Blast from the past: My first ever post


A4A Clipping

There are 107,000 gay guys online at this very moment. But somehow, on a Saturday night, in one of the gayest cities in America, I can’t get a single person to keep meKirk Photo company. Not even a single person to chat online with me. Here’s a picture of me, for the record:

I would certainly date me, to be frank. I’m good looking, good in bed and good to people in general. But I know where my past has caught up to me, and I want to take this moment to bare my soul and let you, whom I don’t even know, get a glimpse into my life and history and see why I’m now inside on a beautiful San Franciscco Saturday night writing a blog, struggling for any meaningful interaction with other people.

I am going to quote another blog article that resonated with me.

Being beautiful is a burden. People look at a beautiful person and have a wealth of stereotypes at their fingertips. Those who are beautiful try in vain to compensate for the connotations attached to their appearance. In the back of their heads, however, there is always one lingering thought, an oft-spoken phrase: you’re nothing but a pretty face.

Beauty creates a strong sense of expectations – attractive people must live attractive lifestyles. But the pressure to constantly perform breaks us down much faster than the aging process. By my late teenage years, I was actively suicidal. I couldn’t perform at the level that people expected of me based on my looks, and it took a strong emotional toll. Why didn’t I have more friends? Why couldn’t I be Funny Quotemore active in the social circuit? Why wasn’t I popular at school? Perhaps, in retrospect, I’m the only one that asked these questions, but they were relevant nonetheless. The more desperately I tried, the more miserably I failed.

It was finally in my early 20s that an opportunity for a real breakthough came about. I was accepted on a full ride scholarship to law school in San Francisco (I lived in Seattle at the time), and I enthusiastically took the school up on that offer. While my undergraduate experience at the University of Washington had certainly been a step in the right direction, socially, nothing prepared me for the whirlwind of activity that was the San Francisco social scene. School, first of all and most importantly, carried the largest social burden, but as a gay male I also felt the need to represent myself in theCastro Flag Castro area. I have to say, I succeeded well, in all areas. I was elected by my entering class of roughly 250 students to represent them in the student body as a second year law student, to coordinate all their social activities. I had grand plans and the support to carry them out. Nothing stood in my way.

Except one thing. I hadn’t been in a serious relationship since age 16, if that one could even be considered serious, because of my abandonment issues. Abandonment = isolation = loneliness = ugly = worthless. Is that how the equation goes? I certainly had no doubt at the time. Nevertheless, I quite riskily embarked on a relationship with a boy around my age, mid twenties, in business school at the same university. We dated for perhaps three months. After that I left for a study abroad program sponsored by the school. We intended to maintain our relationship while I was temporarily abroad, but several weeks in, he called to break up with me while I was stranded in a foreign country. And I simply could not handle the stress. I immediately overdosed, was rushed to the ER, and then medically evacuated back to the US for further psychiatric evaluation. Over the following 24 months, I had no less then 14 additional overdose (OD) attempts. At first, they were related to this incident. Then, if I went out the bars and didn’t get hit on “enough,” I would go home and OD. The standard for what my life was worth dropped exponentially with each passing day, and my doctors were desperate for a solution. So desperate, in fact, that the State of California, on my 14th OD, refused to provide any additional care until I went back home to my parents’ in Seattle and completed mental health treatment there.

Green FairyWhen you’ve already been through the wringer, tried every medication and therapy approach there is to try, by age 26, you start to feel either that you’re invincible for having survived it or that nothing really matters anymore anyways. So when I was offered drugs in exchange for sex, for the first time ever in my life (no, not even weed or cigarettes), I unhesitatingly jumped. Now, two years later, full-blown drug-induced psychosis having taken what was left of my sanity (at least temporarily), rehab having sent me back to the psychiatric ward and The City struggling to help me struggle to make ends meet, I sit at home alone on a Saturday night, wondering how to start over in the process of making friends and getting a new life.

Kirk Rehn
rehn.kirk@gmail.com · 415.799.6248
www.facebook.com/rehn.kirk
· Twitter @sfboy1983

Currently playing in my iTunes:
A State of Trance 2011 CD1 (On the Beach) – Armin van Buuren – A State Of Trance 2011 (mixed by Armin van Buuren)
http://www.last.fm/music/Armin+van+Buuren

Related posts by me or from around the web:

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2011/eye-candy-the-burden-of-beauty/

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SURVEY


Two quick questions, the first geared towards the lovely people that have taken the time to read any portion of my book, and the second is a general question for anyone to answer. Please respond via the Comments section, and please share!

