So why don’t you slide

Earlier, S asked if I fancied a takeaway – curry from our favourite restaurant – and I agreed. Later he went out with a friend to buy some tools. They’re working on the basement beneath our flat, as technically that’s included in the rent. It’s currently filled with the last owner’s belongings; stacks and stacks of paintings, canvas, frames, lamps, chairs, books… Bob was a hoarder, and a painter. His work’s pretty good actually. Now he’s dead and his wife is in a nursing home (she went downhill very rapidly when he died), somebody has to clear it all. The basement is pretty big, taking up most of the floor space of the house, so it’s a mammoth task.

Anyway, while they were out I got a call from S. He asked me if I wanted to go to the restaurant with his mates instead of getting a takeaway.

Did I do the right thing when I said, “it’s okay, I’m not up to it. You can go along anyway”?

I wasn’t lying. I’m truly not up to it. I tried going for a short walk earlier, and by the time I returned, I was struggling to breathe and sweating like crazy. It’s been so long since I’ve had ‘proper’ exercise. That walk used to take me five minutes. Today, it took thirty.

Straight away S’s tone changed; the first time I’ve ever really heard it do so. He said, “oh. Okay. But we were going to have a takeaway.”

I shrugged him off, “it’s fine, I’m really, really not up to it. We can do it another time”.

He agreed, but… he didn’t sound happy. It’s only when I ended the call that I began to feel that familiar twinge of panic.

Image

Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god you fucking idiot oh god oh god.

I have never once done something (to my knowledge, anyway) to make S angry or disappointed. Unlike my relationship with O, I’ve managed to keep my irrational emotions in check; at least until I’m alone. I’m so determined not to fuck this up. I know it’s classic BPD to say, “oh, I love him so much, he’s my everything, I want to be with him forever” but all that’s got me in the past is a string of disastrous relationships and far too much bitterness. I almost have my head around that now, and the medication certainly helps me keep the more extreme aspects of my behavior in check. So while I know that these feeling might be BPD tricking me and that mental illness has a habit of making me cling to somebody like fuck… I want to believe this is real. I’m pretty sure I know, deep down, I love S with all my heart; how could I not? He’s the only man who has never condescended me. Who has never given me reason to suspect him of wrongdoing. The only man who I’ve felt comfortable enough with to let the mask slip.

I know I love him.

And now I’m scared.

scared-woman

So what did I do? I went straight for the Tramadol.

I’m now sitting at the kitchen table, trying and failing to calm myself with a joint. The urge to crawl into bed and hide under the duvet is overwhelming.

Lighthouses

Lighthouses, they don’t bring you to me,
my torch burned out and lights always fade,
I’ve told this story, I’ve walked this line,
this path of betrayal which we both made.

My touch, does it mean little to you now?
I stand on the sidelines, too afraid to speak.
Always the one who stood in the background,
you’re seeing strangers, but do you ever see me?

A new world, one I can’t bear,
cast out to sea with no strength to swim,
not waving, not drowning, just watching the lighthouses,
throwing their lights on everywhere we’ve been.

Beacons, they never clear your path,
and too many obstacles for me to remove,
a tiny flame long since snuffed out,
the control of strangers with their arms around you.

I draw maps, but they just lead you astray,
who’d ever think you’d be the one who would leave?
So strong, so solid, a thing of perfection,
something of envy, at least that’s what I believed.

Lighthouses, they can’t ever bring you home,
sex destroys everything and love always lies,
strangers surround you and I crash with the waves,
you’ll never come to me first; I’ll never shine.

(c)

Love Story

Faith
was a myth I never quite
believed.

Trust
was a lie, a few
empty words.

Love
was a story I wrote
for you,
and you took it away
so easily.

I turn the pages
but you changed the ending.

