Makes me sad. (J'trouve ça plate, EN version)
I feel like, no matter who I let enter my life, they always end up leaving. And I know that 'everybody' says this but, often, the 'us' who say it, we say it because it's true.
We always have that little 'something' that sparks up people at first and, in the end, will end up making them leave, that little something that's too much, that habit or behavior that will quickly end up scaring them.
I often ask myself if this happens to all borderline (personnality disorder) people and, to reassure myself, I tell myself that, yes, probably. It's fucking sad to always be under the impression to be a burden in everyone's life, but it's even more soul crushing when they admit it to you.
I ignore the amount of times that I might have been 'too' clingy, stupid, annoying, too this, too that, and that, each time, I was telling myself that I would no longer do it, that I would stand up staight even tho, in the back of my mind, I always know that my 'real' nature will resurface; my emotions are changing like the weather predictions and I still haven't found the remedy to cure this.
Because that's what happens, in the end. It's a bunch of diseases and troubles of this and that thing that makes people finding me unpleasant, moody, hard to live. At the same time, the 220 pounds people with fibromyalgia, O.C.D. and a BPD, what do they do? I don't know, I haven't met one yet. But if they were to exist, I like to tell mysel fthat they would probably, them too, sometimes, cry while eating McDonald's, contemplating suicide.
I feel like I'm devoting myself in all aspects of my life for a minimum dose of approbation, to make people believe that what I'm giving is my minimum, the strict minimum. However, I collect fatigue and negative thoughts.
Being told I'm a heavy weight to carry into someone's life, it's never easy. I cry a lot and, then again, I tell myself that I will change. That I will never ever be like this, promise (to myself).
We all have that interior voice that keeps us from saying stuff, but I always have the impression to have my bpd in the background that challenges me to still say or do it. Often, it ends up in a akward situation, with some 'oh, nevermind' full of discomfort and of fear that this person will never wanna talk to me again.
I'm sick of everyday veryfing if this specific dozen of people on Facebook have deleted me, but, at the same time, it destroys me to notice that some actually do it, even people I thought I was close with, that clicked unfriend because I just wasn't enough... at the same time, can't blame 'em. I understand, tell myself that I would change and, in three days, my true self will come back swinging.
Makes me mad to have my whole body raid by my own existance, to see the row of bricks that I've been piling up since forever crumbling by my own actions. To tell myself 'fuck it, just have to hang myself it this shit doesn't work anymore' and to eat thousands more calories in a whole night.
Makes me scared to think that everyone I'm currently talking to, probably won't talk to me next year because I'm pretty sure that the expiration date of three quarters of my friendships and relationships are that, a year. It goes bad way before that, but, we always love lingering pain a little bit longer.
I find it sad that a while ago I had arrive to be so numb of my emotions that I couldn't write anymore and, the more and more miligrams of medication diminish, I find back my emotions, but I still haven't found a positive one yet.
It disgusts me to see the person I've become even if I know that I still have a little bit of potential to realize big things - if I succeed before my body, for some reason (lil' jesus has to pick a cause and he hasn't found yet) gives up on me.
I just find it sad to mutilate my skin all over in a goal of perfection, because this doesn't make any fucking sense.
I also find it sad that, in the end, I've found comfort in either of the toxic spheres of my life and to tell myself that if I weren't addicted to a lot of shit, I wouldn't be as happy and comforted; at the end, to pop a pimple caused by a too large amount of McDonald's, would it give the same satisfaction as putting on skincare after eating a salad?
Broken human. Not for sale, because everyone would try to get rid of it. Being an object, people would pay to give me away, because it would always ends up being in the way, someone like that, and we're sick of stumbling our feet into their own problems.
We always have that little 'something' that sparks up people at first and, in the end, will end up making them leave, that little something that's too much, that habit or behavior that will quickly end up scaring them.
I often ask myself if this happens to all borderline (personnality disorder) people and, to reassure myself, I tell myself that, yes, probably. It's fucking sad to always be under the impression to be a burden in everyone's life, but it's even more soul crushing when they admit it to you.
I ignore the amount of times that I might have been 'too' clingy, stupid, annoying, too this, too that, and that, each time, I was telling myself that I would no longer do it, that I would stand up staight even tho, in the back of my mind, I always know that my 'real' nature will resurface; my emotions are changing like the weather predictions and I still haven't found the remedy to cure this.
Because that's what happens, in the end. It's a bunch of diseases and troubles of this and that thing that makes people finding me unpleasant, moody, hard to live. At the same time, the 220 pounds people with fibromyalgia, O.C.D. and a BPD, what do they do? I don't know, I haven't met one yet. But if they were to exist, I like to tell mysel fthat they would probably, them too, sometimes, cry while eating McDonald's, contemplating suicide.
I feel like I'm devoting myself in all aspects of my life for a minimum dose of approbation, to make people believe that what I'm giving is my minimum, the strict minimum. However, I collect fatigue and negative thoughts.
Being told I'm a heavy weight to carry into someone's life, it's never easy. I cry a lot and, then again, I tell myself that I will change. That I will never ever be like this, promise (to myself).
We all have that interior voice that keeps us from saying stuff, but I always have the impression to have my bpd in the background that challenges me to still say or do it. Often, it ends up in a akward situation, with some 'oh, nevermind' full of discomfort and of fear that this person will never wanna talk to me again.
I'm sick of everyday veryfing if this specific dozen of people on Facebook have deleted me, but, at the same time, it destroys me to notice that some actually do it, even people I thought I was close with, that clicked unfriend because I just wasn't enough... at the same time, can't blame 'em. I understand, tell myself that I would change and, in three days, my true self will come back swinging.
Makes me mad to have my whole body raid by my own existance, to see the row of bricks that I've been piling up since forever crumbling by my own actions. To tell myself 'fuck it, just have to hang myself it this shit doesn't work anymore' and to eat thousands more calories in a whole night.
Makes me scared to think that everyone I'm currently talking to, probably won't talk to me next year because I'm pretty sure that the expiration date of three quarters of my friendships and relationships are that, a year. It goes bad way before that, but, we always love lingering pain a little bit longer.
I find it sad that a while ago I had arrive to be so numb of my emotions that I couldn't write anymore and, the more and more miligrams of medication diminish, I find back my emotions, but I still haven't found a positive one yet.
It disgusts me to see the person I've become even if I know that I still have a little bit of potential to realize big things - if I succeed before my body, for some reason (lil' jesus has to pick a cause and he hasn't found yet) gives up on me.
I just find it sad to mutilate my skin all over in a goal of perfection, because this doesn't make any fucking sense.
I also find it sad that, in the end, I've found comfort in either of the toxic spheres of my life and to tell myself that if I weren't addicted to a lot of shit, I wouldn't be as happy and comforted; at the end, to pop a pimple caused by a too large amount of McDonald's, would it give the same satisfaction as putting on skincare after eating a salad?
Broken human. Not for sale, because everyone would try to get rid of it. Being an object, people would pay to give me away, because it would always ends up being in the way, someone like that, and we're sick of stumbling our feet into their own problems.
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