For me, having BPD means…

I NEED structure — a morning routine is required if I want to be a functioning person. It’s like every time I get a day off work, I forget to take my medication. One day of a missed pill means going full swing into a manic episode of productivity and optimism (like today). Actually, I’ve had a great day. I went for coffee, met up with a few friends, did some chores, walked about 8km, recorded part of a song I’m writing — all good stuff. There is a downside though: the crash. This list of accomplishments leaves me feverish and physically exhausted by 10pm. As always, I hit bottom hard; couldn’t slow down enough during the day to eat, so my stomach growls as I sluggishly surf the web, mind still buzzing. This is when things are dangerous. My body is weary from running all of my brain’s errands, but my mind is restless. The moment the medicine is out of my system, I’m feeling paranoid and generally awful about myself. Losing motivation by the minute. Almost like I am addicted to being miserable, and my medication alleviates some of that masochistic desire. I feel trapped in my average-sized town. Convince myself all my acquaintances either hate or pity me. Check who liked statuses and selfies of my “enemies,” and cross reference with my friendslist to know who I can trust. I only really have about three friends, but it’s by choice. The people around here all suck. On my better days, I sing along to folk songs as I long to live in a huge city where nothing ever sleeps, and I can walk down the street without running into people I know. On my worse days, I seclude into my bedroom with the door shut, where I sit in silence and feel trapped.