the worst day of all

Two years ago A. got the worst possible news. Less than six months later she was gone. Tomorrow would have been her 38th birthday.

Tonight I’m pouring one out for her. And another one for David.

when the dying’s finally done the suffering subsides/all the suffering gets done by the ones we leave behind

final post?

The darkness has returned. Two days ago I underwent an EKG for palpitations, which I’ve been experiencing for the last two weeks. The result was abnormal, so next step is to undergo an echocardiogram, which is an extensive ultrasound of my heart. Despite medication, I continue to have erectile dysfunction issues. This could be related to my cardiac issue, and to be sure, further workup will be needed for that as well. I’m a widow and can sleep with anyone I choose, but my cock has other ideas. Such is the story of my life.

I don’t know if I’ll continue to write here. This site has virtually no visitors. Probably because most of the content is depressing and unreadable. I typically only write here when the darkness calls. The lack of feedback/readership seems to feed my loneliness and apathy.

I kinda hope this cardiac thing kills me. I’ve asked myself: What if you suddenly experience a sense of impending doom and crushing chest pain? The stupid and primal drive to survive might spur me to call 911. I’d like to think I’d choke this instinct, collapse to the floor and die with courage. I’d hate to leave behind the cat. I love her so much. Sometimes when I watch her slow gait, bogged down by arthritis, I think even she’s ready to die. A year ago she lost the woman who snatched her from an Indiana farm. A year ago I lost the woman who saved my life multiple times. I know in terms of grief, one year isn’t a very long time, but I cannot turn away from the giant chasm, the gaping wound that remains.

The sad thing is: at the time, I didn’t realize I was experiencing the high-water mark of my life. And now that it is low tide, it’s obvious I’ll never return anywhere remotely close to that mark.

helpless

I’ve undergone five of six ketamine infusion for my depression, PTSD, and anxiety, and the results have been amazing. In this post, I don’t want to overlook or undercut just how profound the results have been, but I tend to use this space to exorcise demons. And this tendency doesn’t occur just here; it has been a common habit throughout my life. A therapist once explained to me that those with PTSD struggle to balance the positive sensations with the negative ones. The bad feelings linger like a dormant fog, while those positive moments flash and then fade quickly.

The ketamine has allowed me to isolate my BPD symptoms (ketamine isn’t effective in treating this condition). And I now appreciate just how much effort it will take via dialectical behavior therapy, which I begin tomorrow, to address the insidious nature of BPD.

Since my last post, I’ve also begun dating. Casual dating is probably the last thing in which someone with BPD should engage. I get far too emotionally attached to whomever it is I meet. The first woman I met via the Bumble dating app is R. R. and I have seen each other about five times in four weeks, and our sexual chemistry is like nothing I’ve experienced. It’s intoxicating and pulls all my emotional strings in some of the worst ways. I also dated a woman, G., twice, but today she told me the chemistry isn’t there and wished me the best. Her message came as no surprise. If anything, I was hoping for a new friendship, but it will not be. We had two dates, yet within an hour of receiving her message, I began crying, not necessarily because of the rejection, but because I, apparently, still haven’t accepted the fact that I’m in a position to be rejected, ie if Allison were still alive, I wouldn’t be dating in the first place. I felt secure with Allison. I felt safe with Allison. And now, I feel extremely unsafe, vulnerable.

The fact that my emotional health swings on the whims of a *potential* lover is so dysfunctional that suicide feels like it will ultimately be the final resolution to my troubled and broken personality. I just want to be accepted. I just want to be loved. I just want my Allison to come back.


ketamine and an ultimatum

Dinner was great. I courageously asked her over to my place, and she agreed. “This is a nice place,” she said. It might as well have been the set of a sitcom. The wall art. The coffee table. A full book shelf. All of it meant to convey a sense of normalcy. Stability. But it’s all a facade, another attempt to hide the internal from becoming external. But lately, it’s becoming increasingly difficult to submerge the dysfunction. Slowly it is seeping through my pores. “Leif Erikson” by Interpol begins to play on the stereo. “It’s like learning a new language/As we catch up on my mind/If you don’t bring up those lonely parts/This could be a good time.”

