When Your Brain is Your Worst Enemy

I hate my brainToday I had one of those BPD experiences where I freaked out because I thought someone was leaving my life. However, I actually handled it slightly better than usual, and fortunately what I feared – this time – wasn’t the case.

The problem is, we borderlines know what it’s like.  Too well.  Another friend. Gone.  Because they couldn’t handle us.  So, when we think we see it happening again…

AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHH, NO!  STOP.  Not again. Not this one.  Please.  Ugh.

After I finally found out what exactly was going on, I felt silly for the paranoia and conclusion jumping.  But, seeing as I still grieve the loss of certain people in my life who decided they no longer wanted to be there… I still feel the paranoia was justified, if unwarranted.

I suppose it’s also the realisation of how much I am attached to this person, as well.  BPD all over the place.  I just don’t know how to be friends without a deep attachment, akin to falling in love, but that sounds way too freaky – there needs to be some other name for it.  Attachment isn’t right.  Falling isn’t right.  I don’t know what is right.  It’s almost like an infection – like you get infected with another person.  Eeewww, that sounds terrible.  So, we haven’t hit upon the right term yet. I’ll think of it. In time.  I’ll probably write a song about it.

As I say, I dodged the bullet this time. And, I’m grateful.  But, today has reminded me how not right in the head I am. And, yeah, that sucks.

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Don’t fret? Apparently so.

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Here’s a picture of frustration for you, and a personal metaphor.

I’ve been considering my inability to play the guitar. In theory, this instrument should not evade me. I should be able to play it. It isn’t like it’s difficult, or a mystery. Except, I just can’t. Like being able (or, rather, not able) to cope and function in life, the guitar remains a source of failure.

It would be nice, helpful, perhaps profitable, if I could play such a portal and versatile instrument.

It would also be fantastic, helpful, etc., if I could make and answer phone calls and face social situations (i.e. going out my door), not either fall apart in or, alternatively, avoid stressful situations (stressful situations = life), not wish with every breath that it’s my last breath.

But, the guitar won’t let me play it…no matter how I’ve tried. And, life is just as contrary and hostile.

I can still make beautiful music, of course. Just as I still have moments of happiness, small victories while, ultimately, losing the war. But, the things out of my reach affect me greatly.

For the musically (or, humorously) challenged, the title of this post is a play on words… the guitar being a fretted instrument.  Don’t fret. Ha! Get it?

Why can’t I make the guitar and life sing for me? Well…it is what it is.

Not sure how to end this one. To stay with the music analogy, this post feels rather open ended and not resolving to the home chord…but, eh, I do that in songwriting all the time. So, yeah…life being as it is, I find it fitting to leave this…

Scattered Bits and Pieces

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I only write today to put down some of what I’m feeling.

Anger.

I suppose this anger has its root in resistance, in wishing things to be other than they are…wishing myself other than I am.

My frazzled, anxious state. I detest feeling this way, but this is the way it is.

Anger at my inability, my disability, dysfunction.

I slightly changed my voicemail message. A while back I recorded a message telling callers, basically, “I don’t make or answer phone calls; hang up and text.” I re-recorded the message today, using my improving accent.

I get a lot of automated calls, so no matter what the message says, it won’t make a difference to those.

Sometimes, I get a call from “private number”.  I wonder who’s on the other end of that line. But, while curious, I don’t spend too much time thinking about it; if they wanted to reach me, they’d text – or, as I said in my re-recorded message today, use a carrier pigeon or send a smoke signal.

I know I’m getting worse, and it makes me want to withdraw more. I dread any social encounter; my nerves are frayed.