Dear World - I hold my own key.

Turn on the light?

It's late, or early depending on the way you watch the clock. I don't want to write this. I don't want to be here. I'm compelling myself to write my own blog. The shaft of the proverbial gun is at the base of my neck, triggered and begging me to write. The gun is shaking and I can feel the cold shaft burn in anticipation. The unspoke agreement is that I will dig deep. That I will splatter myself over this stark and empty screen. Fill the world with my screams, my spin, the consent rush of hit or miss. 

World? These days everything is blurry. I can't make my self breath so I lay here unmoving, unfeeling, lost in my own snow storm and propaganda. I should finish the paper work. I could go for a walk. I could check out a new book. I could clean the house. I could make my room my own. I could email everyone I know here until someone agrees to go for coffee. I should. I could. I won't. 

It's scary that they put the only copy of the key to success, to healing, in the lost brain. It feels wrong that I alone can walk this road, can go from here to better. I don't want to get better. I don't want to have to change. I don't want to relearn how to see the world. How I see myself. I've come so far to be told I'm doing it wrong. Can't we fast forward to the end? 

Hues of Gold, Fuzzy Right and Wrongs.

I'm not discounting the support, the doctors, the medication, the family, the friends, the weather. However when it comes to fixing what lays within. That is left in your hands. It is left in my hands. My shaky, scarred and splattered hands that shake at the thought. 

I've stalled out if you're wondering on CBT. I've stalled out on pulling together the pieces. I'm stalling world. The screaming in my head is getting louder. Write. Write till your fingers bleed. Write till the crowd notices you're not singing you're screaming. Write till you reach the end. Write till your image becomes freeze framed on someone else's computer screen. Write. Write. Write even if your wrong. Write even if it leads to you come undone. Just write. 

Dear World, I beg of you. Let's put the pens away. I want to play with swords tonight. Cut me with you vicious wit. Leave me skinned and laying on the examining table. Uncover my bones carved with Write, stained with sin. I started this blog to talk about the road I'm walking. The road I daily deny that I'm on. I said I wanted a resource for people with BPD. If by chance someone stumbles across this blog, or this entry - questioning or looking for answers. 

Take this home with you. What better way for the girl who's just unwell to show the world of BPD then take you behind the scenes? I am kept safe by the air chilling my skin. The music leaking in to the room. The burning of my keyboard as I write. 

Even in all this. Mindfulness follows me around like a faithful pup.  

Love me anyway? 

Set me free.