It's a very long story involving my husband's sister and her wedding (this past October). That in itself is worthy of its own blog, so I'll keep that one in storage for now. Problem was that this storm was coming. I saw it. I fretted about it. I told my husband I was fretting. But being the typical British stick his head in the sand and pretend it will blow over style, he didn't do much until it was too late.
Well the fuse was lit just before the Cyprus wedding (which we ended up not attending even though I was the only bridesmaid and he was to give away his sister). And then the apocalypse exploded this past Sunday, after the UK reception. Anyway, I lost it. Big style. On Facebook. I said some pretty nasty things. None of it was untrue, but I literally through ALL the dirty laundry out there to be seen by everyone who stumbled across it. Including all of his sister/brother-in-laws friends and family that I was "friends" with in the evil entity that is Facebook.
Let me back up one little step first. My husband and I got into it because I found out he was still friends on FB with the shit stirrer that was the spark for much of this discourse. He didn't see the problem (even though he knew what was going on with her & what pain she was causing me) and I flew into a rage. Started screaming and threw a dining chair. I continued to destroy said chair until it was kindling. Childish, but my rage had boiled over and better than the chair than him or myself. I sat in my garden seething as I tried to get my rage under control. I finally calmed a bit. And decided to go straight to the source of what was causing this.
I tried contacting said sister/brother in law via text since neither of them had been willing to meet with us in person in months. I aired my issues via text (somewhat harshly) with little response other than denials and lies. I became more agitated and my texts became beyond harsh. Then they stopped responding at all. And that's when I opened up Facebook.
Not sure why I thought that was a good idea. Clearly I wasn't thinking at all at that point. I was simply in a feral fight or flight frenzy. And I was done running and hiding. Things only got worse when I decided to start drinking. Made one more "dirty laundry" Facebook post about how all the lovely photos of my husband and I in Cyprus was a farce. How I was just trying to keep up the happy happy illusion. I then closed it down. I retreated into my dark world.
My dark BPD world of self hatred. I discovered my kitchen knives are in serious need of sharpening when I couldn't even make a mark on my arm when dragged across it. So went out to my art studio and got out my trusty box cutter. My left arm was first. Dragged the blade across dozens of times. Felt good. Went outside to sit in darkness and drink my beer and smoke my cigarette. Could feel my sleeve getting wetter by the second. Went inside to look. My entire arm was smeared and dripping red. It was beautiful. I needed more. Right arm. Little drops rising to the top of my epidermis, growing then trickling down in bright red trails. I couldn't wait. Left thigh, right thigh. Bliss.
Most of the night is actually a blur of reality and my manic frenzy. But I remember the blood.
The next morning, feeling horrible, not about anything I had done, just generally, I opened up Facebook. I had dozens of friends & family from the US sending me love and concern. Dozens more private messages and several missed calls. And one lovely UK "friend" calling me a cunt.
The last time I had been really ill was nearly 9 years ago. I found happiness back home when I accepted who I am, that I have an illness, let go of shame and guilt, and became honest with who I was. Some people didn't understand and quickly walked away. Some didn't understand, but chose to get to know me a bit anyway so I gave them the same chance. Some applauded my courage. I essentially "came out". It was liberating. I swore I would never put myself back in the closet. But I did. When I moved to the UK.
I was timid about how people would respond to my illness, so I kept it tucked away. I started testing the waters here and there with the people I had gotten to know. It seemed the stereotypical British concept of not talking about things that make you uncomfortable was alive and well. So I retreated. I lost more and more of myself with each passing day. Before I even realised it, there was hardly anything left I recognised. I had pulled all my old masks out, dusted them off, and became who people wanted me to be in those moments. I disappeared.
Well let me just say, a good old fashion let the world know how crazy you are on Facebook will weed out the vipers. So I got to house cleaning. I wasn't sure if wanted to see tomorrow, but I sure as hell knew all the ignorant intolerants had to go if I had a chance. Gays are allowed to be openly gay if they choose to be. So why couldn't I be openly mentally ill? Well we still have a long way to go on that one. Stigma and ignorance unfortunately still are the norm. I deleted and blocked at least 50 people. Probably more. Almost exclusively from everyone I met in the UK.
While I'm still unsure about tomorrow, I know I did the right thing. A few people questioned my actions. A few people still think I'm just "a little depressed" and I just need to "be happy". Like I chose this or something? Some people like to be miserable for misery's sake. Some of those people might need help but have never sought it. Some people do just need a little pep talk. Some people do get a little depressed from time to time. I'm not any of those people. I have a serious terminal illness. I can work on it. I can use tools to help myself. I can find a better place. But my reality is, this doesn't just go away and magically get healed.
I'm still here today, writing this. It's been a week. I made it a week. I'm still in shock. I'm reclusive. I'm scared. I'm tired. But I'm here. For now. Hoping for a reason for tomorrow. A reason to find the energy to put another piece of my shattered self back in place.
