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What Suicide Has Taught Me

what suicide has taught me, sloth speed recovery, www.slothspeedrecovery.wordpress.com, suicidal, bpd, borderline personality disorder

I’ve watched my mother deal through the grief of my grandpa’s and aunt’s suicide; the constant pain she felt and the way she teared up on their birthdays or suicide anniversaries. She hadn’t told me these were suicides; I would’ve been too young to understand.

I remember standing on the main floor, hearing my mom huddle into a pillow over the death of her father and I couldn’t comprehend it. I was only a toddler.

Why is it that, the day after my birthday, Matante killed herself and my mom had to leave with no explanation? I wanted to come with, but she couldn’t bare to tell me.

To this day, she is wounded by these suicides, and it has left a void that is way too visible.

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Suicide was a part of the family genes, but I was lucky enough to have been a child and have no understanding of taking ones own life. Until I was 15 years old, and my brother’s friend jumped in front of a train. I didn’t know him the way my brother did, but I knew him better than anyone else from school did, and he chose to end his life.

I, too, was struggling with suicidal thoughts at the time and connected on a deeper level with him. He did what I didn’t have the guts to do, I thought.

Over the months, I developed PTSD symptoms. I could see him; the terror in his eyes as the train approached and that force dragging him to be hit. I could feel his body flinging in the air and studied the direction his body would go depending on how he chose to jump. My mind was a gruesome minefield and he was the picture etched into my skull.

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His suicide ripped me to shreds; I lost a good portion of my hair and was no longer functional. I declined in school and in my extracurricular activities, and I was more suicidal than I had ever been.

Since then, I’ve learned a lot about suicide, about myself, and how I truly feel about suicide.


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Life Is Worth Living. People say this all the time without true emotion behind it, but I know how true this statement is.

Everyday, I get to see the sunshine, the smiling faces of the people around me and watch myself grow into a beautiful young woman with all the capabilities in the world. I get to watch my brother who was supposed to pass at the age of 16, grow into his twenties, and join my family for some of the most memorable holidays.

I started my writing career, which has been my dream since I was a child, and I couldn’t imagine deceiving myself in that way. Had I gone ahead and ended my life, I wouldn’t be able to see my abilities convey themselves onto pieces of paper. Sure, my work isn’t perfect but it never had to be. It just has to be the best I can do, which is a reward in itself.

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You don’t get rid of pain; you pass it on. It isn’t right for anyone to guilt trip you when you’re considering suicide because, that shouldn’t be the reason you choose to stay. You should choose to stay because you deserve life and you are able to be great.

But, there is truth in the statement “you don’t end the pain, you pass it on.” I’ve witnessed and experienced it. You don’t need to be family to have an impact on someone through a suicide; being an acquaintance is enough to affect someone in abundance.

Your pain is molded and transferred in a tragic way to nearly everyone who has come into contact with you, and it’s distressing to see.

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No; no one would be happier if you died. When we experience suicidal feelings, we often feel unwanted or unloved because someone may be experiencing feelings of frustration or anger towards us, but this does not mean they would be happier if we were gone. Even if they claim they want you to kill yourself, they don’t mean it. In reality, there would be great amounts of guilt on their part and they would be distraught with themselves for ever mistreating you; questioning themselves regarding their involvement.

I’m sure my grandfather thought the same way; maybe he felt he was a burden to his family. But, because of his death, I have a forever mourning mother, and I have been robbed of an important relationship with him. He promised to take me fishing with him; leaving me behind at such a young age to go with my siblings. He was supposed to be present in my life, teach me lessons and watch me grow, but he absented himself.

I am not happier that he died, nor is my mom or any of his relatives. There is no bad he could’ve done to make us feel happier without him.

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It’s a thought that can be changed. Suicidal thoughts stem from trauma or a mental illness; we are so desperate to end the pain and grief that we search for a way out. It is often said that people commit suicide because they want the pain to stop.

When you commit suicide, that pain never gets a chance to stop or evolve into something beautiful. It’s only a thought, a feeling, and it can be changed with persistence and a desire to change. You must convince yourself otherwise and move towards a healthy lifestyle that strays you from suicidal urges.

It is possible to live a happy life, and we want you to see it.

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Nothing will change if we don’t try. Since my brother’s friend passed, my life has gone full circle. It was worse before it got better. I was homeless twice, went to a treatment center, completed high school, was in a bad relationship and got out of it, have gotten my own place and got so far in recovery that I can’t believe how far I’ve come.

