Beating myself at losing

Can’t think. Breath catches, ragged. Throat full of acid. Choke and gag and there’s my dinner in the bin now, chewed and stinking with digestive juices.

Again. He’s hung up on me again and he doesn’t care. He’s safe in his other place, his little flat without me, without the children, without any of our stuff. Safe where he doesn’t have to pretend, where he can do as he likes, be who he needs to be.

Safe knowing I’ve got my period, that there’ll be no last-minute pregnancy to draw him back to me.

I was pleased he wanted to talk, pleased he called to say goodnight. But he didn’t want to talk to me, not really, not if I was going to say anything I felt.

“I don’t want to talk about your feelings. I’ve been talking about them for ten years.”

My lungs fold inwards, collapsed. Me and my feelings. Nobody wants my too-much feelings, be they good, bad or otherwise – why can’t I just shut them away? Why do I feel? What the fuck is WRONG with me?

He said he wanted to see that I was OK; I’m not OK, and he knows it. He says so, says he wants to help so that I will be OK.

Only practical help, though, he says. No talking about feelings or relationships. We need boundaries. He will set the boundaries and he will build them high and impenetrable.

“Stop defining yourself by relationships,” he says, but I have thought of nothing but him for years and years and he is still the One, my all, my everything. I dream of him in my waking hours and dream of him in my sleep. I dream the feeling of his bare leg against mine, so real I wake and cry.

On Sunday, he was with me, warm and smiling, in the flesh. He didn’t want to get out of bed. He made love to me three times in a matter of hours and my world was bathed in love and happiness.

On Tuesday morning, he left.  In the afternoon, I crawled back into that bed and called a mental health triage service, unable to chase away my desperate desire for death on my own. I lay under the covers, fully dressed, crying and cold, streaming eyes and nose leaking on the bedding. I hugged a woollen jumper he left behind. And I was talked around. Talked into living. For the kids, of course. I don’t live for myself and nobody tries to convince me I should – only for the kids.

And now, Wednesday, he thinks my grief and shock unreasonable and unbearable.

I don’t argue with him or wish him to suffer. I blame myself. If only I had been better/sweeter/lovelier/prettier/thinner/less of a psycho freak… If only I hadn’t said this or harmed myself or even begged him to harm me in my worst moments. If only I hadn’t been the way I was. If I hadn’t cried or begged or been at constant war with myself, always losing.

He should never have been caught up in my battle. No one should.

I cry now and wail with self-blame and self-hatred and I love him all the more for all that he’s had to put up with. The angrier he gets with me, the more I blame myself and love him and pray that he’ll grant me his mercy and love.

The more desperate I become, the more desperately he flees.


Becoming a contender

This cartoon image will probably get a boyfriend before I do, and she hasn’t even got a full 2D body!

Clearly, I need to change. If I were the loveable and special person my ex still says I am, he wouldn’t want to leave me. 

I don’t have men falling all over themselves for me – and if they ever did, I guarantee they were tripped. 

In an effort to find a man who could bear to stand next to me and hold my hand into the future, I must change. 

Here are a few ideas. 

  1. Be less friendly and smile less. Nothing scares a man away faster than a woman who seems friendly and interested. Smiles should be saved for hiding hurt/heartbreak/serious depression. 
  2. Wear more makeup. But do it expertly – so it looks like I’m not wearing any. 
  3. Shave my unruly hair off and get a pretty wig. (May also have benefits if children ever bring head lice home again.)
  4. Laser off all the body/facial hair. I’ve given up my plan to join a freak show as the resident bearded lady, so there’s nothing to lose. 
  5. Find a cure for all my health problems. Nobody likes a burden, right?
  6. Invent a time machine so I can unmake my mistakes and get back to my current age with an additional decade or two of gym workouts, some postgraduate qualifications and a great career history/stacks of savings. (I could do without the bad marriage and the divorce that followed, too.) 
  7. Have my head transplanted onto an attractive body… or my body transplanted onto an attractive and sane head… or maybe just start all over with a new head AND body. Should work well with my new past. 

