Wednesday, 21 April 2021

Loneliness, BPD and Patrick Bateman.

Through a series of events that I would have never expected to happen, but that I dreamed of happening countless times during mid-late 2019 and early 2020, River and I are back together. Combine this with Toronto's stay-at-home order and my broken shower and I'm currently finding myself around another person 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I don't know how it's working, but it is. 

As a result of this, the loneliness that I often feel as a result of my BPD is, understandably, non-existent. Yes, there is the cliched description of mental illness as a feeling of loneliness in a room full of people, but for me, that isn't the case. When borderlines feel lonely, we either lash out or internalize our pain. Either I convince myself that it's my fault that people don't want to talk to me, or I get angry at other people turning their backs on me when I try my hardest to be a good person. 

Take my relationship with the people I met when I first arrived in Canada for instance. In a similar style to the people you meet in your first year of university, we fell together for no other reason than proximity. Had we not been in the same place, we simply would not have been friends. We were different people, we still are different people and all but one of them have stopped talking to me over the course of my time in Toronto. Do I know why this has happened? No. Do I blame myself for why this has happened at this current moment in time? I don't know, and I also don't know how I will feel about their decision to cut me out of their lives and refuse to talk to me tomorrow. 

My exploration into the state of my borderline loneliness comes as a result of my current listening to Bret Easton Ellis read his most recent novel, White on Audible. Within the text, Ellis discusses a question that he is often asked about the protagonist Patrick Bateman. What would Bateman be like today? Between discussions of whether he'd spend his time trolling on social media or "get away with the murders he tells the reader he's committed", he highlights what Bateman would consider being the worst possible critique against him and his character, having no one pay attention to him. 

The reason I discuss Bateman in terms of this loneliness and lack of attention, other than the suggestion that Bateman lived with BPD, is that in its purest form, what is loneliness if not feeling as if the people in your life aren't paying attention to you? In attempts to curb or ease our loneliness, we seek the attention of others. Whether it's by reaching out ourselves or hiding away or expecting people to come to us. In our basic desire to combat this natural feeling, we want people to pay attention to us. 

As a borderline, the idea of reaching out to people for company and attention is one that I have vastly divided opinions on. When I am at my loneliest, I hide myself away. There is only so much effort I'm able to make and, although I rationally know that people have other things going on in their lives and that their actions are not a personal slight, the thought that I'd rather lock myself away than keep trying to connect with people who have no time for me is a strong one. Even now I'm considering it, especially in regards to certain people. No matter how much you love someone, the pain of wanting to be loved in return whilst simultaneously wanting to close myself off from them to limit future pain is a classic BPD trait that I will probably live with for the rest of my life. 

Fear of abandonment, it's BPD 101. 


Wednesday, 14 April 2021

Murder: It's All In Your Head, Cynthia Hilston

Someone has been getting away with murder for over 100 years in the small town of Hurston, Ohio. But the wrong person has been convicted of those murders every time. In 2018, Cassie Meadows is on her way to school when a bright flash comes out of nowhere, and she wakes in millionaire Randy Davis’s body with blood on her hands…the blood of Randy’s wife, who lies in a pool of crimson in the bathtub with her throat slit. Meanwhile, an old man everyone calls Jimmy Williams raves that he’s the real Randy Davis as he lives out his days in a ward for the criminally insane. In 1914, young Helen Hawkins is unloved and repetitively abused by her father, who is also the town’s pastor. Her only escape is in her dreams, where she wakes in others’ bodies, living other lives, but when her dreams turn out to be reality, the tables are turned on her father. In a story where no one is who they seem, how can Cassie, the latest victim accused of a murder she didn’t commit, end the cycle?


Cassie pedaled her bike faster to school as thoughts of staying home alone on senior prom night plagued her. A flash of light blinded her. She shielded her eyes. Horns blared and tires squealed, and the whole bike shook to a stop.

When she opened her eyes, a wall of old books stared back. She rubbed her eyes and blinked rapidly, taking in her surroundings. Gone was the familiar tree-lined street with rows of 40-year-old ranches and split-levels. Sunlight filtered in through parted drapes. Unlike her house, where dust danced in light beams, this room sat still.

