So stay home in bed alone. And all because of you all because of you I can't stand it. In all that I do all that I do I see your scarlet branding.

These memories are haunting me. I close me eyes and travel through time and space. I watch over him. He is in tears. He is shaking. Is it fear? Is it desperation? Is pure unadulterated raw pain? He is mumbling something to himself under his breath, but it looks like the words are screaming in his head. Just do it, he whispers, his words barely audible. I lean in closely so I may collect every word and every inflection of his voice. Just do it you fucking coward, he whimpers.

He is hunched over something. It looks as if he may be writing something down. His arm is moving in the same manner as that girl who used to sit in front of me in English class. She always smelled wonderful, like fresh bloomed lavender after the first warm summer rain. And the way she wrote, I could see every perfect little curve of every perfect letter as she wrote in her notebook from where I sat. I had always wished I would get a note from a secret admirer in that handwriting. I played it out in my head many times back then. How I would pretend to no know who it was from as I unfolded it close to her. I was sure she would blush and attempt to hide her smile. She would certainly pretend she had seen nothing. I would pretend to read it, but really I would be watching her beautiful pale cheeks turn a gentle shade of rose. Her hand flowed so smoothly as her pen glided across the paper in front of her as if it were a professional ice skater dancing a routine in front of a crowd. But there was something different in the way he wrote.

His arm was not moving smoothly. It was quivering and there was an awful scraping noise like that of a fork against a plate. No, that is not it either. It was quieter. There was less scrape and more tear. I have heard that noise before. It was an awful noise, but I remember it. I search through my memories for its location and find it quickly. Remember that one time I carved a heart deep into a wooden bench and drew my initials inside it along with the initials of that girl with whom I had been infatuated? That was more like it. I had to press through the paint and the wood was soft beneath it. I try to get a better view of what he is writing with, what he is writing on, and what he is writing. I can't see from here. If only...yes. I will adjust myself so I can see over his shoulder.

I straighten up. I see he hasn't written much. I focus. I see no paper. I see no pen. I want to hold him and tell him he is strong and brave. Surely someone must be around who could tell him that. Why is there no one here? I reach out desperately but am unable to grasp him. I can see it in his beautiful green and gold eyes that he thinks he is alone in this world. You're not alone! I'm right here! You are loved! Don't listen to those voices in your head playing on repeat like a broken record! I scream with all my heart but no sound comes out. Where is someone, anyone, who could show him the compassion and love that he deserves to feel? Why won't anyone come? He's whispering to himself, but I can't hear the words over that awful sound. I can't stand it anymore. It is nauseating.

I open my eyes to escape. He is gone, but the sound remains. I open and close my eyes again and again and again AND AGAIN. I cannot escape it.

I
cannot
escape it.

I think you saw me confronting my fear, it went up with the bottle and down with the beer.

These thoughts are flying through my head. I keep trying to grab a hold of one so I may put it into words and transcribe it here, but I can't. If only I could...damn it, I'm just not fast enough! Okay...steady...FUCK! SLOW THE FUCK DOWN! YOU DON'T FUCKING BELONG HERE! THIS IS MY FUCKING HEAD! THIS IS MY FUCKING HOME! GET THE FUCK OUT!

I want to help them come to life. I want to help them stop being figments. Don't they want that too? At this moment they are just part of the same cloud made up of millions of wisps. I want to take them one by one and create something beautiful with them. They could be poetry or music or art or any fucking thing besides the fucking meaningless things they are now! All those fucking things that keep me from sleeping! FUCK! I just want to rest.

Please. Let me sleep just one night. Let me be free of the hell that has become my mind once again. Please, as if it ever left. It doesn't have to be forever. It could even just be tonight. Let me have just one night.

I won't flinch when the Earth gives way, so I cry out, "the last word is yours to speak."

As a creature of habit, a human by appearance, it seems natural that I would not post anything for over a year. Is it at all strange that the timing of this coincides with a recent mental breakdown? I am not yet ready to let the walls which protect me down so that I may express the will of my heart and mind, but I would like to bring attention to something I discovered.

For anyone who is not aware of this, I struggle with Borderline Personality Disorder. It is not an easy thing to admit. There is an incredibly negative stigma associated with those who deal with BPD. Psychologists refuse to treat us, there is no medicine to help and no cure, there is no social awareness resulting in a lack of understanding, and we are afraid to open up about how difficult this is. I don't think I can't muster the courage to try and describe it right now, but I am sure I will in the future. I do, however, want to point out something humorous I found out. I was told by a social worker that I should look up famous people who deal with BPD and see that I can still be successful and have a fulfilling life in spite of the disorder. Today I googled "famous people with borderline personality disorder" and "successful people with borderline personality disorder." The results were hilariously disappointing. I discovered that everyone who was famous and/or successful and also known to deal with BPD were obviously crazy and the list was very short. After visiting many sites I have compiled a list of the 10 famous people who have or had (since they are now dead) BPD.

- Adolf Hitler
- Jim Morrison
- Marilyn Monroe
- Princess Diana
- Susanna Kaysen (author of Girl Interrupted, an autobiography)
- Amy Winehouse
- Lindsay Lohan
- Doug Ferrari aka "Dougzilla"
- Courtney Love

The tenth person is the only one I could possibly use as a motivator but has obviously proven to the world that she is a little bit unhinged. She is Angelina Jolie. Laugh with me, because laughing is the only thing I can do to keep myself from feeling hopeless about this. I wish more people would come forward and I wish there was far more compassion for us.