The truth about being borderline:
It hurts like hell.
It makes you hate things about yourself that you were hardly aware of to begin with.
It makes you angry at those who don’t deserve it.
It makes you constantly question your purpose and existence.
It often makes you wonder how much better off the world would be without you in it.
It makes you hurt yourself in any way possible, just to find some control, some escape.
It makes you turn into someone you hate, someone you’d do anything not to be.
It makes you afraid; of rejection, of yourself, of those moments when you decide you’d rather be gone than face the excruciating pain you know it’s going to inflict on you.
It makes your proper judgement disappear and tells you that whatever idiotic, impulsive, self destructive thing that you’re craving is the right thing to do, just give in to it.
It tells you that your worthless, that you’re nothing. A tiny spec of a pitiful existence in a world full of people better than you.
What is borderline to me? It’s a curse, it’s an evil, calling out to me every moment of the day, begging to be listened to, screaming out just how miserable I am, how I deserve nothing, how I am nothing.
Borderline is my day and my night, my darkest secret and my most obvious devastation.
It is me, and no matter how hard, how desperately I seek solace from it, it will always be there. Every time I turn around, every time I’m alone, every time I catch a glimpse of freedom or peace. It is always there, telling me I am nothing, telling me I’m not worth it, telling me that the world would be better off had I never entered it. And it makes me believe it. And sometimes I think that one day, it will claim my life entirely.
“Borderline individuals are the psychological equivalent of third-degree-burn patients. They simply have, so to speak, no emotional skin. Even the slightest touch or movement can create immense suffering.”