At the moment my BPD is going into full overdrive. It's 1 AM and I cannot sleep, so I decided to challenge myself by writing something useful. Of course, I couldn't help but to write about identity. I wrote the following: 

&gt;A sleek body with lengthy limbs, clear brown eyes and a skin complexion between white and a darker shade of sepia. That just about describes what I look like. But who am I? No, really. Who am I beneath this sinewy husk? 

&gt;When I look inwards at my own soul, I see something that resembles a haunted house. I can see ruins of what was once a better place, eroded away not by great turmoil, but by a slow process of unease, disappointment and sadness. And as I walk through this haunted house of ruins, I cannot help but feel the unease of uncanniness - what is here could have been a vestige of of achievement, affection and certainty. Unfortunately, it did not receive the necessary attention or love to truly blossom. I'm left with gloomy ruins that look like Grozny in 1995, Berlin in 1945 or Saigon in 1975. 

&gt; Still, I have to push on and explore every orifice of these ruins, because I want to know how I am. That means I'll have to keep going, making turns and twists trough sharp contours of anger and resentment. They are the kind of contours that tell small pieces of this puzzle. That puzzle has become me.

&gt; But I'm going to be honest. Something inside of me is keeping me from fully wandering through my soul. I'm afraid and full of doubt. But since I don't know who I am, how can I be so afraid? What's in here that's so awful and repulsive? Will it bring me closer to knowing who I am?





