Some things aren’t meant to be explained. A face peeking at you through a fence on a rainy morning, the rhythmic thumping of a headboard on an adjoining wall, grim face at a Dog Funeral. These things might all have come into my life in one form or another in the recent past, but I learn quickly. I don’t ask questions when the answer could be something I don’t want to hear.
My CPN didn’t turn up the other day. I cursed her slack ways. She rang the next morning to offer an explanation about admin workers, cut-backs, and the world being full of people with Borderline Personality Disorder. In fact, that was the theme of this week. In an argument with my Psychologist I said ‘Well, I’ve got BPD…..that means I can say what I like, eh?’
‘So has everybody right now,’ she replied with a sigh.
This might be true, I don’t know, I never check the facts about anything. Gut instinct – that’s where the future of Mankind lies. The unscientific, unpredictable, untrustworthy method preferred by most people with BPD. The thing that has kept me from being eaten by a shark, mauled by a bear, or beaten to a pile of bloody pulp and rags in prison. Sneer all you want about gut instinct, but when a hundred pissed off prisoners are corralled in a room and you’re the only member of staff in there, you learn to trust the sudden psychic shift in the ether. And your gut responds by sending messages of preparation for extreme violence – to meter out, or to be on the receiving end of – or to run. Sometimes it will tell you that all will be well. It never failed me. People thought I was tough, but it was all simply down to the precognition of gut instinct.
I guess this is the only benefit of BPD, apart from the compulsion to create stuff, hatred of humans, and getting to spend lots of time in windowless rooms with Psychiatrists. I can’t think of any others. We’re supposed to be more passionate about life, generally, and easier to hurt, but I don’t know if that’s true or just a cop-out. Stops us facing facts.
But back to the face at the fence. It wasn’t my eighty-five year old neighbour. And it wasn’t the other neighbour who masturbates drunk most nights, headboard pounding on our shared wall for a good thirty seconds until he reaches his climax. I sometimes wonder who he thinks of. And why?
The face outside was hairy. Female, I think. Kinda looked a bit like a big dog. Yeah, that’s a good description. Out of place in the rain of the morning. Gently popped up to peer over at me, blinked a couple of times, smiled, then ducked back down.
For the first couple of seconds these things are shocking. Like seeing a tiger leaping out of an enclosure right at you. Then you realise you are crazy; none of it is real. That’s when the vision leaves. Mostly. I still don’t know why I see Bigfoot. A Psychiatrist said it’s a metaphor for when I was in uncontrolled states of terror at the hands of a powerful adult when I was little. Returning again and again when I feel stressed, scared, or mixed up. And they could be right. I guess I don’t really ever want to know the truth. The truth would take the edge off. Make it worse.
Some people see Aliens, some see men with enormous chins wearing long leather coats and chrome-toed cowboy boots. I should be thankful for small mercies. Regardless of the explanation.