I am grateful to have this holiday. I am also simultaneously missing home and the people I have back at home quite a lot. Holidays fulfil my wanderlust desires. But they also make me appreciate what I have the other 51 weeks of the year, and I pine for them like a child who can’t understand where their favourite toy could possibly have disappeared to. It’s a psychological thing (as are most things). It’s a BPD thing. It’s an identity confusion thing. If I don’t have the constancy of a consistent location to moor myself at, I begin to lose a sense of who the hell I am.
I read a very informative article on BPD and identity earlier that a friend posted on Facebook. I will need to read it again to understand it fully. It was complicated, because life on the borderline is complicated. So there is no simple way to explain the fucker….
It’s like holding a slippery wet fish in your hand or an eel or lobster whoch is thrashing and sliding about and somehow you’re expected to grasp tight hold of the thing and not let it slip out of your wet fingers whilst simultaneously trying to use words in a particular order to explain what the fuck a lobster is to someone who has never seen a lobster!
It’s that hard to explain BPD.
Before I left for this holiday I was sick of life and living and people in general. I wrote in this blog how I was going through a difficult-to-manage phase of pretty much hating humans (on a universal level, not specific humans).
I thought I’d enjoy the temporary retreat from humanity and not want to go back because home is where the humans are. But I am finding myself getting towards the mindset of activity wanting and dreaming to go back. I’m not fully there yet. I can’t say I want to go back right this very second, but my thoughts more and more are turning towards home and what home represents to me.
Yesterday I had a down day with much reminiscing over suicidality and past suicide attempts and how I felt I was being drawn to the darkness no matter how many times I put on my big girl pants and attempted to soar like a super heroine eagle to the distant light.
Today I’m back in the light and the shadows are far enough away to be a comfortable distance away from me. That is fortunate, but still I remain unanchored and floaty and dissociated and very much living out my childhood traumas in my adult brain.
My thoughts switch to Manchester often, and I am not looking forward to flying back in that exact direction at the weekend. I believe going from Manchester airport has to be the single crapest decision my husband ever made. I protested at the time but I probably should have put my foot down even more than I did as I find myself in at scenario where it is very difficult to forget my past.
Manchester does that to me. You will understand why if you read my letter to Cheshire post.
Home keeps me safe and the people at home keep me safer.
I am with the husband. My human safe house. I am with my children. I am their safe house. I have my friends on messenger and Facebook and I even emailed my psychologist twice. She won’t reply. It’s her boundary. But it doesn’t stop my writing and hoping there is the possibility she will take pity on me while I’m in a foreign country feeling shit and alone.
She is my therapeutic safe house. But she is in the North-East and I am not.
I want the familiarity of the therapy room and the space to express myself expansively. I want to be me. I am buttoned up on holiday trying desperately hard to keep my emotions within. I am on a mission to be “mother most normal”. I am here to be “perfect wifey who this time doesn’t ruin holidays due to chronic mental health ishoos”. It’s demanding work.
At home I can come undone. Here I must keep it together.
Two unexpected messages have come in today that I want to dicuss with my therapist. I can’t. I think I’ll explode. So instead I’ll drink coffee.(The finest- French Nescafe).
Humans make me nervous. Danger is everywhere. Threat is in front, behind, and sideways both ways.
I am surrounded, not only by French countryside, but various different fragmented versions of myself. I’m an actress in a play and I don’t have the stage directions but still I have the audience waiting on be entertained.
Let me have my duvet and my blanket and my home comforts. Let me hide. Let me be reminded I’m cared for.
I want to count on you. But I feel I don’t deserve you. I don’t deserve anything good. I am bad. Can’t you see that? Why do you view my good and not notice the bad.
Love me, even though I’m bad
And let me settle in back home.
I’m scared to be here because there is no escaping myself.
I don’t want to act this role.
I want to be looked after.
No more please.
I need to hide out back home.
Here is the BPD identity article. I relate to this a lot while also not fully understanding it. How complicated am I! 💛💛💛