Tag Archives: borderline personality disorder

Free Pass


Free PassI went to see my psychiatrist yesterday, and it turns out that the 20mg of Prozac I had been taking for the last month or so was nowhere near enough. Back then she had given me a second prescription for 40mg, and I was supposed to start taking that after a week of being on the 20mg dosage, but I forgot about that, and just continued taking the 20mg capsules. Oops.

I went home, and immediately took a second 20mg capsule, and I have to say I am feeling so much better today. It could be entirely unrelated, and perhaps it’s just the placebo effect of having the hope that an increased dosage will make me feel better. But who the fuck cares what it is. All I know is that when I woke up this morning, I didn’t have a horrible sinking feeling. I actually wanted to  get out of bed and do things. I actually feel hopeful! All the household chores that I have to do today don’t feel insurmountable. Unpleasant, yes, but not insurmountable.

When I first started meditating again, and going to the Zen center, I had been on Zoloft for a couple of months, and I didn’t think it was working because I was still struggling with a lot of perfectionism-related issues (which may or may not be a symptom of OCD or OCPD). However, I did notice that I was much better disposed towards my fellow human beings. I wasn’t thinking so much in terms of “us” and “them”, or judging other people in a black and white way. I felt more connected to other people, and less inclined to distance myself. At the time, I put this down to my newfound interest in Buddhism and meditation, but, in retrospect, I think the tiny buds of my “spiritual awakening” were only able to grow because I was on the Zoloft.

Now, I’m absolutely not saying that Zoloft (or any other antidepressant) can actually cause somebody to embark on a spiritual path completely out of the blue. What I am saying is that antidepressants can allow depressed people who are already spiritually inclined to find the motivation and energy to explore their spiritual side. Before taking Zoloft I was still interested in spiritual matters, but I would often lose interest after being unable to find a satisfying intellectual answer to certain issues that I would ruminate over obsessively e.g. “How can I put my trust in a God/Higher Power/whatever the fuck you want to call and believe that He/She/It has my best interest at heart when such terrible things happen to other people?!” These questions still interest me, but, right now, I don’t have an obsessive need to analyze them to death in the vain attempt to find an answer. I’m more comfortable with grey areas.

What the fuck has this got to do with the title of this blog post – “Free Pass” – you might ask? Well, yesterday I wrote about how people should stop hating on poor Amy Bouzaglo because she clearly has some serious mental health issues. Xul, who actually managed to drag herself away from watching Game of Thrones, posted this response in the comments section:

As someone who also has parent issues, it’s sometimes hard for me to sympathize with the negative behaviors. I find myself vacillating between the notion that they can’t help the behaviors because they are disordered and the fact that they are willful and deliberate in their actions and can damn well choose to behave the way they do.

I think that there comes a time when you have to make a conscious decision about your life. Yes, I had a screwed up childhood. Yes, I had my own disordered behavior. Yes, I reached the point in my life where I no longer wanted to be that person and I’ve done the introspection and self-work that it took to be better. It’s still a work in progress. It’s hard for me to give a pass to someone else when I’m proof positive that change is possible.

I’ve struggled with such thoughts myself because, like Xul, I grew up with a mother who was a controlling, critical bitch. My mother had an awful childhood, and so, intellectually, I understand why she is the way she is. She’s a victim of child abuse. She’s also a working-class woman who grew up in a time and place where mental health issues were never discussed, and where it would have been taboo for her to acknowledge she had an issue and to seek help, and take medication. Unlike me, she did not have access to the internet and the ability to google non-stop to try to find answers. Unlike me, she is also a mother, and it must be so hard for a mother to admit that her mental health issues made her, at times, that most unsocially-acceptable of all things – A Bad Mother. Because then it’s not just about admitting you have a mental health issue, it’s about having to re-construct your own identity and sense of self. Can you really blame her – or any mother like her – for just burying her head in the sand?

It’s easy for me to have compassion for my mother, though. When you haven’t seen or spoken to somebody for eight years, the jagged edges get worn down, and it’s easier for compassion to grow. I don’t think I would be so understanding if I had to deal with her criticisms and put-downs again . I’m pretty sure I would just react like a hurt child, who doesn’t understand how a person who’s supposed to offer unconditional love can be so fucking cruel.

As I said above, I’m not a mother, so I’ve never been a Bad Mother. But, oh, I have been a Bad Wife, and this is something I also struggle to understand in terms of the “free pass” I’ve been discussing. I don’t think that I’m a “bad” person, but I did a lot of bad things to my ex-husband: hit him; kicked him; spat on him; smashed his things and told him he was a worthless piece of shit. How much of this was “me”, and how much of this was mental illness – and does it even matter at the end of the day when then cause of the harm doesn’t lesson its effects?

Am I trying to let myself off the hook when I mention that I do feel more capable of being calm, rational and loving when taking an antidepressant? Is this just me saying: “It weren’t me, guv. Honest! It was my brain chemistry!”

