The last time I lost it

By Mariana

I wish I could tell you that this story took place a long time ago. I mean, I started a treatment with medication over a month ago and can see major improvements, lots of things in my life are not only going well, they are absolutely fantastic. I´m supposed to be fine, no? Am I not?!

Yet it has been some time since I have slept properly. I have also stopped my healthy routine: no jogging, no yoga, no healthy food and no meals on time. I have been smoking considerably more instead; I have poured some Coca-Cola first thing in the morning and a gin & tonic in the afternoon. I have tried mediation and incense before sleeping, breathing techniques, reading a bloody book about the spiritual pursue of joy. But nothing.  Now I´m writing this in bed, after a failed attempt to sleep, after looking for a fight. I am writing this in the dark, under the light of my cell phone, at 12:13am on a week night, just after losing it in my room.

Before I  knew it, I was covering my screams with a pillow, covering my face while bitterly crying after punching the wall, and my face and hating myself and hating every inch of the world and everyone in it –except for my dog, Pablo;, he´s always exempt from my storms. He always deserves  the best of me-. It was precisely until after he approached to lick the tears on my face –yeah, my dog is unbelievable- , that I started to do the math over the day. I had just had a nonsense outburst over text with someone I care a great deal for. He kept saying all was good, but no part of my brain, my body or nor my soul received that message. He lies, my head whispered.  Of course he does, I felt sure. I was merely capable of putting together a couple of words to reach out and express the deep anger that I was feeling. Why? Just smile and be merry and sleep, he replied.

Fuck off! You all fuck off! I will be fucking merry and smile and fucking sleep then.  I translated later these sentiments into a text reply that said “I´m sorry”. I was truly sorry my shitty anger had screwed up his night again. Yes, again. I was very embarrassed because I don´t want to neither annoy him nor push him away, but sometimes I can only see the trigger when I look for it in the ashes of what I have already burnt.

(I´m so tired of apologising)

I exploded in my bed again. Over and over. I hate it so much when I cry so intensely I cannot even manage to put my lips together, my mouth remains open in a huge O. Oh, I hate that so much! I closed my hand and directed my fist again against the wall. I found one of my bed pillows in between. It made me remember I owe myself kindness and love. I felt guilty and stupid. I’ve been experiencing really outstanding and positive things that are happening in my life these days, and I had told  everyone : “This is a reminder that all the effort and intensity I put towards lashing out at myself should also be equally invested in acknowledging my accomplishments”. This positive thinking did not last long. Fuck me!

(I hate getting so nauseous when I lose it)

(Yes, I´m thinking I should be dead. I should  fucking finish with all this complication already)

So finally, when my dog’s approach brought me back, I started examining what had happened during the day. In retrospective, I had looked for videos of people who had tried to take their own lives, I had heard their stories.

(Suicide. Doesn’t it suck how people don´t want to talk about it?)

I had read a link on Emotional Support Animals and remembered I had been offered to get Pablo certified. I had spoken to one of my closest friends about Alexander Supertramp* and how I don´t understand life at all some days. How I can feel I dislike everyone at times. How sometimes I´d love to leave everything behind and hide in a beautiful nowhere, away from everything.

(Oh, so many times I have prayed to be found too next to my Magic Bus*)

And the earliest, I had been talking to a different friend about incest and children sexual abuse. We had shared our  points of view on a very superficial level. I was trying to be sensitive about what I said, but at the same time I felt comfortable talking about that disgusting type of nightmare…and bingo! That was it, the source of the fire. Fuck, it’s true. I was abused as a child.

It was only after intense work that my therapist managed to unlock those memories.

(It is really crazy how our heads work)

As I have been writing I honestly feel calmer and lighter. I still wish I could have said the last time I lost it was a long time ago instead of an hour before. By investing the same effort and intensity that I used to punch the wall on recognising my accomplishments, I’m happy to say, that I was able to trace the cause of my emotion to its source. I tell myself and my inner child that feeling anger is OK. I promise myself I won´t allow anyone to do that again…and damn! I was even able to write this on the way!

 

Goodnight! 00.59am

 

 

It is believed that one of the causes for BPD is neglect during childhood: violence, abandonment or sexual abuse.

*The nick name Chris McCandless adopted during his journey to the wilderness of Alaska alone, after graduating with honours, donating all his savings to charity and cutting all ties with his wealthy family. His story inspired the Into the Wild book and film.

*An abandoned bus near Denali in Alaska, where 24 year old Chris McCandless lived for months His body was found in that bus in 1992. One of the probable causes of dead is starvation.

 

 

 

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