Story #61

I haven't been labeled as having bpd. In fact, I've never been to a psychiatrist or a therapist ... no mind examining for me (as of yet). I have been "forced" to talk to councilors since around the first grade. I think it started way before that.

As a toddler I was physically abusive of my older sister. I would hit her with toys, swinging like a pro-leaguer trying for a home run. A little later I started having dreams where my parents left me or I was being hunted by clowns or some monstrous silhouette. I started walking in my sleep to check on the people in my family.. At first only my mom and dad and pets.. Then my sister when she was moved in. I only have a vague remembrance of one of those times, but I've been told I did it many, many times and I remember waking up in one of their rooms at the foot of their beds, like some sort of puppy, sometimes. I remember being really vicious toward people when I was angered, I would scream or kick them, hit them. I was, and sometimes still am, physically or verbally abusive when I feel cornered or injured. I was told all the time that I was fat, I was stupid, a dumb blonde > my hair was brown with strawberry-blonde sun streaks < and I would scream and run off to be alone and cry.

My mom was a severely depressed alcoholic. She was in and out of in-house treatment and AA and taking Prozac for as long as I can remember. I feared her more than I feared anything. I remember being screamed at and having things thrown at my sister and me, sometimes hit. Once my mom slammed my head against the side of the tub. Another time she slammed my face against a door. My dad and her fought a lot at night. Mostly when she came home drunk and wanted to take her anger out on her helpless children. I somehow don't think they knew I was awake. They would throw things at each other, screaming and hitting. The sounds simply echoed hollowly in my mind and I cowered in my bed with eyes squeezed shut, begging for her to not come in. For her to, please, not make it in. I can't remember her making it in. But any of us know that doesn't mean she didn't.

My mom lied. A lot. The in-house specialists said it was because of the alcohol abuse. I don't believe them. She still lies. She's been "sober" since October. She's mean when she drinks. She beat my sister and me one night. It was December 8, 1995. We went to school the next morning. 

She made us come in her room where she was laying with some stranger. A blonde headed man. They were both naked. I kissed her, felt repulsed,  and then, washed my mouth out several times. I hated her. I wanted to just run away. It was raining that morning. A barely warm morning with icy rain and bitter winds. It was the perfect morning after. I walked, the left side of my face swollen and nearly black, with my face tilted up to the rain. It felt so good. It felt like it's connection with my face was simply it falling and then melting into me, becoming part of me. I felt no sadness, or anger, the hatred vanished as I let the rain melt into me. It was like nothing up to the point was real. All just some demented lie and the rain and the contrast of warmth and cold. I wish now that I had just kept walking and never gone into school that day. I would have been content to walk around in the icy rain, the vaguely warm air, the uncaring grayness of a rainy winter day. School was a blur. In fact, the rest of my sixth grade year is pretty much a blur.

I remember being called into the office right in the middle of lunch. A social worker was in the principal's office. They both looked at me with this mockery of concern. I wanted to get up and walk back out. I didn't. I sat there and looked at them through my right eye, slumping. They asked me how I was, I shrugged. They asked did I eat lunch, no I told them. I was asked why. I told them, " I didn't want her money." They looked at each other. They were very, very very, uncomfortable. They told me I wasn't going to live with my mom anymore. I got to go live with her mother. This depressed me farther

We had moved away from my dad's house that summer. My mom informed me that her and my dad were getting "separated" and it would be "just us girls" and what "fun" we'd have. I begged to, please, stay with my daddy. No. I had to go. I knew then it would be hell. I was washing our dishes and cleaning the kitchen and bathroom every day. The dishes were done 3 or more times a day, every day. My sister was in charge of the living room and basement and laundry of our duplex. I was told to feed and water our cocker spaniel and guinea pig. Supper was on us usually. I only got to see my dad for a few hours on Sunday afternoons. I was in hell. My school worked was lower than even before, I was quiet. In a school where I was the minority. Where I was hated. Where I was mocked. I became Incredibly meek. I avoided social interaction whenever possible. I worked alone on huge projects. Looked down, rarely talked to anyone. I lied a lot. Often without reason. I stayed lost in my fantasies of being loved and taking control. I made myself sick. I didn't care. My only concern was for my dog and dad. Nothing else mattered at the time.

I never made a serious enough attempt at suicide to call me suicidal. I scratched myself with the posts of earrings, broken rings, my nails. I bit myself until I bled. I picked at my acne until I left hideous scars. I hate myself for it. I had, and still have, a fetish for seeing my own blood well up in a perfect bead. A succulent deep red orb, drifting up from my life and into my mouth. I never really tried to hurt anyone else after I was beaten. Until late in the seventh grade year. Then it happened all to often. I nearly pushed a girl, who was a "good friend" at the time, off of the top row of the bleachers in the gymnasium I threw a chair at a boy's head. A boy who tormented me and harassed me every day he saw me. He mocked me and laughed and infuriated me to the point where I didn't think. Couldn't think. I simply let a little demon take over. I grabbed the chair I was standing by and launched it at his head. A friend of his pushed him out of the way.. The chair would have hit him full in the face. That year was full of self- abuse. I hit lockers, rammed my head against concrete block walls, kicked lockers, OD'd on pain relievers, barely ate. Looking back on those few years between fourth and eleventh grades, I don't understand what didn't kill me.

