I have a very dramatic mind. I have a very good way of writing reality like a story and convincing those around me to see my story.

In my story, my BPD is a dark curse which makes my emotions manifest and lash out.

Here’s the scene:

I’m overwhelmed. My senses are dark. Words and sounds swirl around me like a taunting wind. My sight is blurred with panic. My hands tremble. My heart beats way too fast. Stop the noise, stop the talking, it needs to stop, I’m so cold, I’m drowning. The sound won’t stop. It’s killing me.

Then, I yell at the source of the noise. My voice is a knife which cuts the darkness. All is quiet. I had yelled, and it hurt  the person I was with. They didn’t deserve that. All is clear now. I took the darkness that was sinking me under, and I balled it up and threw it at someone undeserving of it.

Guilt floods my heart. All is quiet and clear. I have such cursed anger.

I stutter out “I’m...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.” The pain of what I’m done seems to shove my head down, folding me in on myself with grief. Utter pain. I’m so sorry. Shame and guilt shame and guilt shame and guilt. They taunt me.

The person I yelled at always forgives me. I wonder vaguely when they will decide I’m a lost cause. They would be right not to tolerate me. I’m cursed. I’m bad. I’m the only bad person in the world. I hate myself so much.

Perhaps I should allow the darkness to eat me next time. Perhaps I should stop fighting and let the pain kill me. This demon, this curse, it can’t be a part of me. It has to be separate. I don’t want to be it. I want the demon to die. If I want the demon to die and it’s me...? Well, then, I wish I could go to sleep and not wake up.

And that’s the story I tell. I make myself the helpless victim that is somehow undeserving of safety. It’s better that the monster torments me then me being the monster, right?

I’m trying to retell the story, and fight the monster, but I don’t feel like I deserve to fight. I’m the bad guy.

I hate this so much.