I do feel terribly sorry for the things I did to MM but, sometimes, honestly it’s really hard to feel remorse when he sends me mean texts telling me that I am “barely human”, “a demon”, ” a fucking monster” and “I’m sad, because you’ll drown in that”. He told me all the time during the relationship that I was a “bad person”, and, even though I don’t blame him for having that reaction, how on earth did this make it possible for me to change? And, you know what, I didn’t want to change then because I was sick of being the crazy one, the “identified patient” who was to blame for everything. Why didn’t he have to change his drinking? Why was it apparently my fault that he’d started drinking more? When he started being violent towards me, and I pointed out that it was only a matter of time before he broke one of my bones, why didn’t he care and why was it me who had “provoked” him? When I told him that he scared me when he got drunk, why did he say that I was such a bully that being drunk was the only time he had the courage to say what he really thought? People have told me that MM was abusive to me, too, and I have a hard time wrapping my head around this because I am deathly afraid of giving myself one of those “free passes”.

When the relationship was over, I felt horrific pain, but there was also this little tiny voice deep inside me that said excitedly “You can change now!”. If I was still married, I would still be stuck in the role of the “bad person” and I don’t think I would now be meditating and interested in finding out more about Buddhism. It’s like there was a terrible hurricane, which stripped all the trees of their leaves, but there’s one tiny bud sprouting hopefully on a branch.

I’m sad, though. Whatever happened to “Until Death Do Us Part”? Maybe the pain I caused was just too much, I get that, but I don’t feel that MM ever wanted to help me change or support me through it. It was me who bought him the book Stop Walking on Eggshells: Taking Your Life Back When Someone You Love Has Borderline Personality Disorder. He read it, and his attitude appeared to be “OK, cool. Now off you go and – change!”. He never did any internet research about how to cope with having a partner who was mentally ill. In fact, the only research he ever did appeared to be after the break-up when he “diagnosed” me with Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

Oh, how things could have been different. We loved each other, and it didn’t need to turn to shit. I could spend a lifetime regretting this, and obsessing over what went wrong. But I’m not going to. I just need to accept that neither one of us was ready or right for the other. He wasn’t “the one” and I wasn’t “the one” for him. It’s that simple.

All I can do is remember that, and work hard to be a better, kinder person in the future. And I don’t think that’s giving myself a free pass.

Is it?

Past Perfect


It has been a very hard week. After some more obsessive, hypochondriac googling, I have undiagnosed myself with ADD, and I have decided that I probably have Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder (OCPD) instead. The last time I saw her, my psychiatrist hinted that this might be the case. Procrastination can be caused by ADD, but I think mine is more likely a result of OCPD. I probably also have a bit of comorbid depression, anxiety, and borderline personality disorder (BPD) thrown into the mix.

Can I just apologize in advance for my obsessive navel-gazing about my mental health? If I was a first-time reader of this blog, I would fucking hate it. There is nothing I dislike more than self-absorbed people waffling on about their mental health issues on a blog or forum. “Get a grip!”, I feel like yelling. “Stop being so fucking self-obsessed!”. But, hey, I guess what we hate most in others is just a projection of what we hate in ourselves.

In my defence, I think I’ve been spending so much time trying to diagnose myself online because I desperately just want to know what the fuck is wrong with me. My psychiatrist has only really committed herself to saying a “mood disorder” which could be anything really. She has also made vague noises about OCPD and BPD, which is great because who wants to think that they have a personality disorder?! That just makes me feel like there is something innately and irredeemably fucked-up about me because, ultimately, how the fuck do you change your personality?!

Maybe you’re wondering why it should matter what the diagnosis is. After all, I’m on an antidepressant (Prozac), and that can help target any number of mental health issues regardless of the official diagnosis. Sure, Prozac might not “cure” me of a personality disorder, but it should help with the comorbid anxiety and depression. I think the reason a diagnosis matters to me is because I’m tired of struggling on alone. I want to find a support group for my specific issue, and a therapist who has training in helping people like me (whatever “me” is). It hasn’t been enough to just go to therapy and talk about my issues. I feel like I need a game plan. I’m drowning, and I just don’t know what the hell to do to save myself.

When it comes to the crunch, all of my suffering comes down to perfectionism. It is ruining my life. There is no doubt about it. I know it is, and yet I am powerless to stop it. That probably sounds overly-dramatic, but I am honestly not kidding. Over the last couple of days, I’ve found myself starting absent-mindedly at the wooden beams supporting the roof on the patio. It occurred to me that I could hang a rope from there and kill myself. Oh, don’t worry, I won’t actually do it but, yes, I do think about suicide because I have reached breaking point. I am so, so, so tired of being me and trying to be perfect.

