Frustration

 I can't believe how horrible frustration feel. Mentally and physically, I can't seem to do anything and I mean anything until I get over it. Its not a new thing, either. I may or may not have BPD. And that means filling yourself with a whole, complete feeling, until you ride it out, in maybe hours, or days. And frustration feels like knives, and migraine, and harsh breathing and anxiety, and pounding on tables and shutting up words I wanna say and I wanna scream and crying and crying and crying and such a sensitive skin I can't stand the beautiful hugs my mom wants to give me to make me feel better and try to forget whatever thing it made me feel this way. 

And then I listen to music. And walk around the room. And smoke a cigarette if I can. And try not to think, try not to think, try not to overthink, and write. Writing helps, writing has helped, and they say that whenever I feel bad I write and I let it all go, let it all flow, even flow, like a river, it washes away whatever I feel.

And leaves me an empty husk, empty and broken, and I need to repair myself for the next day, for there's no going back to what I once was, and I feel like every time it happens, a part of me dies or gets hurt, and I need to repair myself for the next day, stitch the old skin, stitch the old mouth, putting back broken bones back in place back to myself back me up here I am back again.

And this frustration won't take over me. Fuck it. I won't let it win over me.