When you’re in the partner abuse cycle, you never know which day will end with you having no home, no car, no job, and your children missing.
Author: borderlinebutterfly
Death.
"I want to die, and God won't let me." Those were the first words I was able to send across Instant Messenger after an attempt to decongest myself to death.
Diagnosis.
I managed to find a partner willing to put up with my split-second mood swings, who loved my highs and endured my lows. I filed away my BPD diagnosis and didn’t think much about it again for years.
Alienation.
As someone who lost my dad young, I didn’t want anything to take away from their opportunity to know and respect their father as an individual, not as my ex.
Hopeless.
I must have seen a half dozen psychologists in as many years. Why couldn’t any of them figure out what was wrong with me?
Wrongness.
I never told my parents. I was embarrassed. I blamed myself for unlocking the door. And if they believed me, they wouldn’t have let me stay at home alone after school anymore.
Moments.
I consider everything up to the moment I moved out my “first life” and don’t visit there often. Maybe it is time to write my memoirs of that past life.
Invisible.
I know it's my disorder saying “no one really likes you” but it's hard to argue with that inner voice when you spend much of your non-working, non-sleeping hours alone, despite reaching out for companionship.
Sensitive.
I left my comfort zone to try and be more social. It was a catastrophe.
Collapse.
In the new life, the girl who was assaulted and abused is a memory. I'm not her. But she is me.