My perfectionism touches every single aspect of my life, no matter how important or banal. As an example of the banal, let me tell you what happened when I walked into my SLAA women’s meeting today. Nearly everybody was wearing cute summer clothes and sandals. I had been too depressed and disorganized to do any washing, so I turn up wearing the only things that were clean – jeans, a turtleneck and trainers (“sneakers” to you Americans). So what? No big deal, right? Yeah, of course not. But except that this happens:

OhmygodwhyamItoomuchofalosertodothewashing?

Whatkindoflosercantgetittogetherenoughtodothewashing?

WhydontIhavenanycleanclothes?Whatthefuckiswrongwithme?

ImaloserImaloserImaloserImaloserImaloser

Iwantbeautifulsummerclothesandsandals

IwantIwantIwantIwantIwant

ImustbebeautifulImustbetheprettiestImusthavethenicestclothesthenicestsandals

ImustImustImustImustbethemostbeautiful

Imustbeperfect

Whatkindofaloserwastestimethinkingaboutclothesandshoes?!

IamsofuckingshallowImpatheticImstupid

My head is filled with such nonsense all day long. I cannot take it anymore.

As I read more about Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder this week, I learned that people with this disorder often have trouble with relationships. Nah….you don’t say!!! I made life unbearable for MM because I expected perfection from him, too. There were times when I would come home from work, and he wouldn’t have done the dishes, so I would just smash them all on the kitchen floor in a temper because I couldn’t stand the chaos of it all. Oh, I am my mother’s daughter. This is how I grew up. There were no smashed dishes but there were impossible standards of cleanliness to meet, and all hell would break loose if I failed. I was also supposed to be beautiful and smart, and I was. I was. I was. I was. I still am. But it was/is never enough.

I can’t believe that I would put another person through the same hell that my mother put me through. MM wasn’t innocent by any stretch of the imagination (he has his own demons) but there can be no doubt that I was incredibly emotionally (and sometimes physically) abusive, and that I broke his spirit. I needed him, and yet I hated him for being too weak to leave me, and I made him pay – for my father’s sins, I guess, of being too weak to protect both himself and me from my mother’s tirades.

Now that he is gone I sometimes miss him dreadfully, which is ironic given that I spent the last half of our relationship plotting my escape. He is understandably angry about some of the things I did in the marriage, but I, in turn, feel angry and betrayed because I-did-not-do-any-of-them-on-purpose! I don’t want a “Get Out of Jail Free” card because I know what I did wrong. I’m not making excuses. But, still, nearly ten months after the break-up, he calls me “a monster”, “evil” and blames me for his drinking, and his abusive treatment of me, which apparently only ever happened because he was “provoked” by me.

I don’t think it’s fair that he blames me for everything but, despite feeling this, I can’t help but obsessively analyze my personality to find evidence that maybe (God forbid!) I am a really bad person, after all. That was what he told me for a large part of the relationship. And I believed and accepted it because, well, I was very, very mean to him, and who else but a bad person would be mean?!

Despite this, I wish he was here to give me a cuddle and tell me that everything will be alright. I wish I had somebody in my life, I wish I had a family. I feel so desperately alone, and, although reaching out to my SLAA sponsor and friends/acquaintances helps, it’s not the same thing. I want somebody there who really cares about me; who would stay with me through thick and thin.

I am so sad that I don’t have that.

You’re So Vain (Part 3)


adhd

Yup, yet another self-absorbed blog post. 🙂

It’s funny the way you can’t escape genetics. Both my mother and my aunt were complete hypochondriacs. If they had a brief headache, they would think it was a brain tumour. Unlike them, I’m not terribly concerned about dying of some dreadful disease, but I do spend an inordinate amount of time online trying to come up with a diagnosis for my mental health issues.

So far, I think I’ve come up with borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder, purely obsessional obsessive compulsive disorder and obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (and, no, this last one is not the same as OCD. It’s an entirely different thing). I don’t believe that I’m bipolar or that I have OCD, but if you google enough you can convince yourself of anything. Sadly, the diagnoses that seem the most accurate are borderline personality disorder and obsessive-compulsive personality disorder. Combine those two, and I think you get “Rigid, emotionally unstable mega-bitch disorder”. Um, seems pretty accurate.

When I was visiting my friend last week, she told me that she had been recently diagnosed with having Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. This came as quite a surprise because my friend has two Master’s degrees, is just about to finish off her PhD at a very prestigious university, and somehow has also found the time to teach herself how to play multiple instruments and music production. She does so many things, and seems highly efficient and organized. She said she ended up getting that diagnosis because she had gone to the doctor when she realized that she had trouble remembering things. She would read a book, and almost immediately forget what was in it. She was concerned that she had early onset Alzheimer’s. Now I know that forgetfulness is one of the symptoms of ADHD, but I honestly cannot see anything else about my friend that suggests she has this disorder. She is one of the most successful people I know, and I know for a fact that she has never had to struggle academically. True, she has lots of energy, and has her fingers in lots of pies, but, well, so what? So do a lot of people.

