For some time in early 2013, the only way I could contact my son Stuart was through his paternal grandmother, Donna. He'd gone to visit her for a day or two on numerous occasions. When he'd left home in October 2012, I never imagined he would not return. The day before he left, I'd driven …
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Re-release.
Don’t tell me you’re praying for me while you’re putting me through Hell. You don’t know me at all. You know a ghost. The person you accuse me of being is a figment of your imagination, nothing more.
Twenty.
I'm not embarrassed. I'm celebrating. Not everyone gets to see what life looks like twenty years after a suicide attempt. This life is glaringly dissimilar to what I left in 2000. I miss being home with my littles. I miss hearing Arthur and Zoboomafoo on one of the three channels in the living room while …
Inspire.
When my first life ended, I was 28. I was a married mother of two. I worked from home. I had a high school diploma. We lived in a mobile home on a big rural lot. I’d met my first husband at 20. We were married the following year. We had a boy when I …
Becoming.
I’m unapologetic about my mental health journey. I overshare. I know. I’m open in hopes of supporting someone else through what I survived. My illness makes emotions feel stronger. I’ve been called too sensitive; thin-skinned. Sometimes I impulsively delete accounts and start over. Bless your heart if you’ve followed me through a few of those …
Disappoint.
I wanted to have at least a rough draft ready by September. And then all the things happened. Further I lost the habit of taking my meds daily. Not proud. Just honest. Flailing, a bit.
Detached.
What's worse than feeling all the things too much? Feeling nothing.
Withdrawn.
My colleagues invite me to lunch, or to go for a walk, but I decline. This little quiet corner of the office is just fine with me. My partner has been doing the shopping. I'm overwhelmed in public spaces.
Bittersweet.
The first few years, I convinced myself that I had somehow become the nightmare momster that many children of a parent with BPD have written about escaping.
Identity.
It's no surprise I sometimes don't recognize myself in mirrors. I'm trying to focus on sharing my story, but I'm dissociating and having a hard time remembering those people inside.
