Who are You? Who, Who, Who, Who?bydinkleberry©
To add to this fun I have an Axis II diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder and Antisocial Personality Disorder. I'll address the second misunderstanding first. Antisocial Personality Disorder is not avoiding people or not liking to interact with people. That's Asocial or Avoidant. No, Antisocial Personality Disorder is a polite way of calling someone a sociopath. I disagree with this diagnosis as does my current psychologist but as he explains because of my criminal history its other doctors doing CYA -- Cover Your Ass. My psychologist believes there should be a subset called Criminal Mentality Personality Disorder where the person has a criminal mentality but knows his or her actions are wrong and is capable of remorse but usually doesn't give a shit. He also believes I only have traits of this and not the full-blown disorder, but whatever.
Now let's talk about the other, Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). Sounds kinda mild, right? Maybe just a little crazy, right? I wish! BPD can be a life-threatening disorder because of the suicidal behaviors such as cutting and other self-destructive behaviors. I'm not going to get into a full description of what BPD is. I'll explain that the name comes a term in 1938 of what was thought to be a form of schizophrenia, on the borderline between neurosis and psychosis.
I do agree with my psychologist that I do have full-blown BPD. Besides the scars on my body, I display many, many, many of the traits. If you read about BPD you will learn there's a strong correlation between child abuse, especially child sexual abuse, and development of BPD. While that's true, I must say emphatically I WAS NOT ABUSED AS A CHILD PHYSICALLY, SEXUALLY, OR EMOTIONALLY. I am not in denial I was not abused. I'm in that small percentage of people who are fucked-up because we're fucked up.
As to my Axis III diagnosis, this is where my substance abuse and mood disorders exist. Basically, if we can manage my Axis I & II issues then these suddenly lessen in impact if not disappear. On the flip side, if I can tame these monsters then it becomes possible to address the bigger beasts.
Has my craziness scared you enough already? If not maybe this will, or maybe it'll give you hope. As I mentioned earlier one day, over two years ago, I realized that at 25 was I worn out and couldn't keep doing this. However, this revelation came while on the psych ward, again, recuperating from another breakdown.
What happened? I was living on my own and for awhile I was fritzing-out, slang for short-circuiting or melting down. I was suicidal in the sense that I hated that I was still alive. I wasn't actively trying to kill myself but I wasn't trying to make sure I kept living for another day. In fact, when I would awaken from a blackout or sleep or a perverted version of both I would think, 'Damn! I'm still alive.'
I was on a full-blown drug mission shoving as much dope into my body as I could and doing whatever I had to do to get my next fix. I was having trouble finding veins in my arms and was now shooting into my feet, neck and even once the vein on my forehead. Still I couldn't get that bliss Heroin used to always provide. I was drinking like a 60-year old alcoholic and still finding no relief. I was smoking Angel Dust (PCP), taking Ecstasy and any other drug I could procure and still reality would not leave me alone. I wasn't eating and when I did, I'd just throw it up my body rejecting everything.
Ultimately, I couldn't take it anymore. I was done. From past experiences, overdoses don't always work and take too long; getting hit by a van didn't work; I wasn't sure I had the courage to slit my throat and jumping scared me because of the time to think during the fall. Finally, I decided I'd take a warm bath and hack my wrists with a meat cleaver. Yes, I shit you not!
I filled my tub with a warm bubble bath, to promote blood flow and slowly slip into Death's loving embrace. Being left handed, I figured I'd do my left wrist first and then do my right next because I'd still have the strength and dexterity remaining to severely sever my right wrist. On the bathroom sink I wacked my left wrist first and it fucking hurt like a motha-fucka. Worse, I had cut about halfway through and didn't have the strength or ability to grip the meat cleaver to do my right wrist. Frustrated, I climbed in my tub and waited for the Eternal Sleep to come.
Two hours later, I was still waiting. Climbing out of tub, I chopped at my left wrist again. This time I shrieked like a banshee being tortured as the cleaver bit into my flesh and sank in even deeper. Now my left hand was basically hanging on because of some skin and flesh. Sinking back into my tub, I waited to take an Endless Nap.
