I will never again read a book about mental illness by someone who doesn’t suffer from it. Yesterday morning, I found my mother’s copy of a book on borderline personality disorder that I’ve long resisted reading because of its name: I Hate You — Don’t Leave Me. I decided to peruse a few chapters, hoping they might shed some light on the increased rage I’ve been experiencing. This was a mistake.
A few paragraphs in, the shame was dripping like sweat down my body. The borderline’s outbursts of rage are as unpredictable as they are frightening… Most therapists will, whenever possible, try to limit the number of borderline patients they treat.
I want to tell you about a very stupid and embarrassing thing I did this morning. (If my shame list was still being written, this would be on it.) When I got home from Milwaukee last night, I squeezed ketchup and mustard all over my face and took some pictures of the aftermath in one of many personal attempts to challenge aesthetic conventions. And then – big mistake – I posted it on social media. It went mostly “unliked” and, feeling humiliated, I deleted it. I do this quite often. I post a photo, wait to see if it’s worth any social capital, and, if it’s not, I virtually incinerate it. I then spend a few hours fighting the urge to put a Jewel-Osco bag over my head.
How’s that for an unflattering truth? I’m mortified to confess that I’ve enlisted myself in this battle for online attention, but I’m doing it because you’ve probably enlisted yourself, too.
I’m two weeks sober today. It’s not much, but I haven’t been clean for this long since last October.
And I haven’t experienced cravings like this since…. ever.
Admire my hairy wrist. Thank you.
Hi. My name may or may not be Leif and I’m pretty sure I’m addicted to men.
But not the good men. No, the good men terrify me. I’m addicted to the addicts, the alcoholics, the emotionally abusive, the eternally confused, the self-loathing, narcissistic, nihilistic boys for whom I come second. Or last. Or never.
Hi. I leave Corsica tomorrow morning. I’ll take the ferry to Italy and catch a ride to Florence, where I’ll probably stay for a week, more or less. Then Rome. Then Venice. Then, if things work out with Petter and his family, I’ll start making my way to Sweden and stay with Petter for a week.
Corsica has been intense. The first week was a blast, but in a pseudo-manic way. I was diagnosed with bipolar spectrum sometime last year and have been in denial about it since then, but I’m starting to see truth in the diagnosis. It’s incredibly painful to admit, especially when my list of diagnoses is as long as it already is. PTSD, dysthymia, Borderline Personality Disorder, substance abuse, major depression, etc.
It fucking sucks. I’m so tired of feeling crazy. I’m so tired of my brain.
A good representation of what you’re about to read.
Bonjour. My French still sucks. I’m fairly certain people have given up on speaking French with me.
“Juh suisse Amerycane”
Today has been rocky. I had my first, “oh my god I need to leave Corsica or go back to the States or go to hell because I am an insane person and no one loves me” moment since arriving in Europe. I have those thoughts fairly often, but not necessarily all at once.
It was either this or a picture of a giraffe. I feel like this is more applicable.
I am sitting at my parents’ house with not much to do, so let’s talk about Borderline Personality Disorder for a second.
I was diagnosed with BPD last February, following a period of impulsive sex, drug use, alcohol use, and overall chaos-creating behaviors. It was humiliating. Books about “dealing” with the Borderline in your life have names like, I Hate You — Don’t Leave Me, Stop Walking on Eggshells, and Stop Caretaking the Borderline or Narcissist: How to End the Drama and Get On with Life. Borderlines in film range from the not-so-crazy Winona Rider in Girl, Interrupted, to her totally batshit ward-mate, Angelina Jolie. And then there’s Fatal Attraction, where the Borderline lead character acts like this.