Borderline Personality Disorder and the In-between

Sometimes I become riddled with the fear that I am incapable of love, hate and any emotion that is liable to eat me up from the inside. I am scared I’ll be a robot, without any outward display of feelings. I’m scared my Borderline Personality Disorder has become uncontrollable.

Then something bad happens.


My heart aches, and I wondered why I was so scared of not feeling, when the feeling hurts so much, I feel heavy and teary. I’m scared now of this feeling destroying me. Which is not unreasonable when you know my history.

I don’t want you to go. 

I’m desperate to make something good to be held onto for him, panicking that I may not give him the chance to have that ‘once in a life-time’ opportunity. I feel useless, I feel impotent and my hands are tied. There is very little I can do to fight this unseen monster, I can shout and scream, but in the end it’s not doing much.

I am so scared of failing him, you, and everyone else. I’ve always been petrified of rejection. Not so much a curse as a sneeze caught in the back of my mouth.

Diseases of the mind creep into our consciousness, Dementia a devil that destroys everything that we could ever hold dear, and I just have to sit back and watch. How is it this is something that we still need to allow to happen? How is it that we haven’t worked out how to let people hold onto their memories and skills?

I don’t want you to go and this isn’t fair.


This situation, it highlights not only my failures but my blessings. I am so lucky to have all four Grandparents, and I knew two of my Great-Grandparents. I’ve got the full house of Family-Bingo. I am so lucky to know them and their stories of a world that is almost unrecognisable. “I remember during the war” and “In my day“. They are not just my Grandparents, they are someone’s brother, sister, someone’s mum and they are still someone’s child.

Oh how a word can become a language for that feeling, that relationship. Daughter-Mother-Grandmother and all that’s in between.

I’m scared of anything that could ever leave me without capacity for a long stretch of time. My faculties and my intelligence (if, that is, I am intelligent) are the things I hold close to my heart, the things that, if it really came down to it, I couldn’t bare to lose.

Except, the scariest thing is, at times I haven’t had capacity. The maggots in my brain started chewing the grey flesh and I wasn’t allowed to make decisions, it was proven that I was an alien in the world and couldn’t retain the information. When it is presumed that everyone has capacity until it’s proven they don’t, that’s scary, and it’s upsetting when no-one around you trusts you to even take your medication correctly.

But I’m the lucky one, Borderline Personality Disorder doesn’t strip me of my memories and skills forever, I have respite, allowing me to see the world in all it’s shining glory, and I fall in love with life all over again. I have this notion at times, that maybe all this love I hold will last forever. That maybe, I can change the world. I’m actually a very forgiving person (but this may be because I always think I deserve the bad things that happen to me).

It never lasts. Then again, neither does the sadness. I need to keep trying, I need to hold on, I’m not drowning, not just yet.

I don’t want you to go.


By the way,

I sent some original artworks to PaperGirl Blackburn, which I’m pretty happy with, the exhibition will be run at the St John’s Centre, Victoria Street between the 6th and the 16th of November, before being distributed to random passers-by. I love this idea and am in full support of the ethos behind it.




Thank you all for your lovely comments to this, I am a misery at times and sometimes the whole thing just needs to be let out, for my sanity as much as anyone else’s.  I didn’t expect such comments and they made me feel so grateful that there are people offering lovely words to me when I’m just throwing it all out there brazenly, and moping like a sad sad little creature.


I can’t quite describe how I feel and the rarity in my life is I’ve been listening to music again. Sometimes songs fit the moment so well, but I’m not musical, and I never have been (apart from a brief foray into the keyboard at the age of eleven- disastrous when you’re tone deaf). The music I grew up around has stayed with me, Portishead, Nirvana, Pink Floyd, Radiohead, can you tell my parents listened to happy music? Sometimes a collection of songs sums it all up so well. I made a terrible playlist. You can always follow me on spotify (I’ve shared on facebook too, which you can like here).


