This poetry like essay has been written by a person who suffers from a borderline personality disorder. She wants to remain anonymous as she fears being stigmatized and judged by her surroundings, from whom she keeps her diagnosis secret since she received it.
Blood is running from my arm. I love seeing it flow. It makes me happy. I got what I deserve. I look in the mirror and enjoy seeing the fresh wounds next to the scars of previous cuttings. I look into my face; into the eyes of that person, I hate the most in this world. Actually, the only person I ever hated. I don’t know how it feels to hate others. I even know less of how it feels to love myself. Even liking myself is unimaginable. How can I apricate myself, if no one ever did. I was never good enough and never will be. No matter how hard I try.
I was diagnosed with a Borderline personally disorder after my last suicide attempt. It was on Christmas, a holiday I hate because it always shows me over and over again how fucked up my life is – how fucked up I am. I don’t even have someone in my life who wants to spend Christmas with me. What´s the point of living if I am just always an obstacle. No one wants to spend time with me voluntarily. People out there are nasty. They judge people by looks, by money, by the amount of their degrees. They don’t care for anything else. People tell me I am pretty; I know I have enough money to survive, and I have more degrees than most people out there have. And still – I am not worth to be loved. People tent to treat me like shit. Not all the scars on my body I did to myself. And clearly not those I carry in my heart. There must be something severely wrong with me.
I spend most of my life caring for others. If I care for others, I feel good. It makes me happy to see that I have some value. Some justification to live. There is something about me that makes sense. I smile. I sacrifice myself for the wellbeing of others. This mainly counts for my partners. In the beginning of every relationship, I have the feeling, that I am being appreciated. As long as I just keep going to make the other person comfortable, take all their burdens off their shoulders, circle around them like the stars circling around the moon. In return, I receive love – or maybe affection. I hate my body but let others love it.
However far they want to go, I don’t care. I can split my mind from my body if I want. I don’t feel pain then – neither do I feel pleasure. As long as the other person gets what they want, it makes sense - I make sense. If they are tired; they just need to call me, if they need money: they just must ask me, if they are sad: I am there to comfort them. But the number of things I can handle has a limit.
Once I reach it, I feel that everything is cracking. I am collapsing because I am too weak to handle more. I am collapsing because I don’t understand why I never receive anything back. No one ever asked me how I feel. If I needed a break, if I needed help. I realized that I am not loved for the person I am (how could I have even expected that). I was not able to make myself interesting enough or needed enough to be loved. Before they leave me, I leave them. And yet, I failed. Again. Like I fail with everything. I am a failure. And I must be punished for being the way I am. My soul is in pain so my body should be too. Blood is running from my arm.