She slides closer, and we both know what’s coming. I cover her body with mine as our lips sing the song of an intimacy untamed. “Let’s go to the bedroom,” I tell her. Through the flickering candlelight, I lose myself in this moment. I lose myself in her. And maybe she gets lost too. My body has been aching for this exchange for so long. 

Hours later, I drive her home. “My place is right here,” she points. I shift into park and we turn to each other. I tell her, “Thank you for tonight. I needed it more than you will ever know.” We kiss one last time, and then she’s gone, up the stairs and out of my sight.

The following day we exchange numerous text messages, nearly all of them instigated by her. And as the messages go from ‘delivered’ to ‘read’ at increasing frequency, I can feel it happening. This nebulous identity, so desperate to take the shape of something identifiable, attempts to integrate with hers, a personality I don’t honestly know because we met just days ago. “I’ll be whatever it is you want me to be” is the mantra of borderline. And I can feel it happening, she’s becoming my FP, and I can’t contain my quivering eagerness to see her again. To spend more time with her. As I usually do, I overshare my emotions, as if I’m trying to push her away, and I swear, before I can read the words on my phone, I know what’s coming. “Oh Christ, here it is.” She tells me “I don’t want to rush into anything” and that she’s casually dating someone else. I’m not upset she’s dating someone else; I’ve no reason to be turned by this. I’m crashing because I’m comparing myself to this other man, a man I’ll never meet. And all my insecurities are sliced and stabbed, and I’m bleeding everywhere. I want to die. I’m terrified of losing my connection to her. “You pushed it too far, you stupid motherfucker. You knew this would happen.”

This level of dysfunction is startling. And I, despite trying, cannot convey the true depths of this brokenness. How can I let a woman, a woman I met only days ago, turn and thrash my fragile sense of self? When I was intimate with her, I felt almost godlike. And less than 24 hours later, I want to disappear forever. I’m hollowed out. The epitome of emptiness. And this is when I make an ultimatum with myself. May 25, 2023, will mark one year since Allison’s death. If I do not experience a dramatic improvement in my mental health, I will end my life on that day. I’ve given up on the traditional medications and will begin ketamine therapy in less than two weeks. If it doesn’t illuminate something within me, I’m done. I’m tired of trying. I’m so fucking tired of living with this dysfunction. Exasperated by the manner in which external forces turn me, beat me, fuck me, love me, tell me to return, only to beat me yet again. If I could accurately convey this broken pattern of my existence, no one would dissuade me from suicide. Please, save your platitudes and just let me go. I’ve never truly possessed the gears and pulleys of my life. Please allow me to exert control just one time. The last time.

one more mariners game

You died nearly ten months ago

Yet I still cry for you today

And everyday.

Scrolling through my Apple Wallet,

I found a ticket, 

Long expired,

To an April Mariners game

Just five weeks before you would depart.

The malignancy had silently invaded your lungs,

Rendering you flushed and tachypneic after walking just a few feet.

So I purchased a mobility wheelchair

So you could conserve your energy

During the myriad medical appointments

And that final trip 

To one more Mariners game.


As much as I tried to push it away,

I couldn’t shake the thought 

Of what others were thinking.

Staring and seeing someone so young

Being pushed around  

By this tired looking man,

Did they pity you?

Did they quickly look away once your eyes met theirs?

I stared beams into the pupils

Of those who wouldn’t break their gaze.

“It’s rude to stare,” I wanted so desperately to say,

But instead I said nothing

And kept it all inside.

A different type of malignancy

Festering and foul.


You maintained your dignity,

And I maintained my composure.

I kept it together

Until I found the shadows

Of a darkened alcove

And let it all go.

My shoulders rattled

And my gut quivered

So this is what it feels like

To be disemboweled

By an invisible force

Destroying me 

And 

Robbing you of yourself, 

Day by day

And piece by piece

Until your body no longer moved.

A sac of organs and bone

Your blood, still,

And slowly curdling.

The battle was finally forfeited.

I stripped myself of the weaponry and armor

And laid my head upon your chest,

Hoping to hear the reanimation of aorta, atria and ventricles

But the battle was over

And you were gone

Never again to return.


As the clock struck midnight

I cried for you then

As I cry for you now.

