What is it?

It’s hard for me to write what happened last week. The truth, it’s ugly and I don’t want to hear it. Last week was hard to swallow. It’s hard to admit that I struggle.

I know when I write this blog and I post it, I know people are reading it. But I am safe because I can’t see my viewers. I’m not faced with the consequences and winces when I tell you the truth. I am safe behind my screen.

So, I try to tell my ugly truth. I’ve been trying to say, out loud that I am struggling. I have BPD, PTSD, Depression and Anxiety. It’s not easy to say and it’s not easy for people to know.

I thought if I am an advocate for this disorder then people will accept me, that I can get better. But that is not the truth for an average person. See, a famous person comes out with a disorder, an illness, an ugly truth and they’re brave. I am just attention seeking.

But I need to say it, over and over again until it doesn’t sound like anything. So the word is just letters. Sound it out. Bor-der-line. What is it? I mean really, when it is boiled down to it’s truest form, what is it? Uncertainty. It’s a spectrum that is only two sided. Black and white. Simply put. But when it is broken down, layered and studied, it’s just a bunch of shit people experienced, smooshed together and you get me.

You get a woman who doesn’t know who she is. A woman who is lost and occasionally found. A woman who is troubled with her purpose. A woman who is empty but her heart full. A woman who is sensitive and light but also blunt and dark. I am night and day. I am the eclipse. I am one being with many sides. I am your favorite color but his favorite word. I am my favorite jeans and your biggest hurdle. I am your catchphrase and his laugh. I am so many things collected by skin. Slice me open and I will burst with personalities, opinions, hair colors, looks, laughs, quirks, and actions that I have collected from every person that I meet.

I am a woman who is built from ashes and broken parts. I am a woman who mends my own wounds but needs help with the zipper. I am me.

But I don’t know who that is yet.

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