In My Room

Let me take you to a place that I know.  It’s a place where I can just be, a blank canvas where my mind rests, where I can reach out to you in the only way I know how.

There is a room, it’s not very big, but it’s big enough that when the door is shut and locked you don’t feel claustrophobic.

The white door is locked from the inside.  The paint has aged and is flakey, it could have been duck egg blue at some point.  The handle and locking mechanism are ornate brass, bright, shiny and smooth on the parts that are handled the most but tarnished on the rest of it. I don’t know where the key is to get out.  It’s OK though because I have no intention of removing myself from this room any time soon.  And even if I want to remove myself, all trace of the room magically fades away.

The walls are white. I’m not sure if they are cracked or faded because I hardly ever take my eyes of the door.

There is a window. Outside the sky is always blue. Sometimes there are white fluffy clouds, but they are never grey and the sky is never completely overcast. Trees frame the window, when I glance over I can see the green leaves dancing in the breeze. I don’t think the room is on the ground floor because all I can see is trees and sky.

The floor is definitely faded.  I can see when I am laying on it. There are wooden floor boards, slightly uneven, like you get in old English cottages.  They creak when you walk across them, not that I do much walking.  I imagine that when I cry my tears seep through the cracks..

Despite there being a bed in the room, a wrought iron bed with simple sheets, I lay on the cool floor facing the door which is an arm’s length away.  I can just about see under the door, but it doesn’t look like anything, just darkness.

I imagine you in the adjoining room, laying like me – on the floor, an arms reach from the door.

You can poke your fingers though the crack under the door, and I can do the same.  It’s to let each other know we are still there.  We can’t hear each other  because neither of us have the strength to talk in words.  We can’t see each other, apart from our finger tips, but it is somehow comforting, especially when you reach out far enough and our fingertips touch momentarily.


In two locked rooms it feels so far away from each other, much like reality. But when our fingertips touch all distance is lost and it feels like you are really here with me in my room.

Love Sailor xox

P.S I’ll be back soon, studying is almost over.

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Hello Sailor Swallow – Free To Good Home

Blah, my birthday is coming up soon.  I did the whole explanation last year of why I don’t get birthdays (actually, checking back on my whole “Hello Sailor Contemplates Birthdays” post, it was exactly a year ago today I wrote it – I like coincidences).

My birthday last year kind of sucked balls. This year is my thirtieth and I’m still contemplating whether or not to participate this year.  I’ve been told if I don’t celebrate it, I’ll regret it, but knowing me I’ll probably regret it anyway because birthdays are just a bit pants really.

Anywho a while ago I decided to give away one of my paintings for my birthday.  I don’t know why, maybe the deed of doing something for someone else on what I consider the most selfish day of the year makes me feel less spoilt, or something.  Who knows.  It makes sense in my brain.

Originally I decided I would give away one on my Facebook page if I reached 100 followers before July 7th, but actually it doesn’t really matter how many likes I have, I’d rather people like it because they like it, not because they are getting something out of it. And I want to extend the love to my WordPress family, because without you I’d be nothing anyway, plus I know many of you aren’t on Facebook (or just enjoy hiding) and I want you to be included.

So this is what I’m giving away, one of my swallows –

hello sailor original swallow

He doesn’t have a name yet, but he is a he. I guess you can name him when you get him, whoever you are.

He’s hand draw and painted in watercolour and ink on A4 watercolour paper.

Here is how I’m going to do it –

Leave a message here on BonjourMarin, or Facebook, saying you want to enter, I’ll put your name on the list, on my birthday I’ll put everyone’s names in a hat, draw one out and that will be the winner.  I’ll even pay postage.

There can only be one entry per person, because I want it to be as fair as possible.

There is also a second prize, but this is not for an original, this is for four prints of my designs –


These are the original watercolour paintings I had scaled down and printed on to cards.

They are printed onto A6 (105mmx148mm) high quality thick 350gsm satin coated card. Each card is blank inside, so it can be sent with a personalised message (or you could just frame it and hang it on you wall as a piece of art!) and hand folded.

