The Fleas Take The Circus By Storm

So, there are a few relevant matters on my mind today…

One, – and probably the one that is causing me the most problems with my sanity – In 2011, as Occupy San Francisco was bracing for another raid, I took the valuable belongings of myself, and the person who was sharing my tent with me, and had them stored in a safe house where we could retrieve them later. After this happened the person who was supposed to be caring for said belongings vanished. I have made several earnest attempts at making contact with said individual, and have had no success.  Now, the other person who was in my tent with me is blaming me for the theft of his belongings and is making threats towards me, my partner and thus endangering my son. If murder was legal he’d be on the top of my list for that offense alone. Now my partner is stressed because this little boy’s refusal to accept that things turned out crappy is coming to haunt him, instead of just raining down on me. There is nothing I hate more than a child – touting a veteran status – throwing insults and temper tantrums like a little brat instead of the grown man one would assume the military service would make of a person. He does our military a sorry impression.

Two. We got to our apartment only to find that by some means or another, we have fleas. I will be taking myself, and my son back to Sisters until the place can be bug bombed. This is a huge stressor on both myself and my dear partner and for me, it might just be my undoing… all of this petty stress is adding up and there is so much distance in the air here…

Three. I have to have photo ID to get on the lease here, and that was part of what I lost with the man who fathered my son. I pretty much lost everything to that sorry excuse for a man…

Now here I am in Sisters, again, waiting for something to happen and praying I am not here too long. I miss my partner, and our son misses daddy something fierce.

Moving Away

So today was my first day back in Eugene and I managed to overcome a pretty crippling depressive bout and get out of the house to be somewhat productive. I made breakfast for my partner, and fed our little son (who is 21 days old today!) and then got ready for my day. I laid with my partner for a bit, then I went out and garnered some in-store credit at a Baby Clothing consignment store. Most of my baby clothes, they wouldn’t take, so it really did not amount to much. I went to DairyMart and got us some Mac N Cheese, Mashed Potatoes, and Gatorade for lunch. So good for you, I know… but iss food. Today I am really struggling, however I hardly show it externally. I have danced between extremes of being utterly blissfull to terrified and even suicidal. I just exist through the lows and let myself have them. I am sure now that I need to get myself on a better treatment plan.

Another point that really bothers me is that I have been experiencing an onslaught of physical problems as well. Last night, while I lay with my partner (yes, in THAT fashion) my body locked up and I almost lost lucidity. It has been 4 years since the activity was the cause, but a year ago I locked up one night and ended up very sick, very quickly. I am really bothered that it happened again and I am really hoping that it is just a “Little Less Action” type thing instead of an “Impending Psycho-Physical Breakdown” type thing.

Lastly, I pulled my first solo night shift with my son last night. He refused to sleep, at all, and I stayed up with him. It was a great night, we did so much bonding. I fell asleep at one point, my shirt off because I overheat way too quickly, and awoke to the sneaky little boy latched to my breast – taking his fill of his mother’s milk. Usually this would be something a mother would be celebrating on her blog, but for me it means shirts at bedtime because soon I will be on medications that will hurt him if he manages to nurse again.

In the end, all is well. I have survived another day – and even been fairly productive. Tomorrow is another day and perhaps my emotional stability is going to be better, and maybe I won’t be manic and depressed while being totally happy and fulfilled at the same time. There is a big world out there, and it is waiting for me. Here’s to surviving again.

Being Borderline

So, I am going to introduce myself as Crumpet for the sake of anonymity. I am a well weathered Borderline Personality Disorder patient. I am starting this Blog to give some Solidarity to people like me, and maybe help those looking at a Borderline from the outside start to understand a little bit of what is happening inside them. This is unlike any disorder you will ever encounter. It is Manic Depression, Anti-social Disorder, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and full blown Psychosis all thrown into a bag together and left in the drier on a heat setting two levels too high for us. This blog will be posted on PsychForums.com and on WordPress, both under my Username – LittlePlagueRat.

 

As we are, Borderlines don’t want to hurt the people we loved, however that often ends up being the case. We go from idolizing you, to demonizing you almost instantly and usually without warning. We need attachment but fear the commitment being made to anyone because our minds tell us that you will abandon us if we let you get too close. We don’t take negative emotional queues very well either. Something small might cause us a manic depression that lasts anywhere from a few minutes of crying and hurting to days of suicidal ideation and self-injury. For some we do not even remember it happening. We feel empty, a lot… and we will usually do anything to fill that void for just a little while, if we can. This can mean short-term relationships, casual sex, drinking, spending money we don’t have, just about any impulse we have, we will probably try to follow. This is who we are, and what will follow – is my story.