Sometime later cops broke into my bathroom door and I watched as they lifted me from the tub to the floor. From there I somehow ended up in New York-Presbyterian Hospital. I don't remember much of that night from the time the cops showed up. I learned later that my neighbors hearing me scream thought I was being murdered. They knew I was a bony single white girl, living in the wrong neighborhood, and associating with some unsavory characters. At the hospital, I was in surgery for ten hours as they worked to reattach my hand. Although I had chopped across my wrist, to reattach the tendons they had to cut along my forearm and peel it back. Concerned in saving my hand, and the multitude of already existing scars, the doctors cared not a whim for beauty.
After the surgery, my left hand was hooked to a machine with the doctors saying, "We hope it can be saved." After the first week, my hand was removed from the wound vac. The doctors said they had saved my left hand, but how much use I would have was unknown. I would have to endure a year of physical therapy to get about 65% use of my left hand. I have very limited use in my thumb and cannot flex my fingers independently. This means I can't flip you the bird with my left hand, or play video games. I have no feeling in my thumb, forefinger and middle finger. To compensate I have hypersensitivity in my ring finger, pinkie and that side of my palm. I also have a massive shark tooth shaped scar running the underside of my forearm. Starting about an inch below my hand is a field of scar tissue that's about two inches wide the full width of my wrist, it then narrows to about an inch and a half on my pinkie side while running up towards my elbow to end at a blunted point just before crook of my elbow. This came from skin grafts taken from my left thigh.
Once I was physically patched-up, it was time to put me back together mentally. For that was I court-ordered to a minimum of 6 months treatment at a Therapeutic Community (TC). I knew what I was doing wasn't working and willing to try anything else; the reason for the court order was so that Medicaid would pay for it. The reason this was different from any of my previous rehab shuffles was that I was done. I was done living the way I had been, I was done fighting, what I was doing wasn't working. So this time I was doing this one for myself.
This time I took it serious, and along with it being a top-notch program, I learned about myself. After kickin' the dope habit, I was placed on a methadone maintenance program that I'm still on. I take 30 mg a day (20mg in the morning and 10mg in the evening) to keep the cravings at bay. My physical addiction still lives within me. I can even pinpoint where it is. It lives at the base of my spine about two vertebrae up from my tailbone. Lurking there on one, two or three vertebrae is a constant urge to use that the methadone prevents from spreading.
At the TC, I finally found a psychiatrist who, besides listening to his patients, would error on the side of under medicating his patients. These are rare traits in a psychiatrist. Too many times I, like too many other patients, had psychiatrists who over medicated me to the point of creating a zombie. In the free world, given the choice of being a zombie or being crazy I'll always choose crazy. Because I was in a controlled environment, my doctor took me off the complete rainbow of pills I was prescribed and started over. Today I take Zyprexa and Abilify for my Bi-Polar; Tegretol for impulse control; and Klonopin for mood disorder and anxiety; along with Methadone for my heroin addiction. Thankfully, my current headshrinker is experienced in dealing with both crazy people and drug addicts and can treat me for both.
While this chemical cocktail may seem like a kaleidoscope of pills, it's actually less than I've taken in the past, AND more importantly it works. I still have my sine wave of ups and downs. The difference is my cycle is stretched way more out and flatter without the extremely dangerous highs and lows. Not over medicated I'm able to feel and enjoy life. While psychotropic medications bring a handful of side effects, the only significant one I experience is increased thirst. I drink about a gallon and half of fluids a day. With that and my exercise programs, my doctor and I have to monitor that I don't sweat out my meds and vital nutrients. With my drug history, I only get a week's worth of methadone and Klonopin. While picking up those meds from Presbyterian Hospital is a pain in the ass, I also get blood work done while there, so it's a necessary evil.
Even more importantly was that while at the TC, I found the perfect psychologist for me. He is a leading expert on Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) writing books on the topic; he also leads training clinics for the treatment with Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT). Beyond all the happy duda crap of DBT, my doctor is perfect for me because he is not a sweet and cuddly, sympathetic enabler. No, he's a mean bastard who doesn't have time for my whining, neediness or bullshit. He challenges me and makes me question why I do things.
Previously, I always said I get high because I like the feeling of being high. But he forced me to examine why all my drugs of choice are downers. Now I know why I love Heroin but hate cocaine. I had to learn the why of why all my past relationships were a volatile mix of explosive personalities. He forces me to examine why I do self-destructive behaviors. Then the bastard made me learn what all the pyscho-babble, technical jargon and labels mean. How many doctors do you know that want you to understand all the gobbledygook they say?
