Days sober: 15.
I am feeling low this evening. I am tearful and tired. My thoughts have largely been focused on ex-lovers who no longer think about me at all. Despite all of the noise and people around me, I feel so alone.
If I were still drinking, my loneliness would drive me into the bed of any moderately attractive man who shows me the slightest bit of attention. I would simultaneously feel better and worse, as I always do when I sleep with strangers. But I can’t do that today so I will just stay with myself, try to feel grateful for this sickening solitude, and pray that I feel less alone in the morning.
After R.L moved on and left me behind, my BPD went into overdrive and promiscuity became a coping mechanism. I started a list of every man I had ever slept with and added names to the list as they happened. This list was on my old phone, the one R.L bought me, the one I smashed to pieces when I got paralytic in early April after 46 days sober. A combination of factors have precipitated a severe decline in my cognitive abilities, mainly my capacity to form and maintain memories. I want to re-write my list because I want to know who I have slept with, because it says something about me, about my personality(-ies). I need the list because I hate not knowing things, especially things about myself. I need the list because I want to know “my number.” I just need to know what I’ve done.
But I can’t remember. I can’t fucking remember. I slept with some guy when I was drunk in May, I think, it might have been late April. I don’t remember his name. I am disgusted in myself. I need to know his name. But because I didn’t have the list, I didn’t write it down when I found it out, and now I don’t remember. I am a disgrace.
I am going to re-write my list, as the names come to me. After the first 7 guys it won’t be in order because I can’t remember. But I will try to remember. This is my project. This is my “brain training.” I am going to venture deep into the darkest corners of my frazzled brain to dig up the names of guys that I wouldn’t recognise if they walked past me in the street. I am awful. God, I hate myself. But I need to know. I need to know who I have slept with. Because the only thing that’s worse than knowing the details of what I did with him is knowing that he knows something about me that I don’t.
I am going to remember. It’s going to be difficult, and upsetting, and scary, but I am going to remember.