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It’s really important to me that this stays anonymous as all therapeutic and mental benefits writing gives me are null and void as soon as I think someone I know may know this is me.
I used to have a WordPress blog with quite a few followers but I gave it to my mother and now I feel like I can’t write the way I used to. Something about the idea that my mother will be seeing those words, those things about me, makes me not ever hit “Publish”.
I am 22 years old and a female college student in Florida. I am majoring in Psychology and will graduate after I learn German. My dream job would be a Social Psychology teacher at a college or university. I think education is very important and social awareness, even more so. It sounds ridiculous but my inspiration and interesting in socializaiton comes from lingerers. You know, those people who don’t ever seem to realize they have overstayed their visit, that you want them to leave. I am thought to have Borderline Personality Disorder. People like this tend to live and think in only extremes and have zero solid, consistent personality traits. My sense of identity is non-existent. I adopt the persona and beliefs I feel are required for me to have the maximal social ease with the people and situations I am around/in. Some doctors have called me a sociopath, others have called me bipolar. They've all called me something. I do have periods of acute mania where my thoughts are rambled and you can tell this is happening when I avoid the use of commas and my sentences are long and all over the place. Journaling is my love. There is no way for me to understand or recognize my thoughts without a keyboard or a pen. Free writing is the only path to clarity of my conscious. Fact.
I don’t have many friends. There are two girls, Sara and Catherine, who mean a lot to me but they are very engrossed in their own lives. We currently all have jobs and boyfriends and school and so are slowly but surely drifting apart. My real best friend is in Jville and I miss her most. She is odd, like me, but internal with her self-loathing whereas I am external with mine.
My real mother is a crack addict and gave me and my two siblings away when I was just two; my half-sister L, and my only real brother, A. We went to live with my aunt and uncle. My aunt is my biological father’s sister. He was in the navy while my real mother was spending my infancy in the glamorous manner of a junkie, which is why we had to go away. He was supposed to come take us back after just 8 months. But 8 months turned into 8 years and he came back and started a new family in Jville. That’s where my half-brother and my four step-sisters come from. He and my real mom never divorced but he says he’s married to this new lady.
My aunt and uncle are solid. They took me and my brother and sister in when they already had two sons of their own. I gained a new mom n dad and two brothers but I spent my entire childhood not being satisfied with what I did have. I wanted my real mom and my real dad to love me. I threw temper tantrums and doubted the affection of everyone. I didn’t think I was worthy of the love of my aunt and uncle because I felt like I hadn’t been good enough for my real parents. I was quickly determined to be gifted. I was tested in elementary school but it was advised that because of my hyperactivity and my behavioral/emotional problems, I shouldn’t have my classes advanced. In middle school I was put in the gifted program but in elementary school I was told I was bipolar.
By the sixth grade I was on a solid regimen of antidepressants and mood stabilizers. I hated the pills. I tried everything I could to not have to take them. I hid them in my dresser, stuffed them down the toilet and bathtub drains, hid them under my tongue to spit out later. Eventually my parents figured out what was going on. I went to get my blood work done and my medication blood levels were non-existent. The only way they could be so low after having my dosage level raised so many times was if I just wasn’t taking them at all. They were mad and started making me take them while they watched.
Middle school was awful. On top of being told I had bipolar disorder, I also had a rare vision problem where my brain favored the use of my right eye over my left. My left eye was weaker from not being used evenly. I was told to wear an eye patch to school over my right eye to strengthen my left. Well, that was fucking terrible. Kids made fun of me and I found myself constantly lying as to why I had to wear it. Eventually, my teachers told my parents that I just stopped wearing it. Then my doctors got creative.
If I wouldn’t wear an eye patch, they’d make me. I had to put special eye drops in my right eye that made it useless. the downside was these eye drops also made my pupil extremely dilated; so dilated that it was dangerous for it me to be exposed to bright lights. Instead of having to walk around middle school with an eye patch, I had to walk around with one pupil dilated to the size of ridiculous proportions and a hat on to keep the sunlight from blinding me. Hats were against dress code so I stood out like a sore thumb.
I guess you could say that I got used to sticking out. Kids could always tell that I was different. If the pupil didn’t give it away, the abrasive attitude I developed to compensate for my odd looks did. I was loud, outspoken, and sometimes when the mood struck, just downright scary and cruel. I became known as the girl who was crazy. Don’t mess with her, she’ll fuck you up. I pushed smaller kids in my way, I cleared my throat and tapped my foot when made to wait and I jumped at every chance to point out and exploit an opportunity to make someone feel bad about themselves.
By high school, I had two best friends and I was ready to conquer the world. Being in the gifted program had connected me with the logical intellectuals of the school, the thinkers. We were all going to be taking the honors courses with the exception of those who would be going to a different school for the IB program. I was excited and felt like I had finally left my awkward time behind me.
False False False. My best friends in the world, Aryes and Jan got into an awful fight. Aryes slowly turned into a drug addict, she cared more about looking cool than being smart. We drifted apart within the first year of high school. Our last moments together were in the cafeteria where she embarrassed me by screaming that I was a “psychotic bipolar bitch.” I had been trying to keep my diagnosis on the down low but all attempts were deemed futile after this.
Jan got too cool for us. She joined the yearbook and lost a ton of weight. Apparently there was someone pretty behind the fat rich girl I used to make Cannibal Corpse music videos with. I found myself feeling very alone in high school. I had acquaintances and school friends, people to eat lunch with and sit with at class. But I didn’t have real friends. I didn’t have people to tell my secrets to and to love unconditionally.
