Isolation at Night – Free Writing

It is this time of night which I most fear. The silence surrounds me, and any semblance of control that I had has gone. Slipped away with those I cherish the most. Everything I have thought today, and in days past, grows louder and clearer – like a reverse echo: Hate indiscriminately.

Hate of my family and my surroundings because of how trapped they make me feel. So completely entrenched in this hole that I jumped into last year. So firmly stuck. Hate that every single time I take notice of where I am my skin screams at me, tries to jump off of me, my organs clench so tightly and my mind feels as if the nail that has been hammered into the coffin it seems to have become keeps getting moved. Hate at myself, for jumping in while sorely underestimating the situation I could get into. Hate that there are two sides of me; one choosing to scrape by with this emotional pain, and the other so adamant that death is my only way forward – hate that they are both so certain in their life choice for me but neither is winning. Hate that there is a constant war of thought in my mind, that I trust nothing now. Hate that all of this affects the people I cherish, because I change. I hate that I change and that some days they aren’t enough to bring me back. That it shows. That I feel so separate that it hurts me, and may hurt them. I hate myself. I hate today.

It would seem that depression can keep you in a constant state of inertia, makes you watch as time goes by, dreams and chances go by, until you lose sight of it all. And, I hate it. I am on my proverbial knees left to just hating it but unable to do anything with it or about it.

I am angry at myself, and I could self destruct, and I could feel the waves of anger adding and provoking that destruction. And I continue to hate.

Hate. Indiscriminate hate.

 

 

 

 

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Once – Part I

Once, I was a person.  I must have been.  I had dreams, and I wanted them with a fierce desperation.  To achieve through my hard labour, to succeed on my own merits, to thrive in my surroundings and inspire others to do the same.  My end goal was to be a good person.  A person who embodied all those characteristics that the society of people, a society of my peers, would find favourable, admirable.  I was to do those things that would allow me to hold my head up high at the end of every bad day, and keep myself grounded on the good ones.  I would have pride, but less in myself and more in the people who were to be close to me; for, they were the ones who would have allowed me the space I needed to grown, to make my mistakes and successes, to treat them equally as lessons in my ever-growing life.  I was to be unstoppable.  I was to be so close to impossible that I could not know anything but happiness.  I was to be happy.

Now, I do not know if I can be considered that; a person.  Not entirely.  I suppose I look like one, but looks can be deceiving.  My brain function, paints a picture of who I am, and what I see, what my mind tells me, is that I am a loathsome creature.  An ugly creature.  Grotesque, horrendous, the list goes on.  Such a disfigurement, a scourge upon this world that space is given to me so that I may disappear.  Into a void, into a blackness of non-existence, a hoe so deep and so narrow that light cannot touch its recesses.  That is where I remain.  How long have I been here?  One day, three?  A week?  Five years?  Each passing moment the air gets denser, the darkness a bit deeper, the silence more deafening.  Do I stay here for the remainder of my existence?  Do I end my existence?  Finally relinquish the hold I had on that fading memory of what it was that I meant to be; who I was meant to be.  I cannot remember who dreamed those dream.  I cannot remember what that person looked like, but it surely cannot have been me.  I do not have aspirations.  I do not have hope.  I have misery, loneliness and isolation.  I have sorrow and despair.  I have this solid ground on which I can lie.  I can waste away and no one will know, or care, or miss me.  Do I end it?

Or, can I climb?  What would it entail?  That my limbs be stronger than they feel.  That my brain can somehow know hope again, that it maintains a state of mental conviction that I may be accepted, as I am, by a populace I do not know, do not identify with, do not remember.  If I reach the surface (do I dare dream that can be so), how will it be different, for I am not different.  I am still a monster, still a demon, still a wastrel.  Yet, I find myself thinking about it.  How high is it?  How long will it take?  Will I make it?  Can I climb?  Maybe some other time; when I can catch my breath, when I feel better about myself, when I can sit up, when I can crawl, when I can stand.  Maybe tomorrow.  Maybe tomorrow, I can climb.

Tomorrows, todays, days and nights.  What do I know of these things anyway?  Always in the dark, how can I know?  I only know that time passes, it has to pass.  Surely, time is passing.  I still remain in this place, in this darkness.  I become uncomfortably aware of the ground.  It doesn’t conform to the shape of my body, though I have been here for…a long time.  I do not know how long.  Even the ground won’t accept me totally.  It feels cold and hard to the touch.  Almost clinical.  Maybe another day here and it will be more comfortable, more bearable.  As if my own past doesn’t exist for me.  Stay one more day.  Just one more.  No one can see me in the dark, no one can hear me when I scream in frustration or pain, or desperation.  No one can see the scars I have made for myself.  I am ugly.  They wouldn’t want to anyway.  I will stay.  The world that is apart from me, it really is a concept that is beyond such a thing like me.  Let me hug myself one more time 0 I may not wake up again.  I wonder, how far could I get, if I climbed?  No, it’s too painful to think about.  For now, let the ground take me.  Who knows?  I may not wake up again.

