Begging to go home.

Whenever I'm hurt, whenever I hurt someone else, whenever I feel worthless, whenever the rabbit-holes of emotions and thoughts become too much, I always find myself whimpering the same mantra over and over and over again:

I want to go home.

I don't know why, it doesn't make sense. I'm usually at home when I'm crying, lost in the BPD whirlwinds of hell. I've been on my own since I was 15, but even when I was in the house that I grew up in with my parents, it was always the same thing, whenever I was punished or hurt or afraid:

I want to go home.
I want to go home.

Today is no different, and I'm crying so hard that I can't see what I'm typing. My chest is a huge, ugly, gaping hole, filled with needles and razorwire and filth. Sucking in the pain, through my ribs, aching: I want to go home.

http://users.aristotle.net/~diogenes/me ... questions1

I found all of this helpful, but the useless and worthless link (the 2nd one down) was particularly helpful to give a sense of purpose and revitalize that self-image.

It's good that you're crying and not lashing out though. To me, that shows an emotionally honest borderline. The emotionally dishonest one turns that hurt to anger. Some of my greatest growths came after I felt extreme pain.

I used to say the exact same thing.

For me it came back to the feeling that home was my safe place. No one could hurt me there, no one could find me there and I could be me without judgements.

I hope you're ok, it's not nice what you're feeling. If it feels good come and vent some more, or try having a really warm shower and do something calming. Hugs to you and hope you get past the pain.

Wow!
I had to reply to this because I do the exact same thing. I had no idea any one else would have done this.
For me, I used to say it a lot more when I was younger (and at home). But it still comes up from time to time, just not as much as when I was a child and teenager.
Thinking back on it, I think it is a need for comfort... as home is supposed to be the escape, the comfort, the retreat..

Maybe BPDers are from some other dimension, planet, or reality.... and we subconsciously know it, which is why we feel different and why we are asking to "go home". Haha! I certainly feel like I came from a different place sometimes.

...far out biitchelectric!

.....thats some seriously vitriolic pain described with such VENOM and helplessness...

no wonder you've got the "homing signal"

can't help but feel some of it from your words...

I hope you find somewhere safe, a 'home' in your heart and your mind.....it MUST pass.

theres no damn reason for it it's not your fault

just now, after a trip to town I got some 'diseased and splintered acidic ice rocks dangling from rusted chains in my stomach'....where from and why?

stuffed if I know?

Thank you, everyone. I appreciate the thoughtfulness, and empathy.

And, dejamelie, I adore your avatar. Thanks for posting.

I relate : \
./hugs

That mantra cuts familiar... shocks me, really, that people share this similarity. I want to be in a place where I won't be hurt.

I have a very strong desire for "home"... often a strong bitterness for those who seem to have that ideal. The burn piques up around holidays where everyone is commuting to their families, describing this unrelate-able nostalgia for their childhoods, or watching movies where the protagonist finds safety and help in his hometown. I wanted, still want, so desperately to have that fiction of a safe place. When I sob "I want to go home", I'm invoking that fiction, then crying harder because it doesn't exist.

I was financially independent by 17 thanks to a wide array of vices. Prior to that, home was a squalid middle-class dwelling that never felt home-like at all... fleas in the sheets, mold on the walls, rotten food in the fridge.

I considered championing the view that "home" for me is wherever my lover is, tried seeking comfort in that, but he couldn't possibly reciprocate; home for him is surely back east, a well-preserved pre-collegiate bedroom, his family all delighted to see him, alighting with embraces. It hurts a bit to know that I can't really create that from scratch, distances me from humanity in yet another vital way.

I also mantra "I want my mommy", sometimes, when I'm suicidal or hysterical and feeling rejected by the world, which is likewise paradoxical. She was rarely affectionate to me, and so often the source of my woes. I guess cinematic depictions of storming the beach at Normandie have made me conclude that it's the appropriate thing to say in that sort of situation.

littleslip wrote:I have a very strong desire for "home"... often a strong bitterness for those who seem to have that ideal. The burn piques up around holidays where everyone is commuting to their families, describing this unrelate-able nostalgia for their childhoods, or watching movies where the protagonist finds safety and help in his hometown. I wanted, still want, so desperately to have that fiction of a safe place. When I sob "I want to go home", I'm invoking that fiction, then crying harder because it doesn't exist.

You made my chest seize up, reading that. I want to say that I am sorry (or at the least, sorrowful) that you have experienced something so intense, so soul-gouging, and so punishingly annihilating. But I can't bring myself to invalidate the feeling -- offering apologies for such wordless, deep experiences seems trite. So, I'll give thanks, instead. Thanks for the fact that I know, when I'm curled up on the floor, barely able to breathe, wishing my existence into nothingness -- I am not alone in this. As vast as it feels, as dark and hollow and wretched as it seems -- you share it with me.

littleslip wrote:I also mantra "I want my mommy", sometimes, when I'm suicidal or hysterical and feeling rejected by the world, which is likewise paradoxical. She was rarely affectionate to me, and so often the source of my woes. I guess cinematic depictions of storming the beach at Normandie have made me conclude that it's the appropriate thing to say in that sort of situation.

I do the same thing. And, coincidentally, had reached the same conclusion -- with the same D-Day imagery. To cry for our emotionally distant and vapid mothers -- it seems strange. But, we cry for an archetype. We cry for Plato's shadows.