I began cutting myself in the tenth grade. I would get so rushed in my head that I couldn’t focus on one bad thought. If I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t fix the bad things. That’s my solution. I take a bad thought. I accept it for what it is and if there’s something I can do to make myself feel better about it, I identify it and then I do it. When I get overwhelmed though, there’s no identifying the thoughts. I just feel the way they make me feel and then suddenly I have immense feelings of hatred and dissatisfaction towards myself and I can’t even stop and make myself focus on just what it is making me feel that way. Then I swipe a razor across my skin and everything stops.
It happened on accident when I was shaving in the shower one time. I had gotten in a bad fight and was crying. I was crying through my whole shower and as I shaved, I cut myself. I felt the sting and it was real. I remembered thinking how beautiful it was that I hurt and I could look down and see why. Something was calming about a pain that was completely recognized and reasonable. Whenever I found myself overwhelmed by unrecognizable or unreasonable pains, I could just cut myself and replace it with a logical and expected one. My grades were always up and down throughout high school. I had a good semester that showed everyone I really did belong in the Honors and AP courses and I’d write some essays that made people think of me as the future writer and English Teacher of my generation. Then I’d get straight C’s and D’s and my teacher would remark as if I cared about every area of school besides the academics. They were frustrated by my potential and my inability to care about anything at a time besides the moment right before it’s too late to fix it.
I’ve lived my entire life on a tight rope. I’m most comfortable with things barely in my grasp. I like being criticized. I like people thinking I won’t get something done just to show up at the very last second with a product, a result of my work that makes them doubt their doubt of me. That’s just the way I’ve always been.
I got into college by the skin of my teeth. I was accepted as an English major and I am confident it was my dad’s previous academic stance at the college and not my current academic record that ensured my admittance. I didn’t care. I was moving into the dorms and starting a life. I was going to be independent. My parents wouldn’t take my money or tell me what to eat or when to come home. If I wanted to go get high at 2 in the morning because I couldn’t sleep, I wouldn’t have to sneak out the window.
College led me to a love of psychology. It also led me to a new diagnosis. My passion for life would swell up and then be replaced by three months of not being able to lead my bed. I was exuberant at one moment and ready to kill myself the next. My original diagnosis of bipolar disorder no longer suited the fast paced cycling my moods were displaying.
I had had a boyfriend, Drew, who was much older than me during the end of my high school life. I thought he was the love of my life, emphasis on the “I thought”. We ended up breaking up because in college I was surrounded by people who wanted to do things with their lives and who had already accomplished so much more than Drew had and with way less years. We ended up breaking up and I told him I had cheated on him to make him hate me. I didn’t want it to be the way it was with all my friends; me running away at the first sign they aren’t perfect and then realizing my mistake and asking, no begging, them to forgive me. I wanted Drew out of my life and I did what I could to get him there. I even told him I had had an abortion because he hurt my feelings by saying he had been talking to another girl. I even talked him into giving me money for the abortion I claimed to have had but ended up backing out of that because I didn’t want to see him.
In my sophomore year of college I was dating a guy named Marcus. He was a depressed and skinny little dude and I was repulsed by him during the entirety of our relationship. He was rich though and he always had weed. I started smoking. I started smoking alot. I have smoked marijuana every day of my life since sophomore year of college with Marcus.
Our sex was awful and I faked a lot of orgasms. He had an anal fetish because he used to be a heroin addict. Because of a deathly fear and revulsion of veins and needles, the only way he could up his high was by plugging: an expression for the act of shooting heroin up your ass for direct absorption into the bloodstream from all the veins in there. It was gross and awful. He talked me into having anal sex and he let me yell at him, leave him, run away and then come back. He paid for my rent and my food and I used him blatantly for 2 years.
During that time though, we ran into Drew. It was awful. I saw him with a new girlfriend that he was much more serious about than he was with me. They had already been together for longer and to make matters worse, he had met her on the night he proposed to me. She was a skinnier and shorter version of me but her body language and face revealed she had all the attitude and spunk I did.
I interfered, badly. I told her I used to have HPV and that Drew and I never used condoms. I told her to get tested. She responded and told me to make sure I didn’t get throat cancer and I should lose weight before I tried to get Drew back because he was tired of “fucking fat chicks.”
So I got an eating disorder. The interference with Drew was too much strain on my relationship with Marcus. Neither of us could really deny the lack of care I held for him in such blatant view of the care I held for Drew. After the whole fiasco blew over, Marcus and I parted ways.
I hung out with a guy named Eric who had too much fun watching me fall in love with him. I lost my virginity in high school to three guys at once and a bottle of vodka. I remember very little of it and while large parts of me believe it to have been rape, more of me won’t let me think that. I haven’t had sex the right way since. Eric told me he felt uncomfortable fucking me because he didn’t feel like I was enjoying it. He had heard about my sexual history from some friends of his (we all went to the same high school ironically) and used this to ensure my trust and affection for him. I thought him to be the most caring guy in the world. I would get anxious waiting for him to text me back and every time he blew me off or made plans and bailed last minute; I accepted his apologies without question.
It wasn’t until Max, a mutual friend of Eric and I, told me he was also seeing this girl named Sara did I realize I was being played. Every conversation and intimate moment had been a lie. He hurt my feelings in a way I was only used to dishing out, never receiving. Sara’s boyfriend dude is now my boyfriend I am moderately happy.
I am as moderately happy as someone afraid to eat can be.
I am as moderately happy as someone with a boyfriend using her as a rebound can be.
Some days I am wonderful and some days I am dark and every day I am crazy and miserable and excited.
You can write about anything that is important to you – your whole life, personal trauma or events that have affected you in the past.Share Your Story
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