  1. Which theme/topic that was discussed in my memoirs did you feel you could relate to the most? For instance, depression, schizophrenia, borderline personality, drug abuse, etc. The book covers a wide range of topics, and I want to know (partly for advertising reasons, partly for reasons I’ll disclose below) what stands out as you read it, what resonates with you, what compels you to read the next entry, or, be honest, what entry or entries made you not want to read further? Why or why not? I don’t need a 5 paragraph essay response, just a few notes as to what, perhaps, inspired you, or helped you, or even what turned you on or off to the book as a whole.
  2. I am in the process of marketing and advertising my book, something I have been casually doing over the course of the past few months, but haven’t had time or money to seriously handle. Given the above question, assume that, for instance, I was invited to do an author reading. What piece stands out the most, is most representative, or speaks to you the most? If you could pick one entry, or one theme, what would it be? What interests you about this book? If you haven’t read it, what would make you want to read it? And, most importantly, if I started a GoFundMe account to raise a small amount of cash for advertising purposes, using feedback from these questions to identify and target my audience, would anyone consider donating? “Consider” does not mean “definitely yes,” I just want a sense of what my financial options are, since that is a major constraint for me right now.
  3. Ok, I’ll finally tell you what you’ve been waiting to hear. I’m contemplating writing a second book, but I haven’t decided on the content type. I think the memoir speaks for itself, and covers the major points of my transitional period in life (does that ever end?). I don’t particularly like fiction, and, really, I am still trying to target the persons that are diagnosed with borderline personality, and show how weaknesses can be turned into strengths, how world views, so often at odds with the way “the rest of the world” sees things, are actually special and unique, but that the “truth” is just a matter of perception, and learning to change that perception helps to form an idea of reality more in line with the ways others think. Which, I would like to clarify, is not to suggest that BPD patients think “wrongly,” or need to change to satisfy others. I do think, however, from my own personal experiences, that what I see and what others see are so radically different that the fact I have friends at all is somewhat miraculous, because I don’t understand their actions anymore than they understand mine. One thing I do not want to do, period, is write a “self-help” therapy book. I think BPD patients need support, I think professional therapists (psychologists and/or psychiatrists, not lesser-trained professionals) are often, if not always, necessary to help the BPD patient reframe their world view, and I think that learning coping mechanisms, through whatever learning method suits them best, is vital to surviving this devastating illness. But I am not a professional, nor do I want to provide advice. I’m not an advice columnist, and the world should be thankful for that. I want to write a book that openly admits that BPD is rough, a lot of the time, but that sometimes the most beautiful things can come out of the roughest situations. That’s much rosier of a picture than I’d prefer to paint, but the general idea is there. Now, enough said. If I were to write a “sequel” of sorts, but not a journal-style sequel, what themes would you like to see explored? What circumstances have come up in your lives that made you feel alone and unwanted? I know those feelings, and I know they’re not true. And I want to write a book that is non-clinical, non-self-help, non-judgmental, non-confrontational, just a book that describes what so many BPD patients feel, without necessarily offering solutions, but offering hope nonetheless, in the sense that the suffering is not so unique that no one else in the world could understand. I want you to know that I understand, that I’ve been there, that, yes, your experience is unique, but your feelings and attitudes are not, and I can show you that, just maybe, your experience is similar to mine, in some way, that hopelessness, helplessness and suicidality are not the only routes available. But I want to recognize that, for many, those feelings are their reality, they were my reality, I know all too well how that feels. So, what format would you find yourself most likely to pick up and browse through? A chapter-by-chapter review of the themes brought in my memoir, i.e., a chapter on homelessness, a chapter on addiction, a chapter on suicidality, a chapter on …. etc. I need some inspiration, I’m itching to write but the blank pages are killing me!

I love all of you for reading this post all the way through, and especially those of you who have followed me through the years, and those who have shown their support by purchasing my book. It means the world to me that I can give the world a window into what BPD is like. I’m reaching out to you now for comments, criticism, support and ideas, and I hope I get some feedback in response. Thank you in advance!

Facebook migration


Hi all,

Although I am not giving up on the WordPress blog format (although I have been less than vigilant lately about posting!), I have moved my “central” page to Facebook under the name Midnite Runners. I would sincerely appreciate it if you would take a moment to follow the link, review the site, add any comments, questions or reply to existing threads, and please please “like” the page. Many admin and advertising functions are limited until I can prove that I have a loyal base of followers (that’s you!).

If you haven’t been following me over the years, what started as a blog about my harrowing, sometimes humorous, often horrifying experiences with being diagnosed and labeled and living as a person with Borderline Personality Disorder. This is a much misunderstood illness, a much maligned diagnosis by laymen and professionals alike, and so it often goes un- or under-treated because the patients/friends/family are “manipulative,” or other such epithets. Looking at the diagnostic criteria for BPD, it is no wonder that patients experience such actions and emotions and elicit such dramatic responses. Looking further, at the real lives people with BPD face, have faced, do suffer with and live with every day, there is no question that much research and support remains unmet and unfinished.

My book, a collection of my blog articles, doesn’t attempt to clinically interpret my trials and tribulations. Instead, I tell a story of day-to-day life living with BPD. The experiences leading up to my diagnosis, and most likely a probable cause of the diagnosis, are discussed at various stages, and my life post-diagnosis is detailed in a rambling prose style of writing, mostly unstructured poetry with some short essays.

