Things are very up and down at the moment, some parts amazing and some really bad. I broke up with River, who I'd wanted back for so long that us being back together felt like an act of God that I never deserved. As a result of this, I ignored every time he attacked me, every time he through me on his bed, pinned me to the wall, covered my mouth to hide my screams as I begged for help and he called me all the names under the sun. I'm out now, and I have an amazing man that makes me smile whenever I think about him. He's perfect, he saved me and, because of this, I'm eternally afraid that he's going to leave me.
I know he won't hurt me though.
Another thing that's going on is that the man who raped me has a hearing to see if he can be moved to a lower security prison. A prison that would allow him out on day release or to leave prison for a few days at a time. If I'm honest, I don't know how I feel. What hurts me is that him being released undoes all the good I thought I'd done. It allows me to warrant the pain I caused everyone I love by getting into that fucking car, allowing him to rape me. I always thought he'd be there for the rest of his life, I made that happen, it helped me atone for the cause of my stupidity that hurt people I loved. If he gets out, everything I did will be for nothing, and I just hurt people.
The only way I know how to explain to people that I don't want to go back is by saying that, if I do, I put everyone I love at risk, which is true. My name is Jess Howard, I'm easy to find. Yes, I can get a restraining order against him, but people break them all the time. The only way I can get people to understand that I don't ever, ever want to return to England is by telling them that a) I don't want to return to a country where I have to have a restraining order against someone to keep them away from me and b) That going back puts my whole family at risk.
I'm finding my work as a freelance writer a little difficult at the moment. I've been losing contracts/clients and it's putting a dent in my confidence. I'm not playing the "they screwed me over" card, nor am I completely blaming myself, but I'm encountering some difficulties that I need to rectify.
One of the first freelance jobs I got when I arrived in Toronto fired me because I couldn't adjust an image in Photoshop, alongside some confusion with deadlines over Black Friday weekend. I accept my faults in this situation, I told the interviewee that I would be able to learn to use Photoshop when, in reality, that wasn't something I would be able to do in time. There's an unfortunate pattern within copywriting job adverts where writers are expected to be able to create imagery to accompany their work, despite the advert being for a writing job. I don't know if it is happening both ways and graphic designers are being asked to write copy to go with their work, but it's something I am becoming aware of when applying for jobs.
The second contract I lost happened because I didn't ask enough questions when interviewing the person I was ghostwriting for. A perfectly acceptable reason had I known about the problem and not rectified it, but I didn't. I was not told that I wasn't asking the right questions until after my contract had been terminated, which I had difficulty getting my head around. How was I supposed to know that I wasn't asking the right questions if nobody told me?
My final contract issue came this morning when, in a similar style to the freelance job I just mentioned, I was told my work wasn't what the client was looking for after the contract had been terminated. Now, I'm not saying every job is perfect for every client, not everyone can be an expert at everything, but I'm finding it frustrating that I'm losing work because I've not done the things my clients want me to do, without them telling me what I have done wrong and giving me a chance to fix it.
These instances are in the past and I can't change them, but what I can do is learn from them. I was furious this morning when I received my most recent contract termination but after I'd calmed down I started making a list of the things I can take from these experiences.
1) Accept that I can't do everything.
I'm not a graphic designer, I don't pretend to be a graphic designer and I've never claimed to be a graphic designer. What I have done though is make promises that I can learn something in a certain amount of time when I can't. I'd really like to learn how to use Photoshop, but this shouldn't be a skill that my being hired as a writer is dependent on. From now on I'm not only going to stop making promises I can't keep, but I'm also going to stop applying for jobs that are looking for skills that are completely out of my capabilities.
2) Make sure I have an open dialogue.
When I've had freelance jobs in the past I've always felt like it was a privilege for me to be hired, instead of realizing that a freelancer/client relationship should be an equal and open discussion and that the client was equally lucky to have me working for them. From now on I'm not going to worry about "bothering" people or accept things that I do not find suitable, such as being given too little information or not working to a deadline I can't meet. There is no blame game here, but if I don't feel comfortable and like I have an appropriate relationship with my client, I'm not going to be able to produce my best work.
3) Take pride in my work
I realized today that I have a habit of not proofreading my work adequately, be it for a job application or a piece of content, and this is telling me that I'm not taking the pride in my work that I should be. From now on I'm working to see my work less as "begging" someone to employ me or give me a contract to make me feel as if I"m actually a writer, but instead as pieces of work that are there to show people my skills and ability.
When I think about pain, I think about the pain I feel as a result of my BPD. The agony that exists in a world where I have no idea how or what I'm feeling, or how or what I am supposed to feel. I've always known that my BPD manifests itself as physical pain, but I always assumed one was connected to the other. Until recently.
I have hypermobility. Hypermobility, scoliosis and sciatica, which essentially means that my joints don't work properly and hurt all the time. Until recently I ignored it and assumed it wasn't a real feeling, but for the love of God being in pain is shit.
My legs are agonizingly painful at the moment. When I lie down they feel like they're on fire and from the waist down I'm in a constant agony that makes things ever so slightly shit. Work hurts, walking hurts, moving hurts, and when I try to sleep they twitch and jerk making it impossible to relax.
Not only is my brain shit, but my body also doesn't quite do what I want either.
Right now I"m struggling with the fact that I'm in constant pain. I googled chronic pain yesterday and, by definition, it's pain that lasts more than 6 months. I've been living with this pain since I was a kid. Growing pains supposedly, but given that I'm now 29, I'm pretty sure I'm not growing anymore.