Her sweaty hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. A chill jolted up her spine and extended down her arms, freezing her in place. She gazed across the room. Marble pillars flanked an archway to another room across the vast library.

A faint noise came from another part of the building. Curiosity claimed her caution as she took a step. Realizing her fingers were wet, she glanced down and nearly fell over. Blood covered her large hands all the way to her thick fingertips!

Cassie gasped. She reached for her throat. A sharp intake of breath.

“What?” she croaked in a foreign voice.blo

A dream. This must be a dream. Her voice rang through her mind, but when she opened her mouth to speak again…

“This can’t be happening.”

Cassie’s hands grasped her throat, in a failed attempt to excise the vocal cords responsible for this new voice. When her fingers grazed whiskers, she raked them over the jaw and cheeks.

“No. N-no.” What the hell?

She closed her eyes and forced herself to take a long, slow breath. Okay, okay. Calm down.

When her eyes opened yet again to this new reality, Cassie gave a shuddering gasp. She felt like she was doused with ice water, the burn throbbing through her body. She tried to step again, but she wavered in this oversized body that wore like a linebacker’s uniform. The large feet lumbered with a clumsiness contrary to her agile body. For a girl who had taken gymnastics since she could walk, the dragging, teetering movement of this form almost stopped her efforts. But Cassie willed herself to move. One step at a time.

Just do the best you can. Her mom’s words echoed through her mind.

Her steps were short-lived as her dad’s advice died. She halted. A trail of red on the spotless marble floor led to an archway. Her nerves fired in overtime, and her head spun. She followed the path and exited the elaborate room into a hallway.

The sound was louder now. The unmistakable sound of running water.

“What’s going on?” Cassie whispered. She tried to ignore the voice. Really tried.

Something moved out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head to the right and landed on her reflection, only it wasn’t her face. A tall man of about thirty stared back. She ran her hands through the trim brown beard that contoured the strong jawline, confirming what she felt earlier. Liquid brown eyes under thick, wavy hair and a deep brow held confusion, panic. A sleek black business suit covered her well-built frame—fit for an executive who dined on caviar and champagne and rode in chauffeured limos. But against the black of her suit the blood extended, weaving an unknown horror story.

She shook her head. “This is impossible.” Yet the voice told a different story.

Her body trembled, and her whole being felt different. Cassie’s eyes fell on a picture frame below the mirror. Her fingers fumbled to pick it up. A younger version of the man in the mirror gazed out of the photo. He smiled, his face next to a gorgeous auburn-haired woman. The woman’s hazel eyes crinkled around the edges, her freckles standing out against her fair skin in the sunshine. It was a happy couple’s wedding photo.

Cassie returned the picture to its place, the frame now coated in blood. A drop of crimson marked the floor every few inches. This body must have come from the opposite direction through the house, for how else could she explain the blood everywhere? She rested a hand on the railing at the base of the stairway and gazed up the twisting steps. The running water came from upstairs. She took the first step and steadied herself. Something drew her toward the source of that sound.

Cassie reached the landing and glanced behind her. Her mark was on the railing, another path of blood. The tell-tale trail continued, decorating the floor in a macabre design, as she went down the hallway toward the sound. Her knees wobbled as a dizzy spell overtook her. She steadied herself with a hand to the wall and blanched at the red print she left.

Call the cops.

I don’t know what the hell’s going on.

She pushed herself from the wall and arrived at the bathroom. Water leaked under the door.

The knob slid under her slick hand. She used the end of her sleeve to grip it and pushed the door open enough to peek inside. Pink water flooded the marble floor. Her gaze traveled to the bathtub. Water spilled over the tub’s edge. A woman lay sprawled in the tub, her vacant eyes staring at the ceiling, her mouth open in a scream. Her head lay at an odd angle, her neck nearly cut in two. Blood ran from the gaping gash into the water.

Cassie tried to scream, but her stomach tightened. Bile rose and she vomited into the pooling water and blood. She slammed the door and collapsed against the outside, pulling her knees to her chest. Water soaked her pants, making the fabric stick to her clammy skin. The tall frame of the man’s body convulsed with the sobs of a teenage girl as she cried into her hands. Hands that weren’t hers.