Good luck, me!

When a spark is just an illusion

I don’t have any choice. My beloved is leaving, whether I like it or not. 

He says the spark is gone, which I find unnerving, because for me, it’s still there: I even count the minutes until I can expect to see him arrive home. I like to be close to him. I kiss him, touch him, tell him I need him… and need him, I do. 

For me, still, he might as well be the only man in the world. He’s certainly the best, in my eyes, and the only one I feel I could ever love, admire and trust so totally. I wouldn’t want another man. I couldn’t. 

BUT: it’s clear I’ve been deluded and the spark is really just me insisting on lighting a match over and over. 

The spark is gone, he says. It’s over and there’s no going back. 

Maybe he never felt it the way I did. Never felt the butterflies in his hands as he tried to busy himself, knowing he would see me in a matter of hours. Never felt sick at the thought of parting. Certainly never cried at the thought of me being lost to him forever. 

I remember once, before we were together, standing in a freezing street, searching the crowds for his face. In desperation – once I knew he wasn’t coming – I squinted at someone until I could make myself believe this person was really my beloved. Just so I could imagine that perhaps, later, we could chat. That perhaps attending this event wasn’t pointless because my beloved wasn’t there. (Fact: it’s much easier to squint and pretend when everyone is buried deep inside coats, hats and scarves.)

I remember him kneeling on the floor, once, beside me, deep in prayer: “Lord, let me marry this woman.”

It’s been a hard road, and the difficulties have taken their toll, but my beloved’s prayer has been answered. I am here, I love him, and I would do anything to be the best partner I can be. I would give anything to be his wife and I feel certain I’d be the best wife he could have. 

I will never have a chance, though, because he’s made up his mind and it’s his choice, and his choice alone. 

Just like every other time he’s left me, I don’t get a choice. I just sit and try to swallow the pain. The only choice I have is in how I cope. 

But let me just say, those fabulous BPD abandonment issues, extreme emotions and tendencies to self-harm are making my “choices” seem pretty horrible right now. 

I love him. I want him to stay. That’s all. 

Smile until your face cracks

Right. Time to cheer myself up. I may be unwanted, rejected, dumped etc – someone to flee from, at speed if possible – but there must be some good to come of it, right?

  1. I can stop looking after myself and nobody will notice! No need for proper eating, personal hygiene, trips to the dentist, doctor, physiotherapist, podiatrist, rheumatologist, psychologist or psychiatrist: I can just let myself go!
  2. I can also ignore the rest of the world because nobody will notice if I cut myself off completely. Hello, hermithood. 
  3. My tweezers can take a holiday. So what if I grow a full PCOS beard? So what if each of my hairy moles grows a beard of their own?
  4. Razor: ditto. Hello, warm furry legs for winter (and maybe summer too – could be good camouflage for my scars). 
  5. It won’t matter if I never lose enough weight to fit back into my nice lingerie! In fact, I can just throw it all out now. That’ll save space in my underwear drawer, too – and I need all the space I can get, considering my current knickers are big enough for a mature blue whale. 
  6. No need for contraception, and, therefore, no more Microlut-affected, lengthy periods! (Maybe the UTIs will leave me alone, too.)

Next time, perhaps I’ll make a list of great things about poverty, or the upsides of constant pain and fatigue. 

The empty egg breaks

If the past week has taught me anything, it’s that I’m very definitely dumped. 

I feel like a faulty Cadbury Creme Egg, one that didn’t get any creme filling. I’ve taken a knock and come apart and there’s no substance inside. Nothing. 

The wrapper is torn and I’m squelched underfoot now – time for the bin. 

What does a girl do when all her hopes, plans and dreams have revolved around building a life with someone who doesn’t want her anymore, and probably hasn’t for quite some time?

I’m guessing normal girls watch movies, eating delicious things in their pyjamas, while their friends either commiserate with them in person, or offer support over the phone. 

Maybe they go out, get drunk, end up shouting, “Baaaaah! Who needs love anyway?” and then snog someone at the first opportunity, just to prove they can. 

