Everyone has moments during their life when it feels so unbearable that suicide becomes a wishy idea. Sometimes the wishy becomes washy and sometimes the washy washes out and sometimes it becomes more of a tidal wave. For most I imagine these wishy washys remain just that. Sometimes it can feel like you are bobbing around with a float for a while yet the sun can be seen rising and setting, those mornings and nights roll into days, then into weeks and then into months and eventually you pick that float up and walk out of the wishy washy sea. Occasionally with a life jacket of medication to make sure in future you use arm bands. This is how I imagine “healthy suicidal depression” to feel. I am not undermining those dark moments. Nor am I actually meaning there is anything healthy about it.. For the love of God always seek help. But for me, for the bpd, for others, we have arm bands, a rubber ring, a ton of stains that don’t come out in the washy and we constantly wobble off of our surf boards on the tidal waves caused by emotional storms. I use the terms wishy and washy because whilst it is a very serious topic it is an extremely individual, private and misunderstood one. So to cover the haze I shall use hazey terms, after all, this is the hazy cloud we live under.
I cast back to my childhood and I can now recognise behaviours that I would find concerning if in my own children. I had horrific eczema and of course that caused torturous itching. Under my pillow I kept sharp pen lids, bluntish knifes and such assortments of tools. I recall my parents calling me up to my room having made the discovery whilst changing my bed. My only reaction to the blood and skin on my mattress protector was to cry and beg for them to let me keep my tools. I would consume things I knew would cause anaphylaxis shock. I would sip at poisonous products (apparently. I can safely say drinking any product from body shop will not kill you), the bathroom cleaner burned a little. I can recall begging god to make me dissappear, I can remember begging for escape. Then I would feel guilty for wetting my baby dolls head with my tears. I also found methods of escape, riding my bike untill my legs hurt not caring for roads or cars, I would climb trees and sit in them for hours singing my wee heart out, and I would walk along the railway track near my home. Music of course as we have covered in previous blog played a huge part.
Into adolescence these things evolved. Escape came in the form of alcohol, autistic fantasy and detaching. Consequently causing me to miss most of my school life. Harm evolved into something sinister and abusive, I dare to actually print.. Groomy, violating and exploitive. Yet the same feeling was always there. My doll still got the tears. Tears I have since learned not to have, and if those disgraceful things moisten my face I hide until it stops. Minutes they get at best.
So how did this evolve into my adulthood? Despite many, many years of various bullshit therapies I still walk with a heavy float. Now no armbands of medication ( tc rules) and the storms just don’t stop. They come in tsunamis, monsoons, tropicals. Every trigger lights every emotion I have ever felt in this place. They link up like electricity. The pain of an adult, a teen, a child, and a toddler. I shall tell you how it feels for me. The weight of the world falling, the words spat into my own head. I feel disgusting, vile, poisonous, ugly, repulsive, contagious, lost, limp, no energy, pain digging into each single cell of my skin and body. I feel worthless, guilt, shame, I feel a bad bad person. The sort of disgusting human others would sentence to death. THEN it switches. Fast and furious. As if somewhere in some instinctive way my mind fights itself. Then I feel sad, broken, I know I am kind, I hate being kind, I know I try and I hate that I try, I fail, even when I do my best look… I feel like my tears start to shake my muscles inside. My throat closes, my body physically starts to get heavy and ache. I cant hear properly, I can look attentive but nothing. I speak and people respond but I question if I even make sense. I frown because the noise is my head is deafening me and I try to decipher the voices. Which one is saying what? I can’t take it.
THEN… This is it. This is when I know I have three choices. Suddenly every bit of air touches my bare skin. Any part. My skin responds, goosebumps, air. My eyes blink more. Close for one second more at each blink. My breathing calms, I nose breath. My muscles all relax, I may appear to smile almost. I feel light, let the air blow me. Take me. I want to go, I have to go, I am bad for people. Even when I try I am bad. My poor children have a mental health mother. Worse a mental mother pretending not to be mental, how mental? Impacting on them in the mental and the non mental. Men. I chew at and spit out. I don’t trust them. They don’t care, they don’t love me, they love what I can do for them. They need someone better. I have no friends, they think I am but I’m not really because I’m not true or honest. So who are they friends with? Its time. Bow gracefully.
Option two. Panick. You feel the need to go. Recognise the danger. No one protect your children like you. I have no one I would let within an inch of their minds. I am sentenced to something worse than death. Run. Now I want the air, more and thicker and faster. I want to run like an athlete (sadly Sarah. Athlete you are not). I shall grab some humour and pass go with alcohol, music, heels and male friend.
Option three. Stay still. So very still. Do not be seen. Do not be heard. Then wallow in the fact no one cares when you go back to option one.
How is this cycle living? This one cycle. The bike of all bikes. Amongst the Amsterdam station bike park of bikes. Imagine if they made a bike of gold and placed it as a rain cover over this bike Park. This is my head. Every day. Even in my sleep I’m haunted. This is what I spend my life fighting against and today I do not feel like I am winning. Today I have no energy to fight. Today I hate my fuckin brain and my fuckin life. Because I did nothing to cause it. I do not deserve it despite any sin. No one does. So today I choose option three. With option two taunting me, a fun option but a bugger to clean up after.
So it is not that I am insensitive to others having periods in their lives that feel this way. I empathise completely, I sympathise for their feelings, I accept maybe theirs being on par but alternative to my own. I will rescue as much as I can and more than most. Yet envy creeps my way and sometimes frustration which presents as anger. I hate that these people attempt to liken it to my own feelings. I hold my hands up to my ignorance if that be what it is. I hate that they will more than likely have this demonic cloud for a period of time. A period. Every day for ever, for as long as I have known I feel this. I live in total fear that it will never ever stop.
Research has shown that around 70% of BPD sufferers will have at least one suicide attempt in their lifetime, and many will make multiple suicide attempts. People with BPD are more likely to complete suicide than individuals with any other psychiatric disorder. Between 8 and 10 percent of BPD’s will complete suicide; this rate is more than 50 times the rate of suicide in the general population.
I would like to refer to my previous blog “work will set you free”. Will it fuck. Twenty years of therapy. Two of a therapeutic community. Who the fuck am I kidding? This is why people have religion. Therapy is like a religion. If their isn’t hope then there isn’t anything.