I had a post ready for Friday, but something else happened and I decided to put it on hold to write this one instead. I’ll have that one ready for you guys for this Friday instead. Sorry for the delay, but I hope you like this one too- it’s a subject that I’m rather touchy about.
So, without further ado…. here goes nothing.
I think most of us can say we’ve had a friend or someone important to us pass away. I, too, have experienced this.
When I was eight years old, my father died. I’ve never really been told how he died (the story I was told I’ve been asked not to disclose, regardless), and it doesn’t matter for this story; only that at the time, he was one of the people in the centre of my world.
When I was eight years old, I had plenty of friends, had hobbies that I was interested in, and was looking forward to a bright future. And despite the irregularities of my life, I could say I was as happy as an oblivious eight year old could be.
But anyone who has experienced a traumatic death knows that death changes us. Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the death that changed the course of my life completely.
Like myself, my father was a very creative person. He was a brilliant artist (I’m sad to admit that I may only still possess one of the drawings he did for me, which is a dragon he drew on my elementary school calculator. I have it somewhere…), so I could easily say that my father was the source of my creativity. In the event that my father lived, I could probably say I wouldn’t quite be where I am now. I may have pursued art instead of writing, because even to this day, I still love drawing. It’s just been that ever since he passed, I can’t pick up a pencil and see where I need to place the strokes before seeing his icy stare looking at me. He sees the drawing before I do, and that scares me. It’s kept me from drawing my entire life.
His death, or so I believe, killed half of my artistic potential. I still draw, but only when there’s a light to overcome that fear growing inside me. It doesn’t happen often.
It’s been almost ten years now. I remember the exact moment I changed, when the cold seeped inside of me and the darkness took over. And since then, that’s been what’s in control.
I lost all of my friends by the end of grade 5, and I’ve never sought to make any since. I’ve had friends, don’t get me wrong, but none that I’ve looked to make or keep. I have never felt the desire to be close to someone in such a way. Why would I, anyway? My mind keeps me enough company. In my garden I grow stories, after all. Regardless, the seed of depression had been planted deep inside me, and no matter how hard I fought- or thought I was fighting- I would succumb sooner, rather than later.
Throughout grade 6 to 12 I avoided school like my life depended on it. I stayed home and wallowed in my sorrows; which, compared to now, were small and insignificant. In my absence I discovered that the key to intelligence wasn’t by learning from others, but instead, by learning from myself. The core component of my existence has always been hatred. It might sound rather insane (re: it IS insane), but I feel as if I exist to hate. I hate myself, I hate the world, I hate everything… but unlike most people who claim as such, I hate everything enough to work and change everything. Unfortunately that’s a bit irreverent for now. The key to this is hating myself; it’s not something that’s going to stop, simply because it’s long ingrained into who I am.
Now that you have a bit of backstory, it’s time to get to what this post is actually about.
I don’t think I’ve ever had a true friend; someone I could talk to whenever without question, someone who would comfort me because they wanted to do it- not because they felt obligated to. Someone who wanted to hang out just because they liked me, and what we were capable of doing together. Someone who I could do that for in return. But it never happened. Even if I truly wanted it to happen, it never could.
Unlike what a lot of people think, I believe I have more than simple depression. I’m not just sad and anxious, I know now that it’s much more. I’ve been asked if I’m bipolar too many times to count, but I’m going to have to disappoint those that thing that, because I don’t think it’s true. Instead I’m thinking that I have Borderline Personality Disorder, a mental illness similar to bipolar, but not as severe on some scales.
The characteristics of BPD are as follows:
– Intense emotions; be it negative ones or positive ones. (Check)
– Frequently overwhelmed by negative emotions in such a way that they are blown out of proportion. (Check)
– Inability to regulate or control intense emotions, often resulting in shutting down emotionally. (Check)
– Thoughts/actions of suicide/self-harm. (Check)
– Increased sensitivity to other’s actions, especially when involving oneself. (Check)
– Inability to maintain and upkeep relationships, no matter their importance. (Check)
I could go on for a while, there are lots of defining features that I fall right in line for, but one I would like to outline for this post are the last two listed. These two specifically involve relationships/other people in a negative way, and I feel this is important to understand for the core of my post. I’m unable to steady my emotions in a constructive way; I can go from loving someone to hating them in a matter of seconds, over something entirely insignificant. This is the most important, in my eyes, because in the last two years, I’ve begun to learn from other people (rather than just myself), and thus, building relationships is somewhat important. But unless someone has been willing to deal with all of the shit I deal with (ridiculous moodswings), they end before they even begin.
Last year I came the closest to having a real friend as I’ve ever been in my entire life. I found someone who, without a doubt, had the potential to be that real friend. Just, at the time, I didn’t know it. I pushed them away, just like everyone else in my life. I went from loving them to hating them, to missing them to hoping they’d disappear forever on a regular basis. Despite that, we became friends anyway. They wanted to be my friend, no matter how hard I tried not to let it happen. It was meant to be, and now that it’s too late, I know better.
That friend died today.
What else is there to say? I opened my heart to the first friend I ever thought I would make, and they were taken away. And I don’t think I’ll ever be able to turn back from the way being close to someone like that felt. I want it again, but I don’t want to step away from what I almost had. It was within reach, but torn away. My heart is shattered, but in a way, also repaired. I want a friend. I want to be able to hold onto someone important to me. But I don’t know how.
I need help before I make things worse for myself; I have too many problems to deal with on my own anymore. What do I do? Where do I go? I was supposed to have been referred to a psychologist to help me deal with my BPD, but I haven’t heard anything back from anyone and I don’t know if or when I’m supposed to.
Something needs to be done before I do something stupid.
Please, help me.