Maybe they race to find a new partner. Or maybe they race to improve their own lives and find contentment and meaning that way… and probably a wonderful new love later on. 

The problem is, I’m not a normal girl. I haven’t got anyone to chat to or drink with. Nobody’s going to tell me I was too good for him (I wasn’t). Nobody’s going to tell me I can do better (I can’t) or any of that other trite and irritating “it all happens for a reason, babe” stuff. 

I look down the corridor of my future and, where open doors of opportunity once lay, now there is only the blinding white of locked doors. 

It’s all gone. The home I hoped to share with him. The happiness I hoped we could build. The healing. 

The meaning of all that I’ve invested: the time I spent writing him love letters, knitting for him, sewing for him, scouring the world for ways to show him how much I love him, how special he is. It’s all gone. 

Every effort, every tear, every butterfly in my stomach has turned to ash in my mouth, and I cough and splutter until I am nearly sick. Sometimes I am sick. The rest of the time, I’m huddled over with pain. I can’t eat. 

I’m trapped in the corridor of closed doors and so I keep looking at them, forced to think of what’s hidden and barred to me forever: safety, a happy family, a loving partner, a purpose. 

There will be no validation. No self-worth. 

I try not to think about the little things – like the holidays we had dreamed of, the walks and bike rides together – or the frightening practical things, like how I will cope as a chronically and mentally ill woman with no job or savings. 

I try not to think. I try to let it all wash over me, to sit with my pain and let it go. 

But, trapped in a corridor of closed doors, where is a girl to go?



Today it happened: the GP talk I’d been dreading for quite some time.

“Your cholesterol is a little high,” she said, looking at my blood test results. “You need to try and bring that down.”

I gulped. My cholesterol has always been fine before.

“You need to exercise more and eat less carbohydrates,” she said.

“I… exercise has been a problem,” I said. “I often have trouble just walking. As you can see,” I went on, gesturing at my medical notes on her computer. “My joint problems have prevented a lot of activity.”

Something tore open inside me, some last pocket of hope that I was OK, that I could still possibly be construed as attractive and worthwhile, and not entirely unwell. I wanted to believe I was still the same slim person I’d been most of my life, that I just had to shed the arthritis and I’d go back to normal.

I realised in that moment that the doctor (the slender, glamorous doctor) saw me as a fat person – a lazy, bad eater, who just needs to pull my socks up and try harder to lose weight. Her advice was based on assumptions, not on an assessment of why I’ve gained weight and my cholesterol levels have gone up.

She has no idea how much exercise I do or what I eat. She doesn’t know anything about me other than a few results on a screen. She’s not even my regular doctor. She doesn’t know I wear orthopaedic shoes or sometimes use a walking stick. She doesn’t know I spent months unable to stay up for longer than about four hours per day. She has no idea what it feels like to wake up feeling like someone’s beaten her joints with a baseball bat in her sleep.

Her entire assessment of my health – and my moral character – involved looking at me and my pathology results and deciding I was fat.

The proof of this was in her response.

“OK,” she said, accepting that I can’t exercise as much as I’d like. “In that case, you need to look even harder at your diet. Less carbohydrates and more greens.”

I blinked, possibly due to my brain short circuiting. I already eat very little, and I eat plenty of greens. I always have, because I actually like them. The only problem I’ve had in preparing vegetables has been my physical difficulty in chopping them up – not an insignificant problem, but I’ve done my best to push through.

“OK,” I said, and got ready to leave, but she wanted to talk about my mental health.

“Any bad thoughts?” she asked.

“No, I’m all right,” I said, because someone who assumes I don’t eat my broccoli, and who tells me my immune system is “perfectly fine”, is going to have to work a bit harder to win my trust.

She pressed harder and I tried not to confess that my only current bad thought was a sneaking suspicion that she’d glued her eyebrows on. They looked like a pair of dark caterpillars, peeling at the ends nearest her nose, and possibly neatened up with thick brown paint and a stencil.

For a split second I imagined them straining to escape and crawl away.

