Turning the Mind: Bulldogs and FPs
The emotional injury this morning was a wakeup call to my self-negligence. A false alarm. I’m here now. I am not swept away by negative “what ifs”. I feel them there -beneath the surface, and I let them be there, just as I let my openness for joy/positivity sit beside.
I feel excited to work, but not burn out. I feel delighted to reach out to loved ones -friends, penpals, lovers, but not engulf myself in attention and validation. I’m drawn to self-care by applying makeup today, but I don’t feel the need to wear a mask - it’s not a necessity so much as it is a hobby. I practice self-compassion. I check my phone less often. I read my new comic book, Chew, when I need to feel inspired (approx. 3 hrs).
An old friend, former coworker, texts me. Says he misses me, our hangs. I looked up to him, his creativity. I cried once remembering his favorite dog was the bulldog. It reminded me I was capable of platonic love, that I didn’t need to be so closed, confined to obsessing over romance. I wrote a poem about this and shared it with him. As much as I wish I could write all day instead of working my corporate job, I am grateful for work exposing me to the remarkable people in my life. I think of this as I clock in.
I feel like in spite of using the label of BPD to connect to others, I’ve given up pathologizing my every move and I am somehow free (or closer to freedom). I’m at least free to express myself and touch people in a way others have touched me. I’m not here to teach anyone what the disorder is; it’s been done. I’m here to create, to convey my lived experience in a way that isn’t boring (I hope). Oversharing is my brand and I’ve accepted that.
There is a content creator I adore, but am too chickenshit to follow because I feel beneath her in every way. Is this what you’d call a favorite person (FP)? From a distance, the FP dynamic feels somewhat safer than idealizing anyone in my “real” life (boyfriends and coworkers, for instance). Safety in my new compulsion is what I want to feel, even if it’s just a mirage. I reach out to her when I am manic. Too manic to sound eloquent, but I want her to know she changed me. She writes back. The exchange leaves me high for weeks. I catch myself pathologizing, give myself grace; I keep writing.
The worry that my art is trash is very human (see: this morning’s emotional injury). It hurts; I’m frantic over it. I don’t deny that, but it’s also an indication that I care. I have a purpose that isn’t tied to male attention, my looks, or my ability to work in spite of my mental illness (over achieving = worthiness). I cherish this worry, too. Something new to fear. Something new to care about. Something that is mine.