I was kinda irritated that she just accepted the diagnosis of ADHD so breezily, almost as an explanation of why she is so brilliant, and so much more of a “go-getter” than the average person. You might be wondering why I was so irritated by this because, I mean, who cares what diagnosis a friend gets, right? Well, several years ago, I also explored the possibility of having ADHD because I was desperately trying to find an explanation for why a smart, well-educated person like myself could be such a fucked-up underachiever. Yes, a fucked-up underachiever, not a highly efficient PhD candidate. I have a complete inability to prioritize important tasks, or to understand how much time I will need for a task; if you looked up “procrastination” in the dictionary, there would be a picture of me because the only way I can get things done is to wait until the last minute when fear forces me to; if a task bores me it is literally painful (and I truly do mean painful – I feel like my brain is dying) to concentrate on it, and I will check my email every five minutes to distract myself from the awfulness of it; on the other hand, if something appeals to me creatively and emotionally (like writing this blog post, for example) I could spend ten hours doing it, forgetting to eat or take a break.

All of the above things I’ve mentioned are some lesser-known symptoms of ADHD that really resonated with me when I read about them years ago. A lot of the more common symptoms made sense to me, too. Despite this, I dismissed the idea of getting tested for it because I am somewhat suspicious of this diagnosis. It seems like every Tom, Dick and Harry has ADHD these days. As much as I desperately want to believe that there is a valid medical reason for my problems, I am concerned that this is just a cop-out. Perhaps there is nothing wrong with me. Is it possible that my issues are just character flaws? I really don’t want them to be, but maybe they are. They do say that one of the main characteristics of ADHD is carelessness, and sloppy work, but this is not the case for me at all. I have an almost obsessive and debilitating attention to detail. Can you have ADHD if this is the case?

I grew up in a household where I was only validated through my external achievements. Maybe my perfectionism, procrastination and inability to get myself organized are just a reaction to that? I’ve been trained to want to excel in everything I do, but another part of me thinks “Fuck you, mother! I will not obey you!”, so could I be sabotaging myself on purpose?! But if that is the case, why the fuck can’t I seem to help myself? I don’t want to self-sabotage, and I’ve read self-help book after self-help book about how to overcome perfectionism and procrastination, and I know all the tips and tricks. But nothing ever works. I just keep on setting unrealistic goals, and failing, and hating myself, setting unrealistic goals, failing and hating myself ad nauseum.

The only thing I know for sure is that my perfectionism and procrastination are ruining my life, and I don’t know how to change. You might think I’m being overly-dramatic here, but I’m not. I think I’m a really talented, smart person, but I have no idea how to channel any of my creative talents. I work in a dead-end cubicle job, and I want more than that from my life. I want a job that challenges me and interests me.

So, what do you think? Does it sound like I have ADHD, or am I just deluding myself because maybe I’m just a loser and can’t accept that fact?

I would like to go get tested, but part of me thinks “Oh, for God’s sake! Pull yourself together, woman! And stop being such a hypochondriac!”. If I am just a weak, flawed personality who cannot get it together enough to make a change in her life, then how pathetic to try to get a ADHD diagnosis to make myself feel better.

Broken


I’m probably not going to have much time to write in here for the next five weeks. Tomorrow I start an intensive outpatient Dialectical Behavior Therapy course. It’s every Monday through Thursday, from 6:00 p.m. until 9:00 p.m. Given that I start work at 8:00 a.m. and only finish at 5:00 pm., it’s going to be pretty exhausting. I have self-diagnosed as suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder, and DBT is supposed to be really effective for treating that. Even if I don’t have BPD, it would still be good to learn not to, um, smash shit, hit my loved ones and verbally abuse them when I’m stressed or angry. Both my therapist and my psychiatrist think it would be a good idea to do this course. I’m wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake, though, because I have a hard enough time as it is getting through the week without adding twelve-hours of intensive therapy into the mix. Also, I am feeling pretty fine at the moment. But that is always my pattern – I have one huge crisis, where my world feels like it’s ending, and then I coast along just fine until the next crisis. When I’m coasting I never feel like there’s anything wrong with me.

Intensive therapy aside what else have I been up to? Well, I had fun this week with my friends, seeing lots of music. I went out more times this week than I would do in a whole six month period while I was still living with MM. I’m completely sleep-deprived, but it was worth it. I also went out on a date with a cute Chilean-American journalist I met on OKCupid who is very interesting –  tall; handsome; creative; funny; educated; a runner; well-traveled; bi-cultural; bilingual etc etc. He is, in other words, the opposite of RG in most ways and yet…I still long for RG.

Speaking of RG, we have started shagging again. But don’t worry – it’s all good. I’m much calmer this time around. It turns out there actually was something he wanted to invite me to after all. We went to a barbecue last night together, and I was supposed to attend a fashion show he was doing the make-up for today but couldn’t because I had to work. I don’t know what these invitations mean. Honestly, I think I’m done analyzing the shit out of everything. I just don’t have the energy.

