I wrote this down in my regular journal, and decided to share it here is well. I do a lot of free writing in my journal, so this is going to seem fragmented. Hopefully it makes sense. I'm not sure what prompted me to right it, but in a way it made a lot of things click for me.
BPD. Borderline Personality Disorder. The serious, debilitating disorder that has laid dormant in me possibly since birth, that was triggered after a childhood and early adolescence of abuse, neglect, and abandonment, and that I didn't truly start fighting back against until I was in my late twenties.
A disorder that has gripped me, controlled me, shaken me. Severe mental illness that has not only damaged me, but people around me. A disorder that is both difficult to deal with and treat. Fears of rejection and abandonment stem from the neglect and abandonment of my past, from my Dad. Angry outbursts, rage, threats. A profile of an angry teen, constantly being screamed at by her Mother. Fear that people hate me, are angry with me. A projection of myself. Of a girl who hates herself sometimes. Who still feels 15. Cutting, promiscuous sex, over-spending, trying to not have any down or alone time. An avoidance of having and emptiness, a hopeless feeling. Forever trying to distract. A fragmented girl. An intellectual adult, avoiding emotion, and an angry, resentful child. Both me, disassociation.
Dead. My BPD has wanted me dead and it still wants me dead. It fights me, knocks me down. It is stubborn and persistent. DBT. A lifeline. The object I use to strike back as I'm pinned down on the ground by this harrowing, resilient disorder. It's the soft mat that I fall on after I'm pushed off the cliff. My disorder maniacally laughing. My BPD hates me, it wants me dead. It's tried. It may have succeeded if I didn't act or fight back.
I wouldn't want someone else to kill me, so why would I let my own brain?