Growing old.

I seem them all over the place. Loving couples.

Its not the ones that are my age that burrow into my consciousness, its the older couples, the ones that have been together for 50years, still walking down the street hand in hand, their partner willing to do something like swap their fry up that they have waited all week for for your fish and chips because the portion size is far too big for you to eat.

The love and adoration in their eyes is not something that you can fake. They have lived their lives together and relish in the time that they are laughing in, that they are crying in, that they are just together in.

I would love that, love someone to spend my life with, to grow old with.

Its never going to happen, I decided a while ago that I would never inflict myself upon anyone else. Never allow anyone else to have to put up with me. Seriously, whats there to love anyway.

Is that all?

Numb. Thats it, I am just numb.

Where for art thou sleep?

An inability to sleep, known as insomnia.

I am suffering from this; I have taken the magic little tablet that is meant to knock me out, yet here I am, wide-awake.

Why does your body decide that it doesn’t need sleep?
Why does it torment you by leaving you feeling tired but not able to fall asleep?
Why is the medication not sending me to sleep?

A full family packed day awaits me and I can’t sleep, not even the sky looks inviting tonight, actually- nothing looking inviting.

I think the drugs are numbing me to the world. That would be fine; IF I WAS SLEEPING! The lack of sleep makes you do stupid things; well being me makes me do stupid things, but lack of sleep even more so.

I am numb to the world, to the Devils Path.

Long night.

Cancel trip to Ann Summers, pity, that would have been funny with Gran and Rhoda.

I'm not going to take my meds tonight otherwise I will never be able to get up for Dr.s.
Here starts the long battle through the night.

Will she make it?

Don't let the animal out.

I am typing here in hopes that my hands wont do anything stupid.

For instance my hands are aching to do damage to myself.
It seem that I can cope for so long without harming, then I explode and I have to do it. I cant cope if I don't do it, I can't stop thinking about it and I am so agitated, even on the medication!

I am doing the things I do to distract myself, I am trying to talk to people but I just cant admit to needing help from them so I just annoy them, I am researching things on the internet, I am reading complicated things to make my brain work and distract it from 'the thoughts'.

Its 20 to 3pm, thats not enough time. I cant cut and get stitches and be back in time for my parents and act as though nothing has happened. Perhaps I don't need the stitches.

Surly it isn't ok to want to be raped again.

To have the yearning, the desire for a man to do that to you again.

I opened up about it to one of the nurses in hospital, she said that though she wasn't qualified in that area she thought it was about control. To be able to control what happens instead of just laying there, instead of letting him do those things to me, I would have an element of control if its what I wanted. Even more so since I am a lesbian. The sense of control appears to be a strong driving force with me.

That does make sense to me but if it is about control why can't I just go out and sleep with a man. Thats control isn't it?

Then I think about the people I have hurt. Yes I HAVE hurt these people and it kills me to think that I have inflicted pain. I have upset people just by being me. Thats a typical BPD thing to say isn't it?
I am not a nice person so I need to hurt, need to feel some of the pain that I have caused others, need to get the bad out.

I cant even be my usual jokey self now. Perhaps they should readmit me with a DNR, Do Not Let Out, Don't Feed the Animal!

Seriously, my shoes!!

Sitting here at quarter to one in the morning, thinking and thinking and, you guessed it, thinking.

Not pleasant thoughts, quite disturbing thoughts actually. What to do, what to do?
I have listened to the voices and observed things about myself.
For instance, I want to cut so I have a shower and make myself clean, wash my hair and de- fluff myself. I make myself acceptable. I make sure that I am ok to cut and that I wont be seen as ugly or dirty if I get it seen to, I make sure that I can go for a few days letting the would heal before I need to shower again.
Oh, The Plans that I have.

I cant be alone in doing that, but then again, I must be. I am alone, always alone, ok, always ok.

I want to cut my chest. I want to cut from breast to breast. I want to get the bad out of there, stop the pain in there.

What does it matter? Its only me, I don't matter.

The voices are getting too much for me, they argue constantly, much like my parents. The voices argue about me, much like my parents.

Stop thinking, just do.

Obliviation, my shoes for obliviation.

Sweet Damnation.

I have, since I last updated, been in hospital.
Murray Royal Hospital to be exact. Yes you guessed it, it's the local nut house!

I had a choice in the matter though, I could go in voluntarily or she could get another Dr and I would be sectioned...

You see, I had admitted to my plans to do something potentially life threatening, suicide. Now that does not automatically mean death, it could be a very badly made plan leaving you feeling very ill and sorry for your self. But I have to admit, I was aiming for death, the sweet illusion of sleep. A sleep that is infinite and pure, a sleep that is undisturbed and restful. Death is a sweetness that brings this chimera to life.

Fall Alice fall, run Alice run.
Quick, catch that elusive white rabbit.

What is your white rabbit Alice, is it the white drugs they give you to knock you out. Or is it innocence and purity?

I was discharged as having a personality disorder, nothing new there, my personality has always been fucked up. Now I have a diagnonsense to put to it and medication to eliminate the extremes of my mood swings. Chlorpromazine. It knocks you out, but I think I am getting used to it as it does not seem to be having the same effect.

When I was in hospital my parents searched my room. They found things that they shouldn't have. They threw all my harming things out, blades, tablets, dressings even my blood soaked towel.
How must they have felt finding that. No matter, it will never be mentioned again, just a packet or razors left out on the counter to let me know that they know. How could they do that to me, how could they betray my trust and search my room?
I can't live here for much longer, I am getting worse living here.

Self destruction, thou art in thine grasp. Do not fear thy presence sweet despair, for unbeknown to thee, thy presence is known well to I.

I want to cut, deep enough to show the hurt inside, to get it out!
I want to cut to make me feel better, to stop the thoughts and voices in my head.
I need to cut to do this. I need to.

The Devils Path shall lead you where is shall wonder then straight into the damnation of Hell which we know as life and the life hereafter.