I started to look at our “relationship” in a whole new light earlier this week when he responded to one of my booty-call texts by saying “Im a mess dont know if i want you to see me this way”. It wasn’t like I didn’t know he was a raging alcoholic before this text. I knew rationally that he couldn’t be present for me because of his alcoholism but somehow that text brought it all home. I felt quite guilty, to be honest…like I’d been trying to take advantage of a sick person. Because, well, he is a sick person. We stayed up talking all night on Friday (didn’t even shag until much later!) and we didn’t start to go to bed until 8:00 a.m. He actually went off then to buy some cheap and nasty gas station wine so he could get to sleep. At 8:00 a.m! Jesus. What a way to start your day.

I don’t know how it is possible to care for somebody I have only known for a couple of months, but, well, care I do. Of course, there is still a huge part of me that wants him to want me/love me, but I can genuinely say now that I just want him to get better. Not for me, not because I have this fantasy that we’ll fall hopelessly in love if he gets better (although there is a wee bit of that) , but for himself. He’s talking about moving back to Colorado to live with a friend he can start a (legit, non-druggy) business with who’s also a teetotaller. I think this would be a great idea because I don’t know how on earth he can possibly hope to get sober while he sells weed and lives right around the corner from the local bar. When he talks about moving away, there is this little voice inside me that says “No! Don’t leave! No! Not yet!” but I know it’s what he needs to do, and I will encourage him. I just can’t stand to see another human being suffer in front of my eyes. He says he’s hardly ever had sober sex in his life! Wow! I can’t imagine being that cut off from my emotions. He is so broken. He needs to heal.

I feel that something changed in me this week as regards RG. I will continue to long for his attention, his affection, his love, but somehow my lust has changed into something sweeter and more tender…friendship, I guess. I’m not saying that I won’t ever shag him again (hell, I ain’t Jesus) but I just want to treat him well, and not make him the brunt of my love addicted obsession.

This might be weird given how much I’ve bitched about RG in this blog, but send a wee prayer out for him tonight, will you? He’s not an angel, but I hate to see him in this much pain.

My Name Is Trouble


It hasn’t been a good week. You might remember that my car was towed two weeks ago after I  parked it in the wrong place outside RG‘s apartment complex (that’s what drunk, obsessive horniness does to a girl). This cost me $190. Another result of my obsession with RG was that I neglected to transfer money into my “bills” bank account that same week, so two direct debit bills overdrew my account – another $80 in overdraft fees. I therefore didn’t have enough money to pay my rent this month.

Of course, those of you who have been reading my two blogs faithfully since (when?) 2007 will know that, um, I am rather “handy” when it comes to scraping together some cash in a short space of time. For those of you who don’t know me this means that I moonlight as an erotic masseuse whenever necessary (in other words, I give handjobs to random dudes or, in some cases, regulars). Now that MM and I have broken up, “whenever necessary” pretty much means “all the fucking time” because I obviously have double the amount of bills to pay. Some women have made a career out of writing about their “sexploits” in the erotic massage/escort industry but this is not really my thing anymore although my last blog started off being about that. It’s just a job really.

Today I finally managed to get together all my rent money, which was actually pretty hard.  It is not easy for me to make money as an erotic masseuse because I refuse (absolutely refuse) to email potential clients pictures of myself, even if it’s just a shot of my naked torso. This is a curious thing given that I have shitty boundaries in all other areas of my life, but when it comes to erotic massage I’m boundaried up all the way to the hilt. I can’t stand the idea of emailing pictures of myself to some random dude who can then do with them what he will. Sometimes I think that I must have been a member of the Maasai tribe in a past life (they believe photographs steal the soul) because I am obsessed with having control of my image.  In this digital age, there are very few men out there willing to come see an erotic masseuse sight-unseen.  Although this makes it hard for me to make a living, it is also a good thing because those who do come (or, ahem, cum) are either regulars or those adventurous few souls who can tell from my ads/emails that I’m well-educated, funny, sane and über-discreet, and they appreciate these qualities in me. Very rarely do I meet an asshole. My clients are almost always well-educated, respectful, middle-class men.

However, I digress. I finally scraped together the rent money, a feat made all the harder by the fact that one of my tyres blew out on the way to work yesterday morning.  I was doing 65 (or, well, probably at least 70 since I’m nearly always late for work and end up speeding) and I had always been terrified of a tyre blowing out on the highway. It actually wasn’t all that bad. There was just a huge rumbling sound, which I attributed to a passing truck at first, but then my car lurched to one side, so I knew the tyre had blown out. Since I’m an idiot, it didn’t occur to me to put on my hazard lights, but I just got off at the next exit and turned into the first place I could where there just happened to be (hallefuckinglujah! Praise be to God!) an auto repair shop. Just as fucking well because I ain’t ever changed a tyre in my life and I sure as hell don’t intend to. One hour later, and $90 poorer, I drove off with the tyre replaced and my ego slightly inflated from the hardcore pick-up efforts of LeRon, the playa mechanic.