The catch? Your present to me.  Either dress yourself up/dress your pet up as a sailor or pirate OR change your profile picture on Facebook to a Hello Sailor painting for the day, post a message so I can see you and then I will choose my favourite, so make it awesome!

I’ll post again nearer the time reminding everyone, but this is what I want most for my birthday – Participation and people dressed as sailors.

If you decide to enter – Good luck!

Love Sailor xox

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Aftermath of the Aftermath

I’m good at being quiet, and I think that was always my problem.

I know I’m Borderline, I know the sub-types have a code, but I can’t remember what mine is.  It’s the “Quiet” variety, I know that much, because every single problem I keep inside until I can’t possibly contain it any longer.

Anorexia was always a real problem, not primarily because I was afraid to get fat, but because the paranoia was such a problem I thought people were trying to poison my food.

I mean, my hands could never be clean enough.  Something as simple as a crisp packet held a host of possibilities.  If someone poisoned the outside of the bag, then I had to use my hands to open the bag, then the poison would be on my hands, and then I’d have to use my hands to eat, so then I would be poisoned.  It then got to the point that they’d poisoned the crisps before they’d even put them in the bag.  Poisoned potatoes.  The only thing I could safely eat was bread and water.  For some reason, no one bothered to poison the bread.

I was 13 years old when this happened.  Do you know what happens when you starve your 13 year old self? You don’t grow up properly. I never matured. I still get mistaken for a teenager, despite nearly being 30 years old (could be worse I suppose). My periods went all wrong.  I was told I’d ruined my bones and I would never be able to have children.  The thought of having children as a 13 year old never really crossed my mind, especially as everyone was trying to poison me.

I was admitted to hospital.  I learnt to eat again. I was discharged because I was “better”, only I never really was better.

I hate that my growth was stunted.  What annoys me more is that I feel like my mind is stunted too. At 13 years old, living away from home in a hostile hospital environment – everything clinical and white, apart from the gaudy coloured green and red hospital carpets and curtains in the day room – I had to do a lot of growing up.  I was old before my time.  I had different worries to other 13 year olds. But now I feel that as my body stopped growing, so did my mind.

I feel like I am still stuck as that 13 year old.  I’ve collected experiences over time, but my emotions and expectations are still immature.  I don’t know how to describe it – I often feel like I’m stuck in a time warp.  I see my friends around me, they grew up, they went to university, the moved out of home, many of them are married, they have honeymoons and holidays abroad and they have started having babies, and here I am, still stuck as this 13 year old playing the role of a grown up, but not quite living or believing it.

When my body and mind didn’t grow, I decided I would never have my own kids anyway.  My body wouldn’t comply, as well as the fact that perhaps *this* is all genetic and I might pass it on, as well as passing on any inappropriate Borderline behaviours to people of a younger age.

When I was 26 years old I had everything I expected to have at that age.  I had moved in with my boyfriend, we were engaged, we were happy, he wanted kids, but I knew it would never happen, I was happy to adopt.  As a joint venture we would give a good home to someone who needed it.

Then one day, as if my miracle, my 13 year old’s body matured and I was pregnant.

Anyone who has been there will know the feeling.  I remember it as if it was yesterday.  Something maternal that I had never felt before and I get envious of every time I see someone else with that feeling, because I know that although it once was me, it will never be me again.

It’s bitter-sweet, it always is.  I’m happy for people, but at the same time it causes so much pain, especially when you see one of you ex’s with a new-born baby and you just keep thinking “that should’ve been me”.

Sailor xox

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I’m supposed to be asleep, but asleep doesn’t come easy when you’ve got the words in your head that stick in your throat and you’re not allowed to say.
No amount of sea water can take the pain away.
We can’t run, we can’t hide.
We remember freaking out at school once. My uniform was green. Put in isolate because we couldn’t control the anger. Shaking. A stern look in the teachers eyes because they couldn’t understand. Her hair was short, dark and curly, a remnant of the 80’s, eyes peering angrily over silver wire rimmed glasses. The bedding was red. The walls were white. Brown wooden furniture. Green waste paper bin. School information on the walls, I read over and over to try to focus and calm down. All the major food groups. Puffy red eyes from crying. Being forced to eat and drink even though I know I felt sick from the gut wrenching sobbing that had taken place earlier in frustration. I can’t even remember now why we were freaking out. Swear words like “shag” and “fuck” come to mind. Screwed up paper. Out of control. I guess it doesn’t matter. Like it won’t matter why I’m freaking out now. I’ll just remember the aftermath, pictographically, what was on tv, how my hair looked, what I was wearing, what I had for tea what I felt, taste, smelt and saw.
Burnt skin, heavy heart, tired eyes, noisy brain, no escape, should’ve ended it a long time ago because there is nothing here and I’m only here to disappoint.