 

I was born in a snowstorm, and into a world that barely had room for me, and much less so was ready for me. My parents were young, and they loved me dearly, but all great parents have their flaws. I was almost 2 years old when my first sibling, a brother, made his way into the world, followed by 2 more little brothers, then at age 6, a little Sister. These were the “good years” to the best of my memory. We were lively children with a big world made ready at our hands. We loved being around people and we loved each other even more, despite having our parents leave us for drug addiction and our grandparents doing their best to give us a good life.  For my brothers and sister this was just how life was, and that was okay, for me however, this was painful and lonely.  It was around age 8 that I started acting out in different ways. I would use the vacuum to make hickeys on my arms that looked like bruises, I would chase kids around at recess, bite teachers, call names and even run away from school down the creek. One time, in the 4th grade, I turned a menagerie of classroom pets – including snakes, rodents and spiders – loose while the teacher was outside at recess.  All of this met the same need – someone paid attention when I did it. As I got older, my impulses became more destructive. I would throw things, get in fights, curse and yell with everything I had. Even when my parents made an attempt at getting our lives back together, the pain remained and there was left a dark, and deeply scarred little girl with absolutely no means of expressing the pressure building inside of her.

 

By 12 I was a regular problem-child. I told stories, acted out at church, cried loudly, and made public displays of my inner torment at every opportunity and was often just scolded and left to break down over the lack of emotional support even further. I couldn’t keep a conversation with my mother from ending on a verbally violent note. I had sharp words and a deep seeded resentment of her to fuel every biting phrase I spoke to her.  At 13, I left with my father to Kentucky, thinking I would never look back; and for a while things were okay again. I was a happy kid, with a great church, a good relationship starting to build between my dad and I, and a lot less anxiety. It seemed the recovery process had finally begun – though I still insisted on being different from the others at school, by dressing in dark clothing and heavy dark make up that usually depicted the turmoil still growing inside of me. When kids would start to make fun of me, I would simply go along with it – almost finding pleasure in demeaning myself to their excitement.

Christmas came and 2 of my little brothers decided they were moving in with us. This is where the story hits another black wall. With my brothers living with us, I felt unwanted and abandoned by my dad, who spent more of his time doting over his boys, than nursing the few open wounds left in his daughter. Those wounds never got touched and began to fester and become infected as they were before, and then worse. I began to slice my arms with razors and see how long I could bleed before they healed, and how deep I could make myself go. It gave me a relief to feel my body letting out some pressure.  I hid the scars at home, but hardly cared who saw them when I was at school – they’d just find more reason to laugh at me. Then I tried it – suicide. I got access to my dad’s melatonin and ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet – which to this point no one thought much of me getting into – and took a handful of both and we left for church. It was my intention to curl up in the back of the sanctuary and die. I ended up sleeping it off in the car and going home high as a kite.

                With one failed suicide attempt, my cuts began to get deeper and I took up smoking. Originally to impress a young lady who wanted a “tough” girl to love her. I made myself look the toughest I could, with cigarettes and a hard exterior. It worked for the time being, and we danced for a little while, until I lost balance and ended up hurting her fairly badly. I began to fight with my dad in loud, and sometime physical ways. He began trying to pin me down when I would get angry, and that would spur a fight. I still never saw a therapist – until that became the only option.

I began therapy with a sharp hatred for the woman sitting across the desk from me. I played friendly but she was just there to take my dad’s money, and to treat me like she even cared. Soon I was seeing two therapists and neither could figure out why I was so pleasant and enjoyable with them – sane even – but dark and aggressive everywhere else.  Finally after several months of this, I snapped, and ended up at the local mental hospital. I lied very well, showing off the skills had gleaned from my years of not being allowed the pain that was so real for me, and soon after I was released without ever having been given the care I desperately needed.