Had I gone along and committed suicide, nothing would’ve gotten better. I would’ve never been able to see all the beautiful things I have now. I would’ve left during the worst time of my life, without giving myself a chance to become an adult and understand the world around me.

What a joy life is; and I am damn grateful I never succeeded during my suicide attempts.


If you are suicidal or experiencing crisis, please contact your local crisis line. 

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Diagnosed With OCD

Diagnosed with OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder, sloth speed recovery, www.slothspeedrecovery.wordpress.com

How did the therapists and doctors completely miss the 7 year old obsessed with washing her hands to the point where she bled through cracked skin? How did the doctors miss the preteen too afraid to let her parents leave the room without the last thing being spoken to them from her was “I love you” because she was so god damn scared they’d die if they left the room? How did they miss her obsession with time, and her inability to sleep, leading her to be in bed at 7pm so she could eventually fall asleep and get a decent amount of sleep?

How is it that I’ve seen over a dozen psychologist/therapists over the years, 4 psychiatrists and so many other professionals and only NOW has a psychiatrist picked up on the fact that I have OCD.


 

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I have been recently diagnosed with OCD, and though it makes complete sense in some respects, it’s opened up a world of confusion in other areas of my life. I feel so disheveled by the diagnosis, and I’m stuck questioning every single aspect of my life and personality, trying to assess if it’s OCD or a true part of me.

I was going through a distressing period over the last few months where I was having violent and intrusive thoughts that I had no control over. The ones I loved most were wounded by my hands and I didn’t understand it. I genuinely thought I was experiencing psychosis or that I was inevitably going to become a murderer unless I found control. That symptom seemed to be what truly uncovered my OCD diagnosis.

When the psychiatrist looked at me and gave me this label, my chest sunk as I sensed a wave of relief I didn’t quite understand. Tears stung my eyes as my lungs seemed to sink in an ocean of water, struggling to breathe. It was wonderful to know that there was something I could do about it and that I wasn’t inherently bad, but I was puzzled by everything else this diagnosis could mean.

Nearly every second of my recent waking hours is spent in a frustrating questionnaire regarding myself. Is my disgust for wet skin a symptom? How about my fear of imperfection? My verbal compulsions? How about the way I ask for constant reassurance? What does my OCD look like?

I need someone to sit with me and explain every aspect of my own version of OCD so that I may find a split between what is truly me and what has been OCD all along. I’m not sure I see a difference or separation between the two, which is absolutely terrifying to me.

I feel completely engulfed and I just want to understand myself. I want to be in control.

I’m not sure what this means for my future…

 

I will be documenting my journey with OCD on this blog. An OCD section will be added to the Mental Illness drop box.

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My Borderline; The Phone Call that Changed my Life

my borderline; the phone call that changed my life, bpd, borderline personality disorder, www.slothspeedrecovery.wordpress.com, sloth speed recovery

Maybe I called him because I was lonely, or maybe it was because of habit. I don’t remember why, but I was angry. Another Borderline episode, I thought (and chose not to fight). Horrendously tearing him apart limb from limb, I was somehow still surprised when he said he wanted to leave. The aggressive beast calmed down and regressed to a sweet and gentle voice with innocent intentions.

I softly begged him to stay.

“Please stay… I love you. I need you. I’m sorry.”

Anything I could say to make him stay; empty apologies and promises I probably couldn’t keep.

We discussed a life together and what that would look like. Pure dedication and devotion to one another in different ways. A possible promise to be together forever. But, how could I trust him when no else could be trusted in the past? I told him I loved him endlessly and that I was willing to sacrifice anything to be with him, which are serious, outrageous statements.

He could tell something was wrong, because he questioned the authenticity of my claims and feelings. He wasn’t sure if they were honest and genuine from a loving standpoint, or blurted to keep him around. I was just saying this to make him stay. To avoid another period of abandonment.

I retracted my statement and crumbled apart hysterically.

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My Borderline is a puppet mastermind with forceful grips around the reins. It lives inside of my head and I am but its puppet. It controls my movement and thoughts, creating a volatile beast I never thought I’d be. It has the control I will never obtain. I can fight as hard as I want, but my Borderline is always there, fighting harder than I ever could. It’s angry, ferocious and lets loose on the closest ones to me. And sometimes, I don’t want to fight it. It feels good to feed it.

