A personal story about addiction
Sometimes, I lay still on my bed and close my eyes. I trace with the tip of my fingers the curves of my body. I try to get calmer, I try to think about things that calm me.
The sound of a thunderstorm.
The clinging of ice in a glass of Aperol Spritz.
The laugh of my friends.
The rustling of leaves in the wind.
The softness of my cat’s fur.
The excitation of being at a sold out show.
I’ll take a deep breath, trying to focus on what I like.
But it’s never enough. My mind keeps going to other scenarios. There’s a feral need inside of me that asks for satisfaction, for something to be exciting. I thrive when I’m at the frontline, when trouble hits. I go for what I am not supposed to go for. I like situations that are extreme, when I push the limits of my body and of my ethics.
I’m addicted.
If you’ve never read me, please let me introduce you to my mental illness.
Borderline Personality Disorder. BPD. Borderline for short. I live in a world of extremes. In 2017, after a pretty disastrous session with an old psychiatrist, I was deemed as someone with a “difficult personality.” Needless to say, I carried this diagnosis with me, through therapy, through my relationships, through my whole being. I went back to a psychiatrist in the spring. I went through all the questions again. This time around, my new psychiatrist was nice, empathic, truly understanding. She ended the session by saying I had some kind of superpower: my constant hyper emotional state just made me more aware of the realities around me.
“You might be better at your job because you are more sensitive, you feel more.”
It felt right for once. Being told that the physical pain my emotions bring to my being was part of something bigger was a relief. I truly believe her. My sensitive writing, my talent for finding stories, the way I listen to people and my huge heart is what makes me a better journalist. Nevertheless, it is also my demise.
Being borderline means dealing with the pain that oversensitivity brings, as much as it means to sometimes just feel empty. Void of feelings. In my case, it is profoundly altered by a constant sad state of being called dysthymia. I’m just constantly sad. As long as I remember, I have always been a little bit sadder than everyone. My happiness doesn’t last. It is associated with tiny moments, bursts of positive emotions I can associate with fragments of events. If I have to go further down the line, it also brings a feeling of never being enough, a lack of self esteem and finally...well, self destruction.
Borderlines are constantly trying to feel something. This is why we have addictive personalities. Some of us will be addicted to drugs. Other to gambling. Some to extreme spending. Others to alcohol. Interestingly enough, this isn’t my case.
I’m addicted to destruction. To destroy. Again and again. Destroying my life by taking all the wrong decisions.
Give me a cigarette, I’ll smoke for the evening, but won’t feel the need to continue after. Weed for me is fun, but I’m definitely not an addict. Drugs? Never really done them. I spend money, but I also save money. Gambling? Never did and might never will.
But getting myself into dangerous situations? Destroying perfectly healthy relationships? Doing graffitis? Running away from the cops in a protest? Jumping on slippery rocks on the border of the St-Laurent river at midnight? Leaving with someone knowing pretty well that I might put myself in danger? Letting myself be badly treated for the thrill of a passionate affair?
Yes. A thousand times yes. A million times yes.
I’ve been on Effexor XR for nearly 2 years now. Last June, after a very tumultuous relationship, my dose was increased at 150 mg. 150 seems to be my magic number. It’s the one that keeps the anxiety away, that regulates my emotions and the one that makes me “normal.” It’s the number that makes me successful. It’s the number that makes me see things clearly. Mostly, it’s the number that helped me be in a healthy relationship and build significant relationships.
But recently, it has started to fail me. I feel my addiction coming back. My increasing need for destruction crawls under my skin and I keep on fighting back, trying to stay sane, normal. I’m trying to resist and I’m resisting, but I’m afraid. Afraid of what will come next. Afraid of not being able to control myself and destroy everything for the sake of destroying, of trying to feel something for a moment.
I see the faces of those who hurt me, people who I’ve told my deepest secrets, the ones that promised to take care of me and that abandoned me. I hear their voices and feel their presence. Instead of running away, I feel pulled by them, an eternal thread connecting me to toxicity. I catch myself hoping for them to come back, to tell me they are sorry. I catch myself imagining affairs that would drive my life into shambles. I catch myself wanting to feel something because the last year has been a void. I catch myself seeing this invisible thread between all of the things that would definitely destroy my person and me. I catch myself longing for them.
And yet I try. I try to move forward and I try to be mature. I try to remember that I’m human and that my feelings are valid. That my will is stronger than my addiction. That my weaknesses can be regulated. That I’m well surrounded. That I’m protected. That I’m not scared. That I won’t…
And yet, I’m addicted.