The only post was from May of 2007 about wanting to commit suicide and Jesus intervening with the Keith Urban song "Memories of Us". Apparently, God understands a young woman's need for a certain amount of smarm. For some reason, I always hear Jesus in country music. It sounds so sincere and earnest?...
ANYWAY. Tonight, wanting to self-injure, decided to take it to the net to blog instead. I found leap of faith again, that moment came rushing back.
It reminded me of where I came from. As flinchy and FINE (fucked up, insecure, neurotic and, emotional) as I can be, I'm doing better than I've been in the last six years. Doing better than even three months ago. (Thanks to God and Bupropion!) More stable.
It's weird, I longed for so long to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (only for my ex to tell me he had been. There's one of the 25% of males. Curses!). Then, at least, the rapid ups and downs, the dis-ease, un-ease, the fear of abandonment, would have a name. Even despite all the concern about labels in the psychology community, or at least, in the psychology lit available, I want a label.
If you could give it a name, it seems, you could compartmentalize it, make it smaller than what it is. What is it, you ask?
What it is, at times, is debilitating.
Hell if I know. But it's getting better finally.
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