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I remembered how I had read that Borderline is caused by the lack of emotional maturity. The emotional coping factors didn’t grow with time or puberty. Trauma and distress caused it to slow down, if not halt. I compared myself to a little girl, who keeps falling and scraping her knees and cries. It’s the same situation every time, but she still cries; it hurts all the same. That knee scrape is agonizing because it is all she knows. I experience angsty periods of instability like a teenager beginning puberty. I can be healthy and respond in adult ways, but the majority of the time, I don’t. I may embody a 18 year old girl on the surface, working a job and finding her independence, but my emotional range is between toddler and pre-teen.

I’ve been on autopilot for so many years to keep me away from trauma and stay in a safe environment. So much so that I haven’t realized all the time that’s passed. I am not awake. Not alive. Not whole. Everything I do is mindless, out of focus and done without knowledge. Things that take extra thought aren’t rationally thought through, and I barely realize when they’re over. Days go by without notice, and I try to escape to a better place I can barely recall. My emotions haven’t gotten to mature because they haven’t been in control. It’s on a reaction basis of a child.

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That instability can be incredibly addictive with an intense high. I can thrive on drama and out of the ordinary situations, and come out satisfied. I may not be entirely happy, but my Borderline is in euphoria. When I cry, my Borderline is ecstatic. When I’m having a fit and my lungs are rapidly  expanding, it’s on the edge of its seat, with roaring cheers. My Borderline lives within me, and it’s my drug.

My Borderline can’t get enough of the chaos, the crying, the tantrums and scars. “More!”, it cries out, despite my body being on the brink of exhaustion. It wants fire, water and earth; it wants the multiplications of forces. There is no gentle, there is only vulnerability. There is no sadness, there is only detrimental depression. There is no anger, there are only countless grudges and violent urges. There is no balance in my Borderline.

Fighting it isn’t satisfying. It never congratulates me, and I need its approval. It owns me, and controls everything about me. It has ruined who I once was, and I don’t know who I am anymore…

Crying out “Don’t leave me!” leaves a burning flame inside my chest. It stings; it hurts. But, for some reason, it holds comfort. I’ve been repeatedly exposed to abandonment that, crying that out feels like a warm blanket. It feels so good to moan that out, despite the burning and the tears streaming from my eyes. My Borderline is watching attentively and making it worse.

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Borderline stole the fundamental things that made me MJ, the most vital aspects of my personality. The real me loves dancing, music and writing. She is vocal, popular and loved. She is innocent, brave and confident. My Borderline has left me untrustworthy, despicable, pathetic and sad, turning to a blade at the first negative thought.

Anytime I’ve turned to suicide, I always thought that, even after death, I’d still be alive somehow. It was clear to me.

I realized that I never wanted to kill MJ… I was trying to kill the Borderline for killing who I was. MJ was perfectly fine, functional and was facing success; a bright future ahead of her. Somehow, she came in contact with Borderline, and maybe they fell in love. Borderline murdered her, and I don’t think I’ll ever find her again. Out for revenge, I tried to kill the Borderline, which happened to live inside of me…

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My Borderline is to me what a murderer is to a victim’s family. It is the ultimate portrayal of the devil; no good can come from it. Though, a murderer is a physical being that can be locked away in a prison; my Borderline is a rampant mental illness that cannot be seen, caged or taken down easily.

I wonder if my Borderline ever thought that it was strong enough to take me down. Maybe the countless suicide attempts was a war between the rest of me against the disorder. Brawling viciously, we tried to kill each other, all in one entity and body. I was the only victim.

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My Borderline is a control freak with skewed perceptions that it tries to implant into me. It swings puppet strings violently and thinks it can control me; a mastermind of instability. It feels unstoppable and invincible. It has no care in the world for repercussions or consequences, because they don’t negatively affect it. I can’t function in the simplest of situations. It’s erratic and frantic, always on the edge of panic attacks. It raises a hand at the ones I love, and swallows bottles of pills when it wants me gone.

I hate it. I hate how I’ve lost years of my life to this autopilot lifestyle. I didn’t realize the countless losses caused by this disorder and the force it had in my life. I knew it was awful, and made me sick, but not to that extent. I didn’t know it had killed me internally.

