We All Gotta Start Somewhere...
The first story about my craziness I have called life so far.
We all gotta start somewhere...
I’m not a very, shall we say, “conventional” person. I almost always do things my own way, which just happens to be for the most part the backwards or hardest way. These stories will be no different. I plan on giving you all the most authentic, true, and transparent version of craziness that has been my life so far. As I stated in my little “bio” thing, I am diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. For those of you who don’t know what that is, it’s actually a fairly “new disorder”. I think that basically means that “they” just don’t know how to deal with us BPDs yet. In a way that is good, but also bad. It’s good in the fact that I think, if they did know, they would probably just throw us all on an island in the middle of the ocean and let us “split”, and “sabotage”, and “self-hate” together and each other.
When I first found out that I had BPD I obviously went right onto Google and started to research. Well, I have found the vast majority of that to be a bunch of crap really. “They” say that you are born with it and that it is passed down to you from your family members and that there is no known cure for it, and that it has a 75% suicide rate. Well, I’ll tell you, I know that it is definitely NOT something your born with. People with BPD develop it. It’s a direct result of how your parents treated you as a kid. And as my “guru” on the subject, as he has actually cured himself of it, there is one core belief that fuels all things that someone with BPD experiences and does. That is that our thoughts and feelings are inherently irrelevant and shameful. And partly me telling these stories I’ll give you some very direct examples of how my parents, both of them, “blessed” me with this amazing gift. PFFFT.
Let's see here, I’m going to just start out with memories because that is really what your reading for anyway I’m sure. But please keep in mind that they will absolutely NOT be in order so don’t put them in order, or even read them in order, because who gives a shit anyway?
I remember one of my earliest memories that stands out the most right now, and I’m not sure why this is.
I was little, and I’m talking like 4 or 5 years old. I remember standing in the front hallway of my Grandparents house, which is about 4 blocks away from where I sit right now, and I was supposed to get picked up by my father for his weekend visitation. I spent every other weekend with him for many years, until I was about 13 I believe it was. I remember being absolutely TERRIFIED. I screamed, and cried, and held on tight to my Mothers neck, arms wrapped around it, with a death grip. Now, it wasn’t so much that I wanted to stay with my Mom, because honestly, she wasn’t a HUGE part of my childhood, and what she was, I don’t really remember. My Grandparents pretty much raised me, and they were the centre of my whole universe. I loved them more than anyone could possibly imagine. Although they were with me everyday and that’s where I was when this memory took place, I wasn’t screaming because I wanted to stay with them either. I was absolutely TERRIFIED to go to my Dads. Again. You see, my Dad was a major alcoholic, drug addict, and, sad to say, my pedophile. From what age it started I don’t remember. But being I was 4 or 5 when I remember this, it must have been pretty young. Anyways, we will get more into that tiny sliver of bullshit in time, don’t worry. I remember my Dad coming to the door. My Grandparents had a big beautiful old Victorian style home with a big beautiful porch. There was a screen door with glass and one of those hinges that pulls it shut behind you. The big wooden door, that had windows made of soda bottle bottoms, believe it or not, was open since we were expecting my Dad to come. When my Dad walked up the 3 South facing steps and up to the screen door, my stomach dropped and I tightened my grip on my Moms neck and kept screaming and kept crying. My Dad literally had to rip me off of my Moms neck screaming and crying to get me to go with him. The only thing I kept thinking in that moment was why is my Mom not saving me? Why is she letting me go with this sick man? I was a cute little thing with white blonde hair that my Mom always got Permed so it was in perfect ringlets. I was well dressed and for the most part a good little girl. So why was my Mom allowing this douche-bag that I have to call Dad, the sick man that he was, pry me from her neck with a smile on his face when I was so visible and obviously terrified to do so? I never really found out the answer to that, by the way. Anyway, that’s it, my mind literally blocked out the rest of that day at least. Keep on reading my stories to find out more about what in the actual fuck it takes in life to make someone as unique as me. I’ll try to do one twice a week for you. It is a Saturday today, so every Saturday night, and Wednesday night. How’s that sound? See you then.