..you would cry too, if it happened to you!
Met Muddly Mum by way of a Twitter chat called #BPDChat (@officialBPDChat). I deal with complex PTSD, but I’ve found great relief in Dialectical Behavior Therapy (#DBT), which I found out by way of others in this community. Despite hardships with cPTSD, I too have found a silver lining in the grey cloud. Please read.
*may contain triggers*
I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) in May 2005 after having had a breakdown in November 2004. I was referred to the local Therapeutic Community and after two years at three days a week I was much better. I had two more children, launched my own business and managed my BPD on the whole for nine years. I actually thought I was just a bit low in September and it gradually got worse until after Christmas I started self harming again to try and shut up the noisy intrusive thoughts. I took an overdose about a ten days ago to shut up my head for good. It seemed a logical step at the time! Thank God I’ve not wrecked my liver. So as you can tell it’s tough at the moment. I’ve got through this before and at this moment I feel I could beat…
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My father… has embraced this truth. I don’t know how much he remembers himself, but he’s beginning to believe.
From REBLOG: …the father becomes the son. (more thoughts) August 14, 2015:
About a week ago, Cimmorene remembered where she was during my father’s near-death experience, and the weight of the sacrifice that I made to encourage my father to resume his life, so mine could begin.
Anyone who thinks the term “soulmate” is the stuff of cheesy Hollywood romantic fairytales and is nothing but fluff and shiny optimism, I must tell you, dear readers– in my experience, it’s a lie.
It’s true that Cimmorene and I remember a life together before mortality. We remember bonds that have been forged and reforged many times. But for all the light, wonderment, and immense awe, there is sorrow, darkness, and pain. There is anticipation of regret even before the blood, sweat, and tears began.
As usual, she remembered something I did not. She said that for that small moment, it…
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If it isn’t already bleedingly obvious right now, I’m on a blogging hiatus.
I am so tired.
A quick note- there will be a little salt in the following words. If coarse language offends you, I won’t be offended in turn if you gloss over the next parts, or even stop reading. I will be grateful if you continue, however.
I trounced Boy’s ABA therapist. As in I told her to get out. Then, I could only take so much of her boss blowing smoke up my ass. It’s a semi-long story that I just don’t have time or energy to elaborate on right now.
I am very excited to have a new artist- Saphyre Rain- to write press for We Heart Music. (What’s We Heart Music? For those who haven’t been here over the long, long slog, leave me a comment, and I’ll explain. For now: a music blog I wrote for back in the day.) It’s comprised of a husband and wife duo singing about hope for suicide and self-harm issues, which are very personal and important to me. I’ve been corresponding with Amanda, the singer/guitarist of the group, and she’s been very congenial… I’m grateful she specifically asked me to take my time.
I’m so frustrated, in a certain way. cough No, won’t elaborate. It doesn’t help that Cimmorene has a new memory about being molested by a caregiver when she was 3. Why thank you, fate. Yes, I will have another bitch slap, please.
It takes effort to distill thoughts to 120 characters, but Twitter is less exhausting… as was discussed in the previous post.
I seem to be beyond notice. 11 years, and I get so few comments.
I’m not looking for Freshly Pressed. I have ceased caring about that.
I don’t want to be special. I don’t want to be brave. I just want to belong. I started this blog to come to grips with the awful abuse my mother and others heaped on me. 11 years later, the world seems to be telling me, over and over, that most people do not care. This space right here, it’s just not hitting people’s vibes. It’s beyond their notice.
Oh, and third wave radical feminists are especially unwelcome here. I don’t need some random bitches telling me I’m so part of the oppression. Sadly, that’s likely to include a cousin, but ironically, she’s the only one from that branch of the family that can even be bothered to talk to me. The others, who I used to be a lot closer to- no, they don’t care. They don’t. They already have their pity party on Facebook, or, whatever. Well, there’s the Star Wars & “my man” couple. Whatever.