I cried like a baby, clinging to blankets and teddy bears. A vulnerable presentation of my life left me restless and exhausted, but I knew my disorder much better. I found its breaking point, the target to strike and where it hurts the most. With the raise of a closed fist, I will destroy my Borderline Personality Disorder.

I will recover.

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Why RawTill4 Was A BAD Idea!

why rawtill4 was a bad idea rawtill4 vegan lifestyle www.slothspeedrecovery.wordpress.com freelee the banana girl

I was a young girl when I first began to question my body. I was in dance class, starring at the bodies of my peers. They had talents in gymnastics and would show us different moves, and I also had a close friend who was a gymnast. I looked up to them indefinitely, and I thought that by being flexible, I could be adored, the same way I adored them. But, in the midst of my thoughts, I associated thin with love.

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I spent every morning before school dancing like a fool in my bedroom, dancing for hours on weekends at times. I saw pudge and disgust in my own body, and the pressure to be thin around me was quite present. One side of my family was overweight, whilst the other had very thin counterparts.

I didn’t think I was particularly beautiful, and I became very influenced by conversations in elementary gym classes where the teacher would mention nutritional value tables, teaching us about calories, fats and carbs. We were given the Canadian Food Guide to consult, and were advised a specific amount of exercise minutes per day. I was never the most athletic, and I took my lack of exercise as a jab to my self-esteem.

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After my 14th birthday is when things sunk in. I had always tried to hide my body in black clothes prior, and did not like to be in tight outfits. I wouldn’t eat in public, and was humiliated by myself and my body. Not to mention, I had my eyes set on a senior about to graduate high school. He could NEVER see me eat!

I spent my ninth grade trying to lose weight, whilst my self harm worsened consistently. Sure, I was losing weight, I was constantly tired and binging on several occasions. I was invested in proana, spent a majority of my time on Tumblr and sunk deeper in self-hatred. My weight never plummeted exactly, but my mental and physical health definitely took a turn for the worst.

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There was a period where I was over-invested in exercise. The spring of 2013 was dedicated to weight loss; I was out of school due to mental health issues and spent hours in the gym. I would either walk or rollerblade to the gym, unless I had tutoring next door, and spent so much time on the treadmills and ellipticals. I refused to gain any muscle because I wanted to be frail. My speed on the elliptical caught a woman’s attention once, where she commented and told me it was crazy how fast I was going.

The summer proved worse where I spent about an hour a day in the incredibly hot sun, rollerblading as fast as I could, in sweaters. I was very unwell.

For a few years, the mentality was still present, but I was practically free of the behaviours. Sure, I hated my body and wanted to lose weight, but my weight had stayed balanced for years. I tried to learn comfort within myself and move along with my day. Not to mention, food is absolutely delicious!

In June of 2015, I turned to veganism, with no relation to my eating disorder. I truly did it for the animals and their well being. The documentary Earthlings was highly graphic and did traumatize me, leading me to hear pigs screaming and refusing to eat because of the trauma, but it was not related to my eating disorder. The sudden change in food and diet did awaken the disorder, but I fought it harshly.

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In April of 2016, I became invested in RawTill4. I saw Freelee The Banana Girl’s body and took her word like a Bible scripture. I could be happy, thin and healthy, whilst eating all the food I wanted? YES, PLEASE! But, that wasn’t the case


What is RawTill4:

Raw Till 4 is a lifestyle rather than a diet. A vegan program that focuses on eating A LOT of  raw fruits (especially bananas!) and vegetables, no animal products, little to no fats or seeds.  You basically eat whole, unprocessed raw foods until 4pm.  Then you are allowed to cook and eat certain beneficial foods, but again, without oils to help flavour and cook your food. (www.rawtill4diet.com)

And then began my journey.

It was a high carb/low fat vegan diet with restrictions on fat intake, meal contents, salt and oil, and you had to have exercise included almost daily. It was also instructed to use a calorie counter online that calculated fats and proteins. It was encouraged to hit 90% carbs/5% fat/5% protein.

ALREADY we’re mixing an eating disorder with calorie counting!? Not a good idea.

It started out great. I was feeling wonderful, eating as much as I cared for, and I was losing weight. I just didn’t know it would harm me the way that it did.

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The problems began when I was constantly eating and still not hitting my caloric intake goals. I was aiming for at least 2000 and could barely attain that on most days (especially since I hated banana/date smoothies). If it weren’t for me having 2 free periods in school, I would have never gotten close to my goals. Some days, I would arrive with half a watermelon and several other fruits to school, spend my day near the counselors office and eat all day, and couldn’t even finish my food load.

