Borderline Mornings

These mornings, when I’m roused awake beside the boy, I want to hug him close to me. It’s nice to wake up next to someone. The boy said, of course. He told me but I’ll never be alone and he gestured towards my heart.

This morning I remember waking up next to my mother in the many years I slept beside her, and shifting myself closer to her side of the mattress. When I wake up next to someone I’m always anxious. I wake up alone and I either feel lost, morose or — rarely — good. When I wake up with another person beside me though, I’m always a little afraid. I need to touch them to ease it — I’m so scared I want to cry. I used to think about losing my mother to time a lot. I don’t think about that with the boy. We’ll grow old together. But the depressing anxiety is all the same. Sometimes I hug the boy close even though I know the movement and touch will rouse him. Sometimes I rest arms against his back.

I had my first appointment with the psychologist, Z, on Friday afternoon. There was a last minute cancellation and the boy’s Mum headed down to the clinic with me. She asked me, are you doing this for J? I told her I am. I cried in the corner while we waited for my turn. I’m glad she was with me.

I don’t want to be here. Z said I kept repeating that I’m doing this for my boyfriend, to get my parents and the pdoc off my back; but what about yourself? I explained to her how I can’t do it for myself. I asked her, can you only treat my depression and not my eating disorder? For instance, can you treat my perfectionism? Not perfectionism towards my body but towards my art, grades and friendships? She said it’s hard but she can try. Why? Z said, because if you can’t get the perfect body then you’ll want to perfect something else, like school. She makes sense. But she says she can try. I just have to be ready and want recovery. She says there’s no point if I don’t want this. Z said, it’s alright, we can focus on your other problems first. What problems? For instance? She said, your anxiety. She said I have a lot of anxiety. Anxiety about what? She said, you know it. I was lost. No. She said, your anxiety about people leaving you; your anxiety about growing up. Oh

She confirmed that I have borderline personality disorder — so after these two decades, it’s finally official.


“Will you marry me?” He said drowsily.
Yes every time you ask.

He asked if I wanted to adopt or have our own babies. I’ve always contemplated adoption for a number of reasons.

“It’s time to put a dead end to my own genes,” he mumbled.

I’ve never considered that reason. 

Goodnight Jang.


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I enjoy my process. I don’t always enjoy it but right now I do. But I tell the boy, I know that as soon as I’m done, I’m going to hate my work again. I already know which parts of it I don’t like. The eyes don’t draw you in deep enough and hold your gaze. The horns’ details aren’t right. I’ll go on until every single area of my unoriginal sketch is torn apart. I can never meet my expectations of myself. There is no such thing as perfection yet I continually chase it in every aspect. I cannot let go of it with eating. But I’m trying to let go of it in art. I just don’t remember how I once did it.

Motherfucking Trigger

Everything you say makes me angry. It doesn’t matter what tone you use. Just the shake of your head, any short, simple sentence about the most banal things I do or even just your eyebrows… You make me so angry, so angry. I hate talking to you. Thanks for triggering me yet fucking again. I hate home. I hate home. I hate talking to you and I bloody hate this house. I fucking hate this place. You don’t know how long you’ve been my trigger. Tonight I am angry. Anger never ends well; anger ways ends in physical pain. I hate you. I hate you. Why do you keep doing this?? I hate you so much I hate you.

I Miss My Bed

I sleep in it almost every day but oddly, I feel like I haven’t in a long while. I haven’t simply slept and enjoyed the sheets, the pillow under my cheek and the plump cushion to my right in the moments before my mind stops working. There were too many tough nights — sleep was either for me to run away, or it was something to be deprived of and avoided. I haven’t spent my daylight in it either since I’ve been spending them at the boy’s.

Tonight I am tired. My insomnia has improved so much over the last week. Tonight, I’m also as close to emotionally stable as I can get. The ache in my chest is faint though palpable but my body and mind are in sync enough for it to strike me that, ahh I miss my bed.  Goodnight world, I hope I slip away easy, past the gates of slumber.

10 Bags

of senna tea.

I hope the abuse will help. 

Make me light, make me weightless. 

I am probably going to develop and addiction. Besides the boxes of senna teas, I bought a cheap stash of senna pills and I struggled to stop myself from getting Dulcolax. There’s already lactulose and Fybrogel — safer options — that my Mum buys and I think I’m going to use these more regularly. I don’t know anymore.

I seem to act rashly. No, I have always been rash. Impulsive is probably what the psychiatrist would use. I wanted to buy all the lax I could and swallow a few of each kind. I stopped myself this time. I went home and I fixed a number in my head. My head said, five, and I steep five bags. Is this enough? Another round then, and I drink another five. 

Know what, I’m scared it’s not enough to work. Maybe some senna pills too. I should have gotten some Dulcolax. They would probably be a guarantee.

It’s only because I have a lax tolerance. It’s justifiable. Pardon my inexperience but 10 bags plus a two pills is nothing, right? After all, I stopped at only an extra two. I should sleep now or I’ll probably take eight more.