I finally went to the doctors the other day to try and find something that would help me 86 the pain, but it didn't exactly work out the way I wanted it to. I was accidentally prescribed Pregabalin, the only medication I've ended up in hospital for, and pain killers that really didn't work. Although I'm proud of myself going, I'm more proud of myself for not taking the pills they prescribed.
Right now I'm still in pain, but I'm getting more and more used to the idea that it's not only my brain but also my body that affects my day-to-day life. I'm working on trying to find things to help though because, god knows, your girl and excess prescription medication really don't mix.
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.
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?
Excerpt
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.
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 www.wendylanderson.com. Be sure to subscribe and feel free to contact me about anything you’d like to know about me and my fantasy writing.
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.
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.’
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.
Anyway
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.
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?
and
Will I ever find love?
Jokes, read my last post for my response to that one
This post is entirely based on the fact that I want Penn Holderness to stick his dick in me. However, he is happily married and I haven't knowingly slept with anyone in a relationship since an alternately enjoyable and concerning incident when I lived in Cambridge that involved bondage tape, leg restraints and hair washing.
And I don't plan on doing it again.
Anyway
He made a video about ADHD life hacks and some of them are really helpful for BPD. Or they would be if I'd slept in the past 5 days and had the mental capacity to implement them. So I thought that I'd create a list of BPD life hacks, despite hating the phrase life hacks but, as I said in the title, Daddy.
Buy in bulk
Be prepared to break and lose everything, you will break and lose everything. You can find pretty standard sunglasses, key chains, gloves etc online/in stores for like 2 bucks so stock up.
Except don't go to stores if you don't have to you selfish cunt, because of Covid.
BONUS ROUND. If you also hate yourself and your body, be on the lookout for magazines with free sunnies. You can simultaneously protect your eyes and destroy your soul.
Accept that you may never find love
I have great friends around me and an amazing husband, but the thought of dating makes me want to go all Lucifer circa LillyMan86 and cut my own vocal cords. I don't like being around people for extended periods of time, I hate sharing my bed and I'm a completely selfish bitch, and that's okay. The sooner you accept the fact that you may die alone the better, then you can move on and get a hamster.
BONUS ROUND PT 2. Unless, of course, you're like me and your fear of abandonment extends to being afraid of randomly finding your pets dead or whatever. Then maybe get some Sea Monkeys.
Still a thing btw
This is completely unrelated, but this is what pops up when you search Pixabay for royalty-free Sea Monkey images and I'm happy about that.
There will be days when you don't want to talk to anyone, turn your phone off and sleep all day, and that's fine. Just let someone know. Otherwise, you may be woken up at 2 am by phone calls from your Mumma's boyfriend because you may have once left her a voicemail telling her you'd written your suicide note and she thought you'd offed yourself.
Which totally didn't happen last week btw
It's fucking embarrassing, get over it
You will make a complete twat of yourself at times. For instance, you may release a YouTube video calling out a family member out for once telling you that you should be in therapy for being such a cunt. You may message someone telling them your aforementioned suicide note. Or you may post a video of yourself singing a cover of Cherry Bomb by The Runaways online with one of your tits hanging out. You have to get over this sense of shame, that way you'll have more time for your Sea Monkeys.
Embrace your weird obsessions
I am weirdly obsessed with grammar, I'm like Aunt Josephine from The Wide Window A Series of Unfortunate Eventsbook. I also once watched The Riot Cluband convinced myself no one loved me because I didn't own tinted lip balm and therefore had to go and get some in order to find love. I also once spent a good amount of time researching gastric band surgery because I was convinced I was eligible. You will get obsessed with things, some of these obsessions will stick, some will go. But hey, better to be obsessed with grammar than self-harming, right.
Also, I'm not eligible for gastric band surgery, in case you were wondering.
So, to summarise; bulk, content, dying alone, embarrassment, obsessions, sea monkeys, daddy.
When I was 16, I went to a house party with my best friend at the time and lost my virginity, or so I thought. She was currently dating his best friend and lost her V plates to him that night, and in response he plowed me full of whisky, leaving me incapable of giving consent, and raped me on the bathroom floor of a house in Dersingham in order to get back at his sister.
He and his friends mocked me, barging in and then licking the used condom covered in the blood that came when he broke my hymen. For the rest of the night, and from then on, he ignored me and I chalked it down to a bad first time. Thinking that it was normal.
Oh, sweet girl, it was not.
My best friend blamed me, thinking it was my fault and not acknowledging what he had done. To be fair, neither did I. I blamed myself for sleeping with her brother when, in reality, he had raped me and taken my virginity. The age of consent in England is 16 and I thought it was okay because it was legal. Regardless of his or my age, fucking someone when they don't have the ability to give informed consent? Rape.
Ironically, even as I'm typing this I'm blaming myself.
So many people, friends included, made fun of me. Made fun of the whole situation, and I pretended it didn't happen. I sat at the dinner table with him, thinking what he had done was okay and that him ignoring me was to be expected. That I should be embarrassed in front of his mother because I'd slept with her son. When in reality I was sitting at the dinner table next to the sister of the man that had raped me.
I have, however, realized that I have been wrong. So wrong. When I was raped, for the second time, I believed that people who had taken years to say they were raped were full of shit. That I had come forward and reported the person that raped me and therefore so should they. In reality, I didn't realize that it could take people years to acknowledge, and understand, that they'd been raped. To those, I'm sorry, I'm very very sorry.