I would beat myself up if I couldn’t attain the 90/5/5 goal, and began to stress over the amounts of fat I had eaten. I would sometimes go frantic on my rollerblades, pushing myself far much harder than I should’ve, and I was weighing myself practically daily at about the 2 or 3 week mark, hoping on and off the scale repeatedly, not really entering any weight gained in aspiration to lose it. I hadn’t even hit the 2 week mark when I had attempted to purge again.

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I wanted so bad to see the number on the scale decrease that my intake decreased, too. It must have been obvious because my mother took the scale away. And, there I was, finally noticing a problem. I was no longer in a healthy BMI and spent my lunch and third period to buy a scale.

I had started to take laxatives (something I had never done before), and I would cry and avoid meals when my significant other would come to visit. All I could picture was my “fat” body and how I was kissing “beauty” goodbye.

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I finally attained that thigh gap the 14 year old me wanted, and I was swimming in a pair of jeans that used to be snug. I had lost over 12% of my body weight AND COUNTING! It was visible in my attitude and on my body, and though the 14 year old me would have begged for that, the 18 year old me wanted anything but THAT! I wanted so bad to gain the weight and to be free of my fears, but food just made me cry. I was so scared of ingesting anything, and I was hateful for putting myself in that position.

For a while after stopping RawTill4, I was dependent on laxatives and restriction. I hated the weight loss, but I wanted to keep it so badly. I sought help, and am now registered for an eating disorder program in March. I fight every single day, and some days are no longer battles. I’m happy I gained the weight, even though some days, I turn to my maladaptive coping behaviours. I often celebrate my body with my partner, looking in the mirror while I’m nude and commenting on how beautiful a healthy body looks on me. I’ll grab my tummy and thighs in front of him, and giggle at how cute they are.


I am much happier wrapping my palm around a big handful of chips and eating bananas, than I was restricting anything with too high of a fat content that could jeopardize the “wonders” of RawTill4.

I am happy I had this experience because, it really showed the sick side of my brain and how ridiculous it all was; that being thin would NEVER make me happy!

I am not condemning RawTill4, but I can tell you that I will never revisit it again. You can’t just hop into a diet like RawTill4 when your mind is still sick. I am not saying it doesn’t work or that it should be avoided, but it did NOT work for me. It created fear foods, and worsened my eating disorder overall. It encourages rules and habits, and for those who follow extremes, it can truly ruin their mentality and their body.

I learned that loving my body in whatever shape or form it chooses to take is much more valuable. I can eat wonderful foods, ranging from high fat to extremely healthy. And, if weight is an issue for a potential partner, I will never be with them. My body can be a different shape tomorrow, and that is okay. Recovery is much more tasteful than calorie counting and restriction.

The only thing RawTill4 and I have in common now is that we are both VEGAN!

**I do believe that veganism is the best possible way to live, but I do not support it to achieve weight loss, nor do I think it should be visited in the midst or the ending of an eating disorder. I believe that people should be vegan because, the torment caused to animals is diabolical and unnecessary. Not to mention, livestock eat up many of our resources, and animal agriculture attributes to 51% of greenhouse gas emissions! There are many vegan options of mock meats and dairy products that are just as delicious!**

 

This post is not to demean Freelee the Banana Girl, but more so to spread awareness about the effects of dieting on individuals.

 

 

 

 

 

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Dear Trichsters: HAIR WON’T MAKE YOU HAPPY!

Humans are creatures of the overplayed concept of “I want what I don’t have”. It repeats in our brains like broken records. We want money, stability, healthy relationships, material possessions and great jobs… But sadly, not everything we want can be ours, nor will it make us happy.

Those who suffer from trichotillomania, the compulsion to pull out one’s hair, who have lost significant amounts of hair may think that the solution to their problem would be a full head (or body parts) of hair, which is false.

hair, trich trichotillomania www.slothspeedrecovery.wordpress.com sloth speed recovery

In my experience, I began pulling the hair from my scalp in early 2014, and with such a large bald spot, I was forced to chop off most and shave half of my hair. I reminisced on my long locks and all the fun ways I used to style it, and desired that feminine definition again. I tried to stop my pulling, reducing it great amounts to which it what practically unnoticeable. I grew my short pixie cut over 2 and a half years. I had hair down to my breasts. It was long, healthy and beautiful. I finally felt like a woman again.

