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


I'm choosing tonight to start thinking a little more positively and to start making some good changes in my life.   A little daunted by the next three days of nothing planned.  The option to hole up indoors all alone all weekend.  I promise myself that over the next three days I will lift myself up rather than tear myself down.  A small and simple goal -- first steps -- and I feel a change already.


The F Word

I am fat.  It’s true.  FAT.  This is not an oh-she’s-just-got-low-self-esteem thing.  According to the body mass index chart I am obese.  Like I need a chart to figure that one out.  Honestly, I could stand to lose a hundred pounds.  But I’d rather sit.  A few years ago I went through the DBT skills class (twice or thrice) that was offered at an eating disorder clinic.  Trying to kill two birds with one stone I focused some therapy on my binge eating, but the attempt was half-assed and I gave up on it.  I had bigger fish to fry.  Mmm, fry.  

It is now time that I give this aspect of my life another look.  The goal is to use food purely as a source of fuel for my body.  Not for entertainment.  Not to alter my mood.  Not to reward and/or punish myself.  This is my most immediate goal and I will have made SIGNIFICANT progress by the end of 2011.  Not exactly a new year’s resolution (I hate those – so cheesy) but, well, mmm cheese. 



Happiness is a Serious Problem

My mom gave me this book for Christmas:  Happiness is a Serious Problem: A Human Nature Repair Manual by Dennis Prager.  From the cover:  "This is the repair manual we should have been handed at birth . . . In order to be happy, we first have to battle ourselves.

Well, duh. 

In the past I've had spurts of gung-ho-ness where I jumped into this, that, and the other in an attempt to change my way of thinking and as a result, change my life in the very best way.  Self-help books and tapes.  Therapy.  Meditation.  Prayer.  God.  So yes, I know that I have the power to change my lot in life.  And yes, I'm probably afraid of being happy; I stay in my little dark rut because I'm comfortable here.  And of course, if I gave it the slightest little effort, my life would probably rock. BUT I DON'T WANT TO.  Not now.  I'd rather wallow.  My pity party is not over yet.  I'm still celebrating.   

So there.  I'm not reading the book.  I'm not ready yet.  Bite me world.

(and now I'm afraid of lightening bolts and the earth opening up and swallowing me)


2010: It was a year

What was special about this year?  Not much.  It just kind of flew by, probably because I was asleep most of the time.  A brief recap:

In January I quit therapy, not because I thought that I was well but because my psychologist Marsha was no longer covered by my insurance.  I was still hella depressed but I didn’t think it was necessary to find a new therapist and start the process all over again.  I could have gone back to Gene, a previous therapist I’d gone to off and on for eight years, but my ex-boyfriend had started seeing him (yeah, what a great idea that was – referring him to Gene).  What if the ex and I crossed paths in the waiting room?  No thanks. 

A goal that I was still working on from the latter part of 2009 – to go out and do more things on my own.   I went to a ton of performing arts events – theatre, dance, concerts, opera.  As a result, my credit card bill shot through the roof and I began the year of no-spending.  Which meant not going out, not doing anything.  I ended a friendship in January, so the not going out part was easy.  I became housebound except for work and the occasional dinner with a friend I don’t like that much. 

I went on two first dates in May.  One with a guy I’ll call Peter (that’s actually his real name).  One with PR.  It was clear from the start that PR and I were not a romantic match, so instead of dating we had sex.  He was a little too blunt and critical, and I spent the majority of the five-month-long “relationship” feeling particularly bad about myself.  I proved to myself that I am a woman after all (surprise!)– that sex isn’t that great when there’s no emotional connection to accompany it.  With each time I became less and less interested, until I was just done.  I never told PR that I was done, but he didn’t question my withdrawing from him so I assume the feeling (or lack of feeling) was mutual. 

Peter and I went out five times.  We had sex on date #5 and I never heard from him again.  Wow. 

For the rest of the year my dating life was practically non-existent.  I’m actually consulting my calendar as I write this part because I can barely remember faces, much less names in this year’s First and Second Dates Club.  There was Christina.  We actually went out several times, but I felt nothing for her and, as friends, we bombed because she was just too busy.  What really struck me about her was that she hardly laughed.  And when I was being silly or making a joke she would ask “What do you mean?”  Then there was Gina.  She was someone I could see myself dating.  The problem – she’d just lost a hundred pounds and was on a quest to get the boys that she could never get as a fat girl.  Too bad, that one.  Then there was what’s-her-name (I honestly don’t remember her name) who, well into her forties, was sleeping with a bunch of 21-year-old emo boys.  She also had a phobia about driving beyond city limits, and lived with her mother. 

