truelife

I’m just wondering if you have any thoughts on how much interest this could be for a little escape from reality that we all need now and now. The rules are simpl. I write an am ambiguous 7 letter sentence that is then continued on by the next person who is willing to make an entire. It can be as wacky as Hunter S. Thompson, Fantastically JK Rowling or even a Stephen King fright night. No rules as such. Obviously please have respect for your fellow community members and support them.

One other thing is that If I don’t have permission to do this then I’m truly sorry 😢

Autobiographical

By Mort Murphy
September 21st, 2020

‘Pull yourself together man.’

Silently I scream those words. Nothing works.

My dreams become nightmares, hope is now despair, success turns into humiliation, visualizations into fantasizing. The whole thing is futile. Beaten, I give up.

I can’t write this s**t. Nothing comes out the way I want. I have all of these ideas about how I will write something beautiful but honest. And out comes this higgledy-piggledy mumbo-jumbo.

It makes perfect sense to me. The rest of the content is inside here, in my head. Easily, I can pull that jigsaw together. But I have not one clue about how to put that across to you. Offer you a glimpse of the world through my eyes; to share me.

Today it all comes together. Tomorrow? Different thing entirely.

Tomorrow it could be scrambled, all over the place, like scrambled eggs. But pieces might also be missing. What those pieces are is beyond me.  I am unable to recall. Though they are just a little beyond the tip of my tongue. They might as well be on Mars.

Pull yourself together man.

Liking myself turns into self-loathing, work into workaholism, idealism into deepest pessimism, positivity into absolute negativity.

This is me; being all over the place. So much wants to come out, onto the page. There is so much to tell. I fritter my few lines away with jumbled, jump-around-the-place content.

Worse, it is stilted. Lacking any of the feelings and emotions that drive me into running, running, running, running like hell. To escape!

The raw tension builds inside. Before, I had no words for it. Today I have some. BPD vocabulary helps me express. There are days when I'm classic BPD. Most times I am Quiet BPD.

But my heart is frozen. The raw, fire-ball tide of emotions that burn through me are encased inside this icicle.  

Jesus, just writing the words brings meaning.

Diagnosis offers understanding of one much repeated pattern.

How often a loved one despairingly asked ‘Tell me what you want? Tell me how to help you?’

Not a single, solitary clue, idea or thought comes to me. Or one that offers the hint of a clue either.

Nothing! Nada! Zilch!

She believes I am holding out. 

But I am not there anymore. I have emigrated, in nano-seconds, gone to a foreign land in my mind.

The uphill country that is idealization. She should be able to guess. She is not bleeping stupid. Can’t she see what I want? Isn’t it obvious? A fool can see what I want.

But she does not know. She is dealing with a grieving, blank canvas that sulks.

This is my cue to plummet into self-torture.

Now I am free-falling from the clifftop into the black, barren sea caves, hundreds of feet below. Knowing, but not caring, that I cannot win.

Feasting upon the carrion that is me. A feast of mauling and brawling, mentally and emotionally.

When I re-surface, I’m sorted.

I con myself. Again!

#bpdsymptoms #joyofbeingreal #creativity #truelife