If you or someone you know or care about is or may be suffering from BPD, the one thing I have found universally true is that there is a dearth of literature written for the patient. When I went looking for support, I found clinical manuals on how to “deal” with borderline patients, I found the much-lauded but tragically critical book “Walking on Eggshells,” and various other clinical research studies and other books written for and directed at the families and friends of sufferers, again meant to provide assistance on “dealing” with the BPD patient. Nowhere, in the millions of books that Amazon carries, in the thousands of books at local booksellers, did I find a book written and directed at the sufferer. Some came close, but none captured the essence of what I was feeling and experiencing. I found this void unacceptable, and chose to publish my blog articles as a self-published book on Amazon, published through createspace.com, a subsidiary company. I don’t make much money off these sales, but my goal is to raise awareness and provide support, not get rich. I want to reach out to the fellow sufferer and let them, unlike me, know they are not alone. No, I have no instant cures or even long-term “fixes,” I do believe that BPD is a life-long illness that at best can be “managed,” but I definitively and adamantly do not subscribe to the widespread assumption that non-BPD-patients  must “deal with” the sufferer, as if the patient is an animal at a zoo, caged, with warning signs to not provoke the beast, and instruction manuals on how to walk away (i.e., break up with or divorce) from the animal without fear of him breaking the bars of the cage and taking down the world in rage. I think BPD patients can learn to have control over their emotions, to the extent that there is a self-awareness of when the emotions are misaligned with the intensity or reality of the present situation, and I think that the emotional response, while always present, can be diminished by allowing rational thought into the feeling-thought-action cycle and start a feedback loop that allows for a deeper understanding of the situation that is not black-and-white, that is not “the sky is falling,” but that analyzes and copes with the present moment, recognizing the impossibility of controlling the situation, without rendering oneself as having given up control over themselves. I believe that we can control ourselves even when the situation is uncontrollable, and that may be the ultimate goal or desired outcome of treatment.

I am not embarrassed to say that I, by and large, manage my symptoms entirely through medication. I have seen therapists in the past, several of whom I grew to be very fond of because of their understanding of the situation and recognition that small steps were huge accomplishments. They taught me that focusing on the present moment can lead to clarity and insight, but also not forgetting to take into account past interactions and similar situations so that a holistic impression can be made that is less black-and-white and more shades of grey, accepting that a certain present response to a situation is just that, a present response, but instead of acting on that response, it should be considered in the light of the “bigger picture,” where past interactions help to mediate the emotionality of the situation and force one to first think before acting. Perhaps a friend has disinvited you to dinner. Your immediate feeling is that you are seen as a parasite, as a leper, etc. But feelings are just the start of the cycle. Taking those feelings, accepting them as valid but perhaps incomplete, start the thought process of pulling apart those feelings and examining them piece by piece. What really are you feeling? Offended. Under offended you might find that you feel embarrassed. Most commonly, BPD patients feel anger, overwhelming anger, but are unable to clearly express what the anger comes from, what it means, and why it exists. Anger is a secondary emotion. Other primary, or fundamental, emotions contribute to and combine together to rise up to a level where so many factors conflue that there is no way to feel anything but anger, if only anger at the realization that other person’s actions have created such a barrage of emotions. But under that anger is the hurt pride, the embarrassment, the confusion (why did this event occur?), the uncertainty as to an appropriate response, the desire to isolate this event and view it through a black-and-white lens, instead of, perhaps, taking past behaviors into account or present knowledge into account (remember, the present knowledge exists or can be discovered once one realizes that emotions are but part of the feeling-thought-action feedback loop and is willing to entertain the idea of receiving further input or information), and, again, perhaps, realizing that the party host had ultimately decided it was just going to be a family affair, and really she had cancelled invitations for many of her friends, and that you were not singled out. Or, perhaps, you were in fact singled out, but not because your actions were “strange,” “weird,” “unexpected,” etc., but because the date or location had changed, or the theme of the party was different than originally planned, or that you were, correctly or mistakenly, believed to be unavailable on that particular date. Perhaps, in the worst case scenario, there were bad feelings between you and another party guest, and instead of putting you both in the same room, she decides to hold a separate party to which you will be invited, and not the other person. Could she have stated all that clearly in the dis-invitation letter? Perhaps. But perhaps she didn’t have time to explain, or thought it was self-explanatory, or explained it in a way that didn’t make sense to you, or any number of other possibilities. Our tendency as BPD patients is to jump to conclusions based on the information directly in front of us, not accounting for the fact that our interpretation of the information may be biased, or that further information is available, if only it could be requested. Maybe further information is unavailable. Fine. Just repeat the above process and slow down and break down your feelings into the primary emotions that give rise to the anger (which generally is the emotion that is most commonly felt), then imagine alternatives to each primary emotion that is felt, imagine that your intuition may be flawed, not because you’re stupid or have an illness, but because most people, in general, have unacknowledged biases that go into their thought processes. It only takes one counter-example of why, say, you feel embarrassed, which really represents a lack of self-worth, which really means that what you “feel” is that you are unloved (and you extrapolate that to mean you are unlovable, in a generalized sense). But what you might “think” as a counter response to the feeling is that your friendship, say, has stretched back several years, and this one incident, even if it was rude, was probably not intended to be rude and is certainly not intended to ruin the relationship that you have enjoyed for so long. Perhaps you decide to take “action” based on this counter example, and call your friend, and ask why you were dis-invited, and you find out that, say, the caterers fell through and the entire party was cancelled, or that there was suddenly not enough food, fun and games for the original plan to remain feasible, so several people were disinvited, but that another event will be planned that includes you, because, as you remembered after thinking about it, you are friends and she enjoys being around you and is very sad it won’t work this time, but is sure you’ll understand. Give her that benefit of understanding, instead of lashing out, and you won’t be seen as an “eggshell” personality, a person to be “dealt” with, but as a responsible, caring individual that may be a bit more sensitive than most, but that doesn’t let their emotions run their lives, rather relying on rational thought and acceptance of new information. Doing that makes you stronger than most people, in general, who all too often let their emotions guide their actions. Un-linking actions from emotions and letting the thought process separate the two not only gives you space to more carefully choose your actions, rather than let your feelings give immediate rise to actions, but it gives you back the control you yearn for so desperately, that sense that life doesn’t happen “to” you but that you are an essential part of the equation and that you have a choice as to what you do, with whom you do it, how it is done, when and where it takes place, and whether participation at all is in your best interest. That type of examination is your rational mind super-ceding your reptilian brain (your “gut feelings”), takes you out of your animal cage and puts you back into the society you so longingly crave. Crave no more, be part of the change, change your thought patterns, let your feelings be inputs, not outputs, and you’d be surprised at how much control you really do have.

