Story #22

I have never been open like this to anyone but my therapist, but here goes. I grew up in a very dysfunctional family. I was sexually abused for a year in the second grade by a kid in junior high. He said he loved me, and if I loved him, I would do what he said, or else. My mom was very abusive (physically & mentally) and my dad jumped from job to job, submissive under my mom's ever critical eye. When I was little, I remember watching her hit him, and knowing that I would be next. I remember she would get mad over the smallest things! She went after my dad with a knife once because he forgot to record something in the checkbook. My mom is thought of very highly. She is a genius, and she knows it. We moved every year, she kept trying to get closer to her hometown, and I was just along for the ride with my dad and little brother, who I took care of starting at the age of four. I remember the mental torture she would put me through. I remember staring into mirrors saying how stupid I was and how I could never do anything right. I remember being dragged down stairs head first. I remember the intense fear that she would kill me someday. She said that she was easy on me, that most parents would have killed me already. That was what I deserved, to die. But she was merciful and only beat the crap out of me every day. I wasn't allowed to limp, if I did she only kicked my leg again until I "learned my lesson." She could make me do anything. If she said to bring her a knife so she could "punish" me, I did as I was told. I truly believed this was love, and that she was a better parent than most. 

That changed one day in the fourth grade when I noticed that other kids could say words like "beat," "kill," and "spank" (my mothers code word for "you better shut up 'cause you're really gonna get it when we get home!)." I confronted her about the abuse I thought was happening, and you can imagine the response. I walked away feeling evil. I never told anyone, I loved her too much to hurt her that much.

I went through 13 years of torture silently. My brother turned out to be a spy for my mom. My dad was home less and less until finally, he got a divorce (my mom's idea). Although he promised me that someday he would get my brother and I out of that hell-hole and we would live together like a family, I knew he would never keep his promise. He was too scared. 

Finally, I decided I had to get out of there. I told a counselor, who told the principal, who called a meeting with my dad and I. After being asked if this was happening, my dad, crying, said no. He said I was making it up. I knew then that I could never count on him. The principal called my mom and told her what I had said, and I paid the price: near death. I have since rebuilt my relationship with my dad.

We moved, and at 14 I couldn't take it anymore, so once again I told a school counselor. She called the Department of Human Resources. When they came over, my mom made up a lot of BS about how much she loved us and put on the whole crying act. I was severely lectured by the investigator and asked how I could do this to my own mother. Over the next year, two more people (anonymous) called the DHS. Every time my mom pulled the same stunt, and every time I was severely punished. I would go up to 15 days without food. I started to buy food and stash it in various places (under the carpet, inside pillows, stuffed animals, etc.). Whenever my mom found it, I was beaten "to a bloody pulp" in her own words. But I knew I had to eat.

At the age of 15 I started talking to a school social worker, who understood my situation, and never filed a report, risking her own job to help me. Somehow, two more reports were filed that year, by whom I don't know. I finally broke down. I became suicidal and made several weak attempts to end my life. About this time, my dad also lost his temper with me and beat me, so I felt completely worthless. I was kept alive by my religious beliefs. I would pray for hours in the early morning before anyone was up. I felt I had been told to get out of that environment. I once again tried DHS, but with no success, and another famous lecture about how awful I was. So I prayed. 

I suddenly had a plan. I didn't know where it would lead, but I would trust God. I wrote my mom a note, and left for school. I told my counselor and social worker what I was doing, and they notified all teachers, principals, and >offices not to tell my mom where I was at and not to let her get me alone. I could only pray that she would not show up with a gun. She did show up, but the office notified the counselor, who informed her that I would not come willingly to see her and that he would not force me. The note I left informed her that I had gone to school but would not come home. She was to report me as a runaway to the police, and I would go to a friend's house and call the police from there. They would pick me up and I would tell them I was scared to go home, and end up in the shelter. Everything went as planned. At the shelter I was informed that my only choices were to go through DHS again, go home in two weeks, or go home now. None of the options sounded too great. I became suicidal and, after making a mad dash for the medicine cabinet, was sent to the psychiatric ward in the hospital. Not knowing where this was going, being told I had to go home, I kept praying. Finally, I convinced the doctors that if sent home I would commit suicide, so they'd better not send me there. 

I went to live with my grandparents, and my mom signed the papers for fear of another DHS investigation. She continued to make the two hour drive to beat me at least once every month, usually more. I let her, that's how brainwashed I was. I ended up in the hospital once more. I was miserable and began cutting. I continued this for several months, until I was forced to quit for fear of another hospitalization or the incredible wrath of my counselor. 

I finally stood up to her last month, knowing I was stronger than her, and that she is just as scared of anger as I am. I think I scared her half to death (I didn't hurt her physically, just informed her that it was over). She tried to hit me with a fist and a belt, and to stab me with a knife, but I stopped all three attempts. I have just recently accepted the diagnosis of BPD and PTSD.

BPD is awful! I sometimes wish that my mom would have killed me, instead of leaving me almost dead like this. It is torture. I am scared of close relationships, and push people away. I want a good friend, but I don't. I get so confused. I get really mad at the smallest things. Though I'm not the kind of BP who gets into physical fights with others, I often hurt myself, punching concrete, doing anything to get a bruise or cut without using a knife, so it looks like an "accident." I lash out at others with stinging sarcastic remarks, and drive them away, leaving myself feeling all alone. I constantly put myself down, and my rages are directed at myself. I will cuss myself out, and remind myself how awful I am. This is so different than the me others see, I never cuss out loud, but in writing in my journal or mentally. Often I will lie in my bed shaking with anger. Sometimes I want a hug so badly from my grandparents, but I won't ask them, and if they try to hug me or show affection, I get very angry and lash out at them. 

Therapy is finally getting somewhere, it took a year to get started. My therapist isn't such a bad guy, except when he disagrees or gets too close to home, of course. I am hopeful that I will make some kind of recovery, but right now it is still depression, crying, and rages. I know that in the end, if I hang on, I will get better. Oh, and I'm only 17 yrs old, so I know I have a lot of time to heal. Of course I can't officially be diagnosed with BPD until 18, but my therapist calls me a "budding BPD." I'm not sure what to think of that, but the diagnosis fits, so I'll stick with it. I can make it, and someday I will. I'll get out of the darkness, and there will again be light.