Peering through blurry eyes

The shapes lack definition and the colors run,

So I wipe away the tears

And scratch my eyes to focus

But when my identity is the shape of smoke

There’s nothing to collect

To hold against this heart

And call it my own

An identity of smoke

A million miles

Away from

Home.


ice

Yesterday I attended my first Seattle Kraken game. I went alone, of course. I tucked a small dose of Ativan under my tongue to take the edge off. I’d been to the old Key Arena multiple times. This new place, Climate Pledge Arena, was built around the Key’s skeleton. The only identifiable trace of the Key is its iconic roof, which was left nearly unchanged. My final trip to the Key was with Allison in 2021. We watched the Seattle Storm.

Anyway, I enjoyed the first period. The guy seated next to me was nice. We exchanged some initial pleasantries but didn’t talk much after that. There was some scoring. Big hits. Penalty kills. But as the 2nd period started, things began to slide downward. 

“Allison would have loved these seats. She would’ve been so excited.”

“I bet Allison would’ve been mesmerized by the pregame pomp and circumstance.”

“I bet Allison would’ve gotten something from the poke stand. She would’ve wanted a sweet treat during the 3rd period. I wonder what she would’ve gotten.”

I didn’t take any pics. No videos. Photographs mean nothing when there’s no one with whom to share. When I’d go on a photography hike, I’d be eager to get home and show Allison all the beauty I had captured with my Nikon. “Which one is your favorite?” I always asked. “Oh, I really like that one! Can you send me a copy? I’ll use it as wallpaper for my phone.” I’m colorblind, and Allison always helped me get the colors right. Allison helped me in so many ways.

Slap shots were flying, and people were cheering. I clenched my jaw tight to keep the tears inside. And I just sat there for the rest of the game. My responses were muted. I clapped when the home team scored but only out of obligation. Feigning enthusiasm is a skill I’ve mastered over these many years.  

But this is my life now. I haven’t experienced true joy in over a year. Anhedonia, it’s called. I love the PNW and especially love Seattle. This city feels like home. Or it used to. Allison and I moved here in 2014, and living in this city— a city we explored together— without her is an alienating experience. We made memories across this city. And everywhere I go, I see our ghosts. I’ve considered moving, but I can’t do it now or anytime soon. Committing to anything in my current state would be a mistake. When you’ve lost the desire to live, nowhere sounds appealing. Nowhere is far enough from myself.  

Gigi

I’m envious of Gigi. She’s a professional whore. I wish I had your black hair and fishnet stockings, Gigi. I wish this ugly frame were feminine and petite. You turn from me and walk to the bedroom door, and I’m watching your ass the entire way. I’m so jealous, Gigi. I’d suck cock at 4PM and get fucked in the ass at 7. Four hundred dollars an hour, but you can save $100 if you stay for two. There’s nothing inside, so fill me up, daddy. Fuck this pussy until I find my purpose. Fuck me until I can’t feel anything anymore. I can be with you all night, daddy. Just leave the money on the mahogany dresser.

I’m envious of Gigi. She’s a professional whore. I tip her a Franklin, ride the elevator down from 38 to L. I find my car, climb inside, and as soon as the door slams shut, I cry like a little fucking baby.


Over

Dancing on the edge

The city looks so pretty

Flashing lights and castles made of glass

A metropolis of filaments


Dancing on the edge

Memories come surging from the darkness

I should have run

But instead I stayed, to endure the pain


Dancing on the edge

The ultimate freedom is below

The cut is black tonight 

Her water dances and shifts, she says hello


Dancing on the edge

It’s such a sad state of affairs

Entire lives are lived in pain

While others seem to float, the blessings of oblivion


Dancing on the edge

Tonight the city has never looked more beautiful

Lights flash and the castles are glistening

I spring forward, disappear, and my insignificance, over

8

I just realized the horrors of yesterday occurred on the 8-year anniversary of my sister’s death. This surely cannot be coincidental.

confirmed

I swear: if not for the cat I would k*** myself tonight.

