Sometimes I watch romance movies or read romance novels. From super sweet young love to stuff you can only imagine in the bedroom.
I know they’re stories. The magnetic connections. The end of the world without that other half. I love those stories because while watching/reading them, I dare to believe that anything is possible for me. But the moment the story is over, I feel intense sadness. Emptiness. Loneliness. Because I remember that they’re stories. No one will ever feel magnetic with me. No one will go a single day or even a single hour without missing me.
I hate having borderline personality disorder. I hate that I feel everything so much more intensely than others. I hate that my moments of happiness make me feel like nothing can stop me. I hate when I come off of those moments and crash into the ground, wishing I could tear my heart from my chest.
Last week, on Facebook, a friend of mine posted about a friend of his that left a brief suicide note on Facebook and disappeared. People by the dozens were there, offering to help find her. She had locked her wallet, keys and phone in her car and just… left. Some people didn’t even know this woman. Yet they extended the offer to go out and help find her. They eventually found her. If I were to drive to a remote area, leave a brief goodbye on my Facebook, would anyone care? Would my BFF take the time to come find me? Or would I just be another post lost in the plethora of posts left by others? Would Doug care? Would he leave and come help find me? Would my sisters dismiss it and just call it a cry for attention? I don’t know. I can sit here, right now, shoving my negative thoughts aside and actually say… I don’t know. I think that if I just took off in my car without a word to anyone, it would take days before anyone noticed that I just left. I think it would start with my BFF reaching out to Doug and discovering I wasn’t with him. My BFF and Doug both don’t have any of my family’s contact information. I imagine Doug doesn’t even know the names of my family members. My BFF knows their names, but I still wrestle with the wondering if she would even take the time.
I want to disappear. I want this all to end. I ask myself constantly who would care if I were gone. All I see in my head is people simply saying, “Yeah, I knew her.” I have made no impact in anyone’s life. I’ve tried to be a good person. I’ve tried to give when I had nothing to give. I’ve tried giving when I had more than enough to give. But no one wants to give back to me. I rent a room from my BFF but I’m just extra income for her and her husband. I stayed with Doug all that time but I was a toy, an amusement for him. Someone to keep him company and bring a little something different to his every day life. I mean nothing to these people. Instead, I’m left to myself, alone, in my room every day now. No one sees the pain I’m in. All I really want from this existence is to feel like I have a purpose. To have something more than living to make money so I can continue to live. What kind of existence is that? It’s not. Maybe some people are okay with that but I’m not. I’m another body taking up space. I don’t provide anything worthwhile to society. I’ve no education. I’m not a prodigy. I can’t even keep a job longer than a year or two. I’m emotionally stunted. I’m textbook BPD. I can’t afford help and even if I could, it hasn’t ever helped me. I don’t mind being medicated, I just don’t want something that’s going to lock me up inside. Zoloft did that to me. I remember during the first few months on it, I felt everything I normally do but it was all locked inside. I felt like I absolutely could NOT release my emotions. So they just built up inside and I felt even more miserable than I did before. But on the outside, I appeared normal. Like everything was fine. No one could see my little tells because it was like I couldn’t even express them. I have no idea if that even makes sense. The best way I can describe it is like being tied up and forced to do something you didn’t want to do. I couldn’t even cry. I’d feel so sad and empty and I knew that if I were off the medication, I’d cry. But it’s like Zoloft told my tear ducts that they weren’t allowed to work. So, I didn’t cry.
I’m tired of putting on a happy or even just a neutral face for the world. It’s so much effort to convince people that I’m okay. That I’ll get through my troubles. I’ve been fighting this battle for 22 years. I’ve tried therapy and medication. I’ve tried indulging in the things that I thought would make me happy. I’ve tried breaking that mold and addressing my problems calmly and rationally instead of using my emotions. And yet, here I am. Progressively worse as the years go by. There’s no one to take care of me when I get old. I’ve no children. Not even a significant other to grow old with. I don’t want to lay the burden on my family.
I think that waiting 2 years was a way for me to play out the shit storm called Doug. I thought the answer to my problems would be love. But what’s the point? No one wants to love me. So, it’s time to stop bitching and complaining and whining about how fucked my life is. It’s time to do something. For once, I need to stop worrying about what others will think and do it for myself. I won’t be losing anything other than… myself. And that I’m absolutely okay with.