As if all my financial/blown tyre worries weren’t enough, last night I received an email from MM saying, among other things, that I have Borderline Personality Disorder (I agree – distinct possibility there) and  – this was a new one from him – Narcissistic Personality Disorder. This really cut to the bone because I have read the diagnostic criteria for NPD and I definitely recognize myself in some of them. I truly am very self-absorbed. I know it, and it is shameful. I am acutely aware that all I write about in this blog is myself/my problems/my pain. However, I do not agree that I lack empathy for other people at all…..or do I? I am genuinely terrified that I have NPD because I don’t want to be such a bad person! Please tell me I’m not such a bad person!

I guess  I really should tell you now how my relationship with MM ended. I’ve been putting it off for such a long time because it was just too painful to write about. It is a long, messy, nightmarish story but, in a nutshell, I ended up calling police on him one night. Early on that night we had had yet another huge argument and, amazingly for me, I actually managed to disengage from it by locking myself in the bathroom. MM was drunk, and I knew there was no point in actually having a discussion because it would get nowhere. He then kicked the door open, and continued to rant at me which led to me mocking him mercilessly (I probably said stuff like “you’re a pathetic loser” or “this is why I don’t want to fuck you”). MM had been physical with me before (usually when I was smashing stuff or when he was trying to restrain me) but I never thought he would ever intentionally hurt me. Things were getting out of control in our relationship, and I was scared that I was going to break a bone if he pushed me into or over something, but I never thought for a second that he would ever hit my face. And he didn’t. However, as I was mocking him, his fist came flying towards my face, and he only just stopped himself in the nick of time.

After this, MM went off to the local bar (yup, the same one where RG hangs out all the time) and got absolutely fucking plastered. When he came back lots of shit went down, and I can’t say I was entirely innocent. At one point, I ripped his iPhone out of his hand because I thought he was calling another woman (turned out he was just leaving a really drunk, incoherent voicemail for his best friend) but he was hardly an angel either. He grabbed me and shoved me around, trying to get the cell phone back; aimed a kick at me; followed me around ranting at me when we were back in the house; threw my dinner in my face when I finally sat down, trying to ignore him; grabbed my cell phone out of my hand when a friend called; smashed it on the floor several times…and God knows what else. I wanted him out of house and asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Eventually I just ended up calling the police, which ended up with my cell phone being smashed on the floor several more times until I could finally get through to the police. Well, the police came and tried to talk to MM, but he shut himself in a room and refused to come out. He talked to them through an open window, clearly totally wasted, and eventually the police got tired of that, and asked me to let them into the house. I did, and they knocked on the door of the room MM was in, but he still wouldn’t come out. The police eventually kicked the door down and, when MM still refused to cooperate, he got tasered twice. Yes, twice.

The result of all of this is that MM now has three criminal charges against him: interfering with someone making a 911 call; assault of a family member and resisting arrest.

I don’t feel guilty that MM was tasered (this was his own doing – he could have cooperated with the police) and the fact that he was actually was a solace to me in some weird way. I don’t mean that I wanted him to get tasered (of course I didn’t!) but the fact that he got himself in a situation where he was tasered showed me that I wasn’t the only crazy one in this relationship. MM made a point of telling me that I was the crazy one all the time.

However, I do feel guilty that MM is now facing a domestic violence charge. By all rights, both of us should have assault charges. There is a many a time that MM could easily have called the police on me for assaulting him. Maybe he should have. Maybe that would have been my rock bottom, and I would have been a better person for it. I feel immense guilt that MM’s life could be ruined because of me. I feel like no man should date me – that I’m mad, bad and dangerous to know. No wonder RG decided he didn’t want to see me anymore. I have crazy seeping out of every pore.

But, guilty as I feel, I believe that MM does not accept full responsibility for his actions. Any time he was physical with me, he justified it by saying I “provoked” him. I accepted this response because I thought “Well, it’s true. I am pretty crazy. The guy was probably driven to act that way”. But he’s a grown man! Nobody can make a full-grown adult do anything! Instead of blaming me for the mistakes he made in his life, I think it would suit him better to ask himself why he continued to stay in a relationship with me because I was (no doubt about it) totally abusive.

And, boy, do I feel guilty about that. I know for a fact that I ruined MM’s self-esteem. I don’t know why I was so verbally abusive but I was, and I sucked all the life out of him. The terrible thing is that he still loves me. Even today, he told me how much he loves me, and that he will always love me. Perhaps I feel the same way. I have no idea. I’m not sure my poor, fucked-up brain can actually process what feelings of love are.

I feel terrible that MM has to spend $10,000 on lawyer fees, attend court dates, stupid state-mandated therapy sessions and whatnot while there I was fucking RG without a care in the world. For one whole month, I barely gave MM a second thought because I was so wrapped up in RG. What kind of person am I? Could it be true that I have no empathy whatsoever?