It wasn’t long after that, that my dad took me to the courthouse and had me given a “Beyond the Control of A Parent or Guardian” status… he was giving up on me. I took that as the final abandonment and let my anger show through in horrific ways. We fought regularly and I would often try to hurt him physically. It wasn’t important that I could get in trouble for it – I wasn’t worth much to him anyways. I took a much older man as my partner and wasn’t surprised when he raped me, repeatedly. I didn’t call it rape, he would take me to his house, pin me to the floor and take what he wanted from me. I never fought him, never said no. I never said yes either. Soon enough it was consensual. I said yes, and gave him everything I had, because it felt better than when I was feeling before. It didn’t matter that I would go home and cry myself to sleep afterwards. I began giving myself to him multiple times a day when we spent time together, and then he gave me to his friends as well. These men loved the young, and fresh body they had before them, and I loved the affection. At least that’s what I took it as. I didn’t ever stop to think about the later consequences and soon, there I was, in Juvenile Hall for Terroristic Threatening in the Third Degree.

My stay in Detention was actually one of my better times. I ate well, the Psych would see me whenever I needed to talk. People cared about me there, and they were really interested in my wellbeing and recovery. It is a sad reality when jail time is what it takes for a 15 year old to be given the care she needs. After a month, my mother came from Oregon and fought for me in court and the judge sent me away. That very night my mother and I fought. I still hated her for what she had done, and for what she hadn’t. At the airport the next day I told my father that I never wanted to see him again, for any reason, and that he was as good as dead to me.

                Once in Oregon I still continued to spiral out of control. I found another sexual partner who ended up being the head of a Trafficking ring, selling girls just like me, and younger, and some older, to strangers. It was almost a year before I was rescued and taken home. I started seeing a therapist and taking care of myself after that. I still got into explosive fights, and I still cut myself regularly, but I didn’t take sexual partners, and I generally stuck to my close friends Eerie and Emily. We stayed together much of the time, not really caring to be apart – ever. They healed a lot of the deeply infected wounds left in my heart. I still didn’t have a diagnosis for why I was like this, and why, at 17, I was having my first successful intrapersonal relationship. Another year would pass, and the three of us would be in different parts of the country, living new lives.

                I went to Eugene first, and succeeded mostly at that point, getting myself a place that I paid rent for and beginning to look for work. Until I lost my mind again and took off on a mad impulse to San Francisco. It was here, in the fall of 2011 that I began to find the better side of healing that I so needed. I took to the Occupy movement with a fierceness I had never seen in myself before and I began to feel good about myself and what I was doing. I fell in and out of short relationships, but maintained no sexual encounters. I fought with the Police and then shamed their chief Greg Suhr publicly, multiple times. I also started seeing a Psychiatrist who gave me my first ever diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder with Asperger’s Complex. Finally something I could DO something about. It was here that I began looking for ways to manage my disorder, and methods that I read about and gave an honest effort at – worked. I began to feel so much better.

                After 5 months of hardcore activism, across the whole country, I came home to Oregon in February of 2012. By April, however, I was back in The Bay giving my best fight to them once more, including fighting for Roy Kaylor in Santa Cruz. This was a short venture unfortunately, and I found myself home again. And sick, again. I began a sexual relationship that was both good for me, and potentially dangerous. It ended softly, after I ran off to Chicago for the NATO protests and this good-hearted National Guard guy realized that I would never stop being an activist. It was, and is in my blood.

                In July, I ended up in a really impulsive sexual relationship with someone I had known in San Francisco. And before I could stop the impulse from taking me over – I was in the Bay Area and pregnant. I ended up on a bus back home, and he came later behind me.  It was in January that he went to jail and we figured out who he really was. I left him, and took up the banner of a single mother-to-be.  I started getting myself back together – on Saint John’s Wort for my mood and impulses (which worked for the time) and into getting myself a place and a job back in Eugene so I could better provide for my soon coming son. From there things seemed okay, they almost seemed better.

                Finally just last month; as I was anticipating my Son’s birth, the man he will now call Father arrived out of nowhere in our lives and offered to take both of us on. At first I warned him about the woman he was pursuing. I told him that I regularly destroy men, and women; and that if he were sane – he would stay away from me. He refused to, giving me the hard-but-steady hand I had been needing for such a long time. He was present at our Son’s birth and has dedicated himself to my recovery, and to our Son’s wellbeing – including not allowing his mother to lose her mind. That, has actually proven quite the task. After giving birth all of my worst symptoms have returned and I am usually not allowed to be alone much at all. I am healing, and soon I will be seeing a Psychiatrist again to be re-diagnosed and given medication to level some of this out.  Today is day 18 as a Mother, it is also my original due date. Look forward to more posts, I intend on writing them.