ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD

entry six

People don't care about personality disorders. I mean who can blame them right? Who can possibly care about something they don't understand?

And the sad reality is— you'll never understand.

Sure you can read this, you can go on Facebook, Pinterest, Tumbler or any other social media and research but it will never be enough. Words can't possibly describe it. I can try until I'm blue in the face, but somehow it always falls short.

In my lifetime I have been fired by three different therapists. That's right fired. Now my psychiatrist is searching to put me into a DBT therapy program. It's supposed to be the only program shown to help people with borderline personality disorder, whatever that means. He is trying to get me in to see a therapist, but non of them want me. Personality disorders are often looked at as 'lost causes'. It's true, there is no cure, and most people don't want to try to help us. They don't want to waste their breath.

It's been estimated that seventy-three precent of people with BPD will have at least three suicide attempts in their lifetime.

So they know that over half of us are beyond saving. In my experience after your first two attempts they stop trying as much.

My first suicide attempt was when I was fourteen. I had just had a traumatic experience with my father, that involved him trying to crash our car with us both inside so he can kill us in a murder suicide. But I don't want to get into that.

Anyways, that was the tipping point. My father is a very angry man. And after years and years of verbal abuse this just made something click in my brain.

I had began cutting around this age as well. Baby cuts, only enough to bleed. So I cut myself, and took a handful of pills that night.

Then I went to sleep.

And I woke up in the middle of the night vomiting my soul out.

My stomach never liked being filled with pills. Every time I tried to overdose that way my body would force me to purge them before any real damage can be done. My little fourteen year old self had taken over twenty pills, and was somehow still alive.

So life just continued on like normal.

I didn't tell anyone about my attempt. I didn't even write a goddamn note. And no one found out until my second attempt two years later.

This time, I planned things out a bit more. I can't quite remember what had pushed me to do this again, but I have to assume it had to do with my father. This time I did write a note. It was short and sweet.

"I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore."

With that I cut as deep as I could. Which at this time, was mid at best. I look back and compared to now, those cuts are hilarious. Not even enough to get stitches.

After I had bled for a while, I had began to feel light headed. And what do you know, I decide to take some pills again to see if it will work this time.

Spoiler alert— it didn't.

After this I was forced in talk therapy. Which made me want to peel my skin off. I hated every second of it. The woman would try to get me to notice my emotions, and would have me paint and draw.

She asked me if I had a plan. A plan to kill myself that is.

You know that Melanie Martinez song that goes "He dosent think I'm that F-ing dumb, does he?"

Well yeah. Duh. I could see right through her. Nothing was confidential. She said it was a 'safe space' yet relayed everything back to my parents. And I knew if I even showed a hint that I wanted to attempt again she would have me admitted into the hospital.

She would act like she wanted to see my bracelets, and turn my wrist to face her. Not so discreetly checking if I had cut.

She was insufferable.

I hated talk therapy with a passion. I know what I'm feeling, I don't need you to explain it to me. I can't just stop and count three things I can see, four things I can touch, and two things I can hear. My emotions are far too strong for me to have any control sometimes I can't even breathe, what makes you think I have time to play these 'calming games'

She was the first therapist that fired me.

She got angry one day. Because I was not participating. She wanted me to close my eyes and do meditation with her.

First of all— I don't close my eyes around strangers. Second of all— meditation? Really?

I can't sit in a silent room. I always have to have something playing. Even in my sleep I have music playing. I can't be alone with just my thoughts. They will tear me apart.

"You don't seem resectable to help. This is beyond my scope of practice. I think it's best we go our separate ways after this session."

Well it's hard to be respectable to help when non of this coloring crap is helping, Debora.

Her name was not Debora. Honestly I can't remember her name, but still.

My home life continued to get worse from there. My father grew angrier. My mothers expectations raised to near impossible standards. And my sibling began acting out.

I had to bottle everything up for them. I had to be stable, at least on the outside.

So I bit my tongue, and continued my self destructive ways in order to relieve it with the least damage to everyone else. I had to be perfect. I had to be the perfect child to make up for my siblings rebellion.

I've been bounce around from therapist and doctors for so long. I've been on medication for as long as I can possibly remember. And when it comes down to it, non of this seems worth it. Because people don't want to help. People don't want to understand.

Because I'm a lost cause anyways.