Borderline personality disorder is distressing

That really sums it all up if you know anything about the condition. But, since it is likely you do not, I'll give you a bit of information to explain what I mean. I love and I hate. No, that's what the diagnosis generally implies, but that's not what I always do. It does seem that way often I must admit. Socially this is a problem. Romantically this is augmented and magnified to a degree approaching lunacy. It is ludicrous, the life I lead.

Katie, since I know you read this, I'd like to let you know that you are my exception that proves the rule. You are tonight's subject but do not ever doubt even for a moment my complete love for you. You are my one and only and seeing this has allowed me to recognize and tackle each mental problem I have as it comes to me and admit my weaknesses.

Tonight I spent time with my fiance. Some fun was had, not too much, but enough. My twisted wicked mind pesters me like a stick poked into my side over and over. "If she is not with you completely physically than you may as well be acquaintances." That statement is false. There's no arguing for it with any sense of logic. But I'm not a Vulcan. Knowing something is not logical does not pull it from inside my head, doesn't force me to be normal and feel what I so badly want to augment my love for her with. I have not doubted for an instant that I love her, because it is just that kind of love. My soul, which I have never even been sure existed before, sympathizes with her and symbiotically bonds to her presence.

But this nagging voice persists at me like Marge Simpson grinding her teeth I can't seem to separate it from the audio track playing in my head. I know that unless she is completely mine, a shared life in every conceivable way, this will nag at me. This will carve itself into my flesh day in and day out while I contemplate my life in the shower or gaze into the mirror or twiddle my thumbs. It will keep carving this with the broken glass that is my grey matter: Not really yours. It's like it's all a sham to that little voice in my head. Every emotion I feel, every moment we share, each kiss and nibble and orgasm, it all lacks substance to that creature who I very much wish to name so that my torment may have a name and I can assign it a face and picture its grim countenance feeling the pain I inflict.

I miss cutting my flesh. I miss the pain, I miss the pleasure. I miss the blood perhaps most of all. I'm not a religious man, but the first time my blood flowed out over my joints and dripped onto the carpet I understood baptism, being hurled under a liquid so pure and beautiful it cleanses your soul. So cutting is sort of a mirror image of a baptism. Holiness reflected in a mirror, darkly.

I feel so guilty and upset, distraught really, over this whole thing that my stomach churns. I wrote a bit on it in math class this morning. I will put it into poetry later, but not poetry for her. I haven't written her poem for today yet. This guttural poem is for my own growth, and perhaps for the folio. But it is not a side I would like to read to her. It would only make her upset.

I cried just a few tears while holding her tonight, I felt so close and so in love that, as the flaming lips would put it, my happiness made me cry. I'm finishing tonight's entry with another lyric:

And still this emptiness persists
Perhaps this is as good as it gets

My old wallpaper is now making a comeback: