Once Mental

This is a glimpse at what it means to recover from mental illness. This is not a story of redemption. There are no underdogs, no heroes. You will not smile. This is devastatingly real. There is nothing fancy here.

Living with it is a constant struggle. Everyday you tell yourself, hey, I’m okay. But you know you’re not. And you’re not even being pessimistic. You know it in your heart. You know it in your GUT. It wrenches at you and you push it away, telling yourself, look, I’ll take it one day at a time.

Then one day comes, and you get hit.

You know it’s coming because you recognise the calm before the storm. The calm where everything’s happy, everything’s perfect. You know the calm so well that you don’t bother celebrating the possibility that it’s really just got better. That it’s not your imagination. That you have finally conquered it.

You look in the mirror and you are unsure if you feel like laughing or crying. Totally fucking confused about whether to be happy that you’re aware, or sad that you’re so aware that you know what’s coming next. You pull yourself out of the funk and say STAY HAPPY! THINK POSITIVE! Okay, its GOOD to be aware. Then I can solve it.

But that’s what you said last time.

And you broke your door and the guitar and the computer. That’s what you said last time, when you threw out the furniture and tore the curtains and cut yourself 67 times across both arms to beg for the attention you knew you’d be too ashamed to get by showing the blood. So you cover it up, like the coward you are. But now I know, you tell yourself. I won’t act out. It will be okay.

You turn to the TV, computer, whatever.

You obsess about something that doesn’t matter, the interests you tell people you have but really can’t be arsed about, but had to make up because not too many people you meet can sit for 5 hours staring at nothing and really entertain their own thoughts.

You think up new business ideas, send 200 emails in a day, pack your stuff, make phone calls, maintain friendships, try something new, “build character”, because you are a High-Functioning BPD.

That’s what they called you. You are able to work and maintain social relationships perfectly fine, maybe even better than others. It’s what you do, who you are, little Miss Perfect. So fucking perfect.

You look for a problem all the time, and people think you’re just trouble. You’re difficult. No, you want to say, I’m not trying to cause a problem, see I’m trying to fix the problems, I mean, you can only fix them when you know what they are, right? But they look at you and you know they judge you. You know they are thinking that you’re no fun, you’re a wet blanket. And you scream in your head, I’m just fixing all the small problems because it lets me focus. It lets me do some good. So let me with my little details. Leave me alone to fix this. Instead of focusing of the huge problem that is the disease eating at me every single day.

Then one day you’ve fixed them. You’re done. Suddenly the problems aren’t there. And you think, great, it’s going to be the new year, everything will get better and I will live life normally just like everyone else. I won’t have to fight this anymore because there is nothing to fight.

But it’s all bullshit.

You know it is. You’ve been telling yourself the same shit day in, day out. You know that you never fought it before, you know 8 years of therapy only helped you seem alright, seem okay to the outside world. You’re a master of yourself, a master of situations, all that cognitive behavioural therapy, hell, you’re so good you could give a class. And your friends think you’re so put together. Inside you want to yell, No, I’m not, I’m just this good at acting. You are the brilliant actor on stage, adored by everyone, known by no one, least of all yourself. You’re so afraid to get off the stage because then what? Who are you? A blank slate. So you find parts to play - loving friend, disgruntled daughter, active volunteer, social butterfly. And with every problem you’re solving, the curtain stays open, only today you’ve solved it all, and the curtains start closing.

But you’ve been here before. You’re a high-functioning BPD. You know that you have total control over yourself. Yes, you tell yourself, I will be absolutely normal and not act out and read a book to sleep.

You find yourself glancing at the table for the pills you took for 8 years.

Pills that wiped your memory clean, left you with barely anything. You know so many people, yet you’ve forgotten how you met them, what you did with them, what you did TO them.

No, you tell yourself, I don’t need those stupid pills, they made me even more ill. They prevented me from living my life.

You’re so fucking aware of yourself, that when you were better (when you had a problem to fix), you pre-empted yourself by throwing every single remaining pill away.

Because you knew this day would come. And you would not be strong enough to face yourself. Then you shift to positive thinking. COME ON! THINK POSITIVE! This is my opportunity to really get better. You encourage yourself; it’s been 6 months since the last pill, I’ve done fine, I’ll continue being fine without them, thank you very much.

But then you see, it’s New Year’s Eve, you’re supposed to look forward to it, but all you can think of is that you are empty. You only know that if you don’t act out, don’t write a brilliant piece of work for people to praise you, don’t create income.. If you just leave the feeling be, it’s not about acting anymore - it’s about reacting. And you should stop it. So you stop it. But you’re shaking, you get so scared, you know what’s next. You know what happens when you don’t do something to distract from the emptiness, the pointlessness. You know it’s a matter of time before you crack.

You’ve already thought of a few different ways to end it;
you know there will be no note because there’s nothing left to say.

You know even though you say no one will miss you, people will, but you also know they will miss the great actor, not you, because no one knows who you are anyway, not that it matters.

And the fact you’re scared shitless makes you feel alive, makes you realise you don’t actually want to die. You tell yourself, I’ll get through this, it’s just been a tough year, but I should be proud of myself, I did so much, I was brave, I became independent of the drugs and this is all a learning process.

That’s what you said last time.

And you’re so aware of yourself, so conscious, it’s painful. You take a deep breath and say for the hundredth time that everything is fine, you are being melodramatic, just shut it off and tomorrow will be better.

There is a tomorrow.

But there is no better.

Everything is fine, but nothing is ever really fine. And you have gotten so good at repeating the mantras of highly effective people and how to be zen and at peace and all that good stuff, you don’t even have to talk to anybody. If only you believed it. So you end up writing a diatribe of what you feel, you want to share with the world how debilitating BPD is. You know you should hide it because it’s stigmatised and painful and it will make everyone think you’re weird and society will use this as dirty laundry against you when the time is right. But you do it anyway because in your gut, you know you want to. And you don’t care what happens after. This is supposed to be healthy. I am healthy.

2010 is going to be perfect.

You know people will say, Yes it will be! Stay positive! You’re fine! Its all good. And you know you’ll say, Thanks for the encouragement, you’re such a great friend, what would I do without you. And they’ll go away happy, thinking they did good, and you will roll your eyes and feel even worse, completely having reinforced the idea that you are, no matter how many people care, still fucking alone. Oh wait, there are two of you. You and you and you and you and you.. and that wretched, wretched disease.

Written 31 December 2009.

A private piece now made public in dedication to a friend lost what seems like just yesterday, everyday.