I’ve Been Here Before

DISCLAIMER: All names in this post have been changed for privacy reasons. 

The hours tick by. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Seven hours since you said you need a week long break from me. Seven hours out of 168. Only 161 left. Right? Honestly, I’m not sure. That’s the worst part. The truth is my BPD is running rampant right now, and my fear of abandonment is crippling. 

I’ve been here before. This same corner of this same couch has caught more of my tears than you know... than you may ever know. There it is! The panic swells inside my chest again. My breath becomes labored. My eyes sting as I fight back the tears. Oh yes. I have been here. The soft hum of the electronics is the only thing I hear, but they sound so loud that I want to run. So, I throw on my jacket, go out into the crisp fall evening, and smoke a cigarette. Yes, I’ve been here before. My mind repeats it one last time for good measure. See, I have to remind myself that I know what to do. I have to remind myself that I have indeed been here before. I have to remind myself to respect the boundaries you have set as BPD screams inside my head that I don’t because you are leaving. It screams that the last time I saw you or the last time I spoke to you really was the last time. It screams that you are like Stephen and Anthony, that you have left and aren’t coming back. It screams that I screwed up again, but I force myself to take a long drag off my cigarette and hear as years of mindfulness work breaks through, “I have been here before.”

That sentence on repeat slows the panic and the dread ever so slightly. Enough for some mindfulness work to take place. Write it down. Document it. Remember. What did you do with Stephen? Remember. You have to remember. He set boundaries too. He took a break too. What did you do?  And then it is back again. The terrible, awful voice of borderline personality disorder telling me that I wasn’t good enough to keep them. That I was too messed up for them to love, too messed up for them to stay by my side as my friend as they swore they would. Maybe I am too messed up. Maybe you deserve better. I know you do. Deep down I know you deserve better. Everyone does, including myself, but I have to live with this. You don’t. You can leave. The panic swells again. “I’ve been here before.” This time I speak it aloud. I cannot continue the cycle. Cannot continue to ride this messy carousel of pain. Then, I remember. Stephen asked for space, and I never gave it. Never allowed him time to decompress. Never allowed him time away. I was desperate, so desperate, to fix it, to fix us, to keep him. I feel that same fear now. That same desperation, but I don’t move. I just light another cigarette. I have to respect the boundaries because chasing Stephen made it worse. The moment I stepped over the boundary he was gone.

One. Two. Three. Everything happens in threes. Are you the third? The third really great friend that I have run off with my insanity? “I’ve been here before.” I’m clinging to sanity but barely. I refuse to cross your boundary. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the time I get it right. I smile slightly. Maybe. Then, the smile fades. I can do my part this time. It feels like it will kill me, but I know I can do it. Stay in my lane. Not cross over. I can do that. For this friendship, I can do that. Then I hear it. The tortured voice of the broken part of me... “but you’ve been here before.”

I’m Not a Princess

“You’re not a princess, Aunt Sarah.”

Those are the words uttered by my 5-year-old niece when I told her I would be playing Allana in The Little Mermaid. For those of you who don’t know the names listed in  the song “Daughters of Triton” Allana is one of Ariel’s older sisters, which means Allana is in fact a Disney Princess. The show is currently running (2 weekends left... get your tickets at jccommunitytheatre.org), and I still struggle with this aspect of the character. Actually, I struggle with most aspects of the character. You see... I agree with my niece. I am NOT a princess, and I most definitely am not a Disney Princess. 

I am 32. I am morbidly obese. I am less than pretty. The only thing I have going for me is a singing voice that the good Lord decided to bless me with... and a big heart that loves people. That’s it. So, prior to every performance, I paint my face, put on my costume, and lock myself in the paint room at the theatre to steel my nerves. Not because I have stage fright, but because I accepted a role that I am physically uncomfortable playing. I call myself the whale-sister instead a mersister because that’s how I feel, but I force myself to put on an air of being comfortable in my own skin because that is one of things we are trying to achieve with this production. Showing people that no matter your age, race, sexual identity, or size you can be whatever it is you want to be. Sometimes, I think this is more for me than any audience member because I struggle so much with my body image. 

