Borderline Personality Disorder Blog. Bipolar Disorder Blog. BPD. DBT. Cleveland. A Fragment in Orange.


He watches as I put on my fishnet thigh highs. The right leg first, the left leg second. The band on the left leg won’t lie flat. It rolls downwards and becomes a tourniquet. I grunt with the effort of rolling it back up, flat. Two more tries and then Fuck it. He watches like I’m some girly girl with mystical sensual powers.

He got here late tonight and I berated him before he walked through the front door. “Come in,” I finally said, and turned, to let him stew as he followed me down the long hallway to the living room. Sitting on the couch he had a funny look on his face. I don’t know him well enough yet to read such a look. “What’s wrong?” The same funny look. “What’s wrong?” A tear dropped from a dark brown eye and rolled down his cheek.

I am irreverent about death. I’m irreverent about most things. There was a death, close to him, just a few hours ago. “But that’s not why I’m late,” he said. He also uses humor to mask the real deal.

I wasn’t looking forward to him coming over. I invest very little of my emotional self in the people I draw near. I am cold. I’m the proud owner of a big tall wall. The wall is up. Always. A few nights ago I told him I was done. With us, with all of it. It was a misunderstanding, he said. But I was done. No remorse. No hard feelings. Next.

I later played the scene back to a friend and she advised me to give him another chance. You have to stop walking away so quickly, she said. Give him another chance.

I no longer trust my own judgment. If you tell me what to do, I’ll do it. Because god knows I don’t trust myself any more.

Tonight I held his hand. Held him close. Sucked his cock. Twice. Fixed him a drink. Soothed him. It’ll be alright. You poor thing.

Inside, I felt nothing.