You list all that you have accomplished: clarifying my diagnosis, getting me on the NDIS, getting me into Spectrum.

“Is there anything we’ve missed?” you ask me. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I need you,” would be the honest answer, but I do not let it escape my lips.

As you summarise your progress, it sounds as though you’re wrapping up our time together. You don’t see a need for you anymore. Pain builds inside me like a tsunami, yet no tears reach the shore.

“Are you trying to get rid of me from this service?” is all that comes out.

You tell me there are no plans to finish up with me in the immediate future. It is not the answer my mind is looking for. I need you in my life not just in the immediate future, but forever. Tell me you will stay with me forever.

It is only once I get back to the car that the tsunami hits. I cry, the kind of cry that sounds like you are laughing. The kind of cry that brings little relief as most of the tears are still stuck inside. I want to call you, even though you’re the reason I’m hurt. I want you to save me, even though you’re the reason I’m drowning. Whenever something happens, you’re the first person I tell. You know everything about me. Almost everything. Do you know that you have been appointed my personal saviour? Do you know that the hour we spend together is the best hour of my fortnight?

Do you look forward to seeing me too, is what I want to know. Or maybe all you look forward to is our session ending.

Here come the suicidal urges. I was only discharged from hospital a few hours ago; it hasn’t even been a day yet and they are back. My depression is at an all time low. Getting through each day, each  hour, feels like running a marathon. I huff and puff to the end, only to find it’s not the end, I must begin another lap. All that I can see in front of me is an endless stretch of torture, loss and boredom.  I decide I’m going to put an end to it all tonight. I am ready to die; I have no attachment to this life.

I decide to spend the last day of my life walking in the rain. I like to imagine the rain as all the tears I wish to shed but cannot. I throw on my silver sparkly gumboots, open my umbrella and begin my walk. There are hardly any people out because it’s so cold and wet, just how I like it. The sun sets and I head back to the car in the dark. I can hear a person behind me, which would normally creep me out, but I simply stop and let them pass me. I contemplate stripping my clothes off and going for a swim in the lake but the water is a little cold. I sit by the lake for a while until my bum is wet. I then head home. I notice my finger is cut and bleeding. I don’t feel any pain, only a strange sense of relief as I watch the blood escape my body. I then run a hot bath. I add a few drops of lavender oil, light a candle, switch the light off and get in the bath. I give myself the care I crave from other people. By this point I realise I have, once again, surfed the waves of hell my BPD brings. I may be able to last a little longer than I thought.