“I want my mom.”

She couldn’t get the dead woman’s face out of her mind. As the scene replayed through her head, Cassie realized where she’d seen the woman before. In the photo. She had been this man’s wife.

About the Author


Cynthia Hilston is a stay-at-home mom of three young kids, happily married, and lives in the Cleveland, Ohio, area. Writing has always been like another child to her. After twenty years of waltzing in the world of fan fiction, she stepped away to do her debut dance with original works of fiction.

In her spare time – what spare time? – she devours books, watches Supernatural and Outlander, pets her orange kitty, looks at the stars, drinks wine or coffee with good friends, and dreams of what other stories she wishes to tell.


Friday, 19 March 2021

Guest Post, Wendy L. Anderson Ulrik author

Hello, I’m Wendy L. Anderson. I am a fantasy author! I will also reveal that my fantasy writing has a bit of romance thrown in. There is action, adventure, magic, danger, and intrigue in all of my books. 

My first foray into the world of writing was my five book Kingdom of Jior epic fantasy series. I have created an entire world full of fantastic and noble beings and it all begins with book one Of Demon Kind. Most of my reviewers have found this book series surprises them with its uniqueness.

One thing I love about writing fantasy is world creating. Would it be bad of me to admit that I love to escape into the worlds I make up rather than face the one I’m in?

I am a pantser which means I write by the seat of my pants and do not use a formal outline, process, or formula to write. I just sit down and start typing an idea I have or a scene that pops into my head and I just go from there. I also use many themes in my writing because they are my favorite things and places and they just happen. Being born in Colorado, it should not come as a surprise, that I love the mountains. I also love winter, forests, waterfalls, hot springs, crystals and jewels, prisms, and anything medieval. Knights, chivalry, swords, and honorable quests inspire me to write these fantasy adventures. Those favorites appear often in many of my stories, but I am always pushing the boundaries and I do try to expand my writing horizons.

In addition to my five book fantasy series, I have written a stand-alone Viking story titled, A Cut Twice as Deep. This is a beautiful tale I saw in a dream and is about twin sisters who only have each other in a world where women are not particularly valued. They have grown up serving their tyrant of a father when suddenly they find out that they have been given in marriage to the highest bidders. Forced to separate and travel great distances they are parted so that their father may increase his wealth and power. This story has everything danger, intrigue, and romance, and did I mention Vikings? I test the waters of historical fiction with my special brand of fantasy thrown in. A Cut Twice as Deep is an emotional tale of sisterly bonds and finding love in a land where blood and ice reign.

I once read, and perhaps you have heard the saying, that a true writer needs to write it is in their nature just like a painter needs to paint or a sculptor needs to sculpt. That is me. When it comes to writing, I live by Winston Churchill’s wise words, “Never, never, never, never give up.”

 I hope you have enjoyed this ramble. You can learn more about my books and my writing on my website Be sure to subscribe and feel free to contact me about anything you’d like to know about me and my fantasy writing.

Until then… Enjoy the fantasy!

Tuesday, 9 March 2021


Fun fact, I hate shopping. Nothing digs deeper into eating disorder memories quite like flashbacks of how fat I felt every time I went shopping as my BED developed. My clothes were getting too small whilst my mother's were getting too big as she continued to starve herself to death and get thinner. 

It was a fucking blast.

Anyway, because of that, I fucking hate clothes shopping, so I make my own clothes, or modify the ones I do buy. An oversized T-shirt cut up here, a tie-died shirt there, whatever it is it's fun, and I'm hella proud of what I made today. 

I don't know where this idea came from, probably from the fact that my friend is coming over today to tie-die oversized tops that I bought from a guy on Spadina who told me I was pretty, but your bitch decided she wanted to spray paint some clothes. So I dragged myself to the craft store to find, in orgasm-level euphoria, that a shit tonne of fabric spray paint was on sale. I went with one to start but went back within the hour to get another lot. Because BPD obsession. 

After heading home past the aforementioned shop on Spadina, I got home, took off my pants so I didn't turn them yellow, turned a large white T-shirt into a tank-top held together with safety pins, made a stencil out of duct tape and headed outside. 