Voluntarily, I still see him once every two weeks and attend his DBT group every week, plus the bastard gives me homework! And I can't slack off because he has a list of patients waiting to see him.
If you are wondering if he knows about my Literotica writings, the answer is yes. I tell him everything and share my submissions with him. While not overjoyed with my choice of subject matter, he says it's a way to release my antisocial urges in a non-destructive manner and that beyond the sexual content the situation is of a loving, happy and fun relationship that I wish I had with my mother.
After nine months, I graduated from the TC and my dad was there to take me home. Every weekend DoD would come visit me often dragging another family member with him. My mom couldn't handle visiting me there and still cringes when she looks at my arm. One time he asked me, "Dink, why am I always visiting you in these settings?"
With a smile and a laff I answered, "But dad I'm only a Dinkleberry." The day he picked me up, on the way home we stopped to visit a friend who's a professional photographer. As a welcome home and congratulations gift she did a photo shoot of me, and DoD was there to watch his healthy daughter preen before a camera. This is where my profile picture comes from and has great meaning to me.
Last year DearOldDad passed away from a brain hemorrhage while watching his Rangers lose yet again. The doctors say he probably felt a headache that he ignored, but his children think differently. If dad had a headache, often caused by mom's nagging, he would take his trusted Bufferin. I can't help but think of DoD when I see those blue boxes on the shelves next to the aspirin. DearOldDad was retired and as he sat there, he probably felt his job was done. He had seen his Rangers finally win in '94, the Mets in '86 and best of all his Giants won it all in '86, '90 and '07. More importantly, he was proud his first son was a Marine, his first daughter a veterinarian, his youngest son a minor-league baseball player with dreams of making it to the Bigs; and now his Dink was clean, sane and her life was going in the right direction. DearOldDad probably thought, 'Yup old man, you did a good job now you can relax.' I miss you Pops.
Well, if you're still reading this then I guess you are here for the sex. While others would label me as bisexual, I consider myself only as monogamous. Whether I'm in a relationship with a man or a woman, I'm a one-person gal. I also have trouble accepting the bisexual label because of what types of men and women attract me.
With men, I like a manly man. I want a rugged, big ole tough, son-of-a bitch type man. One who doesn't have to say much because his presence says it all. My dream man is Peter Steele, lead singer and bassist for Type O Negative. Unfortunately, Peter left me before we could consummate our eternal love by passing away April 14, 2010 and taking a part of my heart with him. While I love Zakk Wydle, and his band Black Label Society, he'd have to get rid of that woolly mammoth look. My current man-crush is on Jim Caviezel and especially the character he plays in Person of Interest. How sexy is a 6'2 ruggedly handsome man in a suit that kicks fuckin' ass without breaking a sweat? Mr. Reese is solid, quiet and mysterious.
My love for the New Jersey Devils comes from my crush on their 'Captain Crunch' Scott Stevens. His sexiness comes from the fact that no matter who else was on the ice he was the toughest SOB out there. He was a mean, hard-hitting ruffian -- who can forget that hit on Eric Lindros? Yet he was always a clean player. He let his playing do his talking, so when he spoke everyone listened.
As a New York Mets fan I do find David Wright cute but like Eli Manning, they're too cute for my taste. The same for Sidney Crosby maybe when he gets roughed up some and losses that baby face. I do find Albert Pujols with his physique, ruggedness, and his no nonsense attitude sexy.
I love the TV show Blue Bloods. Since I don't have Daddy issues, Tom Selleck is only handsome to me. I do find his character's son Det. Reagan played by Donnie Wahlberg sexy. My only problem is he's borderline too short at only 5'10. Being thin and tall myself, with a love for heels, I need a man that's physically superior to me. No girlie-mons allowed on this cruise ship! lol. Perhaps I find Donnie Wahlberg sexy because of the run-off sex appeal from his partner Detective Jackie Curatola played by the super sexy, and Brooklyn native, Jennifer Esposito.
Yes, I find women very sexy. If I want my man to be a manly man, than I want my girl to be a girlie-girl. I'm currently in a relationship with a girlie-girl who's a former cheerleader. She's a short, sexy blue-eyed blonde with a kick-ass body. I'm still not sure how we ended up hooking up, I'm just glad we did.