I had the hair I had long awaited, but I wasn’t satisfied.I wasn’t any better, or any more “cured”. I was still little ol’ me with a hair pulling disorder, who still wanted more and more hair. My hair still wasn’t good enough by my standards, and I soon understood that that wasn’t the cure to my unhappiness.

I have come to realize, and so should many, if not all “trichsters”, that hair will not make us happy. We want the hair because we lack it, but believe me, hair has its down sides. We have lost something that so easily defined us, and it was practically out of our control. We want hair to avoid isolation and to feel validated, and because we have been robbed.

It’s great to have a goal to work to, and to try to curb the behaviour, but it is important to note that no amount of hair will make us happy. We may be more confident, style it in various ways and flaunt it, but it will not be our solution.

What will make us happy is trying to control the trich, working on our self-confidence and accepting our disorder for what it is. We will fight for the rest of our lives but our happiness will not be dependent on the strands of dead cells that hang from our scalps, no matter how much we crave it. Our hair does not define our happiness.

 

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The Suicide Stalker

I’ll be entirely fine, having a decent day. I’m eating, taking care of hygiene, taking my medications, enjoying the sunshine… But something changes. A bad interaction, anxiety, my trichotillomania kicks in or I just end up too depressed for anything, and then everything changes…

I don’t understand how I can go from okay to just not okay. I’ll be having a grand day, but something has to be said to destroy me. I’m just trying to get by but I can’t shake the demonic thoughts that persuade me and encourage me to destroy myself. I’ll convince myself that I am cured, recovered and okay, but the next moment, I’m contemplating suicide. I just can’t get away from my suicidal thoughts, depression and Borderline.

I’m stuck in an never ending loop. The darkness is all around me and I am drowning, and nobody is there to save me. I feel so alone and lost, and like I could die off and the world would not be concerned.

I am trying with all of my heart and soul to keep my life going but it’s debilitating, and I’m really losing sight of my life and well being. It seems that I’m well on my way to being awful again, unable to function.

My inability to function is destroying opportunities, my relationships and my life and I just don’t know how to get a hold anymore. And when that sinks in, I always contemplate suicide… I am being stalked and followed by my own suicidal desires and my unstable mindset. I am fighting with all of my will power, but I am losing myself…

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My Recovery Wake Up Call (Featuring S.K. Bosak from Borderline Mama)

sloth speed recovery borderline mama www.slothspeedrecovery.wordpress.com www.borderlinemama.wordpress.com my recovery wake up call

With the challenges of everyday life, it is easy to dismiss and forget about our inner troubles. Sometimes a life altering event is the kick we need to wake up to the reality of our illness. Mustering our own inner strengths and all of our courage, we may all see an end to the torment. We must be resilient, and brave. Only then, do we truly start our journey to recover from BPD.

Sloth Speed Recovery has partnered with S.K. Bosak from Borderline Mama to bring you our two incredible stories of self-discovery and journey into recovery.


S.K. Bosak:

I was diagnosed with BPD during my stay in rehab. As a result of all the medicine I had to take, I couldn’t really concentrate on anything and I didn’t feel like myself. I never thought about my diagnosis, but my doctor never went into detail about BPD either. So I just viewed the illness as the cause of my emotional pain and left it at that.

When I was discharged from rehab, I was a fragile mess. I wasn’t ready to go out and live my life, so my parents encouraged me to study from home while I had monthly therapy sessions. It was a lonely ordeal and I hated it. Within a year, I completely forgot about having BPD. My medication made me feel numb, so my therapy sessions weren’t really much help. But I wanted to get back on my feet so I could escape my isolation.

Things started to change when I came off my medication. I began to feel my emotions again. I was able to think more clearly, and remembered my diagnosis. I did a little research on BPD, and finally understood that the illness was why I couldn’t control my emotions and why I behaved the way I did. But I wasn’t ready to recover yet. As a result, my BPD symptoms flared up as I fought to be free from my loneliness.

When I met my SO, I left the country to go and live with him. My BPD symptoms were badly out of control, but I finally wanted to recover. I didn’t like how it made me behave around him. But ended up focusing on our relationship instead on recovery. It was only after I became pregnant, I started focusing on recovery. I didn’t want to be a bad mother.