Now, I haven't used spray paint in a while. Not since my last year of college where I became low-key obsessed and spraying 90% of the final piece I made before I started my foundation degree. 

Not to be mistaken for the one that ended up in a local gallery #flex

Turns out I love the smell, so a few enjoyable spritzes later, I was happy with my design and I left it to dry round the corner from my house. Let's face it, no one was going to steal it. 

And I'm SO FUCKING HAPPY with how it turned out. Now, when people ask why I'm insane, I just point to my top and they can see it's because I have BPD. SHWANG 

Other things that have made me happy this week include becoming a very big Machine Gun Kelly stan and my husband finally getting on board with the Lynn language and calling someone a shit cunt. 

So proud. 


Friday, 5 March 2021

The Moscow Whisper by Michael Jenkins, Guest post

At exactly eight o’clock in the evening, Dozich’s internal CCTV system was infiltrated by The Court’s hackers sitting at their dimly lit consoles somewhere in the quiet Suffolk countryside. Sean’s phone began to vibrate - sure enough, right on time. Jack messaged him on TextSecure and the phone came alive with a green screen showing three dots flickering. ‘Good to go. All stations on standby.’

The Court’s hackers had inserted a Trojan worm deep into the servers of the villa, which quickly propagated laterally to gain the privileged access rights to the CCTV system. The hackers took control of each of the internal cameras that would provide sight of Sean making his way to the rooms he would search.

‘I’ll be back in an hour,’ he said to Yelena. ‘If anyone comes and asks where I am, text me, and tell them I’m on the loo.’

‘I can come along and keep an eye out for you while you’re in the room you know. It’s my father’s house and if anything goes wrong, I’ll be able to tell a story far better than you at being caught mooching around like a jewel thief.’

‘Funny that, Jack set my legend up to show I was once an amateur thief.’

Had Sean seen the anxious look on Jack’s face back at The Court, he may have taken her up on the offer to tag along. But no. he needed to do this work alone. He stepped outside the door knowing the corridor cameras were now under the control of The Court hackers who had digitally manipulated the imagery being seen by Dozich’s security operators deep in the basement of the villa. He then sent a text to Jugsy: ‘Land the drone on Dozich’s balcony. Five minutes.’

Within three minutes, Sean had turned a key to enter the spacious office which was located on the first floor of the villa. He’d memorised the plans of the villa and the layout of Dozich’s office with the help of Yelena who had managed to coax the information from the housekeeper as well as the location of the spare key that her father always left in the vase opposite the door.

As Sean started to rummage the room, he still couldn’t work out why Yelena had been so accommodating, so helpful. Almost from the very beginning when he first caught her half naked in that room in Tuscany. Since that moment, it had not been at all difficult to extract information from her. Indeed, she even steered him straight to the Albanian thug. Why, he wondered? 

His phone began to ring. The signal that the drone was now inbound and imminent. Sean walked over to the terrace, released the latch on the sliding door, and stepped out to be confronted by a buzzing quadcopter two feet ahead of him at head height. He imagined Jugsy grinning at him through the onboard camera, so he decided to give him the finger. Following a smile at the ugly whirring beast, he grabbed a small black pouch from a cradle below the drone’s belly. He gave a thumbs up into the eye of the onboard camera, and watched it lift quickly before silently peeling off into the night to land on the roof of the villa.

Sean pointed his penlight towards the large white desk that sat neatly in the corner of the room with two twenty-inch screens and a desktop computer. He gazed briefly at the three large pictures behind Dozich’s desk. His gaze turned into serious study. Something had caught his eye. One picture had three men dressed in Spetsnaz fatigues and Dozich holding an AK47. It looked like it was taken in Afghanistan. Dozich was stood next to a man Sean recognised. It was a much younger Sergei. The Russian spy Jack had recruited and the man he had met only a year ago in the very conference room that Jack was now sat in. Sean’s nape began to tingle. What if Sergei had played Jack all along? Surely this is too much of a coincidence for Sergei, the lead officer for a Russian illegals programme in the UK, to be a military friend of Dozich? 

