Red Light (flashback)

I’ve slept about 20 hours in the last five days, I’m on the bus feeling vulnerable from a social event. The bus turns down this road, down a hill in the dark. Now, I’ve been down this road hundreds of times before, but its been a long time. I purposely avoid this route these days, even avoid seeing my doctor on this side of town, but still I’m familiar with the turns, the stops and the lights. I know if you turn left at this red light you’ll get to a statue, make a right and a left and you’re at the house I grew up in. The house I grew up in with you. This paticular dark night I braved to look out the window, and when we drove up the winding hill I am reminded of all of the other times I’ve driven up this damn hill. With you. I’m reminded of the times you made me walk home across the bridge, all of the days I’d sit at this stop light on my way home to visit, all of the times we would be at this light home from school. The times we sat in the car-you fighting and screaming, each and every single time I felt like the worst god damn thing that ever existed or happened to you. I was born into the reason you were unhappy, the disappointment, and the human who was the equivalent of a breathing, sensitive mistake. As my bus drives up this hill a montage of moments both happy and sad, painful and horrible fill my minds eye, and this drowning ache fills my heart. I will never again drive up this hill and turn left to see you. I will never again be full of that hope that this time, maybe this time, for the first time I would feel like I belonged when I walked in that door. I will never get the chance to say all the things to you that I always played through in my head, because just as then, you will never listen. You will never see me, nor you will never say any of those things that I’ve always needed, hell deserved, to hear.

Did you know that in highschool, all those times I’d be walking or driving across that fucking bridge I’d think about throwing myself off of it? Because the idea of living in this hell, where I was made to feel like dirt by the people who are supposed to love and cherish and support you made me feel physically ill. I starved myself to fit into the kind of daughter I thought you wanted me to be, the kind of grand-daughter she wanted me to be. I suppressed my voice, I took your shit, I changed my clothes, I gave up secrets, I made sacrifices, I put my life and my happiness on hold because you made me feel guilty any time I felt even remotely happy, or walked into view.

All those times I’d be driving home whether from a friends or to visit from out of town I’d fill with this dread of what was to come. Was today going to be a day you would be happy to see me? Or was it going to be a day you tell me I’ve given you separation anxiety for moving 4 hours away, or when you tear up because instead of spending another night at home in front of the TV with you ignoring me, I decided to go to a friends house where I felt like for even a couple hours I belonged.

The damn bus drove up this hill into my past and I just managed to catch my breath. I let all these fucking images pass, not that I had a choice, and just tried to breathe. Remind myself that the monsters are gone. That when the bus stops, you wont get on. That not every 23 year old with brown hair is you, not every silver fucking car is you, and that I have nothing to be afraid of. Because despite all of the thousands of moments in the 23 years I heard you tell me different, it was not my fault you were unhappy. It was not my job as your child, or your older sister or your granddaughter to cure you, to fix you, to make you happy. I am and was not a stress ball you could squeeze and emotionally torture anytime you felt like you lost your grip despite your feeling of entitlement to do that anyway. It was not my fault for being a sensitive depressed and grieving kid, that you decided to abuse me. Because it was a choice. I don’t give a fuck what you say, you chose this. You chose to close your eyes to your own lives and to explode on whatever was easiest, and unfortunately that was mainly me.

This damn bus got to this red light and I remembered every time I got to this light, seeing you for the first time in a few months, that I sat here with a sense of hope, a plan of action. I’d find a way to prove to you I am good enough. Maybe if I was funnier, more superficial, less superficial, quieter, prettier, skinnier, dating, single, successful, I’d be worth your time. I’d be worth your love, this supposed unconditional familial love I’ve heard so much about. Maybe then I’d belong and know what it feels like to be in a family, a group of people who have your back and root for your success and happiness and have nothing but support and love for you even on the days that doesn’t happen. Even on the days the sun doesn’t come up.

I sat there at that damn light, knowing that chapter is done. Those hopes will never be fulfilled by you, neither will your words continue to cut me. You have lost the access to my heart, to me. So that you may not continue to abuse me and keep me small. I deserve a place where I feel at home, (real home), where I feel like I belong, where I feel safe, seen and heard.

Im sat on that damn bus in the dark at a red light, thankful it wasn’t turning left.

Its been one year!!

