Imagine you wake up in the morning and feel like you just can’t get out of bed. The thought makes you physically ill, to have to go out and interact with the world. You're exhausted because it's early and you woke up before your alarm went off. Not that you're particularly motivated today, but this is a daily thing, to be so full of guilt over all your shortcomings and flaws that you are awake late into the night and up again way before sunrise.You've been laying there rethinking every disappointment and dissecting every word or action you've commited. Reliving every horrible thing that ever happened, imagined or real, and wondering why you didn't act differently. If you're single you've been up worrying that you'll die alone. If you have a significant other you've been up hours wondering how long it will take them to abandon you. Because everyone leaves, that's what all the guilt boils down to in the end. No matter how hard you try or how much you love, everyone leaves. Can't trust anyone. Can't depend on anyone. You push them away or they run screaming. And would you be like that if ___ hadn't happened? Or that time in sixth grade that you never forgot about- what if you had done that thing? Would you have been a bolder person for it? A happier person, free of the whatif?
And now the alarm is blaring and you're completely exhausted from the worry. Your mind is in a loop. You can't think straight. And you just can’t fuck with life today. So you roll over, call off, and stay in bed.
An hour later, something starts ticking in your head. You missed work. You feel incredibly guilty. How could you be so unreliable? How could you be so immature? Tears flood your eyes and you think of how hard you’ve made everyone’s day by not showing up for work. The bill you’re going to have to juggle because you’re missing a hunk of paycheck. God, you suck. You are the worst human being on the face of the earth. That's why bad things happen to you- because you are terrible, immature, irresponsible, stupid, mean, evil. You curl up in a ball and cry for how pathetic you’ve become.
And in the middle of crying, you start realizing that all those bitches at work get on your goddamn nerves anyway, and they don’t pay you enough for this shit, so fuck’em. They don’t work as hard as you! That place would fall apart without you! Job ain't all that, let somebody else put up with that bullshit for a day! In fact, you would be justified if you got up and walked in there and started bitch-slapping people, that’s how messed up they’ve treated you. And aren’t all those bitches plotting to get rid of you anyway? Yeah. Fuck them. They better be glad you didn’t go to work, cause you liable to fuck a bitch up today!
So you jump out of bed, tears gone, and decide, since you’re free, you might as well go do something. You start pulling clothes out the closet and pick your sexiest outfit. And woooh, are you hot! Look at that face… those eyes... that body… they can’t tell you nothin! You look sexy, you are the best thing since sliced bread, and dammit, you bouta show off! These sloppy chicks better hang on to their man, because you're on the prowl today! You grab your best purse, your least-abused visa, and you get ready to walk out the front door.
But halfway out, you stop and take another look in the mirror. What the hell were you thinking?? This doesn’t look good on you! You look like a cow hooker! Are you insane? You can’t leave the house like that! You try on everything in your closet to no avail- nothing looks good! Your clothes don’t fit you (even if they fit like a glove)… You're too fat. You're too skinny. Damn, you’re ugly. Why does your hair look so… hairy? How could you let yourself go like this? Why don't you excercise more? Why don't you excercise less? No wonder you don't have a mate, and if you do, no wonder they're going to abandon you! What was God thinking when he made you? You rip off whatever clothing you have on; slam your closet door; still not satiated, you throw your bag against the wall as hard as you can. Still not satisfied, you let out a primal scream, bang a fist into whatever is closest, and tell God he’s a brainless bastard who couldn’t make a female body right if… if… well, whatever, He doesn’t know what the hell He’s doing! You're so mad your hands shake, you want to smash something, hurt something, destroy something. But nothing inanimate will ever hurt if you destroy it, so that won’t be enough. you need to inflict pain. You could hurt someone else if they’re available. But you don’t have that particular brand of sociopathy built into you (or you do, but no one is available) and…
Awww, man, did you just curse at God? Jeez, you’re a piece of shit. All God did was make you and create a whole world for you and here you are getting mad because you don’t like the way you look. Somebody in the world just got raped, somebody else just got beaten, and somebody else just was killed, went missing, was diagnosed with aids, cancer, or starving to death, and here you are bitching because you don’t like your looks. And the guilt is unbelievable. The waterworks are a-crankin. You’re a fucking mess, and you don’t quite understand why. You’ve missed a day of work, went ham on the Almighty, made a mess with all the clothes, broken who knows what when you threw your purse, hurt you hand with the punching, probably freaked out your neighbors with the screaming, and now you wonder if it wouldn’t be better to just die. Only dying never seems to happen, no matter how often you pray for it, and you know you can’t commit suicide- even if not for religious reasons, you know you cant do it because it would devastate your family and friends, although you're certain they’d be better off without your wild outbursts and unprovoked anger, and God, it just… hurts. Like your heart is being pulled out of your chest, weighted down with anvils, torn and ripped, it hurts so goddamn much, and you just want it to stop. Just for a few minutes, just a few minutes of peace, Jesus, peace, but you don’t know how to make it stop hurting, it’s not like you can put ice on your spirit or mind.
But there’s a box cutter in the closet, and you realize that you can hurt yourself. Because that’s pain you can control. That’s pain you can identify the source of, and cause or stop at will. You know what to do with that. So you pick up the box cutter, sit down on the toilet, and slowly cut into your leg. Or arm. Somewhere high up, that can be covered by clothing. Just enough to leave a welt, or deep enough to leave a trail of blood, just enough to really hurt. And with every cut, the pain in your heart gets less and less because your body is focusing on the pain of the cuts more and more. And finally, after a few, even your mind is distracted by the sight of that simple sliver of metal pressing into that soft flesh and leaving a network of scars that will remind you of what a fucked-up person you are inside. And the pain, for now, is over, and you can go back to resuming normal life. Call your friends who aren't at work and laugh about inconsequential things. Make that appointment you've been putting off. Do a load of laundry, wash dishes. The boring little things that make everyday life.
It’s not even noon yet.
This is what a below-average morning is like for me. Not a bad one, just below average. On an average day, I force myself to go to work and just try not to flip out on anyone or in front of anyone. I can usually make it to the bathroom or pop a vicodin before I start crying/shaking/whatever the freakout of the moment is. On a good day, I wake up without feeling guilt or sadness and manage to make it at least 3/4 of the day before it kicks in. On a bad day, I have to push furniture in front of my glass doors while I’m hypermanic, because once it’s gone, I am afraid I will jump off the balcony.
This is the mind of Borderline Personality Disorder. Welcome to hell.
