I’m sad. A part of me deep down, the little kid part maybe, is really. Damn. Sad. Sad that she never got to just be herself, to feel loved, to feel okay being my size, being myself. Sad that she felt like she never had a hand to hold, sad that Ive been on this healing journey, mostly alone. I do have a few good friends, don’t get me wrong, but friendships tend not to last all that long for me. Whether it be me pushing them away, or picking the wrong kind of people to trust. Ive been on a healing path for…oh a long damn time now, and there have been people along the way that have stayed, who loved me for me, who supported and helped. But here’s the thing about borderline, for me. When you feel down, its real low bottom of the world level of down. Below the surface of the ocean, so low its dark. You can’t breathe, see, feel anything but the fact that you’re drowning. You can’t remember what it feels like to be able to swim, what the sun feels like, how it felt to be able to breathe, and its really REALLY difficult to remember that you’re not alone. See, on my resume, under the portion labeled skills, is this really practiced ability of worrying. Not the level of worrying that a regular person may have, but a level so deep that it gets in the way of your life. I worry being around people, I worry to post this blog, I worry about so much stuff, that I might not usually, when I’m swimming. When I’m low, my brain can find a thousand reasons why people in my life don’t love me. A million reasons they’d be better off without me, a million reasons why they fake it. This makes it hard for me to open up, it makes it hard for me to trust that people wont leave, it makes it hard for me not to feel alone. (Im really breaking it down, there’s a lot more to this.)
Let me take you back to why, for those of you who still trying to wrap your head around this, this part is the “fear of abandonment” symptom of BPD:
When I was a kid, a lot of people died. Starting with my dad when I was three, and kept on happening until 13 people died in the ten years following. I’m not ready to be open about some of the details here, some of the other circumstances around growing up, because that fear still eats at me. What I will tell you, is that I lived with my grandmother, and lovely and amazing as she was, she was also broken. She had been broken and stepped on more times than I ever knew, a level of pain I could probably never understand fully, but she had a family to raise, kids to feed, and never had the opportunity to heal herself. So, unfortunately, her pain came out at the people who were closest to her, carrying down the family curses, the pain given to her by her parents, so on. I forgive her for everything she did, I’m still mad sometimes, and I’m still not okay with it, but after a lot of work, I’ve moved past it. I realize I’m rambling because I’m nervous to tell you this next part but I’m going to take a deep breath and jump in.
She started making comments about my weight when I was a little kid, around four? Five? I don’t remember any of it, most of my memories are gone. I do remember one day being so proud of picking my own outfit (she dressed me for a long time), and she looked at me and said “you have to change you look too fat in that.” I was nine. Already my worth, how people thought of me, if people would like me, was directly attached to my weight, my looks. I would also come home from being at a friends house and she would tell me, for a long long rant, all of the reasons this person was only using me. All the reasons that I shouldn’t trust them, all the reasons they’re keeping me around to use me, to make themselves feel better, appear better, make themselves appear more beautiful and skinny to have me hanging around them. I don’t know then this started, it was always in hushed tones by the fireplace when no one was around, and she’d probably had a few drinks. Again, most of the things she said I don’t remember, accept for a few occasions that I remember very vividly, but I remember it was normal, so normal I believed her. I didn’t think I was worth anyone’s time.
So there you go, if you know me, or you’re part of my family, or even a stranger and this is triggering, I apologize, none of this was meant to cause anyone else any pain.
Given all of this, I have done a lot of work to heal this. I’m definitely not perfect, it comes in waves. But, yoga has helped me to no end. It helps me everyday to move that sense of self worth from external, to internal. To help me be okay being me (this is still a mountain I’m climbing), it helps me stay more mindful, trying to let go of all of that worry. It has helped for me to try and understand that people have their own shit, and a lot of the time, are mostly thinking about that, not every minute detail of things I may have screwed up. It helps to know that the real friends will still be there when you remember how to swim, and though I may not be good at asking for help, the real friends will be there when I do, some way or another. It helps knowing that the drowning is only temporary, and wont last forever. It helps to do things that I like that I find distracting. Animal videos, cute, funny youtube videos help. Reading stories, reading books, watching stupid tv, eating chocolate, drinking tea, playing piano, singing, and getting on my mat. Getting outside by the water, getting outside near trees or animals.
There we go, day 2 of blog. I will warn you that I’m probably not going to be great at posting everyday, but since it’s a new thing,I seem to have a lot to say. Thanks for reading. Thanks for all the love that you’ve been sending, and blowing me away with.
Love you all,
One thought on “The day it broke”
We are all the sump of our parts, and the sum of the parts of those who raise us, and the sum of the parts of those who know us, in some way. Untangling the useful, affirming parts from the useless and damaging, is a life long job. You are doing well. Keep it up.