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*Trigger warning*

I am to write like there is no one listening.  Let the words spill onto the pages.  No mopping up of bad language or profanities or thoughts that will offend, because there are things that need to be said and I can’t be scared of the judgement or what other people think or say.  I can’t be letting anyone down any more than I do already.

I have never been aware of feeling OK and then not feeling OK.

Yesterday, if my mind was a map of the world then I would have been able to stick a pin in the point that my world changed.  I have never felt the switch flip like that.  It was simultaneously fascinating and terrifying.


Not long after, I went to sleep.  But I woke up the same.

The world was over-powering.  The words and colours on the shampoo bottles burned through my eyes, into my brain and out of the back of my skull.  Getting stuck on one word, reading it over and over because it looks and sounds wrong.  It’s not even English any more.  The grout pattern of the plane white tiles was closing in on me like a net.  Too many squares, too white, too many lines.


In the car I realise there is more than one voice chattering away in my skull.  Today Charlotte is here.  I don’t mind, because she is there for a reason. Its only when I feel like this that I war with myself whether this is a psychosis or not.  If it was a psychosis than I wouldn’t think it was a psychosis.  During these periods I am absolutely convinced she is really here, a real person, because she is really here so it can’t be a psychosis because it’s real, but then I would think that and then it gets confusing.  It doesn’t matter.

I am a disgusting person.  On the inside and out.  There are a lot of people who would argue otherwise and maybe they can see something in me that I can’t see in myself because I am with myself all the time.

I starved myself for the whole weekend. Shhh it’s a secret.  I don’t want people to know I think I’m fat. I don’t want to use the ‘F’ word.  It’s not a bad word.  It does not describe a person. But sometimes ‘S’, the ‘skinny’ word is all I have and I want to keep a hold of it.

When I started my new job I weighed 2kg less than I do no.  2kg.  Minimal when you look at it from a 2kg point of view.  2kg is an average bag of sugar.  2kg is the size of a small rabbit.

When I look on the scales the jump from what I was to what I am seems huge.

I think I put on weight because I was burning fewer calories through stress.  There is also an abundance of biscuits in my new job.  And I eat them, but I needed too because I am busier and I need to keep going.

I find it difficult to get clothes to fit me.  I wear small sizes but I’m convinced that I am spilling out of them.  Even the extra small scrubs at work are too big, but even then I wish I was smaller.  Maybe I want to be invisible.

I am not beautiful on the inside or the outside.  And I’m not saying that because I want people to tell me so. In fact I wouldn’t believe it.  I think bad things.  BPD says I can only be all good or all bad, there for I must be all bad because I certainly am not all good.

Skinny is not beautiful but with societies pre-occupation of skinny meaning success and beauty, it’s the only place I’ve ever fit in.  I don’t want to change.  I don’t want to be a healthy weight otherwise I am not the thing that I have only ever been complimented on before.

I spent the day eating glucose tablets to give my body a bit of energy.

I weighed myself and found out that I’ve lost 1kg since I started restricting two weeks ago.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to weigh.  I don’t know if it matters.

I am some unknown emotions but I know this is all insane.

Exhaustion has not been so bad since I started my new job and I put on 2kg.

Exhaustion is worse when restricting.

I hate myself.  I must be so shallow.  It doesn’t make sense.

From someone here on the inside xox

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I re-painted Paula because my style and use of colour has changed and I wanted her to match MaggieWhat Brings Us Together , the new one I have on the way and Bourbon (who eventually will be re-coloured).  She is also a lot bigger than the original, painted on A4 instead of A5.

