Ep. 9 Borderline Personality Disorder aka F*uck-everything-up-and-hate-yourself
Dear Ana,
There’s nobody left
I stare at my phone’s screen for a few minutes longer. There’s some anger boiling in the pit of my stomach. There’s also quite a bit of resentment and, to be quite frank, handling this with any semblance of grace went out the fucking window a while ago. So I text back three dots and add “right” for good measure. Ain’t the first time I get my ass dumped and it sure as shit ain’t gona be the last… But something has to be said about me not being in an actual relationship yet still managing to get broken up with.
It was nice to feel loved for a few months and it sucked to love for a couple of weeks. But yea… there’s nobody left.
I’ve walked this route hundreds of times before, Ana. Brook by my side, her leash in my grip and a soundtrack to have some rhythm for this choreography of misery. So, as always, I start writing this letter while hastily getting ready to leave the apartment.
Things left unsaid keep pacing in my head as I decide what to wear. I need to hurry, need to get out of the fucking apartment and put some distance between myself and my life. Can’t stand this empty room, the way it frames my loneliness into something that’s a bit more than temporary.
Anger and resentment take turns at pestering me as I pull on some shoes. Brook sits down next to me, waiting for the leash. My nerves are shot from a relapse that launched me into a 3 day bender so my hands still shake and my amygdala has all the fuel it needs to pump out more anger. I sit down next to Brook on the cold tiles, my back against the wall, and try to calm myself. Now… when you’re in such a mess, breathing exercises are about as helpful as a pack of wet wipes in a strip club. I mean sure, you wipe away the glitter and sweat from your face but you’re still walking out of there smelling like your cock’s been erect for 6 hours. But wipe your sweaty forehead you do and go through my fucking breathing exercises I also do.
I hate myself for being like this. A 34 year old man whimpering to his dog about the world being unfair. The ridiculousness of it all shocks me out of it for a second and that’s all I need. The key turns in the lock “Come’on, girl. Time for our pilgrimage again.” She gives me her usual “I’m-ready-for-anything” look and we head out.
A few steps take us out of the derelict apartment building and into an overcast reality. With eyes set on the dark clouds I mutter to myself “Figures” and click my tongue for Brook to follow.
We make our way through my neighborhood, ever upwards, towards forest and sky, stepping into puddles while tasting the cold weather with each stride. Anxiety shows the first signs of fading and my mind starts to clear.
Time to figure this shit out once more.
I’ve been to a handful of psychologists. I’ve also seen a few psychiatrists, here and there, who prescribed me all sorts of pills. Pills which I took before, and after, obliterating my brain with Molly’s overly emotional, and demonic, little brother who also happens to smell like cat piss.
The last time I saw a psychiatrist the decision had been made that everything will be laid out for her. Answers were needed so I steeled myself for the awful 60 minutes during which I’d recount everything about me and my life. She sat silently while I told her about how I’m an impulsive, neurotic, and horny, Tazmanian devil that would fuck anything, yet somehow, mostly only managed to fuck his own life.
She told me that her suspicion is that I have Impulsive Personality Disorder which is a sub-type of BPD. I didn’t think much of it at the time… The only reason I went to see a psychiatrist again was because I thought that it would convince my then girlfriend to not dump my ass. I’m sure you appreciate the irony in my fear of being abandoned leading me to be halfheartedly diagnosed with BPD.
But that information just laid there, written on a slip of paper crammed into my drawer, for months. Now that I look back at it… I find it odd that she would write down something like this, call it a mere observation instead of a diagnosis, and hand it over to me on a piece of paper…
After I got my ass dumped, the usual dive into drugs and recklessness completely took hold of me. Instant gratification skull-fucked me in ways that you could not imagine. Escapism became paramount, an authoritative force that loomed over everything I did, while forbearance and self-preservation stood idly by.
Ana… you know me, you know how I am. I inhale misery and exhale chaos. My life has been defined by turmoil and self-hate. Anger and shame. A fucking rage that sees even the gods flinch. So when in the midst of all that pain I finally looked up what BPD actually is…
I spent a night glued to my computer, gorging myself on articles and video essays, sobbing that it all made sense. It all finally made sense. But the relief of that knowledge would last as long as any of my fragile relationships.
My neighborhood is on top of a hill which grants a view of my hometown. I cross the main street that shoots through it and make my way towards the long road that would lead to the suburbs. Brook is exalted, finally she’d have proper trees to sniff and bushes to piss on. She jumps into puddles and her fur gets tangled into dreadlocks which would make her the main-stay of any Teknival.
The farther in we get into this trip, the more strength I feel seeping back into me. A sense of control finally returns and I can examine what happened and how I got here again. But I’m reticent… The answers will be the same as always, so why pick at the scab? Why not just leave everything as it is and enjoy some sense of peace for once? Why not make the best of a rainy day and a couple of feet which are willing to eat up distance and anger?
Halfway through the street leading towards the suburbs, we stop at a point overlooking the city. Brook picks a patch of dirt to paw and sniff while I close my eyes and feel the cold wind dancing around me. “What a perfect day to feel miserable.” I tell myself and laugh at a realization: “I’m the male embodiment of every Lana Del Rey song.” I mutter under my breath and my chest vibrates, chuckling at the ridiculous thought .
Brook is pawing furiously at the mud “You about done with your hole?” She looks up with frantic eyes. “Come’on, dude. There’s plenty more for you to dig once we get there. Long overdue to get this fucking leash off of you anyway.”
Most of my life had been spent numbing the awfulness of what I had going on in my head. Drugs and booze, booze and drugs. I thought I used them as crutches, but, in reality, it was like injecting steroids into the tumor of my BPD. Fifteen fucking years, always dialing it up, always going for more.
