You see that girl on the left? She’s absolutely, completely gorgeous, isn’t she? She’s the girl I was living with before I had to leave school, and she’s my best friend of almost 7 years.
Like any relationship, we’ve had our ups and downs throughout those years. I say “ups and downs” for lack of a better phrase, although it doesn’t really describe what I mean. For months, maybe a summer, we would be inseparable; living in the same neighborhood made it easy. But then out of nowhere, it would all stop. I mean, we were still friendly, we would say hi, talk about whatever was in front of us, but it was entirely different. Seeing her each day felt the same as meeting her again for the first time, every day. I’m one of those girls who is closer to her friends than to her family, and I’m also one of those girls who only has one or two close friends; she means so much that silently losing her is like… wow, I don’t know. Can’t describe without using some long ass metaphor that will make me sound like a fat drama queen.
This post isn’t supposed to about me anyway. I know I wasn’t actually losing her and I’m aware that my feelings are always going to be stronger than the situation. So yeah, enough digressing.
Here’s what happened: I had a dream about her last night. I couldn’t have described this dream even if I had enough courage to write it down… therefore I don’t remember much of it except for this one scene. The gist of what’s happening basically goes that I drive back down to school one weekend to visit her. I walk in and the blackout blinds are pulled so it’s completely dark at 3 pm. She’s in the corner of her bunk bed underneath her covers, the air in the room is stale. She must be napping! I climb onto the desk and tiptoe to hoist myself up to her bunk to surprise her, landing with a bouncy thud. This next scene, oh god… When I landed, I saw blood everywhere. Her arms were stained with damp, reddish brown splotches. There was blood smeared into the blue walls and crusty chunks had congealed on her face underneath her sweaty hair which was stuck to her forehead. Her eyes forced themselves open and it was so apparent how much energy it took for her to even do that much. Her face was just drained, hollow. I recognized that look so well. Then, I saw her push the Xacto blades under her pillow, the ones I used to use.
In the past I’ve had persistent dreams in which strangers around me are dying but I can’t move, ones in which I have to kill myself in order for other people live, or ones in which I am dying. This dream was entirely different… In the other ones I felt numbness and acceptance, but I can’t piece together words to describe the feeling I woke up with after this one. Fear? Love? Hatred? Worry? Love. The sharp, dying kind of love. The terrible kind that enables a pious Christian husband to commit murder after he finds his wife brutally beaten and raped. All the vulnerability, all the hurt you’re susceptible to feeling when you care about someone, it comes all at once— the sharp, dying kind of love.
I will recover. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t get that exact feeling I felt in my dream. It’s knowing that what I do to myself influences her and everyone else who has told me they care: that’s the feeling I need to hold onto. I’m meeting with my new psychologist and psychiatrist today, and I am not going to lie to them to “make things easier”. I need to believe the things they say, I need to want this. What I do to myself influences the people who care. Hold onto that feeling, you can do this.
** Wow, I just realized this post is quite a contradiction to the quote I posted earlier from Anthro of an American Girl. For now, I’m just going to put that on my bpd. Impulsively changing beliefs, you know how it goes.