsistency in my moods, in my energy, in my anger…it’s ridiculous. And Dr. Glover will probably try to say it’s Bipolar Disorder. I don’t have Bipolar Disorder. This is not a manic episode. I know my body and I know what I’m going through. I know enough about that disease to know that this isn’t that. I don’t have anything against people with Bipolar; I just know I don’t have it. If I’m slipping though, if this is the beginning of another end, I kind of need to brace myself. I can’t do that right now. I have too much shit to do. And I can’t handle that on top of everything else. That sounds so cold and heartless but it’s the truth. That’s how everyone else deals with me, so I’ll deal with me like that too. Easy enough, right?