After our daughter was born, I made a promise to her. I promised to fight my illness so I could be a wonderful mother. My daughter is my motivation to recover.

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Sloth Speed Recovery:

My wake up call was my own self destruction. Nothing was particularly done to me, but I was messing my life up.20160320_14585256861027

I was first homeless a month after my 16th birthday, wanting to get away from home after being physically violent with my family and having the police called on me several times. I was out of control and would use violence to express my inner torment, which turned my family against me. I was partnered with a company that would help me leave home when I turned 16.

I met a boy in the homeless shelter who took my world by storm. I laid my eyes on him and he swept me off my feet. Every interaction we had was lovely, comedic and romantic, until he really hurt me. Within one week of us officially being a couple, he cheated on me. I wanted to die; I wanted the pain to stop. I remember laying on the beach, hoping the waves would drag me in and I could drown. But I was stupid and continued my relationship with him.

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A few months passed and I found out he cheated AGAIN with a girl who was 4 years younger than him and with another girl who woke up, terrorized, to find his hand in her pants.

8 months passed. I had been living with him for 5 months, we had been scrapping pennies, and we did everything together. We were sexually involved with other couples and had rules around that. The night of June 30th, 2015, I went to my friend’s house after a week of suicidal thoughts and pill popping. We went to her boyfriend’s house, and I just wasn’t in my right mind. There had been sexual tension between the 3 of us, with my boyfriend refusing to have sex with them. My boyfriend at the time was with his friends and wouldn’t answer my calls about me feeling aroused and having desire to play with them. Stupidly, I engaged in some sexual activities with them and told him what happened. He was displeased with me, with reason.

Upon my return the next morning, he was furious, and though we led a deviant lifestyle, he had no right to hit me. I was slapped across the face, bringing me to the ground, and received a kick in the lungs. I stopped breathing and ran to the bathroom. (To be clear, I had had physical altercations with him. I did try to attack him once when I was drunk, and smacked him when he had a bottle of pills I was going to OD with).

sui

It was mid October. Our relationship was falling apart and I was utterly depressed, practically never leaving our bedroom and skipping at least one day a week of school. I was terrified about the result of breaking up with him, and in response, chose to down alcohol with sleeping pills during a Halloween party my roommates were hosting. I was ill with one of my roommates asking me what I did and he put me to bed. Upon my boyfriend’s arrival, my roommates harassed him about what I had done. I was unconscious. He came into the room, kissed me, and LEFT to go party. May I repeat that he LEFT his suicidal girlfriend in bed after an overdose mixed with alcohol. I was asleep for 14 hours that night, and though I’m lucky I woke up, it wasn’t for sure that I was going to.

He left me there, without care that our bed could’ve been my death bed.

About a week passed, and I told my school social worker about the time he hit me and she urged I leave him. That night, I came home and insisted we go one break. We discussed rules and he said he would remain faithful, but that I could see other people. Well, he ended up cheating on me again. I packed my things and left the day it happened.

I enrolled in the Out of Control program in my hospital for DBT and CBT, and was broken. I tried so hard to recover but I was destroyed.

Barely two months passed, placing us in December. I had just celebrated Christmas with my family, and an argument broke out. Well, apparently I shoved my mother and next thing I knew, I was homeless again.

homelessyouth

I moved to Toronto with the help of my current boyfriend into a youth shelter. I was in a city I didn’t know, with people I didn’t know, trying to get on my feet. I enrolled in a new school, started seeing a youth worker, had a school social worker, and worked at a restaurant. I was getting on my feet, but I was miserable and terrified.

I lived there for practically 4 months, witnessing fights with knives and fists, theft, had schizophrenic roommates, sexual harassment and STDs. I decided to patch things up with my mother, begging her to pick me up and take me back home. I needed my family back and I couldn’t live like that anymore.

My mom forced me to re-enroll in the Out Of Control Program, I chose to start working on my recovery and managing my emotions, I graduated high school, joined an employment program, started this blog and I’ve started my own secret project (coming soon!). I have not displayed violent behaviours since December, my self harm is farther and fewer in between, and I am in control of myself and my emotions.

I still have a ways to go with my recovery, but I’m almost there. Everyday is a battle and my BPD really gets to me sometimes, but I understand now how much talent and what capabilities I possess. Recovery is a lifetime lifestyle, and I’m going to get there. So can you.


What was or will be your wake up call?