(c)

When I met O, I had such hopes and dreams for us; just as I had for every other past relationship. He was to be my saviour, a knight on shining armor to rescue me from every mistake I ever made and every man who ever made me feel worthless. At the time I believed that nobody – not a single other person in the whole world – felt as much for somebody as I did for O. I adored him. Clung to him like a limpet. Demanded his attention 24/7; at the time, I honestly believed I was doing the right thing. I thought he appreciated knowing just how special he was to me.

And for a long time, we wrote a love story together. O was just as attentive and clingy; demanding to know who was texting me or why I’d not answered my phone. We were perfectly destructive for each other, but the constant friction created a passion which kept us coming back to each other, time and time again. 

Then it all changed. He broke free of the bonds we’d created and walked his own path. I thought I had the ending all worked out, but he added his own epilogue. 

Unspoken

Sitting together and so far apart,
a thousand words unsaid and truths unspoken,
I never felt more alone, more out of place,
as I do tonight,
sitting by your side.

.
A bottle in my hand and a cigarette in yours,
I open my mouth but no words will form,
it all seems so trivial when I feel this broken,
when you’re sitting so close to me,
yet not here at all.

(c)

Writing about 2008 is more difficult than I ever imagined. On one hand, I almost feel uncomfortable writing about my past relationships now that I’ve been with S for eighteen months; I know he probably wouldn’t mind, but it must be weird for him to know I’m writing about my exes. On the other hand, it’s only now that I can see just how low I sunk; I knew I was falling apart but what I didn’t realise is that I’d totally cracked long before it got to this point. I can see that now. It’s difficult to think about. I acted in ways I’m not proud of and damaged my body god knows how much with handfuls of amitriptyline, tramadol, diazepam, co-codamol, small antidepressant overdoses to get me through the night in a dazed drug-fuelled stupor instead of having to deal with the reality of everything in my life going incredibly wrong. 

O and I… we stopped speaking one day. Conversation turned to bitter arguments and shouting matches. Slammed doors and a smashed laptop. Midnight chases down the street; it was always me doing the running. I just couldn’t face any of it. 

I remember sitting on his swivel office chair, gulping from a bottle of cheap peach schnapps and watching him smoke cigarette after cigarette, sitting on his bed and brooding. He threw me out that night. 

Of course, we got back together. We did a lot of getting back together. 

Out Of My Life

I saw J on Friday afternoon. Spotted his distinctive bright green velvet jacket out of the corner of my eye whilst chatting to my hairdresser. First impressions were that he looked sick; sick as in manic, and clearly off his medication again. I watched him waving his arms around while he rocked back and forth on his heels and talked to a man I’d never met before, his head freshly shaved under his wide-brimmed black hat. I remember that hat; it’s the one he bought and wore when he was starting to get psychotic. You see, J always wore hats, and very rarely took them off; even indoors. I assumed it was a security thing.

I felt a little sad. J put me through a lot, but I did sort of hope that after the last time he was in hospital – he’s been sectioned six or seven times – he’d finally take some sort of control, or at least his family would step in for once and make sure he took the medication, or at least stayed away from the conspiracy-theorists and criminals he spent the majority of his time with. I’m still unconvinced by the bipolar diagnosis – J fits perfectly into the definition of a true narcissist – but it’s nothing to do with me now. Did I somehow think that my attempts at helping would change almost twenty years of psychotic episodes and violent outbursts? I suppose I hoped it would, but clearly it made no difference at all.

 

A few years ago, we were both in the same place, mentally. He was running around inventing grand schemes to make millions, and I was lying on the sofa, a joint in one hand and a bottle of morphine in the other. He was snorting experimental party drugs and screaming at me if I spoke too loud or accidentally knocked something over. I was hiding in the house, terrified to go outside. He left for days on end, with no clue as to where he was going, leaving me with no gas, electricity, and – sometimes – no door key. I slept in his car rather than have to be in the same bed as him, because he didn’t wash for weeks on end, not even brush his teeth. Once we moved into the house his parents bought, I believed things would change. I stopped the morphine and forced myself to get help from my GP. When J was sectioned after shaving all his hair off and taking a Bible into a pub – shouting about Islam and the EDL – I promised to help him. I tried. I failed.