In my calendar there’s an entry for an 11:30 with Cindy.  I don’t know what that’s about.  Who’s Cindy?

Oh my goodness – Wendy’s spicy chicken sandwiches are really spicy.  I’m on fire.

Review over.  No wait.  Goals for 2011:  Continued no-spending.  Wear make-up more often.  Stop sleeping so much.  Give up the obsessions with French bread and butter, SpaghettiOs, and Kraft Macaroni and Cheese.  Find the fountain of youth for Billy so that he’ll live forever.  Start putting the ice cubes in the glass BEFORE filling with beverage (it’s so damn messy otherwise).  Listen to music other than Ryan Adams.  Keep up the flossing regime.  And, last but not least, be happy.       


Psych update:  I’m doing fabulously well.  [Weird, I used the word “fabulously”].  No sadness.  No heavy droopy body feelings.  I still sleep an awful lot on my days off (like, the whole day) but I attribute that to a number of other things not psych-related.  Laziness, boredom, loneliness, etc.  I’ll have to work on those things eventually if I plan on having a life worth living (by whose standards?) but for now I’m enjoying the sleep – gloriously vivid dreams that make my sleep life definitely worth living.  Yes, I’m escaping.  I’m not gonna lie.

Meds: 2.5 mg Abilify, 300mg Lamictal, and down to only 50mg Effexor (which I will be totally off of by the end of January). 

Date number two with J (oh hell -- Jean) was a few nights ago.  It was supposed to be a movie followed by coffee, but she reneged on the coffee part because she had to do something last minute gift-related for the upcoming Christmas weekend.  I was a bit disappointed, mostly because I wanted to go out and do something for a change.  We chatted briefly about the movie afterward which is when I realized that not only do I not like her like her, but I just plain don’t like her.  Maybe she’s a little too sure of herself.  Or brash.  Or too normal.  I like my people a little more broken.  And why is that?  Do I want to be the less broken one?  I don’t think that’s true.  Just annoyed by people who are too sure of themselves.  And maybe, because she’s an elementary school teacher, she’s too fucking wonderment and amazement and oh isn’t this grand! 

Now comes the awkward part.  Telling her that I’m not interested.  Or waiting for her to tell me that she’s not interested.  Or letting it go without a word from either one of us.  Run away!  Run away!


First Dates are Fun

Oh gawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwd.  Got home a few hours ago from a first date that did not go well.  It's a great thing to see disinterest in the eyes of the person you're sitting across from.  Home into jammies and three whiskeys later I got an email from her.  She had a question to ask.  Turns out something I said screwed it all up.  That figures.  I can't just be normal can I?  A normal person on a normal date? 

So we're going to go on a second date.  Maybe I can be a normal person on a second date.



The Effect of Borderline Personality Disorder on My Friendships. Or, How I Spent My Summer Vacation

It’s something I don’t like to talk about because I feel ashamed.  Ashamed that I let friendships die.  That I let friendships die because I’m an asshole.  No judgment, it’s the truth.  When I’m not blaming myself I’m blaming BPD which, in essence, is blaming myself BECAUSE OF BPD.  Geez Louise.  Can ya see the dysfunction there?  So yeah, I am unable to maintain friendships.  I do the typical BPD thing where I meet someone; I become infatuated with them because they’re so cool and life’s so great and let’s skip off holding hands into the sunset.   

And then they do something sucky.  For me, that something becomes a dealbreaker.  For non-BPD people, that something is probably just a minor irritation and certainly not something to end the friendship over.  So there I am, peeved like a cat whose tail you’re pulling, and my friend is cut off.  Unfriended, blocked, deleted from contacts, DEAD TO ME. 

Which is fine and dandy until I realize, far too late, that what they did was really just a minor little thing, and that I’d over-reacted and that I miss them.  Then I scramble to try to get them back into my life but, as you can imagine, they’ll have none of that.  They don’t understand why you flipped out in the first place and they sure as hell aren’t going to let you do it to them again.  So I suffer.  I pine for them.  Mourn their loss.  Kick myself hard in the ass.  Rinse and repeat, because I know that I’ll do it again.  Over and over and over and over.  Until maybe next time.  Ya gotta be optimistic, right?  Grumble grumble.  I only say the “until maybe next time” because I’m pretending that all of the therapy I’ve done has made a world of difference, and that I’m enlightened and upbeat and setting out to change the world.  Truth be told, I’m not sure that DBT did a whole lot for me.  It seemed to make a difference while I was taking the classes, but I’m not sure that the effects are long term.   I gained enough insight through years of therapy that I am fairly well aware of the borderline-y things I’m doing as I’m doing them.  I’m just lacking in the ability to not act in those borderline-y ways.