Tracey Emin: WHAT (SAUCE:Here)

The other day I read this article in i-d about artists, young artists and drawing. Obviously they mention Tracey Emin, who, you(maybe?) + I can empathise with, the rawness of her feelings laid out in a drawing, it’s poetic and painful all together.

Its re-emergence has something to do with the openness, shareability and personability of Web 2.0. Emin might be one of the most famous artists working today who extensively uses drawing, but young artists are returning to it in their droves, often as a way of connecting digital art to a wider psychological examination.

The article sums up in one how drawing can be so integral, to not just the artist, but forging connections (how-ever much in vain that hope is).

And it’s in this meeting point, between the psychological and conceptual, that maybe gives the best indication of how drawing will survive and thrive in the future, its flexibility allows it to embrace its contradictions between privacy and openness, simplicity and conceptuality, cartoonish humour and psychological evaluation.

Drawing for me is a challenge and my sketchbooks a history of not just my artistic growth, but my life and feelings, my behaviours and things I do, a reaching out in bizarre fashions that doesn’t quite make sense, a jarring- juxtaposition, that may or may not relate on a deeper level to my life and mental health. There is something so simple and delightful about drawing, and it is easier to see a trajectory of improvement.

I haven’t drawn in days, nothing of note. Maybe I should try.

You Don’t Know About Me

I was going to write a nicely condensed list of things blog readers who don’t actually get my witty personality in real life might not know. (Cleverly titled “Things You Don’t Know About Me”) Then I decided it’d be much more fun if you left me questions and then I can reply to them in a later blog post, or even a FAQ.

Exciting isn’t it?

No, not terribly.

Today I’m doing every bloggers favourite whinge of “Would anyone notice if I didn’t blog?” and expecting the universe to answer with a resounding and positive “Yes“.



You gotta mouth but you ain’t got guts
That drunken mouth you should keep it shut

You don’t know what it’s been like
Meeting someone like you


Do we ever really know people though? I feel so ostracised, at work, in the street. I could stand for hours letting the rain fall down my face watching everyone else, desperate for that connection, the indescribable one.

It’s a bit like static electricity, hairs on the neck, that kind of connection. I hate small talk and thrive from people who I can get down to the nitty-gritty with. Which could be why I have the ease of talking to complete strangers only when I’ve had a skin-full.


I can and do spend hours researching infamous serial killers, and those dregs of humanity, those which were written off as “mad” or “bad”. I keep thinking about writing to Charles Bronson, and how fascinating all these people are.

Those that have seen the boundaries we all live in, and literally smashed through them, making up their own rules and at times, appearing to not feel the consequences of the heinous crimes they’ve committed.

Maybe infamy is easier to achieve than fame? Maybe the narcissism that is in an artist is in all serial killers?



I don’t even feel like an artist right now. If I think of the image the word artist conjures up in my minds eye, I’m not even close. I feel like my heart has been strung out and left to rot. I am completely convinced that at this point I’m never going to achieve.

Maybe I’m greedy for something, because I’m sure everyone is gonna tell me how I have achieved and “you’ve come so far“. It doesn’t feel like that though, and telling me well done for past accomplishes doesn’t make me feel any better about my position today.

Sometimes you get better support stating what you don’t want to hear.


I wanted to post more organically, to give me space to actually write about what I wanted to write, and I’m trying to hold back from posting 30 times a day, as my thoughts feel so alien and my feelings feel detached.

I go crazy ’cause here isn’t where I wanna be
And satisfaction feels like a distant memory
And I can’t help myself,
All I wanna hear her say is “Are you mine? ” 



I’m not adverse to taking risks, I’ve taken some really stupid and dangerous risks in the past, and surprisingly they’ve paid off in the luckiest of ways, and I am terribly unlucky normally. So it’s not that, I’m not someone that goes searching for change, and I hate looking stupid, I’m secretive, believe it or not.

Maybe liking myself is not the start of the journey, it’s the destination.