My book shows clearly that, in many places, at many times, I felt out of control, I let my feelings do my talking for me. I felt that so much control was taken away that the one single thing I still had control over was my life. And even that could be taken away. So, all too often, I chose death, to prove to myself that I had a choice over my life. It took years to begin to learn how to make choices, choices that I deserved to make, picking out a brand of ice cream at the store, recognizing that I can’t control everything, but I can control what happens to my own bodily integrity, and, eventually, I learned that the abusive situations I had placed myself in were not situations where I did have control over my body, and that I had the choice, the right, the dignity and the self-respect to walk away. That’s not an easy or light decision. My book ranges in topics from my many suicide attempts to repeated rape, abuse and violence, to drug addiction, homelessness and my experiences with prostitution. I am a gay male, and many of my stories revolve around experiences common to the gay lifestyle, but perhaps uncommon, unheard of or unacceptable to the general public. My response is that knowing, or understanding, life through another’s lens is beneficial to all involved, may lead to greater empathy and understanding of how life treats certain groups so differently than others, and, even if being gay is just unacceptable to the reader, the harrowing experiences I faced, regardless of the sexuality involved, were real, were far too common and often far too deadly. You don’t have to be gay yourself to step into the shoes of another. You simply have to accept that everyone’s experiences are different, but, in the case of BPD, they often merge into the same experiences over time. I want to express, in my book, the simple fact that no one who suffers from BPD is alone, they are not the first or last to experience the mental and physical trauma that results, that others have gone through it and survived it, and, I hope with all my heart, that someone out there who may be scared, alone and suicidal, can read my book and see that suicide, yes it is always an option, but perhaps its not the only option, perhaps control over your life can be found in smaller ways, in smaller things, but represent just enough control that you no longer have to prove your control by taking your life, but prove your control by, even, taking the first step to simply read my book in an attempt to better understand yourself. The act of choosing and reading a book requires a great deal of control, and taking the time and effort to understand what is being said requires emotional and mental control. These may seem slight or even overstated, but I assure you, it is only in the small matters that we can begin to build up a life where we find ourselves in control of larger and larger matters, life-changing matters, matters that don’t happen “to” us but “with” us or “because” of us. Knowing that it is possible to transform from a person with a bottle of pills in hand ready to overdose to becoming a person that has poise and integrity, a person that embraces life, because they chose life, just this simple knowledge may prevent those pills from being swallowed to forever take away our ability to make choices that are within our control. You may not know it, you may not think it, but look around you and see where, in the smallest things, you have control, and celebrate those successes as reason enough, for now, to live. It would be hypocritical of me to say that suicide should never be an option, I understood far too well the desperate need to prove control by ending your life, but once that’s done, there is forevermore no control. By choosing, actively choosing, unwillingly, even, choosing, to wait one more day, one more hour, one more minute before swallowing those pills, you’ve just exercised control over your life, which was your goal the whole time. So take that minute, that second, to think about what control you do have – swallow the pills or set them aside – and be proud of the fact that you alone have that choice, and every time you choose to set the pills aside, you’ve exercised what you considered your “final” choice, the choice of life or death, because you’ve chosen life. That is an incredible act of self-control, a badge you can wear with pride, and every time that choice comes up again, remember that choosing life is taking control of your own destiny for the remainder of your natural life. That’s powerful. I wish I had chosen life more often. I wish I had seen that just having that choice made me more powerful than I ever thought possible. I thought I had to, that I must die in order to prove I had control. I am extremely lucky, through the miracles of modern medicine, the care of friends and family and interventions by my doctors and therapists, to remain alive and relatively well. I don’t know if I’ll ever again try to take my life. I really don’t. I may sound here like I’ve experienced a moment of nirvana where everything suddenly makes sense. To my knowledge, no such thing exists. So what I’m telling you here is applicable to me too. These words aren’t empty, not coming from a place of judgment or superiority, but from someone who has legitimately suffered through the worst that BPD can throw at you, and yet still survived to live another day. I wake up every morning knowing I’m still alive. I may not always be grateful of that fact, but the reality of the situation is that, somewhere along the line, I made the ultimate choice to choose life, and as a result, I’m still here. And maybe I’ll have a good day, or even, perhaps I won’t, but either way I have retained control over my own personhood, I am learning to gain control over what brand of ice cream I select at the store, and I hope and am striving towards a goal that I can one day be rid of the negativity in which I so often find myself, the abuse and violence that permeates my existence. This book isn’t a self-help book, it isn’t a tale of hope, per se, it is simply a tale of a life lived with BPD, a life that you may well live too, and a tale of slowly learning what it takes to survive in a dark world, a world that often renders us so emotional that we break, but not, I repeat, not a black-and-white world, but a world in shades of grey, if only we can learn to look past the boundaries of what we know and experience and embrace the grey that makes life not just possible, not just survivable, but, dare I say, perhaps even enjoyable. That’s my story. That’s my message. That’s my hope. For me and for you. For everyone of us who suffers from BPD, for everyone who loves or cares for someone with BPD, and for everyone tasked with the responsibility of “dealing with” the BPD patient. Once you no longer have to be “dealt with,” once you’ve reached the point where you, instead, are yourself “dealing with” the situation, interacting with it, not letting it act upon you but rather acting as an agent with the power to influence your surroundings, once you’ve reached this point, you’re no longer an “eggshell” or a bomb about to explode, but a person who is proud, who can hold their head high, who can walk confidently into society knowing that they have the tools to make it, to survive, to thrive, to succeed. Yes, you can be that person. I have faith in you.

