UNICORN sparkle *

I’m high. I’m low.

I’m fast. I’m slow.

I soar, then I’m grounded and stuck fast.

Free as a bird, until the cage door clinks shut.

Sociable butterfly meets reclusive hermit.

Introvert who can extrovert like the best of them on red letter occasions.

Sure, I’ll help support you….. wait, this is TOO much.

Hope evaporates. Storm clouds build.

Lost at sea, till I catch a glimpse of that paradise island. There I’ll stay, right?


Sunshine, showers. Snow, wind, and rain. Have had many more than just one mood tsnami or hurricane.

Rollercoaster shuts down for the night but I’m left upside down, suspended, blood rushing to my head. Getting cold and feeling heavy. Where are the fucking engineers, and how long must I stay hanging uncomfortably here?

I numb it out, then I begin to hate the numbness so make myself FEEL by any means possible.

The rescuers are here. I BLOODY LOVE YOU, for you make my life easier and what is life for, if it is not to make it easier?

(Except for the people that enter your life and proceed to make it FUCKING SHIT.)


I feel everything, or nothing.

I care fully, or entirely absently.

I appreciate you, or I can live without you, easy.

Flippant tosses of shiny copper coins, except I’m not the source of the flipping. Borderline Personality Disorder is.

BPD underlines everything, manipulates everything; manipulates me- more specifically contorting me into this crazy mess of utter confused contradictions and extremes I describe.

BPD is the three letter diagnostic label that draws all these contrasting coloured threads together. It weaves together the blackest black with the whitest white and the most intensely saturated and vivid colours of the rainbow ,creating a mess that people point and stare at.

People live vicariously through my extremes. Believe me, I’m extreme.

I’m not pastel in hue, I’m florescent and day glow and garish.

I’m effervescently alive, then I’m soon drowning again in suicidal fantasies and imagining blood and the energetic charge I call “pain” bleeding out all over.

Self-injury kills the bit of you that wants you to kill yourself, and shuts it up for a little bit.

I emotionally bleed. I witness the figurative pools of blood dried up and brown the morning after.

There’s no pill for dodgy emotionally driven mistakes that DON’T involve intercourse.

Then comes the mop up operation; like the whole post-party beer bottle napkin and half eaten canapes on greasy dish collection process.

It’s messy. I get to work tidying it up.

My memory. OUCH. The contents HURT. Cleaning that mess up pricks my fingers.

BANG goes the environmental trigger designed to send me into a backwards spin.

Like a toddler hellbent on exploring their environment with reckless abandon, my eye gaze falls onto yet another emotional spillage I made that makes the desperate clutches of kitchen roll soggy and heavy. So what if it’s 4-ply premium brand? My emotional spillages are MESSY. Even Waitrose kitchen roll won’t soak this up.

I’m everything, until I’m nothing.

I’m somebody, until once again I am nobody.

I’m hidden, then I’m brutally and painfully exposed. The self-consciousness alarm sounds loud enough to wake a small village……..

BBEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP sounds the PTSD siren. This thing that is happening now, is DANGEROUS. Be on guard!

Pupils dilate. Adrenaline and cortisol pumped. Blood pressure increases in the time taken to blink a solitary ‘I’ve seen too much in my lifetime’ weary eye.

I CAN’T SEE! I’m blind. I am fucking BLIND people, don’t you understand this?

I can’t see. I can’t move. I can’t speak. I’m immobilised. Emotion BLINDS me. It isn’t funny guys, untie this blindfold and let me SEE again.

My throat is hoarse. My eyelids droop. My head hurts and sways and wobbles without it even making any objective motion at all.

“It’s all in her head” taunts the bully in my head.

My head perceives lots of things, until the sensory processing factory closes down production.

White noise. Only quiet crackling to disturb the peace that the noise destroys.

I’m disoriented. The fog is THICK. But don’t fret, I’ll float up high in my bubbly mint aero balloon.

Dissociation will save me from myself.

I am cute little kittens and playful meerkats and a tiger with a huge empowered ROAR, and a nervous gazelle and a rainbow-striped zebra and a majestic galloping wild horse and a slow snail and a hiding turtle and a pricky hedgehog ALL IN ONE day glo PERSONALITY.

I am everything and alive, until I am n.o.t.h.i.n.g and I am imagining myself in an un-breathing state.

Is this all a dream?

I am thinking I want to die, wishing I could, while also relieved that back then (those three failed attempts, that I didn’t). I am scared of terminal illlness and what death will feel like and what will happen after I die to things like my soul, while also trying to treasure every moment of being here for my beautiful children.

I’m a Mum. I’m also a once-abused and neglected child.

I’m a Mum, and was once a trophy daughter.

I was once a sister and a neice and an auntie and a grandchild.

I am always my husband’s wife. We grew up together and will share our life together.

Except, despite the security of this loving partnership with my soulmate I’m just me.


With lots of people.

Feeling cared for, while also feeling unloved.

I am attached AND detached.

I am switched ON and switched OFF.

I am HURTING like mad, but also too tired to express it.

I am full on, AS WELL AS sometimes the most watery of ‘I like to blend in like wallpaper watercolours’.

I am a Turner painting AND a Jackson Pollock.

I am obsessed with flamingos and like how they stand perched with only one foot in the shit….. That is what I want to be, just one foot in the shit and one foot held at a jaunty “I AM SO TOTALLY IN CONTROL OF MY EMOTIONS” angle.

I will fish for validation, yet be unfulfilled and empty after the feast has ended.

Praise is nice, for 2 minutes, till the trace of it fades as if it were never there.

I love chinese more than indian. I love pizza more than pasta. I love a creamy risotto more than a salad of rabbit food rocket. Forget the salsa. I AM THE SALSA!

This is my journey of exploration into my personality and a hint of life with BPD/PTSD.

Are you confused and baffled???

So the actual fuck am I!