Pillows, pandas, and soft blankets of absorption

I wish I could throw myself into a pile of pillows, my panda, and soft fuzzy blankets. I’d envision them all like loving sponges, soaking up all of my excess emotions. The sadness, the anger, the loneliness, the fear. I’d close my eyes and feel all of that overwhelming intensity just leaving me, and all of that loving fuzziness would snuggle up against me. I wish Panda could talk and pillows could float and blankets had arms. So my pillows could take me up into the sky, away from everything, where it’s safe, and Panda could be my friend, listening and offering comforting words, but he would only talk to me, and my blankets could hug me an protect me.

I feel like my mind is made up of layers of fantasy, all covering up the core of reality. Floating around that core is a dark borderline cloud, just floating around and stormily attacking reality whenever it wants. At times, I peel back layer by layer, slowly, carefully, cautiously. Upon lifting that last layer, sometimes I’m ok and I manage to play in reality for a little before the storm comes. Other times I’ve found I peeled back that last layer at the wrong time and the cloud is already there. Sometimes I can’t escape it, other times I can put the layers back, even create more if I need to, just to get me as far away from the core as possible. It hurts there. It’s not safe.

I am tired of going through this. I feel like a ragdoll. I’m tired of walking on egg-shells, of making others walk on egg-shells, of everything.

I wish I could describe enough to ‘normals’, what its like to live each day in fear…basically of yourself. In fear that the smallest wrong thing will happen and destroy your life and then leave you stranded in the midst of the destruction and fear of when it will happen again. I feel like a poison.

I’m not sure I fear death. How can you kill something that’s already dead? How can you hurt something that’s already in immense pain? How can you destroy something that’s already defective and in pieces? How can you damage something that’s already been broken time and time again? How can you fix that thing? I feel like fiberglass. Tiny shards too small and irregular to ever be put back together into a whole.


4 thoughts on “Pillows, pandas, and soft blankets of absorption

  1. Thanks for writing this. I can relate to it, especially the fantasy part. It’s not something I write about much because I feel I can never write it adequately so that others get it. I’d never thought of it as a BPD thing but it makes sense. 🙂

  2. For years, I’ve had to explain something as relatively simple as Depression to “Normals” who tell me “I can’t believe you have Depression, you always seem like you’re in a good mood.”
    Yeah. Okay. “Depression” means “sad” and nothing else, right?

    How can anyone possibly explain BPD and expect the listener NOT to come to immediate mindless conclusions after hearing the word “Borderline”?
    With Depression, I just tried to break it down to its largest common denominator, so to speak:
    “Achy Breaky Heart”. Some obnoxious song from 1992 by Miley’s dad, Mullet Head Cyrus.
    The US Armed Forces in Iraq back then used to play it over loudspeakers all night to (effectively) torture the opposition forces hiding in their desert outposts.
    It was that annoying, and just obnoxious enough that if you heard it on the radio, you just couldn’t get that dribble out of your head for the next couple of hours.
    I know people who are that way about hymns or songs they hear in church on a Sunday morning, be it “Rock of Ages” or Christian rock. It stays with them, lifts their spirits for the rest of the day.
    “Achy Breaky Heart” would just drive you batshit.
    Everybody has a song like that.
    Someone wants you to explain BPD? Ask them what song or commercial jingle irritates the piss out of them.
    Then ask them what they would feel like if they had to listen to the ugliest of thoughts, full blast, 25 on a volume control that only goes to 10, over and over again…
    when you least expect it and are least prepared to handle it.
    “You’re fat!” “You’re ugly!” “No one likes you.” “Nobody ever will.” “There’s no reason for anybody to like you.” “You’re a loser, always will be!” “You’re fucking up your life and every life you touch…!”

    Tell them to imagine that, and tell them to imagine hearing it over and over again and having to hear it being screamed in their face from inside of themselves… in their own voice.

    Then tell them that can actually be an easy day for you.

      1. Those “normal”, far less interesting people are the ones who turn us far more entertaining folks into “statistics”.
        On one level they can understand, but they just can’t comprehend.
        They can claim to sympathize, could never empathize.
        Maybe they can “know”, but it’s so difficult for them to relate.

        So I just try to break it down to the simplest terms, to show it in the purest conceptual sense I can make out of it, then let them take it the rest of the way up to and over the edge.

        My sister-in-law has been an RN for well over forty years, in the ER, the OR, in ICU, in Trauma Centers. Has lanced boils, assisted in quintuple by-passes and been at the right hand of the man who IS the right hand of God. Or thinks he is. Or acts like he is. Or expects to treat him like he is, but don’t get me started on that.

        When she once correctly and properly – and accurately – commented on some of my more disruptive behaviors, I pointed out to her that every time our families have ever sat down for dinner together – at our house, our my brother-in-law’s house, and a sit-down-and-order-from-a-printed-menu restaurant or at the most opulently catered weddings the Silicon Valley has ever seen…
        … she ALWAYS has to dip her cloth (or paper) napkin into her water glass to wipe down every piece of silverware in front of her, And in front of her husband. And her daughter.

        “We all have our quirks, don’t we babe?”
        At first she was, I believe, insulted, which lasted only long enough for her to think about it and start smiling.

        Of course she still doesn’t believe her kid brother repeatedly molested her baby sister and figures all of Liz’s problems stem from smoking pot as recently as the final years of the Ford Administration.

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