I watched him, with his scruffy beard and the brown cord trousers he wore every day, and wondered why our lives took such dramatic turns on the day I left him. J is forty two now, and still stands in the street with his odd mannerisms, wearing poorly-matched charity shop clothes and, obviously, still not washing. He’s still in the cycle of taking medication then, when he feels it isn’t working anymore, refusing all medical help and ending up right back where he started.

Despite everything I feel about our time together, I do feel sorry for him. He never had the support of a family who were involved with his psychosis. They just pretended it didn’t happen, and never visited him in hospital; preferring to go on holiday to Venice instead. He has nobody to make sure he takes the medication or at least has somewhere safe to be when he loses it. His ‘friends’ are all ex-cons, patients from the various mental hospitals, or religious and conspiracy fanatics. He has never been given responsibility – his parents willingly throwing money at his wild schemes and places to live – and I don’t think anyone has ever suggested therapy.

Sadly… J just wasn’t a nice person. His bipolar or whatever had nothing to do with that. Mental illness or no, he’d still have been a dick. Which is why I stayed in that seat, surrounded by the smell of peroxide, and eventually looked away. He’s not part of my life anymore. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he ever entered my mind.

 

 

Very Inspiring Blogger Award

I’m not immune to writer’s block. Usually when I don’t write as often, it’s because something’s going wrong; I’m in a depressive episode or incredibly stressed. I’m too tired or sore to sit with the laptop on my legs. Rarely do I avoid it because I can’t think what to write, because since puberty I’ve wanted to tell stories and finally having a way to express all those trapped words is wonderful.

Still. I just haven’t had the inspiration lately. So for Shermeekaflies from The Possible World to nominate me for the Very Inspiring Blogger Award amused me; I haven’t felt at all inspiring or inspired for a week or so. It also touched me, because despite my reservations on awards being little more than chain-mail, I always appreciate being nominated. I never thought this blog would be read, let alone have almost 100,000 views and more than 2,000 subscribers. Seriously, if I think about it too long, my mind retreats into a nice, safe place where I never put myself out for the public to judge. So huge thankyous, Shermeekaflies!

As usual, the rules are pretty simple;

  1. Thank the blogger who nominated you.
  2. Share seven things about yourself
  3. Nominate other bloggers you think deserve the award, and post on their blog to let them know they’ve been nominated. Actually, I changed the rules a little; originally it asks for 12-15 nominations, but I always think that’s unfair on those who don’t have many blogs they follow or who are just starting out. So nominate anybody. If you can’t think of a blog, nominate a site you believe is inspiring.

1.  I met my first boyfriend in high school, and initially didn’t find him at all attractive or interesting. We had a shared love of The X-Files and my best friend’s older brother was his best friend, but because he was a couple of years above me, we only really saw each other in the library and at parties and I certainly never saw him as relationship material. I still wonder why I agreed to go out with him; I did really like him but can’t help thinking that I was just reaching out for some sort of affection. Anorexia was still lurking, and I was at the height of bulimia and self-harm when he first kissed me on a bed at a house party when I was fourteen. The kiss was memorable, but only because it was far from the romantic experience I imagined; his tongue seemed to fill my whole mouth and neither of us really knew what we were doing. I couldn’t stop shaking; each time he touched me I’d break out into noticeable spasms, my arms and legs shuddering like crazy until he let go.

After three months of talking on the bridge in the park, sitting on swings and eating chicken and sweetcorn pizza together, he left me. He came to my house, and I freaked out; I can’t even remember what caused it. I was paranoid and edgy, backing him into a corner and screaming uncontrollably in his face. I’d been jealous of his friend Carol. I invented scenarios where he was sleeping with her. Each time he went to her house to study for his GCSE’s, I’d break out into a cold sweat and convince myself he was leaving me.

