Borderline
Personality Disorder Life Stories
age 14, history of neglect, depression and
self harm
Where really to start is the question....most of the time people tell stories when
it's raining or when there is a general depression in the air. Though I might
be wrong about that, since I'm telling this stupid tale right during a happy
summer day. Oh well I always go against the odds. I am 14 years old though I
must admit I forget. I wasn't sexually abused and I might of been neglected as a
child but I have no idea mostly because I refuse to tell anyone that I have
a problem. In fact I'm always the good girl, really. Always the one no one
suspects or believes when I get in trouble.
My mother was 18 years old when she had me and my father was the same age. They
were happy until my mother started treating him badly and my father left me and
my mother. He had to get away from her and I don't blame him and I know he
probably didn't take me with him because it would be hard to take me from a
family that he thought might love me or appeared to care. My mother partied and
I sat at home with various family members who took care of me. In essence my
family reminds me of what people view animals to be like. They care on some
primitive level that they will take care of their young but nothing else. I was
a quiet fat little baby who was smart but little did they know or care to try to
try to teach me at an advanced level. I possibly could of been smarter than what
I am now but a dream is a stupid reason to be upset with your family but I still
am angry with them for that. After my mother finally settled down into life she
began trying to knock some sense into my head. I was a very bad child and I have
a feeling I would of grown up a horror if she hadn't done the things she did.
She used to hit me when I brought home bad grades from my pre-school, first
grade, second, third, fourth, fifth and before that when I was bad. I still
remember that time I sat there singing to myself trying to stop crying in front
of her because she beat me so hard that I couldn't stop crying and because
I had done something what I can't remember. Oh, by the way if you're
wondering she never left bruises or anything that would show up. Oh no, she knew
better than that. I at one point wanted to tell someone what she was doing when
I was younger but she kept telling me "Do you want me to lose you?!"
and then it was followed by a slap or being hit. She always hated how I cried
afterwards and usually would hit me just because she felt she had to give me
something to cry about.
My school life was no better. My friends all suffered from depression because of
the stress of school life and at home. I never wanted to go to the school my
mother sent me to. It was called Corpus Christi it meant something like body and
blood of Christ. I still wonder if that was fate or doom that it felt that the
name of my horror would have to do with God...I never let anything go and I was
never happy at school with those people. When my friends invited me to their
houses I couldn't go because of the fact that they lived so far out and they
eventually stopped inviting me which hurt. My grades were horrible because I was
so depressed and oddly enough no one challenged my brain. I understood
everything they taught me on some level and somehow I knew they were all
horrible teachers who didn't teach anyone anything.
They told my mother I seemed depressed and that I should see somebody. My mother
didn't have the money and thought it was stupid and I was just lazy. I suppose I
was and she also got on me because of my weight. I always was fat and my mother
tried to apply theories she saw on TV to try to 'fix' me. They never worked. At
that point I became so faithful to her because of fear, I started hearing her
call me when she wasn't. My mother encouraged this 'new' me and I stooped to
lying and hiding my grades. Now I've become such a good liar to her that she
probably can't tell when I do lie or when I don't say anything to her. I tell
her the truth a lot because she hates liars and I am a liar.
Finally I got out of Corpus Christi because my grades were so low that my mother
wanted me to try a public school. It was Timberlane and they told me to see the
school counselor. My mother finally noticed I was depressed but I couldn't tell
them what was going on because if I did I would of been caught at home. So I
told them little things and finally the year was over and I was free.
I went to Luther Jackson where I met the people who are the closest things I
have to friends and I finally met my second side who was always a part of me and
we were just so one that it was hard to tell us apart. It's name was Doom and it
has been the nearest thing to a friend I've ever had. It's always there and
it needs me and I love that feeling of being loved by something even if it was
the existence of that little bit everyone that know their going to die or the
fact that the world is going to eventually go up and well we could go on
forever. I found out that I was a sadist and that I, well, always hated people.
Everyone asks why I say that because I'm people, but I'm not. I'm one of the few
people who isn't a person, I'm just me. I don't like the human race because I
know that all my pain comes from them but I also know that somehow I don't want
them destroyed or at least so dead they can ignore my pain. I want them to
feel my pain. I asked them to listen to me but no one ever does they always
assume I'm just a mean person and that nothing is wrong with me.
Doom has been the only thing stopping me from probably doing more damage to
myself. It was Doom that finally made me take a test on myself to see what
mental disorder I had. I did take a test on-line and out of three times I always
came back Schizo and borderline personality disorder (BPD). No other disorder just those and I'm not going to a
professional because that would mean being drugged and Doom doesn't like drugs,
they scare it and I know they are addictive. Doom probably could be considered
that little voice in my head but I also know that I talk to myself a lot never
out loud because that would mean I have a problem. Doom is currently sleeping in
my pain and writhing in it's own. I introduced it to my friends and they didn't
see the point to it and they wanted nothing to do with it. Doom is a wreck
because of that and I want it to feel better. It's the only thing that
takes care of me when I feel bad and I have to tell someone, it forces me
to. It had never hurt me and it laughs at the examples of it being a figure
of my imagination. It's not going anywhere and I know that but I can't
stand the pain it brings but it also brings love and some hope. My friends
hate it and I've been told I have BPD and I'm a Schizo, there is nothing
either of us can do to help each other and the pain bottled up through the ages
of trying to keep myself happy enough not to be caught are going to eventually
catch up with us but hopefully I can stab them off until I'm dead and if there
is an afterlife I'll have plenty of time to think about my actions, heaven or
hell.
Just recently I have noticed that my friends aren't my friends and I don't know
why I even bother but I want to help them. My friend Lauren yells at me for
being so self absorbed and saying bad stuff about myself. I don't know why but
I've thought about suicide several times but I always am rational enough to not
continue with it. I have many ways of doing it as well because no one knows what
I am, how much pain I'm in or about how Doom feels and how they've treated me.
There are so many knives in my house and I'm pretty good with a blade....I
already have scars on my hand. They're from my favorite knife and so small they
look like paper cuts but they're not and I'm pleased by them and I wish they
were bleeding and I'm not done yet. I have decided to make them into a design.
Which also might make me a masochist. Either way whether I have BPD and Schizo
or not, I had to tell someone and since I have all the symptoms of borderline
personality disorder and
Schizo I thought I'd write my story down.
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