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.
"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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
I left my comfort zone to try and be more social. It was a catastrophe.
In the new life, the girl who was assaulted and abused is a memory. I'm not her. But she is me.