I have tried to lose weight. Believe me. I’ll try again and again, but until I can find that love for myself that I so freely give to others, it won’t stick. I know this because it is the first thing anyone will tell you about weight loss. So, for now, I will step on that stage, mid panic attack, uncomfortable with who I am, and deliver a performance that makes audiences feel like they are represented because they are! That’s the beauty of it! Honestly, I LOVE what we are doing! I just wish I would have declined the role 90% of the time. 

I know this probably doesn’t make sense. I know people never really read my blog anyone. I know there are people who will say, “Sarah’s having a BPD moment and asking for validation.” Does my BPD make this harder? Absolutely, but I’ve done the work enough to know the difference. This is me expressing my feelings about something that is affecting me. No more. No less. Does validation feel good? Absolutely. I wouldn’t human if I said no... with or without BPD. But validation is not my end game. My end game is to express how I feel and acknowledge those feelings in order to hopefully let them go in a healthy way. 

For now... I’m proud of myself for doing this in spite of being uncomfortable. It is only through the pain that we grow. 

The Hardest Phrase I Have Ever Uttered

I am sitting in my car. My phone is charging. It is raining, and I am doing my best to type this post. The words refuse to come to express the emotions I am feeling. Mid-life crisis sounds too cliche. Anxiety, depression, borderline personality disorder: they all sound irrelevant as I work so hard to combat them every single day. No, this is deeper yet more surface. It is dashed dreams, broken promises, and a grief I never knew I could feel. It is a battle for acceptance of a situation that I am uncertain I can win. It is trying my best to believe God’s plan for me is exactly what He wants and knowing that it is so far removed from what I ever wanted that I have no idea what my life will be. 

I will never have children. 

There. I said it. Again. However, this time I am saying it to more than just my closest friends and confidantes. I am saying it to more than God. I am attempting to own it the same way I owned my BPD in the beginning... by acknowledging it out loud. 

It hurts to say it, and I fear this post may hurt others in a way. I have children. I have 4 theatre children that make me the happiest, most frustrated theatre mom there ever was. I love them intensely and unconditionally. I would do anything in my power to ensure their happiness and health in this life. I annoy them. I am overprotective of them. They more than likely hate me for it, but they allow it because they know I love them. They allow it because it makes me happy and fills a small section of this void in my life. If any of you are reading this, please know that my sadness right now has nothing to do with you. It has to do with the grief I feel over the loss of the life I always thought I would have. 

I always wanted children. I always wanted a husband and kids and a dog and a fenced in yard. I wanted all of those things. In my 20s, I started to realize that would never happen for me so I started saying that I hated kids, that I did not want them. It was a lie I told myself because, at the time, it made me feel better. Now, that lie hurts me in ways I never knew it would. Let’s call that unhealthy coping mechanism number one.  

Unhealthy coping mechanism number two has been in full force. See, there was this guy. Love of my life. If I am being completely honest, I am over him. I have been for years. My friends don’t know that. They think I am still hung up on him. Why? Because anytime I get sad, I use him as an excuse. I filter that sadness through the “I miss ______” dialogue I grew accustomed to using. The truth is that it is easier to “miss him” than it is to face a new type of sadness. I know what missing him entails. I know what it means. I know how to survive it. This? This is new. A different kind of hurt. A different kind of pain. This pain has swallowed me whole. 

So, where do I go from here? I am not sure. I keep living. I keep loving my theatre children, but this post allows me to be a bit more open, honest, and real with them. A friend told me recently that my kids are strong and can handle the truth of my sadness... that what they won’t tolerate is the lies. So, there’s the truth. I’m sad because I will never have children outside of my adopted theatre kids... not because of ______. I know it sounds like something stupid to be sad over, but there it is. When I talk about him, know that I am trying to say something else but the words are too painful to speak. 

I will never have children. 

The hardest phrase I have ever uttered.