Thoughts. Musings. Electrical Synapses.

Borderline Personality Disorder, Self Harm and everything in between.

July 7, 2015.

Today I’ve been fantasizing about my own funeral.

What would it look like?
Who would be there?
How would they feel and could I sense it?

I can’t help but wonder, and they’re not morbid thoughts as some would say. When you’re mentally and physically ill, they’re almost everyday questions.




I don’t like his perfumed shirt I keep next to my bed, but my body trembles when I look at him.

I try, but can’t  find depth in him, yet I drown when I fall in his gaze. He’s insecure, so am I.

I’m afraid of how he might react when he gets to my core. He’s used to uncomplicated, plain women and I’m anything but.

The truth is, I’m not sure if I want him in my life or not.


I wish I could hide, I can’t deal with people today.


Lately I’ve been trying to not self sabotage. I wonder where that impulse comes from, I don’t want to fuck things up.


Trying to reconnect after forgiving and being rejected feels like getting stabbed in the heart twice.

Lack of Object Constancy

I’ve never been interested in reading the book from where this comes from: “Stop Walking on Eggshells”. The title has always repelled me because I find it creates more stigma for those of us with BPD, as if we were ticking time bombs.

Putting all that aside, I can relate to this excerpt from it. I usually keep and carry around pictures or other objects. Sometimes people and events don’t feel real if I don’t have “evidence” with me. The irony of this disease: you feel too much or nothing at all, you need to keep in check your emotions or provoke them.




Wounds ooze beneath the rusted shackles on my ankles. The chains are weak, but so am I. I stare blankly at my feet as wolves surround me, and my mind’s so heavy it can’t fly.



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