I could identify with that. I just wanted to get away from her and her lovely outfit and silky hair and faux-concerned, made-up face.

I couldn’t help seeing myself as I imagined she saw me: a fat, lazy hypochondriac who was probably about to drive my car 50 metres to get a family size portion of chips and a vat of Coke for morning tea.

Instead, I went home and, at lunch, had a tiny tub of quinoa, lentils and red peppers, and then a few almonds as a snack.

The doctor doesn’t need to tell me I’m fat. Every time I see my reflection I want to cry. And it feels like no matter what I do, I just get fatter.


Yesterday was a bad day. 

There were, it seemed, a thousand criticisms. What I’ve done. What I do, always do and always will do. 

My fault, all of it. 

Disgusting, disgraceful. Have I no shame?

I’m at him and at him and at him. I keep him prisoner. I’m manipulative, abusive: controlling him, he says, by telling him I’m suicidal or that I have a compulsion to self-harm. I won’t let him leave: I cry – no, wail – when he approaches the door. 

I wouldn’t let him leave properly when he tried to split up with me. He was trapped by my misery, trapped by the thought of what I might do to myself. Even my welcoming him back into the house, or offering him dinner, was just proof of a delusion on my part (at best), or another form of selfish manipulation (at worst). Why couldn’t I just give up and leave him alone?

I make it impossible for him to work, and always have done. I deny him sleep by talking about my feelings at night when the children are asleep. I interrupt him at work when I’m not coping. I deny him peace by not coping. I stop him from being able to think. 

I talk about the news and want to share articles with him when he comes home,  even if he’s got his computer out to work, and is therefore unavailable. I stop him from working and therefore rob him of more sleep later, because he’ll have more work to do as I’ve wasted his time talking. 

I shouldn’t be reading the news anyway. I should be using my time more productively. 

I want to chat with him because I don’t have a life. I lock myself away and don’t meet friends or lean on relatives (though he doesn’t mean my mother – he thinks it would be best if we were able to cut her off, as do every psychiatrist and psychologist I’ve ever seen). I pressure him because I don’t tell anyone else I’m mentally ill, and dump everything on him (even the general chitchat), when he wants none of it. 

I talk and talk. I complain about my past, the hurts inflicted long ago that I should, by now, have forgotten. 

I whinge about my family. 

I whinge about everything. I am tedious. 

I never let him speak. I am incapable of a two-way conversation. 

My interests are hypocritical. He asked me recently: how can I claim an interest in social justice or human rights when I’m a controlling, manipulative abuser myself?

And why do I just accept what he says about me? What am I inside: hollow? Can’t I have my own personality? He doesn’t want to be the boss, doesn’t want the responsibility. It’s stressful and exhausting shielding me from everything. 

I should never have told him that I feel like a husk of a person. I should never have confessed that, when faced with his arguments, all my own evaporate and I’m left confused and unable to defend myself. Because now he says it back to me and all I can say is “yes, I’m hollow, and no, I don’t know who I am”, and I realise that everything else he says must be true too. 

I forget things. Big things, traumatic things. (But not just things I’ve said and done, I should point out. Things said and done to me. It makes grudge-bearing very difficult.)

Which is the real me, he asks: the one acting out of wild, uncontrolled emotion, or the other one, the “most of the time” me?

Why do I want to marry him, anyway? Can’t I see there is no foundation for that sort of commitment? Can’t I see how difficult it is for him when I mention marriage?

I am an abuser. Emotionally, for years, dragging him into my Borderline hell. Trapping him. 

I thought I was kind to him, but I was never anything but demanding, he says. I put the effort in to the relationship, he agrees, but it wasn’t love or kindness, it was just me being demanding. My “generosity” was just another way of being needy. A symptom. 

Meanwhile, I stopped him from having friends, ruined his career prospects, stopped him from having a life. Stopped him from evolving as a person. 

I lash out. I am nasty. I say cruel things I don’t mean. It doesn’t matter that I apologise immediately, accept responsibility and try to make up for it.

