The Depression Diaries, n°61 - 2-stars hotel

One of the greatest symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is the intense and profound fear of abandonment, even when there's no base to this fundament. There isn't much of logic when you have BPD, but it's always about leaving. Somehow, it always end up being my fault. For being too introverted, for being too clingy, for being too scary, for being unable to control my voice's volume, for being too weird, for being too boring. I get it, really. It's not like I'm gonna refute this. My body turned into a 2-stars hotel, these ones mostly given out of pity by those who stayed here and then, like everybody else, left. There's not even other three stars faded beside it, and you can blame on my negativism. It's just so fucking tiring to be the one who's always making the effort to take the water out of this sinking boat; the hole in the very deep fabric of it has always been there, I can't remember it not being there. My arms are numb along with the rest of my body, must be because of that that I can't feel a motherfucking single thing. I'm tired of trying not to drown forever in the lives of the people I love, when clearly they don't seem to mind the water entering in my mouth; my lungs are full of salty water and they dare to ask me why I'm having trouble to breathe. I never thought I'd be like this — the water around me feels like two thousand knives and I've always thought that sinking would be worst thing that could've happened to me, but then I noticed I started floating. The lapis lazuli roof over my head hurts my eyes; it's too shiny and I have goddamn photophobia. The waters are calm while the fury of the eye of the storm crushes my chest, but I never flinch; I'm too afraid that if I do, there'll be no turning back. No matter how much i think, it's (i'm) never worth it. So I float and I see all of you, and I still can spare time to smile at this sight. The truth is I'm just a fucking coward who runs away in order to not being abandoned. Being forgotten is easy, forgetting others is a splinter under the nail that haunts you. It's a splinter under all your nails, even from the hands and feets that you didn't know were there. I cut all of them, however they just multiply the former misery. By now, the rock in chest is so damn heavy that there's no law of physics that would agree to this situation. Yet, I float. I float and I listen to music that makes temporarily happy, and others makes tremendously sad, on purpose. I remember they're dead and something dreadful inside me twitches, I remember everything taken from me and I want to tear this world apart because I didn't deserve being made this way. And I can't forgive either. But I'm floating as all of you can see. Did you know they used to drown women accused of witchcraft back in the XVI century? But I float. I get up everyday asking for mercy with resignation, I look at the universe and just plead to die. But I continue to float. I'm adrift and voiceless, every day an centimeter away from the sight that still manages to make me smile. Why don't you swim, you (you, you) ask me. I don't fucking know how, and everybody keeps saying that the pills will teach me. (They didn't) So I float. If you ever wonder if I'm writing about you: I am. And I float. And I left. I float but I burn; I'm the thick layer of oil on the water that can't wait to combust, because I think I deserve the flames. There's so much sorrow without a reason and I just want to feel less insane. The water in mouth goes merciless through my throat and stabs my lungs in every single way possible, perharps that's the reason I can't really breathe sometimes.  I still can laugh once in a while, you know. Even though there's blood (my own blood, my ancestors' blood) all over my body so often that some days I think my skin turned red like the ones who lived before me had. I'm truly a half; not quite 100% here, not really 100% there. I leave even my halfs behind, some kind of murder that isn't acknowledged yet. There's a plethora of things I'd like to be. However, I left. And that's okay. It's love. It's pain and it's not beautiful, not anymore. At least I can still see you on the dry land.