I'm a 1/3 of my way into the first beer I've had in nearly a week and a half and it's making me feel like shit. I was doing so well, but right now I don't care.
It's not necessarily a desire to drink that drove me to open the can in the fridge, although that was a part of it. It was a desire to self-destruct. My BPD is off the scale today and I've turned my phone off and hidden myself away for the day, but that doesn't mean I'm not angry.
There's not one specific thing I'm angry about. I'm angry that life is so boring, I'm angry that my boyfriend is thousands of miles away staying with his ex-girlfriend, I'm angry that I haven't paid my credit card off and I'm angry at my mum for her anorexia.
She was a spiteful and manipulative woman when I was growing up. The person she is now is a million miles away from the woman that raised me. Why does she get to be thin and I don't? Why can't I starve myself and still function? It's not fair that she gets what she wants and I don't get what I've wanted for so long. I should get to be thin, not her. She has two children, she should have dealt with her shit by now. I should be the one who gets to be thin, she doesn't deserve it. I do.
I want to self-harm so badly right now I feel sick. All I could think of when I was walking to the drug store was buying a pack of razor blades, preferably the old-school safety razor ones (my blade of choice) but ones you can use for dermaplaining if I couldn't find any. Just the thought of rolling my sleeve up, looking down at my left arm and slicing the blade against my skin over and over again, just watching the blood pour and pour and pour and pour. Dripping down my arm and onto the floor, flooding my body with whatever hormone or chemical is released when I truly get to do what I want.
I didn't buy any razor blades. I can't have cuts on my arms at work and even though I can cut my thighs it doesn't give the same high. I have scars over other parts of my body, my stomach because I hate it so much and my left thigh because it's easy to reach, but cutting my arms is what I really love. There's even one on the middle finger of my left hand from when I picked up a piece of glass to with. That one was a bust. My skin was too thick and scarred and it barely even made a mark.
The drive to get high is there too. Whatever I say cocaine is hands down one of my favourite things on the planet. Just the simple act of opening the bag, pouring the powder onto the table and racking up line after line makes me feel amazing. I miss being a junky so much, because it's easy. When all you care about is getting high you don't give a shit about anything else. You wake up, either get high or do the things you need to do to get high, go to bed and wake up the next day to do it all over again. It's an endless cycle that only stops when you have no access to your drug of choice and you either move onto something else or get clean. The only things stopping me from getting high are my lack of access to drugs, although this is normally easy to get around, money and the fact that Australian cocaine is shit.
Seriously for a country that's so much closer to Mexico than England, you'd think the quality would at least be on par, but no.
Drinking this beer is the only way I have of hurting myself right now. Not physically, I know that two or three beers aren't going to kill me, but mentally hurting me. I know I want to get sober and I'm choosing to drink as a way of hurting myself. It's not disfiguring or painful like self-harm. It's not illegal like cocaine, but it's still a way of hurting myself. All I want to do is hurt myself. I hate myself. This is just the best I can do.
Stay safe on the road
Jess
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