I’ve done it again. That is, I’ve made the same mistake for the thousandth fucking time, under the alcohol-induced illusion that there are no consequences to my stupid actions, that I am not hurting anyone, that nobody will hate me in the morning. That, “It’s fine! I’m 21 years of age, I’m single for the first time in years, I’m beautiful and men hang off my every word and of course they’re not using me, but it is I who is using them and everything is fucking glorious so let’s get another tequila!”
I don’t know what hurts more and I can’t decide which is worse:
A) That, sometimes, I know what I’m doing, or
B) that, sometimes, I can’t remember what I’ve done.
I can’t remember most of what happened on Friday night. I know that I upset my dad on his birthday because of my drunken behaviour. I know that he told me to stop drinking and go home. I know that I ignored him and carried on drinking. I know that something happened in a car park behind a pub, and I know who I was with. Blackout. I remember him telling me to be quiet. Blackout. I know whose bed I woke up in. I remember nothing else. I don’t know what happened.
I am irresponsible and impulsive and my behaviour is dangerous. I am going to try to have a sober-ish week and spend time with my niece and nephew, the little angels who give me reason to live. My sleep is awful and I don’t know who I am or what’s going on. I don’t know what day it is. I wish I cared. I wish I didn’t care.
I crept out of his house just after 7am and commenced the walk of shame, through the frozen streets back to my mother’s block. When I got in, I changed my clothes and caught my reflection in the mirror. I looked like a little girl. Pale, skinny, hurt, fragile, scared. I didn’t recognise myself. I looked at myself for a long time. My hair that was cut haphazardly with the kitchen scissors, last night’s makeup smudged under my eyes, the lovebite on my neck, the cuts that have formed on my lips as a result of biting them when nervous. My skin was so white but my scars were even whiter, standing out on my shaking arms. My breasts ached but so did my head.
I looked so tiny under the huge t-shirt I wore to bed. A child. Daddy’s little girl. I pushed my hair back over my shoulder and looked at the logo printed on the breast. The shirt was made for my dad, by his friends, to celebrate his 45th birthday. He was 66 on Friday. And I fucking fucked it up by caring more about drinking, dancing and cocaine kisses with a married man than I cared about making sure my dad enjoyed what will probably be his last birthday and making sure he got home safely. Fuck. That’s not the person I thought I was and that’s not the person that I want to be but I am terrified that I can’t stop it.
Needless to say, I hate myself. My behaviour is inexcusable, even if it’s only a product of BPD and not representative of my true self, it still fucking sucks and has to stop. I really can’t stand to look at myself. I want to hurt myself. But I think I’ve done enough damage already.
I’m very confused about who I am. The beautiful little girl with all the potential and a bright future still lives in me somewhere. But for the past year I have been an ugly, stupid manifestation of all the things I hate to see in other people. And, being some sort of failed Manic Pixie Dream Girl New-Romantic mess, I glamourise it. I fucking revel in the prospect of being the Other Woman, having my drink spiked or running on the train tracks, because wow that’ll be a funny story to tell in the pub. But it’s not funny anymore. It’s sad and I want it to stop. But I just can’t. I disgust myself. Who am I? What the fuck has happened to me. I am devastated at what I’ve become. I can’t even think. I can’t think.
Time for quetiapine dreams. X