I never know what to say first on these. Do I say hi? Do I just dive right in? Do I ease my way in like its an imaginary conversation? Who the hell knows.
Well friends, it has officially been a year since I’ve had this domain name, and I’m happy to say you’re stuck with me another year, because I just re-purchased it. So tough luck for you if you’re a hater I guess? I think last year I nearly broke even in terms of the things I have to pay for behind the scenes for the blog, so I just want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support. I just want to re-touch on why I started this blog in the first place, what drove me to write and where I’ve come with it.
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Bi-products of trauma.

Alright, these past few weeks have been kind of insane, but I don’t know that I’m ready to talk about it yet.  I am going to tell you that I’m going to be in a Fashion Show for the first time tomorrow, one that promotes body positivity, and is a ‘fuck you’ to diet culture, anxiety, depression and I’m so excited to be a part of it.  If you’re in Kingston message me for details.    So what I’m going to talk about (rant on about) today is the residual effects of trauma and emotional abuse.  Sometimes we don’t think much about the littler things that might come up as a result, and they can feel pretty…scary, and confusing.  I often felt like there was something really wrong with me because of them, as if they are flaws.  These are by no means all of them, just a few that have reeked havoc in my life. Continue reading “Bi-products of trauma.”

Who I am(?)

For as long as I can remember, I have had no idea who I am, and I didn’t feel comfortable in my own skin.  My style has changed for as long as remember, being influenced by those who I spend the most time with, or didn’t feel as good as.   I have avoided clothes that I liked, because I didn’t that I was good enough to wear them.  In my darker anorexic days I would wear lots of layers of clothes to hide myself, but even recently I would wear clothes that are loose, or that I could just disappear in, so that no one would notice me.  If I hung around someone more materialistic I would do my makeup even when I didn’t want to, I would wear clothes they would wear.  When I got into yoga I wore only ‘yogi’ or hippie ish clothes.  There is nothing at all wrong with doing those things, but it just didn’t feel like me all the time.  Its more than just clothes too, my whole sense of self changes, down to my hobbies.   If you looked at my bedroom you’d see evidence of so many different interests, all over the map, some of which I actively am interested in, others that I haven’t really touched lately, its phase ran out.    This ended up making me feel really unsure of myself, no sense of self is a symptom of Borderline Personality Disorder, we are often referred to as chamillions, and it can be really frustrating, and disheartening because you have this feeling like you’re….unbalanced or without roots.  I’m not really sure how to describe the feeling honestly.  I never really figured out who I was, what style I was, what I valued, what I wanted to spend my time doing.  Partially because my grandmother picked out my clothes until I was way too old, but also because I never really felt safe to take time to figure out who ‘me’ was.  Turns out, standing up to the emotional/psychological abuse was what I needed to start to create my own ‘safe space’ and start to allow myself to find out. Continue reading “Who I am(?)”

To Answer Your Questions

So last week I asked if you had any questions about Borderline Personality Disorder, today I will answer them to the best of my abilities.   Im going to try and do this kind of post every so often, sk if you ever do have questions, ask away!  This took a bit longer than I had anticipated, and I do apologize for that.  I have been working about 50+ hours a week, I had a cold, and have trouble sleeping so I kept coming home from work and just slept/was lazy.  As some of you know, I’ve also been going through a rough patch, which youre welcome to ask about, but for now I am not going to post about it.  Im currently posting using my phone, sitting by the water (my favourite place) and I’m ready and excited to answer your questions.

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Too Damn Much

Today was one of those damn days: everything is harder to accomplish, your body hurts, you want to cry for no (or every) reason, and every little thing goes wrong. For some kind of inexplicable reason.  Just too damn much to carry around with you, and you just end up snapping, crying, getting hysterical, or somehow keeping it together until you can hide in your bed with a glass of wine, and a to do list you’re choosing to ignore.

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BPD, friends, and never feeling good enough

Friends are hard.  So painfully raw, vulnerable, and they have the power to trigger so many emotional ghosts, leaving you(me, in this case) like Im never good enough.   And you know what? My heart hurts.  I feel like its sinking down, drowning, like its being crushed into a million pieces. I cant shake it, I can’t escape it.  I wake up most of the time with it like painful alarm holding me down to the bed.  Because it hurts to move.
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