Monday, 27 June 2016

The Twentythird in Paris, part deux

(This post was originally meant to go up on Friday, but it was easier to find a condom machine than it was to find a decent wifi connection while I was away so I'm a few days behind)

I'M HERE!!!!!!!!

Yes, after being sat on a stationary plane for 2 hours, during which I discovered that a) there are some people stupid enough to allow someone stoned off their nut to drive them home, and b) that plane sangria is most definitely a thing, I'm now getting my hipster on, sipping black coffee and trying to find a mother fucking wifi connection whilst simultaneously drowning myself in Evian.

I don't care how much this fucking bottle cost me, I will do a lot for my job, but I will not dehydrate.

As I mentioned in my last, whiskey soaked, post, this past week has not been kind to me. My BPD reacted so badly to the surge of emotions that comes with being dumped, that I ended up feeling suicidal and almost checked myself into respite care.

Just to clarify, this "episode" was in no way my ex's fault, and I'm not blaming him. This is just what happens when BPD acts up.

Yet, in spite of these hideous few days, I still managed to buck myself up, return to work and travel to another country by myself for the first time in my life. From going to an anxiety and scar ridden suicidal blonde who couldn't get out of bed or make it through two consecutive days without harming herself, I seem to have become something vaguely resembling a functional human being. Pride doesn't even come close.

Yet, for reasons I cannot explain, there are still an upsetting number of people in my life that refuse to accept this. Preferring instead to believe that I can't make I through the day without needing some kind of guidance, and throwing their 2 cents in so often that I really should be a millionaire by now. What these people don't seem to understand is how these controlling behaviours suffocate me, how they make me feel so sick that my skin crawls and, for a single moment, I consider cutting them out of my life just to make this repulsive feeling go away. They just can't accept that controlling me is the last way of going about making sure I'm okay. I'm 24 years old and have put a mass rapist in prison whilst combatting self harm and completing a degree, I don't need, or want, you to hold my hand.

I'm hoping that this trip, and the time and space it is allowing me to bask in, will prove to people that I don't need looking after, that I'm in no way a child and can get by pretty well without their criticism and opinions clouding my brain. Or I'll just get shit faced and eat enough croissants to make Jesus think he didn't bring enough snacks to the feeding of the five thousand. Either or.

But, until then, I'm going to go back to my coffee and spend an hour or so submersing myself in the glorious words of Lauren Weisberger.

Because I could hardly come to fashion week and not re-read The Devil Wears Prada, could I now?

Au revoir


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