Sean took a photo of the wall mounted picture with his smartphone and beamed it back to Jack using the secure photo app specially designed for Court operations. He muttered a few words to himself about moles and how Swartz might have been compromised, before sitting at the desk. The computer screen was alive with a background picture of a mountain view. He tapped the return button to bring up the password box. He then stood up and walked around the room once more until he finally found what he was after. A small second desktop machine with a laptop beside it on a small table next to an open fireplace. Sean instinctively knew that Dozich would probably use the laptop for emails and internet transmissions, whilst he kept his main desktop machine isolated from any intruders who would hack into his machine via the internet. Operational security for organised crime lords in the digital world was a must, and one that Dozich would take seriously. 

Sean tapped the number into his phone that he’d been given by Jack to speak to a Court operator in the operations room back in Suffolk. The hacker would help him get into the machine to search and retrieve all of the files of Dozich’s illicit trade, his financial connections and any connecting evidence to Sir Rhys. 

‘Sean? Can you hear me? My name’s Bill?’

‘Yes, I can, I’m in front of the machine, go ahead.’

‘OK, this won’t take long. First off, there are two pensticks in the black pouch. Both will be required to perform this attack which should take less than five minutes. The blue stick will be used to create a live USB that will boot on the laptop while, the yellow stick holds the payload that will then be executed on the device. It will infiltrate the machine and search for the password hash. Place the blue one in now.’

Sean drew the blue pen drive from his jeans pocket and placed it into the USB drive. ‘Done,’ he said waiting impatiently for the next instruction.

‘OK, now on the pen drive is a small switch. Turn it on so a green light flashes once before going solid after five seconds.’

‘Done, what’s next.’

‘Just sit back for about three minutes or so. It’ll boot on the laptop and also sniff for the drone sat above you on the roof, and once it’s connected, we’ll have a transmission frequency to extract the data we need.’

Wednesday, 3 March 2021

Things I, personally, can't do as a borderline

This list is entirely subjective, but it's what applies to my own experience with BPD. Enjoy.

I can't have any pets

You know how everything dies? Like everything. As someone with BPD the thought of either a) finding a dead pet or b) forming a loving attachment to something that is, by nature, not going to live as long as me, is not a good one. Yes, the idea of having a cat or a rabbit or a dog is lovely. But is it worth the BPD episode I would have and the lifelong pain I would experience when it died? No. Nothing is. 

I can't form casual relationships

This is a very raw and recent one, as in today recent. I met a girl, she's amazing. She's beautiful and smart and caring and respectful and, were I staying in Canada, I would do anything to be with her, but I'm not. Today I had to tell her that I can't see her anymore because I'm leaving. There wasn't a single chance on earth that I wouldn't fall for her, especially during the yearly trifecta of hell. Normally I would let it carry on, knowing I would be in pain because I thought I deserved it. But it's not just about me, I owed her the respect to be honest. And that's what I had to do. 

I gave up a woman I knew one day I could love because of my BPD, and that's why it's fucking shit. 

I can't have access to excess medication 

Last week I didn't sleep for four days. Eventually, I went to my doctor because I laughed hysterically for two hours because I didn't have any ribbon. 

I get weird when I'm tired. 

Anyway, I had them for one night, then crushed two of them up the next day and snorted them and knocked the other two back. Within less than 48 hours. I can't be near any drugs that I don't essentially need. I was thinking of picking my medication up early but I know I'd overdose and then not have them when I need them, so that can wait. 

I can't have access to sharp objects 

Fun fact, it is difficult to self-harm with standard kitchen knives. That's because standard everyday knives are sharp enough to cut through the skin. Same with most drug store razors, unless you find the really cheap ones that you can pull apart. Craft knives aren't that great either, they break.  The most successful method of self-harm is with those rectangular razors.


To combat this I've started using a brand of razor I used as a teenager, it has some weird soap attached to it but I can't be bothered to research the name. Regardless, you can't get the blade out. So I can be hair-free (ish) and not cut.

That doesn't mean I don't want to though.

I can't be an air hostess

I don't want to, but you can't be an air hostess with self-harm scars. 


Monday, 1 March 2021

BPD Questions

Last week I posted a blog with a list of BPD "hacks", or that was my intention. It instead turned out to be a page of exhaustion fuelled rambling that listed a few thoughts about my condition, but I had intended them to be helpful. 