Please use my Facebook page, following the link at the start, to post comments to this blog. I reserve the right to take any responses I receive directly on this blog, which I deem applicable and appropriate, and repost them on Facebook in order to generate more conversation. I want to hear from fellow patients. I want to hear from those who have had encounters with BPD sufferers, I want to hear from those who take care of, in any fashion, a BPD person. In short, I want to hear from you and generate a conversation about the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful, the rich lives that are lived and, perhaps, shared with others similar to yourself. Don’t be shy, if you don’t feel comfortable posting on a public page, e-mail me at rehn.kirk@gmail.com or hit me up on Facebook Messenger, and let’s have a chat. I’m not a therapist, that is my formal disclaimer, but I have some experience under my belt and if you need to express your fears or frustrations, or share your accomplishments, I want to know about them. Partly, I’m just selfish, I want to know because I want to always remember I’m not alone. But I use this public posting platform because it’s not just me that needs to know that, its every other person in my position. Gay, straight, lesbian, bi, black, white, Indian, homeless, housed, starving, well-fed, drug-addicted or sober, we all share something in common, and I want to bring out our commonalities, not our differences. Its far too easy to point out how and why someone is different, and to, from there, jump to the conclusion that their lives and stories are not applicable. But dig a bit deeper, and you’ll find that they have the same fears, the same stories, the same experiences that you have, maybe in different ways at different times, but that that wall you put up dividing yourself from others only hurts yourself, since breaking it down, having empathy for others, builds up self-confidence, not fear, it builds up understanding, not bias, and, finally, it builds up integrity and control, giving you the option and the tools to choose life, just one more day or hour or minute, just long enough to remember that of which you are in control, that of which others like you have found themselves to have control over, and to remind yourself that death, while the ultimate form of control, forever excludes your personal development and growth into someone that has greater control than life or death, that has greater control than brands of ice cream, that, in fact, has control over their entire environment, how they interact with it, and whether they choose to stay in that environment. Control is so much more than setting aside the poison pill, it is actively choosing to engage in life so that the control you desperately seek comes to you in ways you never imagined possible. I smile at the thought you might choose life and find your own path to control, it makes me happy to think that your simple choice of choosing life has led you to a life of true happiness, and it makes me proud, whether I know you or not, that you have made the biggest choice of all, the choice to choose life, and you have put yourself on the path to success, to happiness, to humanity, to becoming someone ruled not by emotions and fear, but by rationality, becoming someone that is not numbed to this world but exuberant about the possibilities awaiting them. That’s you. Tell me about it. I’m listening.

