Myself

Author bio: Pippa Nayer writes poetry, stories and other things. She got a First in English Literature with Creative Writing. She has been published in Bosc:Rev and has performed at Surrey Poetry Festival.

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I am the writer of this blog. If you read it, that means you must care about me.

I’m 26 but don’t let that fool you. I haven’t achieved anything. The only thing I did was get a degree. English Lit. with Creative Writing. I got a First even though I was drunk most of the time. I’m still drunk most of the time, also disgusting and unemployable. I had to leave the South and London and move back in with my parents. I’m 26 but failed at growing up. I failed at money. I lost the game.

I am a poet but I haven’t had much inspiration lately. I feel like giving that up too. I used to be a writer but I don’t write much anymore. I just sit and stare at the wall. People seem to like my stuff but I don’t know how to make myself write. If I call myself a poet or a writer it feels like a lie on my lips.

I have Borderline Personality Disorder and Depressive Personality Disorder. This makes me nearly as cool as Winona Ryder in Girl, Interrupted. Except that I don’t get a book deal. But I will blog about them a lot. Raising awareness, sharing is caring, reaching out an empathic virtual hand. BPD basically makes me moody as fuck, and the DPD means I’m a miserable bastard. Neither makes me a narcissist, or a danger to anyone except myself.

I have poor emotional regulation, like everything is dialed up way too loud. I sometimes have panics or rages but a lot of the time show excessive emotional control. I write it out, but most people in person never know I’m feeling crazy. I can be smiling and laughing while imagining how to kill myself, and I’ve been through pretty much every maladaptive coping mechanism in the book. From Anorexia to Valium, at least I’ll have plenty of experiences to share in group therapy. Because yes, in January I’m starting Dialectical Behavioural Therapy, and this blog will cover the joys of that! Follow my healing journey! Learn about psychology! Anyway I’m fucked up in the head and it’s ruined my life, I’m all bad habits and low self esteem. About half the time I don’t feel real or the world doesn’t feel real to me. It’s all a big sad joke.

Sometimes I’m great fun though. My friends say I am. If I was always this unbearably miserable, I wouldn’t have friends, would I? I’m surprised that I do though, because my social awkwardness is ridiculous. I’m what they used to call shy. Highly oversensitive. I spend 95% of my time alone. The other 5% I have to be drunk. But I’m a nice drunk, usually.

Just to make things even better, I also have Seasonal Affective Disorder. So you should probably just come back in Spring. I’ll be slightly less shit by then. Maybe.

I don’t just sit around being miserable (I try desperately to convince myself of this). I give a shit about things. I have anarchist leanings. I read about stuff. I read novels. I read articles about philosophy on the internet so you know I’m a real intellectual. I do Shitty Crafts. Sometimes I try to do art, but less said about that the better. I try to write but generally just end up drunk and crying. I have a bicycle and sometimes I ride it. Sometimes I hike out in the Peak District. I like psychedelics and the Occult and Tarot even though I am a scientific person and do not believe in woo. Or “quantum energy” as they call it these days. I love my friends and going out partying, listening to bands and living life and staying in drinking and talking all night. I lived on a narrowboat this summer and now will always love boats. I even had lovers, real lovers.

I’m a real person. But I don’t feel like one. I think that’s just a BPD symptom. Sometimes I think I’m just a symptom.

 

 

 

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