Today, I'm presenting you with a list of questions that, even after all the years I've lived with my condition, I still don't have the answer to. 

Although if you feel the need to tell me the answer to them, 86 that desire, it's only going to piss me off. 

Why do I trust other people's suggestions and opinions even when they're negative?

I had a conversation with someone once about whiskey, well bourbon to be exact. I like bourbon. Double shot, ice, a splash of ginger *chef's kiss*. But then they told me it was a weak (as in not very good quality) drink and I doubted my love of it for a good two or three days. 

I once overheard someone say that the email provider I used wasn't very good quality and subsequently created a new email account, which caused nothing but confusion and I predominately use the first one. 

There are probably a lot more examples, I just can't think of any right now. 

My point is, why do I trust them? When them as given even though I own opinions and experiences to go on? I still like bourbon, I still use the same email account and yet that doubt is still there. 

Luckily I didn't trust the person who said I should just keep my writing as a hobby, because that bitch deserved a punch in the face. 

How on earth are there people on the planet who've never wanted to kill themselves?

This is more of a general question, but it baffles me that there are people on the planet who've never wanted to commit suicide. I feel suicidal and want to hurt myself all the time, I even wrote my suicide note the other day. I've tried it multiple times, it's never fucking worked and I never woke up with a sense of relief that it hadn't worked and that I was still alive because I get very little enjoyment out of being alive. 

To be fair that may be a general mental health question rather than a BPD-specific one. Here's my suicide note by the way. 

And it's a story that might bore you, 

But I'm not in any pain anymore

Fuck yeah I quoted rules of attraction.

Why are the majority of people presented with BPD in the media portrayed as dangerous?

I've recently, as in over the last 2 or 3 days, become a massive Pete Davidson stan. Partly because he's hot, partly because of his bromance with Machine Gun Kelly, but mostly because he's one of the only people in the media with BPD who hasn't been made out to look dangerous or insane. There are no rabbits being put on the stove (I'm looking at you Fatal Attraction) or whatever the character with BPD does in Girl Interrupted, he's just a comedian who happens to have BPD and explains it well without the judgement of the people who he's talking to, which is a new one. 

I would attach a video to the interview where he explains his condition but the comments annoy me. Instead, I'm including one where he explains how to jerk off in a room full of people.

Because I'm helpful like that.


Why does everyone think I'm a total disaster?

At the age of 19, despite living with a love of self-harm, the issues associated with having recently spent time being homeless and an undiagnosed mental illness, I went to university. During that time I spent time in a low-key abusive relationship, went through the journey of having my condition diagnosed, tried to kill myself, was told I was too fat to have an eating disorder, was raped and subsequently put said rapist in prison and lost a really good friend of mine. In spite of all this, I graduated with a 2:1 bachelors degree in history of art and literature. 

Since then I've lived in multiple great places, secured lots of great jobs, set myself up as a freelancer, travelled around Europe by myself multiple times, took a great leap of faith and moved across the world to be with a man I'd just met and emigrated across the globe all by myself. 

And yet, for some reason, people don't think I'm capable of looking after myself. I asked my mum if I could be put on her car insurance when I return home and was met automatically with "well you haven't driven for a few years so..." thankfully I 86-ed that before she finished. I've had my license for over a decade but my parents don't think I can drive, they don't trust me. Always a kick in the balls, 

My friends and family also like to message and talk to each other about my behind my back, LOVE that one. 

Why do people feel they're allowed to talk to and treat me like crap?

Someone I know once told me I was hard to love, someone once told me I was the worst person I'd ever met and my mum's boyfriend once told me I should be in therapy for being such a cunt. 

That was a fun one. 

Side note, he's still friends with the cousin that left me homeless. And yet I'm the cunt? 

Now, is it because of my BPD that people feel that it's okay to talk to me like that? That people are convinced it's totally fine to talk to and treat me like a piece of trash, I don't know. But I do know that these are things that are unlikely to be said to someone who isn't mentally ill so, you know, maybe it is because I'm a borderline. 

Or maybe it's because I'm a cuntish bitch who's impossible to love, why knows?


Will I ever find love?

Jokes, read my last post for my response to that one