I threw a chair at his head and left a hole in my bedroom wall. We didn’t speak again for over a decade. He’s married now. His wife shares my first name.

2. Songs almost guaranteed to make me cry include Vincent by Don McLean, Out To Get You by James, Why Not Smile by R.E.M, Exit Music (For A Film) by Radiohead, The Pills Won’t Help You Now by The Chemical Brothers, Johnny Cash’s cover of Hurt, Bulimic Beats by Catatonia, and Asleep by The Smiths.

3. Since taking antidepressants, I’ve rarely cried; not even at the songs above. I’ve always been a very outwardly emotional person and in the past it’s been hard to control the waterworks. I cried at everything. Now it’s difficult to squeeze the tears out even if I want to. It’s not a listed side-effect but I can only pin the change down to the chemicals in the pills filtering the urge out of my brain. Take it from me; the ability to cry whenever you need to is a blessing, not a curse. I miss the outlet.

4. The idea of reaching the age of twenty seven never used to occur to me. By puberty I’d decided I wasn’t going to live to eighteen. I didn’t really have a reason for it other than morbid hormonal obsession with my own death and mortality, and once the eating disorders and suicidal behaviour kicked in, I accepted that I’d never become an adult.

Now, I’ve been an adult for nine years, despite all the hospitalizations and suicide attempts, and I’m still unwilling to let my childhood go. I was never supposed to make it this far. I wasn’t prepared for it.

5. My favourite poem is I Am, by John Clare:

6. I don’t know how many people I’ve slept with. It’s in double figures, but I can’t begin to guess.

7. One of my favourite artists is Paul Kidby. I’m a huge Discworld fan:

Nominations:

I’ve chosen the above bloggers simply because, as the title suggests, I find them inspiring. Either through their honesty or ability to tell their stories in a beautiful, powerful way.

Love.

For all that has happened in my life, I have always hung on to the idea of love. Perhaps not the feeling – I’ve cradled a lot of bitterness over the years – but I’ve never allowed myself to give up on romantic love existing somewhere. I’ve watched couple after couple break up, seen the horrible ways some of my generation treat each other, and had my heart broken constantly since I was fourteen by boys who cheat and men who use cruel words and fists to express their opinions. I’ve stumbled from relationship to relationship, trailing grief and bad decisions like a cross across my back, determined to find somebody who understands me despite my ability to ruin everything no matter what I try.

I’ve been jealous and angry. Although I can never forgive O for cheating on me – and getting her pregnant when we were still sleeping together, while I was still wearing the engagement ring – I know I caused a lot of the grief between us. I’ve never been brilliant at coping in relationships, and I jumped in far too early, determined to cling to something safe. Thing is, I never chose the safe options, and it was easy to let everything snowball once I decided I was always going to be somebody who chose the damaged ones because I was so damaged myself.

Then S came along. And now I’m sitting here, hours after starting this post, finding it impossible to put into words just how happy he makes me. I can’t possibly describe how wonderfully the weekend went, or how happy I am that – despite everything else – I have somebody like him.

I wanted to write about love, and how it’s shaped me. But I’ll just leave it here:

S is the best thing to ever happen to me, and he’s the reason why I want to get better. Not for him, but because I know harming myself in any way is something I just can’t put him through, and in his own gentle way, he’s taught me that life doesn’t have to be about rolling from one failure to another. I now know that how I feel extends beyond myself, and I can’t go around messing up other’s lives just because something is wrong in my head and needs fixing.

I love him. I adore him. If I ever lost him, I don’t know what I’d do.

 

I hope you’re feeling happy now, I see you feel no pain at all.

