Nowadays I dissociate more than ever before. The last year has been one dissociative leap. I just kind of stare off, bro. Feel like I don’t even exist. Or that the emptiness inside me is greater than I can fathom. 20,000 fathoms deep, I’m somewhere in there. Under all the empty dark space. What does that even mean?
I got to this point where every sentence I write, I’m starting to question. I hear people’s critiques. I hate people’s critiques. I want to highlight that word. Critique. It’s a fancy way of saying: destroy a brotha resolve. Eat him from the outside. Chip away at all his armor with a thousand small comments.
I might have to quit this program. I might make it. I might not. Last time I thought of dropping out, I had 10 years of regret pushing me. What pushes me now? Why do I write, even? What happened that made this that used to be mine, all mine, no longer even something I care about? Writing.
People with BPD have a shifting personality. Their values and goals often change with how they view themselves. Right now, this writer doesn’t view himself very well. Yesterday was fun. Now, today, well. I feel like death. I feel like dying. Not like, dying. But like. The drawn-out pain associated with dying. That’s what I am. Or feel?
In my inbox a thousand and one letters are piling. In my writing, I don’t even know where I am anymore. Or what I’m supposed to be. How can I please people when I can’t please myself? And I lay in my room, on my back, on my side, staring into nothing. For hours. Feeling the nothing within manifest as time eats away at my life span.
Dissociation, they call it. I read a lot of articles on BPD. I still don’t know if they’ve helped me. I’ve read at least two books on it. Sure, I have a lot more knowledge on the subject today than yester. But how much has it helped? Before, it was like my life was an unpredictable train wreck. Now, I know the bends of the track. But the train is going, going so fast. And I watch it happen. And I know it’s going to happen.
And I am in the train screaming as it happens. To no avail. The train won’t stop.
So I often wonder what that means. What I mean. Bruised up like a peach forgotten in the fridge. On one side it looks good. Turn it slowly in the light: mold.