Hack into dietary sustenance.

This 1 is particularly hard to begin, so to prepare my heart I’m bingeing on un-sauced noodles, & granola bars, Wheat Thins, Diet Dr. Pepper, an over-(maybe under-)abundance of PBR, & nicotine oil. As I sit down to tell myself & the internet some bullshit about me, the alarm – which I have set to banish my presently-absent but constantly-loving roommate from my private space & time – goes off.

I have borderline personality disorder. Or, emotional dysregulation disorder, if you prefer. But more on that momentarily.

Here’s a haiku I wrote today:

I’m a psychotic,
Nightmarish, episodic,
Aphrodisiac.

Followed by a definition:

According to the DSM, Fourth Edition, Text Revision (DSM-IV-TR), to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, a person must show an enduring pattern of behavior that includes at least five of the following symptoms:
Extreme reactions—including panic, depression, rage, or frantic actions—to abandonment, whether real or perceived
A pattern of intense and stormy relationships with family, friends, and loved ones, often veering from extreme closeness and love (idealization) to extreme dislike or anger (devaluation)
Distorted and unstable self-image or sense of self, which can result in sudden changes in feelings, opinions, values, or plans and goals for the future (such as school or career choices)
Impulsive and often dangerous behaviors, such as spending sprees, unsafe sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, and binge eating
Recurring suicidal behaviors or threats or self-harming behavior, such as cutting
Intense and highly changeable moods, with each episode lasting from a few hours to a few days
Chronic feelings of emptiness and/or boredom
Inappropriate, intense anger or problems controlling anger
Having stress-related paranoid thoughts or severe dissociative symptoms, such as feeling cut off from oneself, observing oneself from outside the body, or losing touch with reality.

I got diagnosed a little over 6 weeks ago. It was thrilling – it was like being told, “We have a name for your crises, & we will slowly but surely talk you out of having them all the time.” I immediately read the Wikipedia on BPD, & learned that most therapists give the diagnosis after a series of escalating questions. Questions like, “This is a symptom, & then these are 5 other symptoms that go w/ it, does that sound right?” & then patients typically accept the diagnosis willingly, which is also symptomatic of having BPD, like, “Oh totally, that makes sense, we can ascribe that initialism to this series of manias I have. Now what?”

I have been describing it to people in my own terms ever since. Yes, I fit the criteria according to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual for Mental Disorders: I panic or get depressed if I think I am being abandoned; I have stormy relationships w/ my family & no long-term friends; I am impulsive, I spend too much, I abuse too many substances, I drive recklessly, & I binge; I have manic episodes of joy & of misery; I have outrageous anger; & sometimes I have out-of-body experiences. But, when I am trying to tell someone about my BPD for the 1st time, face-to-face, I tell them the gentler truth:

I have no idea how to feel my own senses. & I sense everyone else’s feelings w/ far too much ease. & that makes me flip out a lot.

Imagine, for a minute, that you never know if you are hungry until you are way, way too hungry. That happened to me today. I got close to passing out @ work, while driving the forklift because – whups – all I ate were samples & a pile of veggies while voraciously drinking coffee.

Now, extrapolate further. Imagine not knowing if something smells good, or if sex feels good, or if you like a band the 1st 10 times you hear them. On the other hand, imagine there being no food you don’t like, because the act of eating is 1 of the only things that will give you instant pleasure, so, sure, give me cold beets & dried snap peas & a pound of Jarlsberg, if you will.

Oftentimes, I can’t pin down what I want. Do I need to watch Who’s on 1st? Do I need to tell my calorie counter what I just did? Do I need to give up & go to sleep? Do I just need to drink more water? I’m angry @ being on the planet today. @ the fact that I can’t play an instrument but I think all my thoughts are better in song. Today I tucked in my shirt & sucked in my stomach & I hated myself. I was around WAY too many people, then after that I went to go be around people.

I’m angry that I’m not easy, & even that makes me uneasy.

The other half of my explanation has to do w/ my extreme, sometimes-crippling empathy. Even though I can never seem to figure out how I feel, it is usually alarmingly easy for me to read strangers’ emotions, or to mimic them, to “make friends”, to know & understand how they feel. I know what to say, to whom, & when to say it, & usually why they need it said. If we get along relatively well after a few meetings, I know when to hug you, & when not to. I know when to smile & flirt & make lingering eye contact. I know when to build you up, put you down, pick up your pieces, but usually not when to let them fall to the floor because I am afraid if I drop you, you’ll leave me forever. & sometimes I get into those situations so many times in the span of a week, that I myself completely collapse under the perceived-pressure of other people just being themselves around me. After I have known you long enough, I go screaming in another direction – I run as far away as I can – because, if you’re yourself, then who the fuck am I?

I’m a flickering fluorescent or a burnt-out incandescent; I can’t shine all the time.

I miss the basement in the home of the man I meant to marry. It wasn’t much – unfinished floors, walls, & ceiling – a mattress on the concrete (not that I’ve ever been inclined to have a bedframe), & three desks hooked into a U-shape, in case I thought I needed to write a song while I wrote an email & finished the 2nd season of Fargo (still haven’t). But it was somewhere I could reliably go to be alone. To untangle the beaded necklaces that are my beat-up senses. Because if I don’t – if I’m not alone enough, if I am chasing away that feeling of boredom & emptiness by being extremely busy & literally filling up every single second on my calendar – I will eventually blow a fuse. I’ll go off on someone I DO care about. I’ll eat the fridge & all its contents. I’ll drink & drink & drink & smoke & drink & drink water & sleep & drink again. Or, I’ll start to dissociate. Sure, I’m here, you see me, w/ my convincing words & hugs & smiles, but the eye contact will diminish deeply because I’m not really there. I am actually so far away from being inside myself, that I can see the girl in the chair w/ her stomach sucked in & the beer in her hand. & I can ask, “Is the girl who is skinny having fun?”

It’s half-past midnight. I don’t know what I need. But I am gonna watch an animated conversation w/ Noam Chomsky. “Is the man who is tall happy?”

& I’m gonna drink a lot of water. & try not to weigh myself. & I’m gonna post this to the Facebook where I collect snippets of my personality, & hope for some empathy.