Living with BPD

Early Childhood

Growing up was never easy. Most carefree childhoods occur in safe homes, where everyone is healthy and they communicate well. Sadly, I did not grow up in one of those homes. I grew up in a home of screaming, beating, breaking things, throwing things, threats. I was never safe. I was only happy when I got to leave. My sister was 19 when I was born and her and her boyfriend (now husband) practically raised my brother and I because my parents worked and had abusive tendencies. Some of my earliest memories include cops filling my living room because my dad got too angry and mom got scared. She does the same thing as me, assume the worst at all times. I had belts whipped at my face. Doors were kicked down when I tried to hide. It was just abuse on top of abuse. My mother was paranoid, she thought her company had put cameras and microphones in the house and believes that to this day. I grew up believing that. And that's only one of the reasons I'm fucked up today.

Though my parents tried to show their love from time to time, the negatives always outweighed the positive. Face it. I grew up in a broken home there's no denying that. My dad went to work early and would stay out late to avoid my mom. My mom would try her best to take care of us calmly but she always managed to blow up. There wasn't a day of silence in that household. Due to all the screaming around me I became a loud kid. People would constantly ask why I'm talking so loud and I didn't know what to say since I assumed it was normal. It was so bad one day my mom dared me to talk quietly or not at all for two hours.  I managed to do it (even though I definitely removed about 30 mins from the timer without her knowing). 

Sometimes my sister would come get y brother and I in the middle of the night. I didn't know why  just knew it always came after yelling. She'd take us to school where we'd just end up home again for the cycle to restart. But since I was a kid I thought it was all normal. Eventually I was old enough to know I wanted to leave maybe 8 or 9. I would beg my sister, my aunt, and my grandmother but every attempt to escape failed. So I was forced to live in the house until about 15 and a half years old when things has gotten too bad to ignore. I became depressed and suicidal and my Aunt finally decided it was time. 

That brings me to now. I'm almost 17. I'vebeenliving here for a year and a half. I got a boyfriend, then I went through heartbreak. And now I'm here stuck in a world of misery and unhappiness. I don't know how to get better. I don't know if it's possible to get better. It feels impossible to be loved. Nothing feels right anymore. It just feels like I should sleep and never wake up. They waited too long to get me out of there. And now I'm stuck, suffering, for what might possibly be the rest of my life.