MM loved me/still loves me, and I gave him nothing. And when I say “nothing”, I mean truly nothing. I had the time and energy to put into running after RG (a loser, alcoholic drug dealer) but I couldn’t even give a scrap of affection to MM who was my fucking husband.  I know how much he must be hurting because I have been there myself. I have been that person – the person who was mistreated by an emotionally unavailable partner who then spends months, if not years, wondering “what’s wrong with me?!”. I can’t believe I then turned the tables and did that to another person.

I can’t believe that, after everything I’ve done/ all the pain I’ve caused him, he still loves me. He is the first man in my entire life who has ever loved me. And I treated him like a piece of shit. Threw it all away.

Borderline


I am back! I am back to being my sexy, sassy, smart and sophisticated self! I feel so confident! I don’t feel lonely. I don’t feel that the world is a dark place. I feel that it is exciting! I feel that things will be OK! I don’t give a fuck about RG anymore. Fuck that immature, spiritually and emotionally bereft scumbag!

And yet…

Earlier today I was not doing at all well. I found myself sobbing when I thought about how RG might not contact me again. And when I say “sobbing”, I don’t mean that I was all “boo hoo hoo sniff”. I mean really fucking sobbing. I was also overcome with raging paranoia. I couldn’t seem to understand who RG was, or what had just happened. I began to think of him as this evil person, and for a little while it felt like my world was totally shaken because I asked myself “Who can I trust?” If you’d walked in on me, I would have scuttled into a corner like a wounded, wild animal and I’d have lashed out at you if you tried to get near.

A little while later, however, I started to think “Oh, RG really isn’t all that bad”, and I’d imagine how great it would be to go out with him.  Later still, I’d switch again, and understand that things are probably over between us, and, oh, the world seemed so dark. I wish I could describe to you just how dark things seemed, but it’s hard to find the words. There was just this void inside of me, and I felt that I had nothing or nobody.

Around 5:00 p.m. I had some lawyer-y stuff to deal with regarding MM which set me off into another paranoid episode. I actually started to think that MM had hired private investigators and that they were probably watching my every move. I even went outside, fully expecting to see some dude sitting in a car with a long-lens camera to take pictures of me à la Kristen Stewart. Given the circumstances, it wasn’t entirely cuckoo for me to be a little concerned, but there was really no need for such paranoia.

And now….well, now I feel just hunky-dory. It is not normal to have so many mood swings in one day. It just isn’t. And don’t try to tell me that it’s normal because I’m going through a break-up. This is how I am all the fucking time! The worst thing about this is that it makes my sense of reality very precarious. Since my moods, sense of myself and other people change so fast, it is really, really hard for me to know what’s real.

When I first started to notice my mood swings, I knew something was up so I spent hours (hours!) googling bipolar disorder, hoping that this was what it was I had. Now, I don’t mean to diminish the suffering of anyone who actually does suffer from bipolar disorder but, well, let’s face it – bipolar is kinda “sexy” as far as mental health diagnoses are concerned. Think about all those famous people who were said to have bipolar disorder – Virginia Woolf, Stephen Fry, Kristin Hersh, Sinead O’Connor, possibly Sylvia Plath etc. All of these people are extremely creative and smart, and it’s often said that there’s a link between bipolar disorder and being a genius. Since I am clearly a genius, this diagnosis seemed to fit for me.

However, the information I found online about bipolar mood swings said that they come usually out of the blue. This is not the case for me at all. It is very clear to me that my moods are caused by some external event or trigger.

This led me to discover another psychiatric illness which is decidedly less than “sexy”- borderline personality disorder. Some of you might not know what this is, so this website will tell you everything you need to know, plus give you a list of “symptoms”. I could practically tick off every box in that list of symptoms. This did not make me happy because well, first of all, borderline personality disorder is a pretty sexist diagnosis. It is also a diagnosis which has a lot of stigma. Can you think of one single public figure who has ever admitted to having it? Who are the role models for people suffering with BPD? Let me tell you – nobody!

Basically, people (or, more likely, women) with BPD are seen as being crazy-ass bitches. The depiction of BPD women goes something like this:

I hate this potential diagnosis. I do have a psychiatrist who has diagnosed me with having a “mood disorder” which is marginally better.

The problem with having a “mood disorder” is that it’s pretty hard to take your illness seriously when 50% of the time you feel absolutely bloody fine. Right now I have no desire to contact or see RG. I can see clearly that he’s no good for me, and the idea of not having him in my life does not make me want to slit my wrists.

And speaking of slitting my wrists, sometimes I will seriously contemplate suicide, and I will be deeply depressed, but a couple of hour later I’ll be dancing around the house singing cheery songs.