So the friendship issue is this – I want friends, but I’m scared of friendships because of my history of ruining them.  I’m also daunted by the actual process of making friends.  The whole what’s-your-favorite-color bullshit.  Taking the time to get to know someone only to realize that they’re not the kind of someone you want in your life.  I haven’t had much luck making friends out in the real world.  Work friends aren’t really friends that you hang out with, at least my work friends aren’t.  And I’m not a joiner of groups or clubs.  I’m not a class-taker.  I’m not a hobbyist.  I could join some groups or clubs, or take some classes, or become a hobbyist, but let me be realistic here – no way, I don’t wanna, fuck that shit!  So, those things being out, I have the internet.  Ah yes, the trusty internet.   

This is the day that I open myself back up to friendship.  Wish me luck.



My psychiatrist warned that weaning off the Effexor might cause dizziness.  I did two pills a day for two weeks, one pill a day for two weeks, and just started my half a pill two nights ago.  Dizzy.  But dizzy good.  High.  Hyper.  Good mood.  Up.  Can't sleep.  Boo.  Crappy blog post.  Boo.  I've decided to do three quarters of a pill for one week instead.  The end.  Still can't sleep.  Boo.



Mom and Dad came from Tucson for Thanksgiving. The second best Thanksgiving ever. Being a single girl most of the time, I’m usually alone for the holiday, eating something from a can and grumbling that I’m forced to take a day of vacation time in the almost-middle of the week. Wah, poor me. I’m actually pretty okay spending the holidays on my own; I think of them as just another day.

So yes, Thanksgiving was great. Mom cooked, Dad did dishes and I lounged around in my pajamas all day long. We went for a walk with the dog in the hazy gray afternoon, and watched TV in the evening. Dad was mortified that a character in a sitcom farted. Out loud. Twice. “That shouldn’t be on television,” he said. Then Mom and I watched a show together:

Me: “This is my favorite show.”
Mom: “This show is stupid”
Me: “You’re too stupid to understand it.”

A few minutes pass.

Mom: “Do you realize that you just called me stupid?”
Me: “Do you realize that you called my favorite show stupid?”
Mom: “Oh.”
Me: “Tit for tat.”

Alright, so that was borderline personality-ish of me. I have my moments.

Tomorrow my parents and I are heading to Barbados; We’re meeting up with my seven-year-old niece, my brother and his girlfriend, girlfriend’s mom and girlfriend’s mom’s boyfriend. I would have preferred a vacation with only my parents; As much as we annoy each other at least we’re still on the same page and know one another pretty well. My brother is an enigma; time spent with him can be awkward. More on my relationship with my brother later (probably during the next ten days when I’m around him).


A Change in Mood

It's been a week of the latest meds change. I've gone from sleeping too much to not being able to sleep at all. But the mood is up. Definitely up. If only I wasn't too tired to enjoy it ; )



I had an appointment with my psychiatrist the other day. I thought it was going to be one of those typical fifteen minute twice yearly visits for the sole purpose of getting prescription refills, but Dr. H. ended up spending almost an hour with me. No judgments, he said, but you’re barely functioning. I told him that I was actually feeling pretty okay with my life as it is. Sure, I never thought that this, my life as it is now, would ever be my reality. But I’ve reached a point of accepting it. Dr. H. thinks I’m giving up on myself, and that I should be fighting for change. Well I’ve been dealing with mental health issues since my early teens so excuse me for not being all gung-ho about trying something different, for the millionth time, when different has never worked.

The new plan is to go back on Abilify, a smaller dose this time, and to wean myself off of Effexor. Dr. H. suggested that I try Lithium, but I went that route when I was nineteen and gained eighty pounds within a year, which I’ve never managed to lose. No thanks.

So maybe something will change. Maybe not.


I am the most sentimental person I know. I'm afraid of ghosts. Seeing animals knock over small children makes me giddy. One of my coworkers is a bully. My dog Billy likes lettuce. These things were all a part of my day. And I'm now going to watch some television shows about ghosts in the dark. Or rather, I'm going to watch, in the dark, some television shows about ghosts. Then maybe some shows about snakes so that I never go to sleep again.


