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.
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 …
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 …
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.
It wasn't until my September 2000 suicide attempt that I learned about gaslighting. Until my hospitalization, my therapy was observed and critiqued by my abusers.
What's worse than feeling all the things too much? Feeling nothing.
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.
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.
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.
I'm functional, but dissociating. I go to work and do work and go home. It's nearly impossible to go to the store or visit friends. I have the need to exist solely in well-known safe and quiet places. My throat begins to close if I think about any variance from a well-worn path.