I began responding to a volatile telephone call in a letter. The letter soon became more of a release of pent-up anxiety and anger. I didn't mail this letter. I did show it to my therapist.
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.
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 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.
In the new life, the girl who was assaulted and abused is a memory. I'm not her. But she is me.
Suicide is not about wanting to die. It is about escaping unimaginable pain. If you think suicide is selfish, you're not going to have a good time here, on my blog.