I like soft yummy blondes, so right now my two biggest crushes are on Anna 'Aya' Stefanowicz lead singer of Unsun, whom I modeled Aya from my story "I'll be the Judge of That". I am also in love with Maria Brink lead singer of In This Moment. She's so beautiful I'll forgive her for the tattoos. Although I'm a hardcore Goth girl myself, I don't have any tattoos nor do I like them on my women. I associate tattoos as being masculine so they don't belong on a girlie-girl. HarleyQuin has a tramp stamp and I tease her for it.
I don't find excessive piercings sexy either. I currently only have three piercings in my left ear (2 at the bottom and 1 high) plus a hoop in the cartilage; two piercings in my right ear; a belly ring and I only recently got a tongue stud at HarleyQuin's urging. In the past, I've had my nose pierced a couple of different times but have let those holes close. I've never pierced my nipples and about four years ago, I got a set of side corset piercings but, as with all body piercings, those were temporary.
While I am a hardcore Gothic girl and have been for many years, I enjoy the dramatic aspects of Goth and love to dress in powerful, beautiful attire. I love a romantic look with tailored velvet jackets, lace and period items. I wear a lot of dresses and skirts. Black isn't the only color that exists in my gothic lifestyle. Dark reds, violet, blue, and white are often in my wardrobe as side colors to my blackness. My hair is naturally raven black with soft lazy curls. I've worn my hair over my face from before I knew what Goth was.
I'll give you a quick lesson in what Goth is and the difference between its redheaded stepsister emo. Goth is associated with Gothic metal, which dates back to the early 1980's, but became popular as a contrast to Alternative [which had become the mainstream] and grunge music and its slovenly culture, especially in Europe before coming over to the US. Gothic music often has a soft female vocalist sometimes compliment by a growling male singer, is very dramatic, incorporates keyboards and symphonic music. Three tremendous examples of this are Within Temptation, Leaves' Eyes and Nightwish. Because of the powerful dramatic aspects, it was compared to the Gothic architecture of Europe. While there are many dark themes present, Goth is not about suicide, pain and death. It is about alienation, nihilism, and angst. Goth is in many ways about finding beauty, romance, and decadence in dark or unexpected places.
Emo is primarily a United States phenomenon. Emo stands for "emotional hardcore," a type of punk rock music that evolved out of Washington DC, in the mid 1990's. Emo or emotional hardcore was an attempt by a number of bands to experiment with chaotic music patterns and personal expression in abstract and primal ways. In my humble opinion, Emo is the whiney douche-bag dudes singing about how much they hate their life. Coldplay is the pinnacle of commercial emo. Emo kids wear tight black jeans, tight t-shirts, layers of hoodies and/or thrift store jackets, asymmetrical hair (usually dyed black and loaded with product to make it even more asymmetrical), and too much black eyeliner. They tell everyone how they wish they were dead but won't do it.
Once asked the Lady of the Night explained, "Goth = getting laid in a coffin and Emo = listening to sad music while crying about not getting laid in a coffin."
Like most guys, I love big boobs and I mean really big boobs and I really, really love'em. Perhaps it comes from the fact I'm only a 32B and my sister and mother, while short and round, are both D cups. I don't know or really care, all I know is I luv a big set of knockers. My girlfriend is supposedly only a 34C but that seems hard to believe considering how pillowly soft and succulent her breasts are. Thankfully, she allows me to indulge in my breast fixation. Still I love big tits.
Unlike many, I have no problem with breast implants -- perhaps because I've seen some truly magnificent jobs that if you didn't know they were implants you wouldn't guess. There are only four places in the world you should get a boob job done: Rio, Brazil; Miami; Los Angeles and Manhattan, NY. Nor should you get them done on the cheap! Guys, that's where all the bad boob jobs come from. No girl should get a boob job done in Louisville, Kentucky for under $4,000!
Still even when they are obvious, I still find cartoonish, basketball-size tits strangely erotic. I'll admit I find the cartoon version of Wonder Woman from the Justice League hot (along with Mercy Graves from Superman) but I also find former mega-titted porn stars Wendy Whoppers and Tiffany Towers super sexy. So why have I never gotten implants myself? I've thought of it often and have investigated whether I should or not. I know more about implants than the average person. What has kept me from getting implants is the knowledge of my compulsive behavior and luv for big boobs. I know me, after getting my first boob job up to a C-cup within 3 years I would be up to a double E cup!