We drank vodka and orange juice, beer, cider and rum and coke. Played Boggle online, keeping a tally of scores. Sat in the garden – both rain and shine – and smoked while getting sunburned one day and sheltering from the torrent by squeezing into the spider-infested shed the next. Ate pizza, kebabs, garlic mushrooms, toast, a roast dinner, chocolate mousse, biscuits and pack upon pack of Wotsits. We sat by the lake and stuffed our faces with chips, watching a swan paddling away near a stack of beer barrels and an old paddle-boat which is long past its prime but still takes tourists out on the lake in the summer; rust and all.

We lay in bed for hours. Napped when we felt like it, and stayed up late. Ventured out to buy large mochas and sat for hours, watching the world go by. Bought blackcurrant beer and German ale, and laughed at the weird and wonderful passing our little spot in the street. Had mind-blowing, sweaty sex, over and over. Watched Trailer Park Boys on YouTube and ordered takeaways so we wouldn’t have to go shopping. Played 8-ball with a couple of friends and smoked a not-so-sneaky joint outside the pub. Got drunk and stoned and laughed at nothing, for days on end.

Now, it’s Wednesday morning – almost 5am – and I’m sitting on my bed, wide-awake, cannabis smoke floating in the air and through the detritus which covers my bedroom. I don’t know what happened; a miniature hurricane, I can only assume. Pill packets and incense sticks are cluttering up my desk, along with bottles of nail varnish remover, jewellery holders, and empty tobacco packets. The coffee I made is strong and bitter, with grounds still floating on top, and my mouth is dry from all the smoke. I haven’t slept, and I have a doctor’s appointment at 9:30.

After such an amazing, hedonistic weekend… I should be happy. I am, really. I’m just… eh. Angry, I suppose.

I’ve occasionally mentioned having tendonitis. Acute Achilles tendonitis, to be exact. I’ve had it for over a year. There was no real obvious cause; the sole of my foot started aching every time I moved and, in a worryingly short space of time, I lost the ability to flex my foot up or down. I stuck it out for months, deciding it was yet another frustrating part of fibromyalgia, until the pain became so unbearable – like knives being driven into the back of my ankle – and I woke up one morning unable to hold any weight on my left foot. It was just dead; tingling and unresponsive with sharp ribbons of pain snaking over the whole of my lower leg. Naturally, I was a bit concerned and, considering I couldn’t walk and felt a weird combination of numbness and excruciating pain – along with balloon-like swelling of my foot and ankle – I went to A&E.

Long story short, I was given some painkillers and told to go home and rest. I wasn’t even seen by a doctor. I cried, but it got me nowhere. After going to my GP to complain that nothing was done to help the obvious damage, I was referred to a podiatrist/physiotherapist. He manipulated my foot, gave me insoles to force the tendon into place, and covered my ankle in ice until it burned. Whatever he did, the swelling refused to go down and so he referred me onto the biomechanics clinic to see a rheumatologist who specialises in movement.

Of course, they wrote to me and informed me that my appointment was to be moved to September.

That’s not why I’m angry. I’m angry because, after over a year, I’m still in pain. It’s yet another ridiculous sensation to deal with, and I’m sick of being pushed from pillar to post when nothing really seems to achieve anything. I’ve had an ultrasound scan, but still – over a month later – don’t know the results.

For the past four days, I’ve been unable to walk without standing on tip-toe on my left foot, because the tendon is so damn tight I can’t move it without pain. Tooth-gritting, wincing, tears-in-the-eyes pain. S has been his usual amazing self – fetching cups of coffee for me and helping me get over the back door step – but now that I’ve come back to my mother’s after an extended weekend (from Thursday to last night; S took some time off work) I’m quickly sinking into the old frustrations and regrets about not pushing harder for treatment. I’m such a mouse sometimes. I don’t want to tell anybody what to do.

That has to change today. Originally, I was seeing my doctor for a swollen finger; hardly the medical drama of the century, but a very painful inconvenience, and I figured I could get the whole blood pressure/side-effects/general emotional well-being stuff out of the way for another month or so. However, the red skin and suspicious ridged nail will have to take a backseat, because I’m determined to get something done about this damn foot today.

