Violent Tendencies

I’m what they call “a quiet type.”

When you meet a borderline girl, she will be one of two things. A quiet type like myself; someone who internalizes her rage, or the loud types; someone who takes their rage and hurt out on others.

We are different, but also the same. Our thought patterns are fucked either way. We both get angry for no reason. We both are pathetic underneath our mask of anti-vulnerability. But our behavior differs drastically. It all depends on how the disorder presents herself.

Either way, medical professionals will never believe you. Especially when your hypochondriac anxiety kicks in and you become convinced that you have PTSD or Asperger’s or Cancer. Because in your mind, SOMETHING IS WRONG. And if you can’t fix it, you’re surely going to die.

Everyone brushes you off, scoffing and chalking it up to the age-old excuse of, “She just wants attention.”

As if I don’t lose sleep every night.

As if I don’t weep every day, mourning the premature loss of my life.

As if my conviction of having contracted syphilis from a public toilet doesn’t render my vagina OUT OF ORDER.

As if I don’t feel itching and bugs crawling and feasting within my pubic hairs, my labia red hot and disintegrating, my clitoris thumping with agony instead of ecstasy.

The disorders I convince myself of having are real; just not real in the realest of senses. They exist solely in my amygdala but exist nonetheless.

Deafness, blindness, lung cancer, throat cancer, rotting gums, PTSD, autism, psychosis, syphilis, chlamydia, yeast infection from hell.

My body only has BPD. But my mind is sick and dying. Decomposing within my skull with every second you try to ignore me.

But that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part comes when virtually all your symptoms manifest in a single second. The worst part is when the monster that resides within you decides you haven’t been tortured enough.

Self harm seeps in like an unbreathing fog.

Muffled sobs and pounding fists on hardwood floors.

All the sudden, you look up and all you see is your blood pouring from the gashes you cut into your thighs.