So for a while I assumed that the reason I got into all sorts of drama was because of the lifestyle I chose, the people I surrounded myself with. Years would go by during which I’d just ignore the reoccurring theme of me being an Olympic level cunt. But even in the haze of drugs, even in the ether of alcohol… something had to give.
After each round of suffering I reexamined myself, again and again, trying to figure out why I always end up in the same spot… And what I found perplexing was that all the times I felt treated unfairly, or had been discarded, nobody seemed to echo my way of seeing things.
It drove me fucking crazy. So many times it seemed clear as day that I’d been slapped in the face but when I’d look around people would be pulling away from me. Pulling away because of something which, in my mind, equated to me standing up for myself or me trying to set things right. Run this circle for long enough and you end up feeling like the 70 something year old nurse from the insane asylum; The one that got replaced by young and hip volunteers. Kids that can pretend that everybody here is doing just fine and can still control their gag reflex while emptying bedpans.
The way I reacted to certain things, the way I felt about certain things, made sense only to me. I’d be mortified at this or that terribleness while everybody around me would be, in their turn, mortified at my overreaction. Because that’s what I am… An overreaction.
Now I understand. I understand that there’s an intensity to me, one that’s alien to everybody else. And I’ve been working on keeping it to myself but it’s hard… It’s hard to shut the fuck up when you see bloody murder, to then convince myself that my eyes are playing tricks on me and everything is fine. It’s all in my head.
We’re on the last leg of the road to the forest. Walking through this suburb, admiring all the luxury houses, reminds me of countless strolls with the funniest blond the earth has ever seen. But Andrea is a story for another day.
The cars passing me by become few and far between just as the houses become bigger and bigger. Mother Nature oscillates her clouds between proper downpour and a drizzle that resembles the final ejaculation after a 3 day bender and 16 pornhub tabs.
It’s a peculiar thing… to feel your sense of self return, to feel strength and confidence crawl out of the hole they hid in while you were busy pulling your life apart. I find myself smiling and Brook picks up on the shift in my mood. She prances around me, licks my fingers and growls playfully. She feels freedom ever closer, feels my own freedom as I increase the pace.
“A bit more to go, girl. Not far, not far at all. We’ll be there in no time and you’ll be able to run from horizon to horizon.” I grin at her and turn my thoughts towards the first trees, the first glimpse of the forest and… I feel myself tear up at the sight of it. I mean… It ain’t much; It’s just a fucking forest littered by the sleazy culture of Eastern Europe. It ain’t much, just a last patch of dirt to pour concrete over. I’m not gona’ lie, Ana… Tears are runnin’ down my face as I step into the woods and hear the first branch snap under my foot.
It ain’t much, but it’s the door I knock on when I need some help…
After years of introspection, and misery, culminated in this half-arsed diagnosis, I decided to take all the responsibility I could. I needed people to love me, I needed them to stick around. So I did everything in my power to listen to everybody, to take in the advice of everybody. To integrate the judgement of everybody.
I was so consumed by keeping people around that I lost myself. There was no way of telling right from wrong anymore. It was all a mess. Nothing that made sense to me made sense to anybody else in my life so I would just try to shut the fuck up and accept it when I felt I was being treated poorly.
But the more you try to hold onto something, the stronger the current that drives you apart, becomes. I did my best to treat people with the same consideration I’d want myself to be treated with. But that’s fucking absurd since I’m an absurdly sensitive bitch. Ofcourse I never have that consideration granted to me because normal people don’t operate with those rules. They just don’t.
Years went by with me randomly confusing the people around me with a person that, put simply, doesn’t exist. Projecting my needs onto others, putting them on a pedestal from which they have no option but to disappoint and send me into another episode of resentful anger.
And this is what I have to accept, Ana: People don’t need what I can offer. They fucking don’t. And weeks, months, years even, of good will and compassion crumble from a few outbursts of senseless outrage. All the good I do, all the care I show, the funny cunt that I am, the love that I am, the empathy and compassion THAT I AM… it doesn’t fucking matter if it comes with the rest of what I am. I’m slowly becoming more and more confident in who I’ve been and who I’ve become, Ana… but for the rest of the world… I am my disorder.
I hear branches snapping nearby and laugh at what’s to come. Brook launches out from behind a large bush and sprints back to the muddy road. She’s wet all over, her fur is a mess and by God she looks ferocious. I love this beast, my ambassador from the Divine, the one that drags my ass out of the ugliness and into the joy of life.
Her eyes are intent on me, they hold danger and mischief as she lowers her body to signal more play to come. With the blink of an eye she hurls herself further into the gloom of the forest, dispelling the last drops of my fear and anxiety. I laugh once more, shake my head and shout after her “Oi, you crazy bitch! You’re heading the wrong way.”
It’s not far off, we’ve been trudging through the woods for a while now so I can see the edge. It’s a few minutes away but I already feel relief wash over me. The wind picks up here, it’s sharp as it flows through my clothes and ruffles my hair. Brook’s loping gait returns to a few steps behind me, we’re almost there.
A vista of towering black and gray clouds opens up to me. The wind screams and claws as I take a few more steps into the open. Rain slaps my face back and forth, it runs down my cheeks to fuse with tears of joy and I take another step. A copse of trees on a distant hill shiver to the beat of the season’s turning and I take another step. Nothing is left inside me but the violent majesty of this moment and I grin a wolf’s grin and laugh the laugh of a man at peace with his storm.
A short pilgrimage for a sensitive cunt, the intensity of a crashing sky as a reminder: I may be unfit to love, but there is still some beauty left in this world for me.