It doesn’t matter that I say I know he didn’t deserve to be spoken to that way. That, he says, is an admission that he should have left me, because who puts up with nastiness they don’t deserve? My taking responsibility is just an acknowledgement that he shouldn’t be with me (it’s implicit that I deserve to be alone). 

It doesn’t even matter that I’ve changed, that every fibre of my being is engaged in the process of trying to be healthier and better. 

I’ve harmed myself in front of him, or I’ve told him or shown him that I’ve done it, numerous times in the past. This is violence. I am a violent person. 

I’ve grabbed at him and shoved him and I cannot be forgiven (and this is enough to kill me because I never meant to hurt him, I swear it, and I’m so sorry, I’d punish myself any possible way to prove it). I’ve been someone else’s fearful wife and I don’t want to be my ex-husband, screaming abuse and terrorising my family, telling everyone else it’s all their fault, telling them that’s how they deserve to be treated. 

My partner once took our then-baby to work, to a meeting, because he thought I’d harm myself or kill myself with the baby in the room. (My one bit of self-defence here: I would never leave my precious son alone to cry for someone who wasn’t coming.)

But I am abusive. 

I have traumatised the love of my life. He is ashamed that he’s put up with me. 

I blow up at my daughter. It’s disgusting and doesn’t matter that I apologise. I fail her every day.

I sleep too much and don’t keep a clean house and complain when people don’t pick up their dirty dishes, which I shouldn’t complain about because I’ve never had a clean home, not the whole time we’ve lived together. Maybe if I was a good housewife I’d have grounds to complain about things, but not now. Probably not ever. 

Every bad pattern – especially our toddler’s sleep – and domestic problem in this house is my fault, but it’s difficult to fix because everybody has an unreasonable fear of upsetting me. 

I’ve cut my partner off from support: he feels he can’t call an ambulance or CAT (Crisis Assessment and Treatment team) after my previous terrible responses. 

Lately, I had been a little bit proud of my progress. Things were changing, I thought, in a positive way. Hope and happiness leaked into my heart and made me smile, made me believe that perhaps life could get better. 

I haven’t self-harmed in months. I haven’t had all the melt-downs or demanded hours-long talks about my feelings, “demanding comprehension” from my partner (which is one of his absolute all-time pet hates). I’ve had a little more energy, and much less pain in my joints, so have been able to do more around the house. I’ve even been working on redrafting a novel, which I hadn’t looked at for ages. 

But all the “progress” is no more than a castle in the air. 

I told him that so much criticism is hard to take, too much for me to process at once. 

He said he wasn’t mean, that he didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, or bring up anything I didn’t do. He didn’t understand why I felt so miserable and hurt. 

“I don’t think I said anything controversial,” he tells me, puzzled, and this is what makes everything so difficult to cope with. 

Husk-me, hollow me, has filled up with all this information he’s laid out, accepting it as truth. I can’t find a single good quality hidden in myself. Not a single thing for anyone to love or even like. I have swelled with pain and self-hatred until I could burst. I felt a need, so strong, to harm myself, just to let some of the pain out and ease the pressure, but still, I resisted. I gritted my teeth and rode it out, and I coped. 

I feel much calmer now but have no idea how I’m going to bounce, how I’m going to find some compassion for myself and allow myself to heal enough to get back on the wagon and make more progress. 

I don’t think I even deserve compassion. He does tell me to be good to myself, but he also disbelieves me when I try to explain why I behave the way I do sometimes, when I tell him it only comes out of excruciating emotional pain, and I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, but it just hurts so much I can’t keep it in. 

I don’t even know if healing and progress are possible anymore. 

A few days ago, he told me I should think about forgetting the novel, considering my inability to shake off criticism and rejection. 

“I’m much better able to take it than I used to be,” I said. 

“True,” he said, but went on to say that I’ll probably be happier, in the long run, if I just give up. I can’t help thinking the same applies to every other dream and ambition. 

Right now, I just wish I could go to bed and sleep until I wake up, magically transformed into a different, mentally well person. Magically worthy of love and forgiveness. Worthy of trying again to get things right.