I’m hoping that writing about all my dark moment in here will help me remember that I do still need to seek help although sometimes I feel fine. I’m thinking of going back to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings and – since there is just one weekly women-only meeting in this town – it might also be a good idea for me to attend Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, too.  If the truth be told, I don’t think I’m an alcoholic at all, but I don’t think it’s good for somebody with such intense mood swings and problems with impulsivity to drink. I don’t know if I should go to AA, though. I mean, I would be really sad to think that I will never again drink red wine, and while I am fine with having a prolonged break from alcohol, I have no intention of stopping completely.

Not only depressed…now depressed and scabby, too!


I’m not feeling very good tonight. I’m tired, and I’m depressed. My rent is due on the 1st and, as per usual, I have made nowhere near enough money. I should have worked this weekend, and fully intended to, but I only saw one client, and just couldn’t be bothered seeing anybody today. This would all be fine if I had actually purposefully chosen to take a day off, and had filled it with fun, relaxing activities, but instead Midwestern Man and I just wasted time, lying about in bed, walking with the dogs to get tacos and sangría, and then walking somewhere else later to get fries. This sounds like a nice, relaxing day, doesn’t it?, but this is all our relationship entails…walking pointlessly and randomly to get something to eat somewhere….and, oh, yeah, watching “Deadwood” on the sofa and drinking wine. The only reason I go along with such slacker-like aimlessness is because I never allow myself to have any “official” time off so my poor body and brain just malfunction and grab any rest they can at inappropriate times. It would be much better to take designated days off and schedule interesting, meaningful activities, but somehow I never manage to do that.

I’m also feeling pretty angry at Midwestern Man right now. Why the fuck can’t he ever organize something fun and interesting for us to do? He could say “Well, we always end up wasting time on Sundays, even though we say we’ve got stuff to do, so why don’t we take a nice day trip somewhere?” Anything! Anything! Anything just to break the fucking monotony of our relationship. I know I could try to organize something, too, but it would just be nice for him to surprise me occasionally.

My husband’s idea of fun is having sex on Sundays, talking, lolling about in bed for hours, and then having sex again. In the meantime, I’ll be starving because we won’t have had anything to eat all day and I’ll be dying of fucking boredom because I stay in my house every SINGLE fucking day, and the last thing I want to do on my days off is lie in bed.

I’ve had yet another pointless, aimless Sunday and my house is a fucking mess because I didn’t clean it, as I should have done. It’s the same thing every fucking Sunday. My house is never ready for the new week…dishes in the sink; the made unmade after sex; the washing not done; the pet bowls not cleaned etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc etc. The chaos of my house just mirrors the chaos of my brain.

The worst thing is my bed. MM sweated all over it during sex today, and now there are three animals lying on it asleep. “Bed” is not the word for it. It’s a collection of filth and dirt! But I don’t have the energy to get up and change the sheets. What’s the point in having clean sheets, anyway, if I haven’t hoovered the carpet, cleaned the litterbox, picked all the stuff off the floor and filed away all the papers strewn all over my desk?

If all this wasn’t bad enough, I have also picked so much at a spot on my face that there’s now a scab there. Luckily, the scab is directly across from my left eye, right next to my hair line, so my hair covers it. This is the first time I have ever picked so relentlessly at something which is technically on my face. Usually, I pick at places on my scalp. I know there’s a condition called “dermatillomania”, which is basically just the constant picking of scabs, and it would appear that I have a mild form of this. It has never got out of control, and you’d never be able to tell that I pick at stuff by just looking at me, as I usually just confine myself to my scalp. I’m lucky that I’ve never got a bad infection, as I will sometimes stick pins in the wound to get a particularly difficult piece of the scab off. Yes, I know, I’m gross.

It’s good that I don’t have a severe form of this condition but sometimes I think my main problem in life is that I have a wee bit of everything in a mild form. Right now, I have an irrational, intense hatred and disgust for MM, and I swing all the time between this and loving him. On my old blog, I wrote about how I think I have a mild version of Borderline Personality Disorder, and I’m pretty sure my mother does, too. There are so many aspects of my personality and behaviour, which could be explained by a Borderline Personality Diagnosis, but the symptoms in my case are relatively mild, so there’s not much incentive to seek help.

I don’t think that I’m an alcoholic, but I suspect that my terrible, despairing mood tonight is because I had a lot (for me) to drink this week: a couple of bottles of cider; a bottle of wine; a margarita and a sangría. If I drink for two nights in a row, I’ll feel the way I do now. Tomorrow morning, though, I’ll probably be back to normal mood-wise, so I’ll forget about how depressed alcohol makes me. Once again, there just isn’t the incentive to stop drinking completely or limit myself to a couple of drinks on a Saturday night.

It’s hard for me to change my behaviour because I don’t have one big thing fucking up my life in a huge, disastrous way. I know it’s crazy to say this, but I almost wish I was an out-and-out alcoholic, for example, and could hit rock bottom, so I would finally be able to say “OK, there is really something wrong with me. and I need help, or I can’t continue”.