Soon Paula, and others, will be available on my Folksy store.

While I’m here –

Paula was one of my first proper blog friends. Another lady who I planned to run away with from our mental health problems and mental lives sailing on my imaginary boat to a place where all of that crap didn’t exist. We would be in the middle of the ocean and Paula the pirate mermaid would keep the other pirates (the bad ones and not to mention zombies) at bay.  Paula feels better in the water, more powerful and free, which is why she grew a fin, so she could stay in the water permanently.  She would also be better at protecting the crew that way and she would get to embrace the power, serenity and freedom of the ocean that you can’t get on land.

The swallows, as ever, carry the message of friendship, watching over us, making sure our souls are protected and we will always return to the place where we are most loved.

The sharks, to me, do not symbolise depression or fear. Sharks symbolise strength, power and survival.  Something which you need an abundance of to live with BPD and these are traits which remind me of Paula because she is just AMAZEBALLS.

I hope to come see you soon pretty lady.

Love Sailor xox

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Errors like straws upon the surface flow: Who would search for pearls must dive below

I’m sorry I suck so much at everything at the moment.  Yes, it matters. I miss every one of you, but I’m finding it difficult to juggle blogging and working and painting and being mental.

In my head there is a hope.  Its small, most of the time I imagine it like a pearl, smooth surfaced, shining brightly, buried in the depths of the convoluted gyrus and suculus of my brain.  Only my brain isn’t pink, its shriveled and brown like a walnut, where all of the rest of the hope has worn out and the dark thoughts haunting it have atrophied it like a dead toad on a hot day.

It’s the pearl of hope that keeps me going.

I am lonely, even more lonely than before.  All of it is my fault, because I decided to keep myself safe.

This time last year, I was barely managing to get out of bed.  I had plenty of friends, but they tried to understand but they didn’t.  I got fed up of explaining and justifying my actions.  Shouldn’t I be accepted for the way I am, despite my flaws?  One by one, as I generally like to complain, I lost them.  Perhaps it was safer for them to keep away from me?  I know it is safer for me to keep them away from me.  I’ve given up trying.  I’m sure you understand, thousends wouldn’t.

This year I have no friends, merely acquaintances.  I don’t want people to get too close.  If they get too close I can hurt them and they will hurt me.  Besides, BPD makes it complicated because one day I love a certain person, next day I can’t imagine why I ever even liked them.  Sad but true, and I know that I’m doing it, but I can’t stop because without these black and white opinions I have fuck all to go on and even more confusion as I try to figure it out.

I have a new job and I get out of bed because I have to, not because I want to, most days.  Therapy has been reduced from once a week, to once every four weeks. I’m still on the same concoction of medications.

The pearl of hope is that things will change.

This isn’t where I am supposed to be.  I’m sure of it.  This is not how it was planned.  This is not how it was meant to be.

My mum always said you can achieve anything you put your mind to.  For the most part it is true, but how ever hard I think about it I will never grow wings and fly, I will never grow a tail to swim, so that is a lie.

My mum also says that everything happens for a reason.  As I’ve grown older, I’ve just grown more cynical in that now I think this is what optimistic people say to justify the bad things that happen in life.

Some people say if you want something you have to go out and get it. This might have been true if we were cavemen (women) and decided that we were going to start a fire, but now it seems you must have the means to the end.

I always wanted to punch the people who said “life is what you make of it” in the head.  My keyworker in hospital, Alex, would always say this, when I was in my deepest depression. I can’t imagine this would help any depressed person, let alone a 14-year-old who already thought her life is over.

I don’t know what I believe any more.

Some days I want to go out and change the world because sometimes I’m capable and it feels like that is the only way things will get done. Other days I get out of bed, go to work, come home, go back to bed because it doesn’t seem worth changing.  Sometimes the glimmer in the pearl is the size of a bowling ball, some days it is a pea.

Or is it that small that it’s turned into a pea again?

I wish there was a consistency.

I hope one day, if I wait long enough, enough time will pass and everything will just click into place.  It feels like I’ve been waiting long enough already.

Love Sailor xox

“Errors like straws upon the surface flow: Who would search for pearls must dive
below” – John Dryden

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