Of all the BPD traits to still be struggling with, impulsiveness is causing me the most trouble.

To a page with 21,000 followers, I shared the following:

My son left home due to constant abuse. I never tried to be a mother, not one time. I killed his father. I told my son he was worthless and that no one loved him, every day of his life. He was terrified of me. I stole from him and stalked him after he left.

[deep breath]

And I left it there, simmering. No disclaimer.

Would people think it was true?

Would they be disgusted and block me?

Of course not. They only know the CURATED me—the parts that are shiny, that I allow them to see.

I’d never show my many major flaws and faults.

Except, I have.

I’ve admitted my racism. (I’m working on that every day.)

I’ve admitted my homophobia. (Working on that as well.)

I’ve admitted I was pro-life, before I knew better.

I’ve done this as there is no way to erase decades of wrong beliefs, except to be brutally honest and face the truth of every wrong idea that we grew up believing.

The ones that call me a libtard feminazi don’t believe that I used to vote straight Republican ticket, but that doesn’t make it untrue. It’s a fact I disclose, as an independent who strays more left of center than right.

Here, on these pages, I admit I have a strongly stigmatized and maligned mental illness that cannot be cured. I will always have BPD. It ravaged my younger life, and I can’t undo any of those destructive outbursts.

But I know, as surely as I know my own scars, that I never called my child worthless. I never told him no one loved him. I didn’t stalk him. And I tried to be the best mother I could be.

In these pages, I will document the abuse I remember. Once, I spanked with a nylon kitchen spoon. I don’t deny that. Once, moving toward him, toward his bedroom, I caused him to fall and put a hole in the drywall. I didn’t think I “pushed” him but I did cause the fall. That’s not disputable.

I’m sure I did things that would be considered mental or emotional abuse. I did get annoyed when he would not try new things. I did get frustrated when he’d refuse to step onto an escalator. I did trick him into an elevator under false pretenses that we were not going to the top floor for the view. (It doesn’t matter that he was OK at the top. It matters that I forced him when he was afraid.) I made lots of mistakes.

His siblings will review the book before it is finalized. So will other people who were there for those same years, very close to our family. I want the truth, not just my addled perspective. So I’ll leave Stuart’s comments as written, and invite Coraline and Rebecca to share.

I’m not afraid of the truth. But I’m unsure how to proceed with the false allegations. That’s his reality. Stuart repeats things said by Tyrone. Stuart repeats things said by Donna. Things that were false when they said them, and false now. But his reality is the only one that matters to him, and I’m the monster.

I love you. You do know I never called you worthless. You do know I never said no one loved you. Somewhere, deep down, you know the lies from the truth. You can’t admit it in 2021 just like you couldn’t admit it in 2013. But the truth will always be the truth, in 2030 or 2040 or 2050. I will love you until the day I die.

One thought on “Simmering.

  1. "Stuart"

    Honestly astounding. You can’t PAY for entertainment this premium. You are delusional to the point of being a danger to yourself and those around you. I really wish when I found out about this farce back in September, I would have found this absolute goldmine of a blog.

    The level of projection on display is simply something to behold, you don’t know me, and you never did, and you lack the basic level of empathy to imagine something from someone else’s perspective, so you fill it in with yourself. If you sent these sorts of messages, I have no doubts your intentions would be to “devastate” the recipient, so you assume that was my intention. For me to desire such things would require me to care about you in a way that just isn’t accurate to reality. I don’t care about you enough to wish harm upon you. I’m here not to defend the honor of those that can’t speak for themselves anymore, I came here to laugh at you.

    This fantasy you’ve constructed, divorced from reality is hilarious, and I mean that in the deep hearty belly-laugh sort of way. I’m amused, not angry. I’m not even offended for your defamation of the dead, the only thing that offends me is how stupid of a name “Stuart” is. If I could make some recommendations though, casting me as some sort of tragic and manipulated villain? Talk about cliche, some real amateur writing there. You know how much I struggle with writing, so I hope you take to heart how if it’s coming from me of all people, your story has some serious flaws. Tell you what though, what can I do in order to become the main villain of your little fantasy land? I want top billing from you, none of this little league stuff. I think that could really spice up your book, so I don’t know how long it takes to gaslight yourself into these self-inflicted deceptions, but hop to it, “Nicole”.

    And if petty bullshit such as not being sensitive about my fear of heights back in 2004 is truly the extent you can remember, you need to be put on enough psychiatric medications to constitute a chemical lobotomy, ASAP. Sure, you had all the tact and grace of an eagle with a broken wing, but I was a kid, and kids can be annoying, probably especially so for a kid you didn’t even love. The real abuse didn’t happen until after 2007. Before you even start up whatever complete chicanery you’ve concocted about my “evil” grandmother “manipulating” me into false memories, I didn’t tell her about ANY of the abuse between 2007 and 2012, because you used my visits over there as leverage to silence me, remember? You told me that if I ever told anyone, you would make sure I would never see anyone from that entire side of the family again. Even until the end, I never told her everything you did to me, and because of it, our communication had somewhat faltered in the later years.

    You can cast her as the main villain of your life’s fake story all you want, and of course she wasn’t perfect, she had her flaws, she was human after all, unlike you, but in 2012 and 2013, SHE was the one telling me to reconcile with you. She was the only reason I had the slightest contact with you, without her, I would have cut you out entirely like the tumor you are. It was only after I began to tell her the most surface level of the absolute hell you inflicted upon me that she let up on the pressure to reconcile, and contact finally ceased. If there’s even the slightest shred of truth to anything you say about being upset about my departure for any other reason than your loss of control over your favorite victim, which I HIGHLY doubt, she was your one lifeline.

    My life is my own. It belongs to no one else. The voices of the dead do not bind me. I am not holding on to someone else’s hatred of you, or even my own. I am finally able to go on living without clinging to hate. There were definitely days in the past where I don’t know if I would have even gotten through alive if I didn’t have that burning hatred for you to fuel me. But those days are long gone. I’m not here because I still desire some sort of revenge, overcoming the hell you put me through without losing myself, who I am, even if some days I came close, that is more than enough satisfaction for me. I am here for the most common reason I do anything: because I was bored, and thought it was funny.

    The hate I harbored towards you was the last vestige of you that could be found within me. While you never were a mother, you are even less to me now. Nothing. I learned how to hate from you. That’s gone now. All you are is a pathetic and delusional old woman, ranting about how she was the real victim through all of the abuse she inflicted. I don’t pity you though, I know that’s what you crave more than anything. More than the abuse I suffered, the pain I was put through, the lies, gaslighting, and torment, I hated that about you above all else. At this point though, what was once the most powerful emotion in my life, something I let define me, is barely even a memory.

    Thank you. While you never did break the cycle you swore so hard that you would, not that you particularly gave it a good try, I did. You never acted as a mother, but maybe I got something even more important out of it. The pain, abuse, and trauma you caused made me into someone who cherishes even the tiniest gestures of kindness, and never takes them for granted. My life now is better than I could have ever even imagined it could get back when I was under your thumb, and if I had missed out on even an iota of the hell you caused, I don’t think I would appreciate it nearly as much as I rightfully should, and do. The second best thing to ever happen in my life was cutting you from it. Thank you for being too weak and pathetic to not use your own child as a mental and emotional punching bag for 5 years.


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