 

More, more, more…(Trigger Warning)

I feel like a life sentence has been given to me.  My crime?  Being alive.  My prison?  My own head.  A life tainted by that persistent filter that is projected from my brain and coats reality from the inside.  So that, when I touch life, I touch the filter.  And when I scream, it reverberates through the prison of my head but never makes it to the outside, so who is to know that I am screaming? And so, who will care?

Oh, how I scream.  How I feel the pain that emanates from my being, that starts from my core and spreads outward in sharp, continuous waves.  A veritable earthquake that shatters and shatters and shatters.  It is relentless.  And oh, how I crumple, how I plead, how I break.  Over and over.  I break.  Thus, I cannot look inward.  I am met with a pain that I have tried and tried to feel physically.  Harming myself obsessively in the hopes that I heal, and maybe, my head can heal.  There are no sensibilities when desperation takes hold.  And it has taken hold.  Desperation fuels the obsession; on and on it goes.  Have I caused enough damage?  Maybe a little longer, maybe a little deeper, maybe a little more.  When is enough?  Will there ever be an enough?

Then snap.  The emotions disconnect from the body.  I retain my knowledge.  I know I feel pain, but I know it only, I do not feel it.  As if anaesthetized but weak; knowing of the weakness and having to accommodate for it.  The basic thought process is still there, longer, deeper and more.  More, more, more.  This is the only way.  Obsession.  Compulsion. I have to, it is the only way, it must be.  I have to somehow cut through that filter.  It harms me but I do not care.  I care only of my prison of pain, and while that pain cannot be felt, I should work on getting rid of it.  I could get rid of myself, or I could get rid of that filter.  Are they one and the same?  Longer, deeper, more.

I shift my focus, move out of my body, let it do what it does, it has its instructions.   I circle around my body, testing the circumference of my freedom as provided to me by this cell, this barrier.  Provided to me by my mind.  I wonder…at what cost will this barrier disappear?  Will I pay it, and will freedom be mine?  Or is the payment my life and the resulting freedom an illusion that disappears at the end of it?  How it teases me, gets smaller and smaller on days that I feel the most, morphs to my form, encompasses me; almost suffocates me.  Allows just enough air for me to know how much pain I can feel.  I try to breathe deeper and deeper, I know I want to live, it makes me know I want to live, oh how I want to live, if it would just let me breathe.

Then crash.  My brain pummels through that barrier and crashes into my head and I feel again.  I feel how my chest heaves because I want air, and I am desperate again.  If I cut through this barrier, I can breathe again.  Let me breathe.  Give me space, give me air, give me connection, give me peace.  Please, give me my life. Please give me my life.

Am I losing my mind?  Have I already lost it?  Am I real? I can feel pain, I can feel anguish, I can feel torture, but what else?  Can I feel anything else?  Am I only part of a whole?  I can see, sure, I can see. But…what do I see?  I see this barrier, I see what my brain tells me to see, and I am seeing so much.  So much that is on the inside of it, that I am sure, that I hope is not on the outside.  The monsters, the illusions, the trickery my brain likes to play out…the walls do not creep with colour, I’m sure of it.  I do not walk amongst monsters, they are not real not to the real world, only to me.  The people are real, the people are tangible…though, are they?  You can’t feel them, you can’t touch them.  You have no memory of it.  Do they feel you?  They cannot hear you.  Can they see you through this filter?  Through your Hell; can they see you through your Hell?  They must not be able to, because why do they not help?  Are they real?  Am I real?  I can’t tell anymore, I just can’t tell.  Who out there is real, who am I imagining?  All of you?  What if I am paying in blood and pain for freedom in a reality that is unreal?  A mirage.  I am so lost.

I cannot breathe, I cannot breathe.  I simply cannot breathe.  What if I just stopped breathing?  Longer, deeper, more.  Out of my head and out of this barrier; out of my Hell.  Longer, deeper, more.  More, more, more.

 

That one thing more.

Exhaustive day after restless night; over and over, time goes by in the same way.  Putting up with it all, I find myself getting used to things the way they are.  I know now that I get auditory hallucinations; a shock at first but I can trace it back a while, I can see when they happened, what patterns emerged, what was said etc.  Acceptance.  I dream a lot, vividly, and the images come back to me, often better than I recall memories from “reality.”  I go through the motions of fighting the visions, and then conceding that they are a part of an altered reality that I have to live with, that I have to put up with and deal with and accede to every way of conforming possible.  Acceptance.  Along with both of these, I see a shadow; a blemish.  Something just a little darker than that which surrounds it, always following me, always at the edge of my vision, never in front.  Just always there.  A stain.  Combined, these three things result in me looking over my shoulder a lot, going through levels of anxiety and resignation, back and forth, adding to the exhaustion, adding to the sypmtoms, but at the end of the day; acceptance.

Then, I hallucinate.

