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When you have BPD, you have one job to do, every single day. Don’t – whatever you do – die.
15 per cent of people with BPD die by suicide, and 40 per cent try. I’m already in the 40 per cent. My job is to keep out of the 15 per cent.
What’s so terrifying is that it’s my voice. The same one that tells me I’m hungry, or I need a wee, or not to take off my trousers in public. That one. It’s that voice that tells me to kill myself.
it. I had kept trying to fix myself, but everything I did seemed to make it worse.
Go for a walk, take up a hobby. Fine, tried that, still want to kill myself. Now what?
If I’m in a shop and I think the person on the till doesn’t like me, I will spend the rest of that day thinking I’ve ruined their afternoon, then worrying and wondering about how I could’ve been a better customer.)
Mental illness is not an excuse for bad behaviour, but it can be an explanation of sorts. The shit game show I have to play every day is working out whether the thought I just had was one of mine, or one of Mick’s. If I win, I get tomorrow. If I lose, literal death. It’s like being on The Chase if Bradley Walsh had a knife.
Because I am so emotionally sensitive, I can often overreact to things that friends or family do or say.
My past doesn’t ever feel like my past, like some stable foundation I can build upon. I can’t imagine having done those things because it was someone else.
I’m a parcel with the wrong address on it, stuck in customs and nobody is coming to collect me because the name doesn’t belong to a real person.
Throughout my life, I have used lies to make who I am feel like the sort of person someone else will want to be around.
