My Jagged Edges

Where to start talking about the things that give me the jagged edges? 



Do I start from birth? How many episodes do I include? Good writing is concise and direct. There is definitely no waffle. So how little do you need to know? 


I was always sensitive, always a feeler, always vulnerable. I always said the wrong thing. When I was a tiny, I remember my dad saying I had the biggest heart of anyone he knew. There was too much space in my heart for his pain.


When I was eight, he left. My mum left too, one day she just wasn't there any more. There was a grey husk instead. I snuggled up to that husk in bed at night, desperate for warmth, but I didn't feel any. 


We left. I started a new school. None of the kids there had such big hearts. I shut mine down. I became a husk too.


I spent break time running up and down the grassy bank, thinking about my hairy legs, my unpierced ears, and how I still slept with my mum. I was ten.


Life stopped having colour. A hole grew inside.


The bigger the hole, the less people wanted me.


I was too much.


At home, I became a fiery red ball. I consumed everything around me. When I was with my father, I was alive. He saw me. He told me about how the world is ending. About how little time there was to save it. About how it was his mission and purpose. About how damaging my mother-husk was. He was very angry when I didn't do as I was told. Why was I always so lazy? 


I didn't see much of school.


When I was seventeen, I left. 


I found a home.


My edges got a little smoother. People spoke to me. They liked me. I went out for drinks. A lot of drinks. I kissed boys. A lot of boys. I fell in love. I gave everything. There was nothing left inside, no empty space. No time alone. There couldn't be any time alone. Empty spaces were full of fear, of possibility, of uncertainty, of the future. There was no future. 


I loved.


Why wasn't I doing my school work? Why must I self-sabotage? Why was I pushing self-destruct?


I cut myself off.


Keep going. Keep going Kitty. Never be alone. Never slow down.


Live live live.


Feel feel feel.


I lived alone, but I was never alone. I slept in beds all over. Never alone. Never stop talking. Never let them see.


I saw Ruth. In a small, safe space, we talked. She was so beautiful. She believed. I met her with last night's sperm in my vagina.


I went to university. Why was I so disappointing? Why did I need to be liked, to be accepted? How weak. An ex poly. A total disappointment. He was better. He was smarter, funnier, more acceptable. Smoother. No sharp edges. He had it all.


I met her. I met them. My family. I saw Jesus, but I didn't know Him.


Run run run. Fast as you can. You can't catch me. Never be alone.


Bed hop bed hop bed hop. Waking up with funny smell all over. Vomit down the toilet. Keep going. Don't let it in.


Stop.


I met him.


We loved. He was full of jagged edges too. We knew each other. He never stopped either. His hair was thick, dark and curly. He had the joker's smile, and such sparkling eyes. We loved. And loved. He was all of me. I was all of him. I became less, to be more for him. Must. Keep. Hold. Never. Be. Alone.


Stop.


Suddenly, I might die, I went to the doctor with a neck pain, and I came out with a brain tumour and urgent specialist appointment. The husk was frantic. The appointment. The anxiety. The anxiety. The MRI. The all clear.


Where was the relief?


The depression. The depression. The depression. Same four walls. All the fucking time. Lying. So. Still. Ghosts. Want me dead. 


He is there, he's with me, but he doesn't know how to be with me. What does he do? How can his jagged edges cope with this? He drinks. He smokes. He spends.


I stop. Eating. I start. Exercising. I go. I go. I go. So thin. So beautiful. So alive. Spend. Spend. Spend. South Africa. Warm and sunny. Acceptance.


Death. Everywhere I fucking look. Where's she gone? Why has she left me? I didn't know. Nobody told me. I'm a grown up.


You're going to kill your children. Your eggs are diseased. There's nothing you can do about it. No future. 


Got to give up. Can't keep going. But wait. Now he's hurting. His dad is gone. He's a grown up. Two grown ups together, with their jagged edges, bumping alongside each other. Where did the curvy sex go? I'm so thin now. I think I'm dying all the time.


I cry on the GP. He sends me to another safe room, with Wendy. I breathe. In that room, I breathe. She hears me. 


Seroxat.


Screaming screaming screaming. Pulling out my hair. Scratching at my face. Can't get away from the fucking pain. Everywhere. It all hurts. He doesn't know what to do. Everything about him hurts too. I exercise. And I hurt. And I have sex. And sex. And sex. I can't study, I work. I love work. 8 hours a day of normal. Of busy. Of being good.


I go to church.


It saves me.


I miscarry.


It kills me.


Screaming. The trees are trying to get me. Why is everything trying to fucking get me? He doesn't know what to do, he laughs at me, I can't walk. I crawl. Hands and knees. The space is scary. The ghosts are trying to get me. I look so good. How can I feel so bad.


Now his mum. Hooked up to a ventilator. She's gone. She smoked. She was forty nine.


What are we to do.


He's angry. He doesn't have time for my childish games. I'm just messing around. He punches someone. We go to a and e. He drinks. He drinks. I don't eat. I don't eat. We have sex. I exercise. Keep it all contained. Keep it all in.


I sleep with women. I cheat. No one can stop me. It's all about sex. Need me. Some one fucking need me. This isn't fun any more. I didn't sign up for this. He says it's ok. We meet a couple for a four way. It doesn't happen. Thank God.


I'm broken. I can't stop.


I leave him. I have to. But I love him so much. He's all of me, I'm all of him. We're too much, together. I'm alone. Shit, I thought I could do this, but the world is so frickin big. It's going to end. I'm never safe.


He preys on me. Sex sex sex. It's all I know. Spend spend spend. Exercise. Don't eat. Chaos.


When we're together, we're alright. I love him. Why can't I love him? When I'm with him, it's terrible, he's awful, why am I with him? I end them both. Can't be alone for a second.


Church, peace.


I meet him. 


He's mine.


He fixes me.


Slowly. Peace by peace. He puts me back together. He's gentle. He has no jagged edges, he's smooth inside. He's kind. I don't know why he loves me. Hosea. He shows me Jesus.


I stop spending. I start eating. I walk. I walk. I walk. I think.


Every day I think. It's exhausting. Every day I'm alone. It's good. There's no drink any more. No more spending. 


I have a home.


It heals me. 


He heals me.


Jesus, my husband. They heal me.


I look at my wrists. I see how close I came to death, every day. I'm so lucky. I'm so grateful. I'm so glad to be alive. I'm twenty four.


Borderline.personality.disorder.