Deeper and Darker

My depression is getting deeper and my mood grows darker every day. I feel trapped in the house I am staying in and I have no other options. I can’t even afford a cup of coffee much less a place of my own. The anxiety level of my friend that I am staying with and her son is starting to rub off on me. I have had to take my anxiety meds every day for the last week.

The thoughts of suicide have become front and center again. I find myself having an internal debate going on in my head. If I die here it would be easier for my family to make final arrangements but I don’t want to die somewhere so grey, bleak, and depressing. I want to die somewhere warm and beautiful.  I have been cutting nearly every day since I have been here. In the 12 days that I have been here I have 52 new cuts on my arm and an additional 37 on my legs. At this rate I will never be able to wear short sleeves ever again. I need to find a job and need to do it soon or better yet be awarded the disability I have applied for. I honestly don’t think I am stable enough to work more than a couple of days and I am starting to doubt that I ever will be. I hate the thought of being considered permanently disabled because of mental health issues but it may be something that I have to accept. 

I’ve Made a Mistake

I think I have made a huge mistake. I have been in Upstate New York for eight days now and I am miserable. I feel completely disconnected from the world, the weather is awful, and the people are way too anxious for me to tolerate. I was happier living on the streets in California.

The level of anxiety in people around here is astounding. I say this as a person that is on three different psychotropic drugs every day. The friend that I am staying with warned me six or seven times before I arrived about the “massive construction” on the interstate. There were fifteen traffic cones. I asked my friend for a ride to a meeting the other night. She went into a near panic when I told her where it was. She signed deeply and exclaimed in an irritated tone “that’s almost thirty minutes away”. After living in California for 16 years I have learned to allow at least an hour to get anywhere. Nearly “thirty minutes away” is nothing. Another example of her anxiety is shown in her dining preferences. I mentioned that it would be nice to eat at a certain restaurant and she said she didn’t go there because there usually is almost a twenty minute wait for a table. Twenty minutes?! Oh the humanity. 

Another thing I am having trouble with dealing with is how structured she needs things to be. Don’t get me wrong, I do need quite a bit of structure in my life to feel balanced, but she takes it to an extreme that I have not seen since I left here sixteen years ago. Lunch is always at 12:00 noon sharp. Dinner is always at 5:00pm sharp. There is no spontaneity and no room for deviation whatsoever. I feel like I am institutionalized again.

Speaking of institutions, another thing I am finding deeply distressing is the lack of interaction with the outside world. She does not have internet and does not want it. The closest wifi hotspot I have found is over four miles away, so it’s not something I can walk to. I am used to spending 4-5 hours a day on line. Now I get two hours every three days. There is only one TV in the house and she and her son have watched nothing but stupid reality contest shows and Dr Who. I fucking hate sci-fi and it has been a nonstop  two and a half days of Dr. Who. I’m ready to stick a gun in my mouth. That not being an option, I lock myself in my room and try to find new areas of my body to cut that give me the stress relief I need, yet are not noticeable to the causal observer. 

Lastly, the weather has been miserable. We have had thunderstorms every day and it is bleak, grey and cold. I find the temperatures to be unpleasantly cool, my friend and her son are bitching about how hot it is. If I am this miserable with the weather now, I know that winter is going to put me in a catatonic state. I am not, and never will be prepared to deal with snow and ice again.

I have made a huge mistake by coming back here. In less than a week all the reasons that prompted me to leave here are front and center. This is a cold, grey, bleak and depressing part of the country. The people are anxious and bitter. It has been this way my entire life, and apparently will never change. I wish I would have had the nerve to go through with swallowing the two bottles of Seroquel like I had planned a couple of weeks ago. Death is much more attractive of a proposition than living here like this is.

I Hate It Here

I’m miserable here, I was happier on the streets in California. The weather sucks, it has rained every day since I got here. The anxiety level of people here is astounding. That says a lot coming from a person dealing with a couple of severe mental illnesses. I’ve been here less than a week and I’ve cut myself nearly 40 times.


I’ll be lucky if I last a month here.

How Quickly Things Change

The curse of having BPD, emotions can turn on a dime. Ever since I arrived in New York I had been calm and serene. I went a week without even thinking about any sort of self harm. Last night I attempted to attend an NA meeting for the first time since I got here. When I arrived at the location I had listed there wasn’t a soul to be found. Neither my friend that drove me or I possess a phone that has internet capabilities so we had no way of confirming the address. Instantly my mood turned dark and when we got back to the house I locked myself in my room. I dug into the hidden compartment in the lining of my suitcase and pulled out Stanley, my favorite box cutter. Six new cuts on the inside of my thighs. 

I chose the thighs, because I am not sure how my friend or her son would react to seeing fresh cuts on my arms. My friend has a long history of self harm which she seems to have under control. I am not sure how observant they are either, so I don’t know if they would den notice. I hate cutting my legs, it doesn’t give me the release I need and it ends up stinging like a motherfucker when I use Veet to remove the leg hair.


After three months of being homeless and alternating between sofas, motels, and sleeping on the streets, I accepted defeat and accepted the offer of a plane ticket and a room from some old friends. I made it to the east coast safely. For the time being I am staying with a friend in Binghamton NY. She does not have internet service and the closest wifi hotspot is over four miles away. My postings are likely to be sporadic at best, but I will post when I am able.

They Can’t Be Doing This To Me Now

Unfucking believable. My flight leaves in twenty-one hours and the people at my destination are giving me shit.


My friend that I am staying with texted me and said she will never see me as Allison and that she will always view me as my former male self in a wig.

My mother called me and informed me that my chances of finding employment would be much greater if I transitioned back into being a male.


This is the kind of shit that made me move 2600 miles away in the first place, the judgment, the better than thou attitude, the absolute ignorance to anything outside of their personal bubble.  Now they are throwing it in my face the day before I leave. I can’t handle this bullshit. I had abstained for four days. Now I have six fresh cuts, one for every insulting and demeaning thing these fucking people said to me.

Conspiracy theory


This sounds like my story. I was first diagnosed with BPD in 1989 when I attempted suicide during basic training in the US Navy. I was never told about it, what it meant, or how to deal with it. It was just a line in my discharge paperwork. I walked around with this illness for the next twenty-five years leaving a path of destruction that would make Godzilla envious. In May of 2014 I attempted suicide again and was again diagnosed with BPD. It was then that they finally decided to do something about it.

Originally posted on BPD - let's stop the stigma:

I find there is a disturbing conspiracy of silence among some mental health professionals about the diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) with a number of clinicians reluctant to tell their patients of the diagnosis.

There are countless stories within BPD communities where patients have been diagnosed for ten years but only recently found out their diagnosis by accident. Imagine having cancer and never being told meanwhile the cancer spreads, gets worse and you have no idea why you are experiencing the symptoms or how to get relief from them. Imagine the betrayal you would feel when you find out you’d been lied to.

Knowledge is power, right? So why are some clinicians so resistant?

Is it because they are trying to avoid a diagnosis with so many stigmas associated with it and in turn avoid the patient being treated poorly? Chances are if an unwell BPD patient presents to…

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