When you suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder you become more susceptible to feelings of anger, sadness and other euphoric emotions. I personally become greatly enraged when a person speaks to me or somebody else in a specific way. If someone is spiteful or aggressive I immediately become enraged and angry. This emotion bubbles up and I can feel it in my stomach, hands and head. It is an anger so intense that when it breaks through my barrier of control I explode into a unforgiving and uncontrollable nightmare. I hear every word that comes out of my mouth but don’t acknowledge them until they become air-born. My attacks can become physical, especially if someone I love is under threat, but most of the time I cut people down enough emotionally to not warrant a physical input.

My parents appear to refuse to acknowledge me. My pain, suffering and my inability to function like a normal adult should. This gives way to a growing sense of abandonment and rejection. Two very important ingredients in my now destroyed sense of what it means to be part of a family. My whole life I have gone unnoticed. The middle child. The ‘creative’ one. Soon all of my family will have degrees, careers and a future so bright with opportunity and prospect. I am a dysfunctional drop-out. I am so far away from the nuclear outlook of my parents. They won’t accept my current state of being, and moreover won’t help me to break free of it. These emotional wells that I throw myself down every time somebody raises their voice become deeper and the walls become smoother. There are no cracks or grooves to help me climb out. “We still love you but..” is a phrase that littered my childhood. Cementing unsurity and my inability to form emotional ties with anyone new. My parents especially refuse to accept that they play a part in my emotional unravelling and also that their presence and effort is required during the long battle in rendering it back. They ignore my cuts, my anger, my eating, my pain. Shrug it off as me just being deliberately horrible. When in reality I am screaming out for help. They kick me away, beneath their own problems, leaving it to hopefully decompose by itself. My emotional connection to those around me stretches thinner day by day and I fear soon I won’t be able to create any sort of relationship. And those relationship’s I do have already, dissipate. As a result I have no other choice but to remove myself from my surrounding. So I attempt suicide; and I fail. I suffer a seizure and spend 4 days in hospital, only to wake up alone in a cold ward with nothing but sympathetic doctors and a DVD of “How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days” for company. After being spat out of immediate healthcare I am put on the waiting list for therapy. I go home and 2 days later nothing has changed. My parents are still loveless. I tried to kill myself in a bid to escape their benevolent excuse for parenting. And they still speak to me as if all I did was go on a 10 minute walk to clear my head. I hate my parents. I hate my brother. Each time I see or hear them speak to each other it makes me insides cringe with rage. A lot of people make empty statements about a parent or sibling but let me set one thing straight. My father could die tomorrow and I would close Hell’s trap door behind him.

The fact of the matter is, I cannot do this any more. My BPD is not real. My eating disorder doesn’t exist. My depression is laziness. And my anxiety is easily overcome. Death refuses to take me. So let him take everyone else.

This

I wish I had control. I wish I had my sister’s eating disorder. She is a recovering anorexic; given freedom now to eat what she chooses and even goes to the gym. As a result she is skinny, but she is also toned. The kind of girl you see in the pages of magazines. To see her slender arms reach out for a second helping makes my stomach churn with a malice I shouldn’t have. But, I do. She has learnt a complete control over her food. She’s in a place now where she can eat large bowls of ice cream and cheese toasties. Telling me of all the wondrous food she has tried, I laugh along, bursting with pride at my baby sister and the fight she is winning. Trying with all my might to forget that skeletal hand I let go of outside the hospital. The day we drove away, at 39kg, you could fold her up like a deckchair. Riding along beside however, almost parallel; she still finds ways to avoid meals, takes diet pills, exercise out those unwanted calories etc. This makes me so angry because she can’t see her body and how much I want to look like that. I cry a lot. It’s painful, pathetic and downright disgusting of me. No one should ever crave an illness such as Anorexia, it is soul destroying. Nevertheless, you have to have a soul in order to destroy it. Perhaps my reasoning is proof that I have truly lost myself. My own demons that I have fought and lost against so many times are finding new ways to obliterate my soul. I do have bulimia, and I am at constant war with my head and my body. Clutching at the folds of skin that appear to cascade over the top of my jeans. Bellowing derision at my frame and it’s disregard for my feelings. “Why won’t you shrink?” I cry out.  I tear at my flesh with blades, I wear my teeth away with stomach acid, I get blood shot eyes and skin, My hair falls out, I shake, I get acid reflux if I swallow water. All in the fight to be skinny. But no one notices. They notice Amelia. My poor, beautiful, delicate sister. I look normal. I know how much damage I do to myself. I know all the risks, the long-term effects on my health, still nothing works. I diet for months and become so strict but one night ruins it all.. Binge. Even the word sounds disgusting. Stuffing myself full with all I can get my scabby fingers on. Maybe this time I will fill that gaping hole. Maybe one day it will click and I will have discipline and order.

I wish I had her control. I wish I had my sister’s eating disorder.