As I climbed over the bleak and holey chain link fence I remembered what happened last time, when I ripped my clothes which led to my “rescue” and was careful to avoid the metal fingers desperately grasping at my pants and hoodie. I did not want to be saved.  This was not the first time I had run from the cops. This was the sixth time, I had been keeping track. Each time I had gotten further and further, never running the same way twice. With only my steady breath and the thump thump thump of my shoes on the dirt paths to keep me company, you would think I would have a lot of time to think and you would be right. The problem is, thinking is the enemy of someone with BPD. I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder when I was 16, which is rare considering it most mimics a teenager’s mood swings. Every time my Mom thought I was going to off myself she cleverly handed it over to the cops, if I died while the cops were looking for me she wouldn’t have a guilty conscience. While I admired her ability to con her way into everything, (having the cops look for me six times) with her promise of feminine wiles that she never gave up, she seriously needed to take a crash course in single parenting ASAP. My Father left when I was eight due to my meltdowns and anger out bursts, he never heard my diagnosis, never stuck around to see my improvement or lack thereof. I found him this year on Facebook. His page is unlocked so I can see all of his information but I would never friend him and let him know I still cared. My Mother on the other hand couldn’t deal with a guilty conscience even then, so she stuck around due to obligation. BPD had a list of nine symptoms, I have all nine of them, which is why my parents found it so difficult to deal with me when I was younger. Thinking, while not a symptom, was something that had gotten me sent to the hospital more times than I could count. When I thought, I twisted things into my mean interpretation of a passing word, not meant to kill, twisted it into a demeaning and negative thought aimed directly at my heart. Self-harm was at the top of the symptoms list for BPD and I checked my wrists to make sure that the bandages were holding. Nothing was bleeding and I quickly pulled down my sleeves over the rough wrapped bandages and gauze. To feel shame over what I had done to myself now was part of a normal process that I went through, BPD has emotions from high highs to low lows and you can never tell when the high is going to hit. You can never predict when you’re going to feel fine and dandy and when you are going to find your life so painful and stupid that it isn’t worth living anymore. As my feet pounded the ground and I breathed in the high altitude air, I tilted my neck up to Red Rocks Amphitheatre and I smiled thinking of all the places the cops would have to look this time. I thought of the stale air I would face when I came home, smelling of cigarettes and chocolate frosting, my mother’s coping strategies. Not to deal with being worried about me but to deal with the age wrinkles I was causing with my impossible will from my Father and my lack of drive from anyone but my Mother apparently. She adamantly refuses to hear anything negative about her, while she feeds on anything negative about me that she can blame on my Father. As I run up the stairs of Red Rocks I remember something tugging at my brain, trying to be seen. I run up through the winding paths and stairs, going upwards towards the highest point of Red Rocks. It is 6:04. The sun will be rising soon. The same sun my Father will look at later today when he gets up at noon to go to his job at the Crab Shack in Des Moines. The same sun my Mother will look at when she wakes up from her beauty sleep. The same sun I will be caught under and returned home. The same sun my grandparents will see in Arizona, unaware that their granddaughter is struggling to find the will to wake up every morning. The same sun that will stick around for today. Tomorrow it will be different, cloud ridden, rotated a little differently. As the ever changing and ever constant sun rises and I look out into the distance, I whisper to myself, “Happy 17th Birthday."