It’s always the same. 

The tightness in the chest and throat. 

The increased breath rate.

The hyper-vigilance.

The racing thoughts. 

The memories of those lost following me around like a weight. 

I try to escape the thoughts that grip me.

The thoughts that threaten to strangle me. 

The thoughts that weigh me down.

Failures and interactions from decades past as fresh and raw as a new injury. 

Borderline Personality Disorder. 

Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. 



All these things describe me, but are not me. 

Or are they? 

On days any of the above flare up, I feel my sense of self erode beneath me. 

Photo by Elti Meshau on

The urge to self-harm overwhelms me, the urge to carve out this darkness inside me. 

Medication helps. 

So does mindfulness.

And distraction. 

It’s not ideal, but it is what I do to survive. 

I know I’ll then have to prepare for another onslaught of my own mind against me. 

I know I’ll get through this. 

I always do.

My God is stronger than the demons that fight inside me.


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