You can find my book on Amazon here, or direct from the publisher here. Choose whichever you like, I think the pricing and shipping speed varies, so check them both out if you’d like. It is available in e-book format, which is offered free to Kindle Unlimited subscribers, or it also comes in a lovely paperback format of my own personal design. If you purchase the book, please be kind, and pass it along. I would love to have this book presented to local booksellers in your area, and please let me know where it is accepted, if it is accepted. I want to see a tattered, used copy of this book lying around, having been read forward and back, passed from friend to friend, envisioning the path it took, the stories it told, and the people it helped. And, of course, please be so kind as to leave a review on Amazon. Its very simple, just click on your account, select orders, then select review. Star ratings are fine, but a personal touch would make me so grateful and, given the byzantine process by which Amazon chooses to promote certain books over others, would help my book achieve a higher rank in Amazon searches and ultimately bring this book to light for so many others. Your purchase, your sharing and your review help others find this resource. And your comments here or on Facebook would fill me with gratitude, give me hope, give you hope, give others hope, show everyone that the trials you face are not faced alone, that the successes you experience can or may be experienced by others, and that its ok to be scared as long as you know that fear is just an emotion, one which you can learn to analyze and control. So seize control of yourself, your life, your destiny, and let’s start a conversation.

Thank you all, much love, and I look forward with exhilaration to further discussion.

Kirk Rehn

rehn.kirk@gmail.com

GoFundMe


Hey guys, I need some help in marketing my work. I strongly believe there is a niche market for books on borderline personality disorder – in fact, up to 8% of the US population has the disorder, although most go undiagnosed. I want to reach this market and let my fellow sufferers know they are not alone. My story is that of survival, despite all odds.

Please consider contributing any amount at gofundme. I am using this money to promote my work using Google AdWords, to send consignment copies to local retailers and booksellers, to pay for flyers and other promotional material and to pay for postage. It is critically important that you help at this early stage in order to make this dream a reality!

As a bonus, anyone who contributes $35.00 or more will receive a free, signed copy of my paperback version of the book.

Once again, you can donate at gofund.me/borderline. Save a life today with the help of your contributions!

Taking down my blog :(


Sadly, as part of my publishing experience, Amazon requires that content I make available for purchase cannot be freely given away anywhere else, including my own blog or website. I’ve left as many posts as possible online, but I’ve had to make “private” anything that’s in my book. I wish I was able to offer discounts to my blog followers, because you’ve meant so much to me over these years (if I figure out a way to do so, you’ll be the first to know!) Many of you are also struggling with mental health issues, or drug abuse issues. Many of you know someone who is, even if you yourself don’t have these issues. Either way, I hope I’ve been able and will be able to provide a much-needed perspective – the perspective of the person living and struggling with these diseases. There’s a lot of clinical books out on how to “handle” and “deal with” people like me. I don’t want to be “handled.” I want to be loved. I hope my works show the suffering that takes place daily in the the lives of people living with these diseases. But, I also want my works to show that there is hope. Yes, I still suffer from borderline personality. Yes, I’m still an active drug user. But you know what? I’m alive. I have to repeat that. I’m alive. You have no idea how important that is, how unlikely that is, and how precious that is. I attempted suicide 14 times. I lived on the streets for years. I’ve struggled so hard to end this life that I forgot to struggle to see the beauty of life instead. No, my book doesn’t provide much hope, because I don’t see a lot of hope. But, I’m alive. That’s more than I’ve been able to say before. And maybe, with each passing day, I’ll come to appreciate life more, and find more reasons to go on. And that’s why I write. To show that I’m not alone and you’re not alone, that there is a shared human experience, that that experience may be awful sometimes, but that others have endured, and so can you, and so can I. That’s my message.

Until Amazon lets me re-enable my blog, you can find my book “Borderline Affairs: A Memoir” on Amazon by searching for the title or under the topic of borderline personality and self-help/mood disorders category. I’m not trying this out make a ton of money off this. I just want to spread to a wider audience and maybe reach someone that really needs to be reached. That said, the book is only $3.49 on Kindle, or $9.99 in print. And you get to see my beautiful photoshop cover art! I appreciate any interest, and I remain available on my blog. I want to hear from you. And I’ll keep posting updated entries.

Much love,

Kirk Rehn

Amazon Kindle book link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00PE7QMNI

City by the Bay


Put on my game face, say hello to another day
Plaster on a smile, say hey
To the man on the street, pissing his life away
Wait, that’s me, I’ve fallen a long way
All I’ve got to say
Is
Just make it another day, in the City by the Bay

Cause I’m not ok, no
Forlorn and alone
Supplicate myself to the one who knows
Cause on the other side, the grass grows
Greener
So I’ve been told

Am I too old?