A change in meds

I stopped taking the Abilify a while back. After the first month I no longer felt that it was working. I was depressed again. And the side effects were many -- Feeling tired all the time but not being able to sleep. Grinding my teeth. The worst side effect was the lack of emotion. I felt like a zombie. Still depressed but not sad. Not anything. Just numb. I don't like the super high fruitcake ups, and I don't like the keep-the-sharp-knives-away-from-me downs. But I do like some emotion. Sometimes it feels good to cry. There's a release. And the occasional good day feels spectacular. I'd rather be moody than flatline.

Yesterday was one of those good days. I had a little smile on my face. Everything tasted good and smelled good and looked good and felt good. But when I went to bed a random bad memory flashed across my mind and I started weeping. I lay there for a good little while, tears plopping onto my pillow. Crying felt good (I'm alive!) so I conjured up worse memories and reveled in sadness. Sadness over, I stopped crying and went to sleep. And this morning I felt fine. I'm glad to be back to my same old abnormal self. Seriously.


Dirty Underwear

Six hours of bliss today, a Saturday, tucked away in the little nook in my room at work. With no work to be done. Six hours of drinking coffee and reading blogs, eating cookies and smarties I pilfered from the break room, writing a grocery list and messing around with the pitting edema on my shins. I've had too many cans of SpaghettiOs lately -- the crazy amount of sodium in each can makes my legs swell. Legs -- I haven't shaved in seven weeks. Since the last time I met up with my fuck buddy. Hate that term. Fuck buddy. My leg hair is the longest it's been since I first started shaving. Half the length of one of the hairs from my dog (a lab, if that helps with imagining). The end of things with the fuck buddy came uneventfully. After the last time I suddenly felt that I didn't want to see him again. The feeling must have been mutual because I haven't heard from him since. Actually, he did text me once about his latest news -- he had cleared out a part of his garage to make space for tools. Umm, okay. How do you respond to a text like that? I didn't. The end.

All this blog-reading has gotten me psyched to start blogging again. I like having the record of my days. I need to write more often. Erase previous entries less often. Filter myself less. But I don't know what I should write about. The recent me, on most days, wakes up in the morning, goes to work, comes home, eats (and eats), cuddles with the dog, and sleeps (and sleeps and sleeps and sleeps WAY too much). Weekends are more sleeping and lots of television. I've declared this the year of no-spending (don't ask me why but "this year" started in September), so I'm not going out and doing anything of great interest. Sometimes I hang out with friends. Sometimes I take the dog to the park. And that's about it. What do I have to write about?

This year of no-spending is also the year I stop beating myself up for not having an exciting life. This is the year I'm content with the mundane. Okay with the mess and clutter in my house. Fine with wearing a pair of underwear twice before doing the laundry. Hunky dory with not shaving my legs and not taking my vitamins every day. Satisfied with meals of SpaghettiOs and peanut butter and honey sandwiches.

So there.



Back again. I don't write much. Not sure why. Sometimes it is hard to share, especially when the sharing is of the real stuff. So now I'll share. A record for myself.

It's been an interesting month. I started taking a new drug. Abilify. 5mg. That's a small dose. Think you can go up to 30. I went to see a new psychiatrist. It was time. I was miserable. I was suicidal. I had a plan. It wasn't a plan for right now but rather a plan for after my dog dies. He's eleven. He is my only responsibility right now. I have to take care of him and give him the kind of life he deserves. I know that when he dies I'll be mush. Nothing holding me to this earth after that. I can't bear the thought. Suicidal and having a plan and just sitting around waiting. That was me one month ago.

I feel that I have a fatal illness. Really it's a chronic illness, and if I take care of it I should be okay to roll along with life and get from point A to point B like most people do. Minus happiness. Not that people are happy. I think that most of us suffer from yearning, not being where we want to be, not having what we want to have. Not that being where we want to be or having what we want to have will bring happiness. That's the crappy thing about life. Perpetual wanting. But some are more content than others to be who they are, where they are, why they are, etc. Less sensitive. Better adapters maybe. But not necessarily happier.

I went to see this new psychiatrist because I felt that I had one last chance to pull through. It was a strange meeting. Positive. I told him how it was and then we had a mostly scientific matter-of-fact conversation about what we could do about it. I really appreciate people who I can talk to about my depression without having to worry that melodrama will ensure. Let's talk about this like it's an illness rather than some big fucking deal getting emotions all wrapped up in it. Matter-of-fact. Depression: It's not this dark crazy intangible can't-put-a-finger-on taboo mysterious condition that some people think it is. It's chemicals and science and biological. It just is.

