The Mujer is back!

Note to regular readers: What follows may be disturbing. But as the tagline says, honesty NEVER stopped being a necessity.

I was supposed to die on July 8th. Had it all planned. I would rise around 5 in the morning, drive to the San Mateo or Dumbarton Bridge(since there is less traffic there), take a long cocktail or three of Tylenol, Benadryl and rum or tequila, and jump. I would leave a note for my family. Hopefully no one would see me. Time or the internal injuries would take my miserable self off the planet. But a perfectly timed car crash on Wicks(God, despite all my nonsense, has mercy on me again and again) and the prospect of not seeing my Play Brother and my grandpa waiting for me on the other side kept me from carrying out my morbid plan.
Yesterday, I thought about it again. Looked longingly at the alcohol on my kitchen counter(I’ve been sober for a month and 15 days) and wondered just how many Tylenol and Benadryl I could ingest quickly. But I prayed. Talked to my Work Mommy about work and our Play Brother. Prayed some more. And lived to see today.

Recovery is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I have survived the loss of one of my dearest friends, the loss of a friend/lover, the loss of a friend/mentee, and the loss of my mind(albeit temporarily) in the last two months. All of these losses have hurt but what hurts most is my own fragility, of realizing that I am both stronger than most people I know and more vulnerable. My mind feels like an egg, so easily shattered. Therapy, in its latest incarnations, are leading me into my past and into the depths. I am cutting through shrubbery and beginning to catalog all that I am discovering and recovering in my mind’s vast continent. It is grueling work, filled with exhaustion, tears, and the occasional loss of hope. But I move forward. Sometimes I wish I didn’t have to, that I could anasthesize myself the way I did the last time my BPD took control of my life, back in 1999, how easily I would lose myself in a haze of drinking, clubs, meaningless hookups, and abuse at the hands of my drug-addicted on-again, off-again boyfriend. That is not me anymore. I would rather weep and suffer. Because I want to get better. I want to live.

It hasn’t even been two months since I was diagnosed. I have to be patient. I have to be fierce.

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