These are people.  These are people in colour.  These are people who act like other people.  Maybe a bit oddly, but who am I to judge that?  The difference?  The difference between all that I have described above and what I saw (twice so far)?  The difference was that I couldn’t tell the difference.  I didn’t know that what I saw wasn’t real until I was told they weren’t real.  How can I ever accept that?  How can anyone accept that?  I stopped feeling safe with myself a lifetime ago, but I was always able to tell.  There is half panic and half defeat in my brain as I say these things because how can I ever trust anything?  How do I walk on this Earth knowing that some things may not be there at all but are as real to me as the sun is?  I depend on my logic, and my logic can falter – has faltered.  I have been convinced that one more thing, just one more thing will break me for sure, and now, I have seen that one thing, and I can feel myself unravelling, feel the foundations cracking.  I couldn’t tell the difference.

I also feel angry, and calm.  You may think this is strange but read on and then maybe rethink (you get to think what you want of course, I just have to explain it).  I told the psychiatrist about hearing and seeing things, and he laughed it off and smiled and told me it was normal, in that calm yet oh-so-aggravating voice.  How can it be normal?  I wonder how bad things have to get to be taken seriously?  Yes, okay, I am a self harmer, but I have to say that for him to get serious?  Nothing else is a priority.  And even then, when I tried to explain why I self harmed and maybe his solutions wouldn’t work (I had, had an epiphany of sorts), he just bushed it off.  Do I have to be having psychotic episodes in front of people to be heard?  Is it not as serious if I am telling you something in retrospect?  I am trying to get it through to you that my mind is important to me, and the fact that it can trick me is really having detrimental effects on my feeling of safety and well being, and all I get is a smile that suggests I need to try harder, or somehow pull a miracle out of my rear end and trust that things will get better.  If my mind needs to get better, and that same mind needs to help itself get better…it’s a flaming paradox.  And. It. Frustrates. Me.  But, why am I calm you may ask, though it may not seem likely…because I can shove this into my psychiatrist’s face, and the thought of it gives me a perverse satisfaction.

*Shakes all of the emotions off*

I am just left wondering, when and how is all of this going to get better, you know?  There is too much feeling to process at the moment.  This post describes just a scratch on an iceberg.  I know I will tolerate it, scream and hurt because of it, but above all, I will live with.  And exhaustive day follows restless night; on and on.  Acceptance.

 

 

Too Tired for Tired

Lately, it seems that every action, every interaction I have is tainted with the feeling of tiredness.  Even this post; written through a haze or a fog that seems to have installed itself into my being.  As a result, the cogs that should be working together to help me function, have to try harder to just see each other.  And, at once, I feel the grinding effect of working, of trying.  Anything is a huge effort, even waking up, even resting.  Everything has been taken and tarnished.

I have been told by psychologists a psychiatrist, a couple of GPs and friends, to not lose sight of my end goal, my plans” to help me wade through the depression and the symptoms of BPD.  Have value, keep going essentially.  None of them can prepare you for the fatigue…

Day in and day out the only thing I am hyperaware of is my fatigue.  I don’t sleep well; result:  Fatigue.  I dream a lot; result: Fatigue.  I work; result:  Fatigue.  I study; result:  Fatigue.  I don’t know anymore where it begins and where it can end.  I look ahead to my future, the reasons I have that should make the daily struggle worth it, and all I see is how tired I am now, how tired I will be tomorrow, and how high the energy cost of simply existing is.  Which by itself, makes me more tired.  The thought of looking in past, to talk to the professionals about, so that it may help me accept my past, live with my now just to obtain my future, makes me tired.  In every direction, there it is.  Taking any side tracks to do what I want and not what I have to do – I see tiredness.

Tiredness is all of me and all around me.  I feel like I have been dropped to the floor a thousand and one times in quick succession; so the thought of getting back up one more time is too hard to bear.  The thought of staying down – also too hard to bear.  I find myself in the classic struggle between moving and staying still, and I am  far too tired for the fight that is required for both actions.

It costs too much to feel anything, to feel nothing, to be alone and to be with people, to act and to stay still.  It all costs too much, and I am too tired.  I am desperate for a little respite, I don’t ask for much, and I am too tired.  I am simply too tired for tired.

 

 

Beginnings

Where do w all start when we traverse a new plane; when we start exploring?  Always in the middle.  We  open our eyes, and immediately we are in the middle.  Seeing that which surrounds us, stemming from our very bodies, outward; in a circle, in a sphere, the radius that starts from us and reaches as far as we are willing to see, or perhaps, as far as we can see?  We are all thrown into the middle of our own lives, because as we blink – as time moves even if we don’t, we have our past trailing behind us on display for ourselves and those around us to see.  What is it that we see?  Our surroundings, shared by so many, are not seen the same way.  Thus, our middles are different.  What can amount to chaos, what does amount to chaos, can also amount to harmony.  We can harmonize if we tried to understand when listening, if we listened as much as we spoke, and if we spoke as much as we would like to be heard.  So, I share my story.  My middle; so that I may be understood as much as I have felt like speaking and felt like I haven’t said enough, so that others may find someone who is like them and speaking for them, and so that maybe someone, somewhere out there, may understand.

My middle begins here.