I went to see a counselor...everyday for the longest time. I went in once a week for the rest of my sixth grade year, everyday for a total of 2 maybe 3 months my seventh grade year, and about a week's worth of days my eighth grade year. I confessed so much hatred and emotion to her. I wondered for a long time if I had ever made her cry. I hated myself more. I hated god, my mom, and myself. I was angry and depressed all the time. I cried a lot. I was clingy and needy. I wanted attention, affection. I acted like a slut for males to keep their attention. I felt stupid and  did it more.

I never confessed anything to my dad. He never asked questions. But he knew. I know this because there were days when we'd be sitting in the kitchen, me coloring in coloring books like a much smaller child, him looking at car parts books or magazines, or coloring with me, and he'd suddenly say in a nonchalant manner, "You know I'm here for you, right?" Right, I knew he was. Always here for me. Forever. That's what he said. I believed it with all of my whole, but warring self. It was a belief I held onto until his death. Then I really had a hard time with abandonment issues.

After I moved in with my mom's mother, I was able to spend whole weekends with my dad, and when we had the same days off during the week I spent them with him too.

I told people I hated my mom. That I wished she had gone to prison. That I wished I never knew her. They told me I was bad. That it was and is wrong to say that. Mom's mom said I was going to hell for it.

So many times, people have talked to me about self-esteem. About love. About abuse. So many people who don't know how it feels to wonder if their mother is going to hurt them today when she comes home. So many people who were never told their mother was a bad person and needed help. So many people who aren't abused. When I was small, I never really thought about my mom hitting me. I thought everyone's parents were like mine. I was sent to the counselor in first grade and she handed me a little box. Told me to open it, that when I opened it and looked in, I would see the most wonderful person on the world. I opened it. I looked at my distorted reflection in the tiny dented, bent, and peeling mirror. I had no reaction except to think that she didn't take very good care of her mirror box. I handed it back silently. She gave me the lecture on sexual abuse. All her words rebounded and ricocheted in my head with tinny echoing sounds. I lied to me, said she knew nothing. Sometimes, I wonder if I would somehow be different if I had told her. If I had run away. If I had not been born to my mother.

After reading some of the stories here, I felt like I found people with whom I had common ground. Each story is different. But I somehow feel connected. Like I belong. I feel teary because all these relationships are strained, uncomfortable. Awkward. I can't seem to get enough affection from my relationships. There is always something missing. I always find a reason to end them if the other person doesn't. I never feel like I belong anymore. I feel stupid when I say this, even among my friends, I am a loner. Alone. Everyone has someone except me. I can't have anyone. They get uncomfortable or I get.. Anxious? Nervous? Afraid? Yes. I feel like everyone is laughing behind my back.  

I'm afraid of big crowds. I'm scared someone is going to sneak me away and rape me. Hurt me. Abuse me. I've been raped. I was drunk nearly to the point of alcohol poisoning. I had a moment of conscious and coherent thought, not sober, but at least aware. He was 20, I was 16. I pushed against his chest, mumbled no. Tried to roll away, or at least turn on my side for more comfort. There was a towel soiled with my bloody vomit under my head, in case I threw up more. The smell made me want to throw it. It felt repulsive under my hair and head. He slipped his disgusting dick inside of me and I gave in a little. Condom, I murmured as I started to sink back into oblivion. He laughed, said it was already too late for that. He started to move in and out and I fell into a blissful unconsciousness. I felt disgusting the next day. I went to a friend's house and showered, got a ride to my mom's from my friend's dad. > This happened a little over a year after my dad died. After which, I started spending weekends at my mom's. < 

I got to her house and went back to bed. It was around 1 in the afternoon. My mom woke me up at 5 that night for supper, and to make sure I was ok. She asked if we had stayed up all night. I told her we were still up at 6 am. She nodded and the whole thing was dropped. The guy got my number and called me. Said I was a nice piece. Said he wanted another round, but with me sober. Begged me to sneak out and meet him. I made excuses and never did. I started to refused his calls. After a while he stopped trying.

Every time I think about that night, I feel stupid used, and guilty. I should have known better than to buy alcohol and drink it with a dick like him around. Especially since it was alcohol stronger than what I was used to. A kind I had never had. People insist that he was old enough and sober > he had taken on drink from the bottle < enough to have known better. I still thought it was my fault. I thought my parent's divorce was my fault. I thought the abuse my family rained on me was my fault. Everything somehow was my fault. All my fault. I didn't know about it? I was lying. I didn't do it? I was lying. Something came up missing.. I stole it. I was the scapegoat. Everyone's finger pointed at me for something.