Dr. S. the psychiatrist confirmed what I’ve suspected for years: I have borderline personality disorder, subtype self-destructive. She also diagnosed me with PTSD, chronic; major depressive disorder, severe recurrent; social phobia, generalized; and generalized anxiety disorder. I wanted to be diagnosed, and none of the diagnoses surprised me. But it’s an odd feeling seeing those diagnoses as black fonts on a white page. Alone, they’re a series of letters, which become words, which become medical diagnoses and accurately describe what I’ve lived with for most of my life. 

Flash forward to today.

Today I met an escort. Because of the experience, I doubt I’ll ever seek another. The whole thing was sad. And not for the reasons one might expect. It was sad because she was a severely damaged person (“I was kidnapped at 13.” She actually said this.), and here I am, also a severely damaged person, and here we are together, trying to engage in a behavior that rewards us with a moment of temporarily relief— no, not relief, a distraction from our fucked up lives. I left pitying her. But as I drove home, I stopped deflecting and realized, while I wasn’t judging her, I viewed her as somehow worse than me. But no, that’s cruel and not true. Not that anyone is keeping score, but I may be worse than she is, only colored with different hues. As soon as I got home I showered. And I cried (I’m crying now as I recall this), told Allison I was sorry. Sorry for tonight. Sorry for the emotional abuse I caused her. Sorry for the cancer taking someone far better and certainly more virtuous than me. I cried because I’m a 44-year-old widow with BPD and I’ll never find another person to build this nebulous identity around. I cried because even if it is true Allison loved me in spite of those things, I’ll never believe it. Yeah, I can say, Well, this arises from the self-hatred of BPD, and just because this is your perception doesn’t mean it’s true. BUT PERCEPTION IS REALITY. 

…this could possibly be the beginning of the end of me (finally!)…

…the acts are becoming more desperate and repulsive…

Final Body//\\”Sick Quiter” —- I make my new life with my true self // Wondering why I let my body go to hell // Nostalgia couldn’t save itself // Fall asleep to artificial rain sounds —-

…the cognitive dissonance of a fantasy and reality…

That’s all for tonight.

now I know why

As the minutes pass, I become more and more frantic because you aren’t responding to my texts. I call and it goes straight to voicemail. Where could you possibly be? It’s been two hours, and you still aren’t home. Before I can open my eyes, I feel the burning in my belly, such a familiar sensation after these many months. The tears begin to choke me. My diaphragm seizes. I sit up. Wipe my cheeks. It was all a dream. Except the part about my unanswered calls. You’re still gone. And I’m still here.

you again

I can’t help but wonder how the need for all these chemicals would evaporate if you’d just come back

And reach out

And touch me

Listen to me and all my foibles and failures

Hug me with your body so warm

The tenderness of everything scurried away the day you disappeared

briefly well

In a final attempt to avoid a suicidal fate, I started escitalopram (Lexapro) at the start of the new year. I’d made a deal with myself: if you’re really going to pursue the final act (I had begun writing letters to people; I had a plan; I made a list of things one does to “get his affairs in order”), you’ve got to exhaust every line of therapy. The only thing I hadn’t tried was medication. Within about 10 days, everything turned around. I felt great. The greatest I’d felt in— forever? But recently things have turned against me. I’ve developed tinnitus. My insomnia has gotten exponentially worse. (Both of those issues, although rare, are possible side effects of taking an SSRI.) The tinnitus I can probably tolerate. But the insomnia, which was bad before I started the medication, is unbearable. I struggle to fall asleep. When I do sleep, I’m waking up every 90-120 minutes. And sometimes when I awake, I see flashbacks (a common symptom of PTSD) of Allison when she was sick. When these flashbacks strike, it’s like taking a shot of espresso: suddenly I’m wired and sleep isn’t happening.  

So, with the OK by my doctor, I halved the escitalopram dose to 5mg. I was hopeful I’d still see some benefits. But today, five days after cutting the dose, all the bad feelings are returning. I’m thinking about suicide again. The irritability is climbing. The rumination is ramping up. And the insomnia hasn’t improved. And I’m so fucking discouraged. I caught a glimpse of feeling “normal” and “optimistic,” only to have it ripped away from me.

Ideally, I’d love to find a qualified professional to medicate me. But psychiatrists are of short supply, and I’ve all but given up trying to find one. I messaged my doctor about the aforementioned issues and hope to hear from her soon. Because once again, I’m struggling.