If I have to cry, I think I will. I rarely cry in front of doctors – I already feel inferior to them – but quite honestly… I just want this pain to stop. I have enough to deal with already, and I just need some respite. Some time to enjoy the effects of Lyrica – which doesn’t work on tendon pain or swelling – and try to start living my life again. Instead, this fucking tendon has taken over my life.

Over the weekend, the photograph of myself I posted has been weighing on my mind. Did I do the right thing? Am I utterly off my head to think that putting a photograph on such a personal blog is a good idea? More than once, I’ve thought about removing it; just deleting the post and forgetting it ever happened. However, doing that would also mean I’d lose all the comments which, although hard to read without wanting to run away, really made me feel secure, and my cold old heart was pretty damn warmed by knowing there are people reading this who don’t think I’m disgusting.

Also… nothing is ever lost on the internet. It’s there forever now.

So I just need to suck it up and accept that my anonymity was ruined a while ago, and it’s not like I’m a celebrity. The chance of somebody I know finding this blog on their own is still lower than low, and if they did find it… well, maybe they shouldn’t be so nosy. Perhaps they’d learn something.

I should really write a list for my GP. Each time I see him, I forget something vital. I only refuse to do it because my mother insists I write a bullet-point list – typed and printed – for every appointment; a bit of teenage rebellion which I never quite grew out of. This time… I haven’t slept. I haven’t drunk nearly enough coffee, and the weed is stronger than usual. Great for pain; not so great for thinking clearly.

If I throw myself on the floor and have a tantrum, do you think it’d achieve anything? I feel like it’s about time to direct my anger elsewhere than at myself.

 

Support

I wasn’t sure what I expected from blogging about my life.  When I began copying entries from my old diary online, I didn’t really know what I was hoping to achieve; in my introduction I wrote how this blog is personal therapy, but back when I started over a year ago… I wasn’t even sure if I’d delete the few posts and forget about the whole thing. I’ve never spoken about my other blog; one I started writing a few years ago. It’s just a collection of my poetry, and I never plan to pass the link on to anybody.

The thing I really didn’t expect was to develop a support network. I’ve always wondered exactly what “support network” means; I read about it in books about getting over depression and eating disorder recovery, but the idea seemed pretty unrealistic to me. Never having had many friends, I’ve always relied on the mental health system and my family to support me. The system let me down, and my family did their best but didn’t understand what I needed. The only support group I ever went to was a total disaster; I disliked everyone there. They were loud and unstable and I had nothing in common with anybody.

However, one thing which has emerged from my writing is a support network of sorts. Reading through the comments on my last post, I realise that I finally have something I’ve needed for a long time; people willing to back me up, trying to advise me on which way to turn, or just saying they’re there for me. Just being involved in some way, with no reason to be other than they want to.

Some may say that relationships online can never be as meaningful as relationships in real life. In many ways I’d agree with that; all my life I’ve needed to be able to see a person to know what they’re thinking, and because trust is such a huge issue I find communicating without seeing the other person quite nerve-wracking; I can never quite trust somebody without looking them in the eye.

After reading those comments, I know I’ve done the right thing by writing about my life. Thank you.

 

But the story is over.

Worry of any sort inevitably leaves me with the total inability to sleep, unless I take codeine. Since I’m trying not to rely on it, stress means sleepless nights now, and last night was no different to the usual rigmarole. I sat up in bed all night, watching films and trying to read; all while wondering if today would bring hideous, horrible, devastating news.

By 9am, I was fast asleep, finally worn down by the hours of staring at two different screens and leaning against pillows too soft for my neck to feel supported. I did try to stay awake, but by the time I crawled under the topsheet I’d decided that I wasn’t going to miss out on vital sleep just because somebody’s decided to make my life difficult.

And made my life difficult, they have.

The fraud officer was quite nice; but I’m a cynical cow at heart and I wasn’t sure if she was just trying to get me to confess to some terrible crime. You see, someone had reported me. Not only that, but they reported me for the most ridiculous reason; they contacted the benefits office and told them I had a job.