He suggested I try Abilify. Of course it's a million dollars a month, but money shouldn't be important in this situation, right? If Abilify doesn't work, he said, have you considered electric shock therapy? Actually he said ECT and I shot him a blank look. Oh! Electric shock therapy. Well no, I haven't considered that. It's not as scary as people make it out to be, he says. Sounds interesting, I think but don't say. We'll give Abilify a shot.

One month later and it's as if a miracle has happened. I'm not all ooh pretty daisies floating on air chocolate muffins sound of music happy. I'm not happy at all. But I'm not depressed. Strange that. The constant sadness, gone. The plan, gone. (Still in my mind but not a plan I'm working on). It's all very bizarre. These chemicals, this brain. A small little pill.

There are side effects. I am restless. I can't concentrate on reading or TV or projects. For the first time in a long time I feel bored. When I try to relieve that boredom by doing something, I lack the energy and desire to finish the task. That is incredibly frustrating. My eyes feel tired all the time -- the only thing that helps is to close them. But of course I can't sleep when I'm tired like that. No more depression sleep. No more running-away-from sleep. I miss that. No more reversing days and nights on my weekends. I've fallen into a normal-person sleep schedule. Blah. Daily life feels more mundane than before. But at least I don't want to die. Right? Hum drum, go along with it, hope for better days, me. That's good, right? I'll give this some time. See if it improves. Maybe this is the way most people feel.


It's strange that one can be so happy and so sad at the same time.



Well shit. I'm back. Less from inspiration and more from necessity. I don't even know what that means.

So. Unaddicting from an addiction. Quitting? Nonaddictionario. Whatever. This is PAINFUL. Well, not so much painful. More like CRAZY. I feel my tongue getting fat in my mouth and in a minute it will split in two and ta da! Snake. Damn this tongue, like it doesn't belong to me. Disjointed. Disconnected. Forget the snake. My head will split in two and confetti will come out, as if shot from a cannon.

So. Here's this process of kicking away the addictions. Some little dinky ones. Some less dinky ones. The point being that there are some things I need to stop. And in the process of stopping them, I can't grasp at the dinky things to make myself feel better in these moments of extreme torture. What I've learned: Some things, no matter how sucky, need to be experienced. So this extreme suckiness tonight -- I just have to sit with it and wait for it to pass. Without grasping. SUCK. Candy canes and snap my fingers and write ridiculous emails to people I don't know. Let the tears fall where they may -- I sure as hell don't know where they're coming from. What's to cry about? Nothing. And why am I crying? Because, when substance drains out, like blood from a corpse, electricity from the brain, the body changes.

My emotions, my crazy, my tears, my tongue, these nightmares, panic, hate, fear ------ explained by science. Nothing in me is unique. Nothing in you either. We don't matter. Grains of rice. Drops in a bucket. Funny though, how life seems so long and significant, and how the choices we make seem so important and what we do with our days seems to matter. Um. Not really.

So that thought that this doesn't matter, and that man, or Man, is insignificant -- HA, that's the little devil in me trying to take me back to the stuff. Reason suggested as a result of craving. Little voice -- look how little any of this matters. Don't be so self-absorbed. Fuck addiction -- what difference does it make? Your life is unimportant. It'll be over in a flash, and you'll never be remembered anyway so who fucking cares about giving up and giving in? Just do it. Do what feels good.

But it never feels that good, really. Well, sometimes it does. But most times it's the anticipation and not the doing that is joy. Always reaching for something else, something else to fill the void. This didn't make me feel better, so maybe this other thing will. But this other thing didn't make me feel better so, try this other thing. And then you turn into a rock. No wait, not a rock. Rocks really aren't that bad. Rocks are nice to sit on sometimes. You're out hiking and your legs are tired and you want to rest and there's this nice smooth rock to sit on. So cancel that. Cancel that turning into a rock thing. I'll have to think of the right thing that you turn into after time and time and time and time lost in self-destruction.

Dude, I ate this broccoli cheddar rice yesterday and it was super yummy. Today I ate jambalaya rice (without the meat crap, of course) and it wasn't super yummy. Not bad, but not like that broccoli cheddar rice.

S C R E A M. sucksucksucksucksucksucksucksucksuck.

When does this feeling end so that I can feel peace in my body? When will I be less of a physiological process? Polluted. I've been suckysucksuck-ing like this for 4.5 hours. Yeah, sit with the feeling and you will eventually overcome it. For 4.5 hours??????? I wish I knew kung-fu. Or, alternatively, I wish I could kick someone in the face. That would be nice.

The end. Until later. Suck. Oh, and Joan Didion's grammar or lack thereof annoys me. Not that I use proper grammar ever, but . . . I have no idea what my point was.