Life passed me by, a train in the dark
Fuck that, I live my life on a lark
On pins and needles, dodging dogs that bark
But the one thing hurting is my heart

Where is the kid I once was?
Covered in blood

What happened to my youth?
Taken away, in a coup
My darkness overtaking my life
Dooming me to nothing but a life of strife
Of bloodshed, of dying, yeah, that’s right

I am greater than death, so it seems
To my body, I’m nothing but mean
Reflecting the world, reckless in greed
And bloodlust
Ravaging my soul, digging a hole
To throw my body in
Just another day on the dole

Death, please take me! I pray in suffering
But vengeful Death wants more suffering
Throwing myself on the floor, outside his door, supplicating
Please, end the suffering!

I’ve seen too much
Seen the secrets of death and such
Is not meant to be known to mere mortals,
I’ve seen the darkness of hell
Right where I fell
Comatose, at the place I dwell

What can I say? It’s just another fucking day
Plaster on my smile, say hey
To myself, on the streets, pissing my life away
No one left to inveigh for a better today
No one to care at all
So I fall
Drifting down to hell, I whisper the secrets that I’m not meant to tell

The grass is greener on the other side

Come with me, throw all your cares away
Far, far away
Jump, leap, dash, run, hurry the hole to hell is closing up
Don’t be a sitting duck
We are the survivors of this mortal earth
Take us down into the dirt
And cover us with green, green grass

Cause I’m not ok, no
But no one’s left to care
No one gives a damn to dare
To wish on a young boy, let his life be shared
Let his life be saved
So that you may
Count him among your blessings
One saved, today

Sweet hell
Here I come
Riding the crystal fairy down the abyss
There’s not a thing that I’ll miss
Forgive me dear world,
But you’ve done this to me
Depression, drugs, now death
What’s left?
Have you no pity, no sorrow, no fear or knowledge of what’s best?
Condemn me while waltzing away to the door
That smile plastered on my face, covering up a sophisticated whore
Dance with me
Just once more

#mylifematters Part I


———-

Part I

———-

I was 16 when it began. I’d had the perfect, idyllic childhood. Raised in a close knit town, surrounded by caring people, the perfect nuclear family. Three kids, mother and father and a cat. Well, a dog at one point. Then another cat. I think ultimately we were cat people, that poor dog. I had (have) an older sister by two years and a younger brother of three years. We were very close, although not always best friends. It happens. We grew up in a very strict, religious environment. For many years I didn’t know any different, and for us, the kids, it was a great experience. Sunday school, summer camp, friends, playmates, neighbors. This was our life. But somehow, things spiraled out of control. I won’t repeat details, because my mother is truly the innocent party in what followed. Truth be told, I’ll never actually know the truth. But I have a pretty good idea. Accused of infidelity, by the Church, not by my dad, my mom was estranged from the Church. This was her life, our life. My dad was an elder in the Church, my mom led the youth groups. We were loved and beloved, the model family to so many others. I suppose models always break down at some level or some point in time. Perhaps others were jealous. Perhaps they were ignorant. Perhaps they made up stories that compound upon themselves and became The Truth. I don’t know. I do know that my mother took it hard, being cut off from what was, literally, her life. Other than raising three children, a feat I’m sure I will never fully appreciate, the Church was her life. Why do I keep capitalizing “Church?” Well, because the Church was a Cult. Capital “C,” notice. No, not a satanic cult or devil worshippers or even worshippers of false idols (those, I was told, were the Catholics). Not a suicide cult or a cult with its own compound in Texas. No. In fact, our base was in California, Anaheim specifically. It didn’t start there though. It started in China by a man who was jailed for being Christian in a communist country. He fled the country and came to America, where streets are paved with gold and Christians hold more power than politicians. Or is it one and the same? No matter. Upon reaching America, this man started spreading the gospel, his gospel to be precise. He had written many books, now translated, and was to write many more (he was almost divinely prolific). These books expounded on the teachings of the Bible. Well, his Bible to be precise. Only one version of the Bible was allowed – his version – and it was so heavily footnoted and “explained” the some verses spanned multiple pages. Like lay Christians in the Dark Ages, we were presumed not to know how to interpret the Bible for ourselves, so, like children, it was explained and expounded upon so that we see the Light. Where his knowledge of the Lord came from is beyond my knowing, that was never explained to me. It wasn’t quite Joseph Smith, but I’d be hard pressed to define the difference. One wrote his own Bible, the other annotated it so heavily that the words no longer mattered, it was the interpretation that was Correct. God, apparently, left much to be clarified, and this young man was well suited to the task of speaking for the Lord. Speaking instead of the Lord, to be precise. In addition to the teachings of the Church (which are loosely based on Christianity), there were Rules to follow. God only saves those, apparently, who don’t wear jeans, don’t go to movies or watch TV, don’t have secular friends and who don’t establish any foothold in the World beyond what is necessary to sustain themselves, in order to better use their time to spread the Word. Those rules, of course, did not apply to the man who owned the Local Church in Spokane, where I was raised. There, I said it, Local Church. Look it up. Anyways, this man was filthy rich due to some holdings of industries which were very much of this World (manufacturing jewelry that represented false idols is one example that springs to mind). He ruled, unchallenged, and rewarded his acolytes quite handsomely, in terms of money and/or importance and social status. Those who may have questioned his leadership were generally exited from the Church or otherwise made to see the Error of their Ways. You see, brainwashing is quite easy in an insular community dependent on one man for their salvation. In fact, as was the case for my mother, he held absolute power over life and death. Perhaps he was neglected as a child and developed a God complex. I say, and and repeat, power over life and death. For, upon learning of the supposed infidelity, which of course was not seen as a judicial matter but rather an offense against God and all that the Church stood for (the foundation seems to have been a bit shaky), the Elders of the Church condemned her. My father was an elder. To his credit, he believed she was innocent, but this did not seem to affect his (dis)belief in her, generally speaking. That sentence may require some explanation.

