I Don't Know, But I'm Still Here.

Tonight’s been hard. My body feels heavy. My ears are ringing. My head hurts. My mind is numb. I don’t know what triggered it exactly, just that it’s emotional and BPD-related. I’m not okay, and I don’t really know how to explain it.

I’m not in danger. I’m not going to do anything. I just needed to say it out loud: I feel like I don’t want to be here. Not because I want to leave, but because being here feels too loud, too heavy, too much.

The feeling is consuming. It wraps around everything. It’s hard to come out of once it starts. I keep hoping sleep will help, but I’m not sure it will. Sometimes the fog is still there in the morning.

I reached for my blanket. It’s one of the only things that feels safe right now. It reminded me that I’m still here. Still held. Even when I don’t have words. Even when I feel like I’m disappearing inside myself.

I read that people with BPD live, on average, 15–20 years less than those without it. That puts the average life expectancy around 57. I’m 26. That number hit me hard. It’s terrifying to think about. Not because I want to die, but because I want to live. I want to believe there’s more time. More mornings. More softness. More healing. And on nights like this, I’m holding onto that hope with everything I’ve got.