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Hi. I am not an open person. The last thing I would ever do is let out my deepest, darkest secret. But I am making an exception. Bear with me. This past year has been a very emotional, and life threatening ordeal. Earlier this year, I started to get very sick. I couldn't keep anything down. As the days turned into weeks my mother grew worried and she brought me to the doctor. We thought maybe it was an ulcer, so he gave me very strong antacids. A few days of taking those and nothing changed. More weeks past and after every physical test possible was done on me, there still was no answer. You can imagine by now I looked very ill and I was very weak. They wanted to hospitalize me for dehydration, but I begged not to go. With not a thing wrong with me physically, they were worried maybe my problem was emotional. I was practically drug in the office of the therapist. I was not happy to be there and I let him know. After talking with me no longer than 5 min., he called my mom in the room and kindly informed us that I was suffering from bulimia. It was not easy to except but we weren't really left with a choice. My therapist told me that if by next week I had not cut my vomiting down by at least half, he would commit me to the hospital. That very next week I had managed to limit myself to vomiting just once a day. As the months drug on, my BPD became more pronounced. (Remember, we still didn't know if anything else was wrong with me). Eventually I began hurting myself. Making deep cuts into my arms and legs, beating myself with large rocks. At one point my entire left arm was completely black and blue. I eventually told my therapist that I was hurting myself. I didn't know how to explain the feeling I would get when I did it though. I would be sad or angry, it didn't really matter; and my mind would chant back to me, "Hurt yourself, hurt yourself, hurt yourself!" I would of course obey the voice. But while I was doing it, I would feel like I was really just a spectator watching someone else. It felt like another person had taken over my body and I had no control of what it would do. It was very scary, but I would get a rush from doing it and so I continued. It eventually became difficult to hide me cuts and bruises and my therapist noticed. He once again told me that if we could not get it under control he would commit me to an institution. This is when I was diagnosed with BPD. In therapy we were finally able to pinpoint my dad's role in all of this. My father is a very manipulative, controlling and selfish person. But he would try to make up for it by material things. Even though our relationship had always been very hurtful, it didn't seem like it was serious enough to give me BPD. Later on in my therapy I started to remember being molested. I do not wish to say who it was, but it turns out my memories were true. We confronted the person and it turns out it went on regularly until I was 7 years old. One day out of the blue I met a guy and agreed to go up to his hotel room. (yes I know, what was I thinking!) After getting into some very heavy stuff, I left and I never saw him again. My therapist was ready to murder me, and I was even more disappointed in myself. I fell back into the habit of hurting myself. It became a part of my routine at night. Wash my face, brush my teeth, hurt myself. I used it as a way to handle everything that was going wrong in my life. I admitted it once again to my therapist. He wanted to commit me to the mental institution, said I could have my own padded cell and everything! We compromised, and decided to have my mom start sleeping with me. That way I wouldn't be able to hurt myself. Many times I wondered if I was going to live through it. At times I feared I wouldn't. Even though my mom listened to me, she still couldn't understand, no matter how much she tried. I would have given anything to talk to someone who had got through it...alive. So I could see living proof that when I got well I could have a happy life. It would have helped me so much to hear someone else with BPD to say, "Yes, I know exactly how you feel. Even though it hurts like hell now, believe me it will get better." That is the only reason why I would reveal this much about myself to anyone, in hope of helping someone. Guess what! It has been 74 days since the last time I hurt myself! I still of course have my ups and downs, but I am feeling better than I had dreamed was possible! I am learning how to deal with my dad and I feel things are improving slowly. I continue my medication and therapy. Did I mention I am only 17 years old? I hope that I didn't bore you with my life, but I do hope that it helps at least a little; to hear someone say to you "It will get better, all you need to do now is survive and let tomorrow take care of its self." I send all my love to you and I have a strong feeling you are going to be okay.
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