As you can imagine, this is pointless stress I really don’t need.

Quite why somebody would make up something so ridiculous is beyond me. Out of every option they had to ruin my life, they chose the one thing I could prove without a doubt; that I am unemployed and, apart from a few short stints attempting voluntary work, have never had a job. Not a single one. Nowt. Zilch. How stupid are they?

To prove my innocence, I have to supply the DWP with bank statements. For the past god knows how many years. It’s a nightmare; my mother is stressed out beyond belief with the thought of having to deal with it all (since my benefits go into her bank) and she’s spent the entire day ripping the house apart and freaking out. I doubt she’ll sleep tonight. See, this is why it’s all so cruel; fair enough to have a problem with me, but don’t take it out on my mother, for the love of God. She’s ill. She can’t take it. She’s a bloody pensioner; she doesn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of my battles.

I just wish I know what those battles were, because as far as I can tell I’ve never given any reason for someone to suspect I’m working whilst claiming benefits. It has to be vindictive, and that hurts. I’ve been outspoken in the past, but never cruel. If I ever have truly hurt someone, it was always when I was scared, and they knew that. As horrible as some of my exes are, I don’t suspect any of them – it’s just not their style, and they’re the only people I’ve hurt that I’m aware of.

Z messaged me on Facebook after the appointment was over – with a promise to provide bank statements – and asked if I wanted to go to the market to buy some body jewellery. I was tired and somewhat frazzled by the news someone hates me enough to piss on my parade, and usually in that situation I’d cry off, faking some sort of illness, and distract myself with computer games and food. Today though, I decided fuck it; I’ve given up too much of my life because other people have tried to push me back.

We got a lift off her friend, and spent a while browsing plugs and labret bars for his soon-to-be-pierced lip. I bought a cherry blossom plug in 14mm, and some Directions hair colour in a dark pink; I had my fringe and the hair underneath bleached and dyed bright pink last week, but the colour refused to grab and it’s mostly copper. A nice colour, but not what I wanted, so Z is going to attempt to fix it for me on Friday.

Back at her house, I chatted to Z’s boyfriend, Steve, while she pierced her friend. I suppose it probably looks weird typing that; I can assure you we’re not using frozen sausages and earrings. Z and I met on a piercing forum and we’re both quite obsessive about doing things right; the combination of BPD and bipolar works quite well in that respect.

I saw O today. We both have a friend in common, so it was bound to happen eventually. I saw him walking towards me and said “well, this is awkward”. He sat down and said hello. I asked how the kids were, and he said “fine”. I sat and smoked a joint and wondered quite why I’d chosen that particular time to visit. Our friend said, “yeah, sorry. I didn’t think. Are you two on good terms now?”.

I looked at O. Are we? Were we, rather, since we haven’t spoken for over a year?

“Yeah. Well, I hope so”, O replied.

I looked at him for what felt like a little too long. He’s the one who stopped speaking to me, after all. And for the second time today I decided to say “fuck it”, and agreed.

O can’t hurt me now. I realise that. So what harm would chatting over a friend’s dining-room table do?  Once, I loved O more than life itself, but it was an unhealthy love. It was bourne of fear, jealousy and BPD-obsession. As we chatted about his new house and his son helping him wash the car, I didn’t feel a single twinge of pain for the past. Once, I believed that I would physically tear apart if O left. Now… I have S. I have a boyfriend who – for the first time – makes me feel safe and valued. My love for S eclipses anything I’ve ever felt before. I adore him.

Something in me suspects that O and I will never be friends again. Maybe we’ll bump into each other now and then, but the story’s over.

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad. It was a part of my life which didn’t have S in it, and I’ve come to realise that a life without S means nothing to me. In a way, I suppose I’m grateful to O for him hurting me. If he hadn’t, I’d never have met someone so wonderful.