You see, as one is want to do when cast aside, persecuted and excommunicated from their Church, which is their whole life and whole desire for their life and for which they gave up all else, my mother suffered a nervous breakdown. Actually, a series of breakdown. The Church naturally saw this as the Devil inside her. One or two of the congregation came to her side, but no one offered or thought she should obtain help. It was, after all, a sin, what she did, and the Lord does work in mysterious ways, or sometimes direct ways, by slaying his believers. So I was told.

But these realizations came much later. Some may laugh at their inaccuracies, but I maintain they are as accurate as I was allowed to know, which was quite a bit, given it was my family that was under fire. If events were different, I apologize, not the people involved, never will I forgive them, but to the vicissitudes of time and space during which memories are formed and reformed. What I saw, at the time, was much different.

I was 14 at the time. Don’t quote me on that. I saw my mom being ripped apart from the life that she knew. I saw my father, ambivalent about what to believe or whatever to do. I saw the Church persecute her, especially, most cruelly, during her to-be-expected panic attacks and breakdowns. One, and I repeat, one, solo, single person believed her and saw the psychiatric crisis for what it was. He saved her life. It was not the elders of the Church nor the Members of the Congregation, but rather one single man. If there is a God, it would be him. My father didn’t jump to her rescue, as a good husband should, and a long period of fighting broke out between them. This culminated, and I don’t know why it was this time and this place, in my mother grabbing a knife and attempting to stab my father. She managed to rip his clothes before my sister intervened. She was always on my mom’s side in the events and accusations. So I don’t know who called the police, as I remember it being her, but it must have been painful to report her mother. The police came and took my mother away. My father was encouraged to press charges, because the prosecution could not  go forward without his cooperation, but finally, and to his credit and my disbelief, he refused.

Somewhere in all this, quite probably beforehand, but stuck in the murky middle in my mind, my mother attempted suicide. This of course was quite hush-hush. I only know bits and pieces gleaned from quiet conversations, knowing glances, nurses scurrying around, doctors calling on the phone. In a heroic and valiant effort to end the pain and suffering, she slowly, painstakingly, eerily and quietly starved herself to death.

Almost.

From here my memory is blurred. We moved to the other side of the state, where the Local Church of that town took us in, knowing, but not knowing, the events that had transpired. Perhaps the consensus was that the Devil had done his part and she had suffered enough for her transgressions. I don’t know.

Like I said, my memory is blurred. Because, before moving, I was seen by a psychiatrist. My mom’s psychiatrist, to be precise. And my sister’s. I had declared to my parents that I was depressed, saying that depression can be inherited, and that I was scared. What child wouldn’t be? The doctor was friendly and knowledgeable – both in terms of his medical knowledge and his personal knowledge of the situation. In fact, at several points throughout my care, he was gone on visits to DC to speak before Congress on various mental health issues. So I trusted him with my care.

He prescribed an anti-depressant and talk therapy.

Now, back to where I was. This all happened while still in Spokane. I kept him as my doctor for the next several years, flying back and forth across the state every few months. He eventually moved, and I eventually stopped going. I can’t remember if I sought care in Seattle, where we now lived. That seems like it would be an important memory, but this time of my life later turned out to be the least of my concerns.

I’m going to stop here for now. This concludes Part I, wherein we meet the Church, see my mother’s pain, experience life in my family, and see my initial start on the journey to insanity.

thorazine dreams redux


http://wp.me/p2c3so-2Z This poem I wrote back in February perfectly sums up how I feel now. Once again, alone, in my room, mattress on the floor, shivering in the cold, and wondering if any of this is worth it. I do miss my thorazine dreams. Perhaps I’ll expand on this train of thought in the coming days. I hope some of you can relate to parts of the story. Life on the suicide bed. Life never lived or enjoyed. Life broken and charred. Life that begs for death to spare it from itself. I may soon get put back on thorazine. I look forward to the sweet stickiness of thought and mind, the out of body experience, the feeling that everything is ok, though the world may be crumbling away. Yes, I miss this feeling of bliss. I miss my thorazine dreams.