Self-esteem is a strange thing, especially for someone with as many mental disorders as I have. Borderline Personality Disorder causes a particularly large amount of trouble.
See, my BPD makes it so that I’m happy/content/relaxed at 11:24 PM, and suddenly depressed/frustrated/anxious at 11:27 PM. And this goes on repeat. Every five minutes, I suffer a massive shift in emotions and thoughts. I don’t know if you can imagine how much of a torment that is. Here’s a description of what has happened every night, with slight variations, for the last week:
I go to bed at around 7:30 PM and alternate between doing homework and wandering the internet aimlessly until around 2:00 AM because I can’t bring myself to shut the laptop down and face the darkness – both inside of me and outside of me. I can’t bring myself to face the loneliness, because I’m afraid of what I might do.
Because at 7:30 PM, I might be stressed out. But by 8:00 PM, I’m excited about writing, or a film, or whatever else. At 8:05, I’m suddenly depressed for no reason, and that sticks around til about 9:00 PM, when I feel at peace with the world. Then at 9:10 PM, I’m frustrated and wanting to punch a wall. At 9:14 PM, I’m calm again. Then at 9:20, I’m suicidal and want to etch words into my skin with the blade of the knife.
The times fluctuate, but the idea is the same. I swing from emotion to emotion within minute-long spans. Sometimes, there’s no more than two or three minutes between severe changes.
It makes a soul feel a little mad, you see. Like we are multiple people in one body, each vying for control… one character I know from TV prides himself on being emotionless. But sometimes, his human side – he has two sides, a human and an alien side; the human is the emotional, the alien is the emotionless – acts up, and he struggles for control, being yanked back and forth between two sides of himself.
See, that’s just one description of what it’s like. To fight with your own soul in an attempt to gain control over just one emotion. To stop being the object of a vicious tug-of-war game between multiple sides of yourself, refusing to allow you rest or peace – forever trapping you in a neverending cycle of emotion to emotion to emotion.
It’s enough to make a soul go mad…
What does this have to do with self-esteem? Well, not a lot – I did say this was rambling – except the fact that sometimes I’m happy with my appearance, but most of the time I hate it.
I hate my hair, how it’s impossible to maintain, and how it’s just a mess of tangles and frizz and split ends and uneven strands. I hate how I can’t style it very often because it’s such a mess; it’s at just the length where it’s too short to do the styles I’d like to do, and too long to do the other styles I’d like to do. I hate how I look like I just got out of bed all the time, even if I spent half the morning trying to get my hair to behave. I hate the colour sometimes too, ’cause it’s kind of plain. But many of the people I cosplay have similar coloured hair, so that’s one blessing.
I hate my (nonexistent) sense of style and fashion. I can’t for the life of me put together any combination of clothing and accessories beyond a t-shirt and jeans that makes me look half-decent. I end up looking like the Doctor after a regeneration, just throwing random clothes on, or – due to the nonstop state of my hair – a hobo who nicked whatever they could find off clotheslines.
I hate my build. Short and odd-shaped. Not much else more to say on that.
I hate feeling ugly, never being able to compare to other people, never being able to meet everyone’s standards of beauty, never able to hold a candle to most others’ appearances.
I hate my voice because it’s stuck in between deep and high, and constantly cracks, so I sound like a fourteen-year-old boy trying to get used to his newly deepened voice.
I hate that I have to periodically wear long sleeves, because if I don’t, the red marks and the peeling scabs on my arms, on my wrists, show up, and I have no way of explaining them beyond ‘cat fight’ to anyone who notices. I hate that I’m so weak, so pathetic, that I resort to slashing at my own arm with a knife. So ridiculous – dramatic? – that I scratch words like ‘USELESS’ and ‘WHORE’ and ‘WORTHLESS’ on my arm with a blade, because of guilt and whatever other emotions decide to rear their ugly heads.
I hate… I hate everything, really. I hate being myself, and I hate facing the judging stares of everyone who sees me for what I am. Hate, hate, hate, hate.
For someone who gets distraught at all the hatred in the world, I have an irrational problem – this being that I’m constantly in a state of self-hatred… despite my efforts to eliminate hate from the rest of the world.
I did say I was mad, you know. Mad, insane, kooky, barmy. Bloody crazy.
No one could be and feel like me and not be irrevocably messed-up and insane. Thank you, disorders, for making me feel like I belong in a mental institution.
Hell, I probably do.
I’m not dangerous. Usually. I’m just a screwed-up kid trying to find peace, trying to find happiness, and failing. And the more I realise ‘happiness’ and ‘peace’ are not possible for me, the further I fall.
I’m going to reach the bottom eventually. And I’m not sure I’ll have the strength or even the desire to try and climb back out again. I can only fall so many times before my brittle bones break.
Why am I posting this here again? I don’t think it’s even important, and I probably shouldn’t be whinging about my problems all over the bloody interweb.
Then again, this is my personal blog, and the one where I write all the stuff I can’t tell people to their face, or about all the topics other people in my life would think were immoral. So I think I’m entitled to say whatever the heck I want. Sorry, mates. If you don’t want to read it, you probably should go back to the beginning so you can stop…
I’d like to die. It may bring peace.
And now, twenty seconds later, my heart is seizing up because, for God’s sake, I don’t wanna die! I want to live, I just want happiness and peace, and is that too much to ask?
Please. Let me die. Just let me die and give me rest from the pain of the scars on my heart, on my arms.
Please, keep me safe. Don’t kill me. I want to wait; I just want to wait long enough to see the ones I love find happiness. See them get married, have kids, laugh and smile and live and love. I want to see them gain the happiness I didn’t have.
Death. Life. Death.