I don't like sex. Before I tried it, I loved it. After trying it, I discovered it was nothing great or cool or even fascinating. No awesome climax to bind my soul and sate my starved body. No overwhelming warmth and love. Nothing. A guy under me, with his little hard on stuck in me. I didn't even feel the skin of my innocence break. I laughed. So many one nighters. Guys I didn't care for, who I knew and know never had or will care for me. So many times to regret. I was never spent time with. It was all about them and getting them off. I laid or sat there, wondering how much longer. Was he liking it? Really? I let my mind drift. Once I was told to pretend he was any man I wanted, told to scream whose ever's name I was pretending he was. I did nothing. I made a few little half hearted moans. I drank a 20 oz bottle of Jim Beam and Pepsi cola afterwards. He stole from my dad. Stupid b-----. He asked me if my self mutilation marks were contagious. I said no, then wished I had said yes. Three others besides him and the innocence taker. Five guys. A raper, a jailbird, and a thief. The other two total up to a boy from a broken home and a male prostitute. I regret everyone of them. The prostitute was an actual boyfriend. A total of 2 months. I spent the last month and three weeks looking for a way out. He had sex with me a lot. I scratched his back to bloody ribbons out of boredom and with no other reason. He made me sore and didn't listen when I told him no. I accused him of cheating and then attacked him viciously with mean words. I didn't care. I felt nothing. 

My last relationship ended in a horrid mess. A guy I had a.. Well, I don't know how to describe it. It was sort of like an obsession with small breaks every so often. He was in my thoughts a lot.  I knew his name. I had a common friend with him. That was all there was. He dominated my fantasies for a while. Then even that disintegrated. Then he appeared again suddenly in real life. I was elated.

He dated a friend of mine. A very cruel and manipulative friend, a vindictive and malicious friend. She really messed with his head. He asked me out. We went out for about 3 or 4 weeks. He wrote me a note. He was uncomfortable. I was in a delusional state of bliss. I blinded myself to my own problems and to his, as well. He told me very little about himself. I learned mostly from his mom, sister, and best bud. I felt stupid and child-like around him. I cried for two days. Everyone was mad at him. He apologized. Said he didn't know what he was thinking, that he wasn't thinking. Told me contradicting lies. Asked me out again. This time it went for two weeks. He broke up with me the day before it would have been exactly 3 weeks since we had originally broken up. He did it in person. Asked me what do we do now? after breaking up with me. I shrugged, barely kept from hitting him, from jumping on him and kissing him. I turned away and walked off. I cried. He gave me confusing signs for a while. Hug me, touch me. I still love you even though we aren't going out any more. Then over spring break.. he falls magically in love with a friend of mine. A friend whom another ex of mine cheated on me with. He called me that Friday and said that she had spent one night with him and his best bud. Then he tells me the Monday a week later that they were together the whole week and that he loved her. I said, like you loved me? He said, no, I really love her, like nobody else. I nearly cried.  He don't talk to me and I don't talk to him. I didn't talk to her for the longest time. I was really hurt. They both knew I still liked him. I still do now. Even after he's been a complete jerk off to me. I can say I've set myself into knowing I wouldn't and couldn't see him again. I just wish I didn't have to see him around any more.

I can't shake this unease lately. I feel scared. Like I'm being followed. I feel so uncomfortable. Always seeking short term but intense relationships online. Wanting so badly to be the center of someone's world.

I'm afraid my oldest dog is going to die one day and I'm going to find her. Her and my dad were my two main reasons for living and not running away all those years. I am dazed here lately. And I can't concentrate. I can only think of a guy on here I like. He was abused by his dad as a small child, had a lot of things to do to help his mom care for his sisters. He's dabbled in drugs, speed and

I wonder why it was us. Why are we so easy to mistreat and be left unloved. So many bad people in the world are loved. And we are left battered and almost broken. People think we are diseased and act like it's contagious. Run from us, hurt us. I feel so selfish. I just want love. I just want understanding. Maybe there is no explanation. Maybe there is no reason. Maybe. It can't be helped. None of us chose these lives. Didn't ask to be beaten, didn't ask to want to hurt ourselves. Never asked to need affection and love so badly we run from it when we get it. Some can't handle the pressure of unconditional love for another. The anger, the depression, the highs, they make so many anxious and nervous, slightly paranoid.

All I want is care. Someone there to love me and listen. Understand or at least try to. It's importance is as ineffable as the smell of green. It's not something made for words. It's a thing made for the senses. Something felt, seen, tasted. I wish I was telepathic sometimes. So then I could just give my thoughts, feelings, emotions to someone else so they would know. So they could help. So they could understand.

All I need is some love. I can give some back. It will be as imperfect as all the rest of me, but it will be perfect in it's trueness. Maybe I won't get the love I need. Maybe I will just surround myself with tons of pets who will always be happy to see me, whose eyes will light up when I walk in, whose tails will wag excitedly and whose warm tongue will ease my pain. But it's not the same. Somehow, I hope I do make it through this.