Hey. Hi. How are you? It’s been a while. I just finished therapy and have an overabundance of emotions. I talked, in depth, about a bunch of memories that all just came flooding back.
I was watching a show on Netflix called Dirty Money and it was the Trump episode. I’m not getting political so don’t run away. The episode showed Trump’s office back in the 80’s. It was so similar to my step-father’s office it was unsettling. I started getting these vivid memories of being in his office. And those memories opened a floodgate to a load of other ones. There were some good ones that I was happy to remember, but a lot of the other stuff cut deep.
I can vividly see all these moments happening. I can hear what is being said and what was going on around me. Memories of my mother not caring about what I saw or heard. Memories of being alone in a house with a man everyone respected and admired. A man that sexually and emotionally abused a little girl who trusted him because he was the only father figure she had.
I don’t really want to dive in to specifics. I am writing right now because I need to get something off my chest. Since I had the episode at the end of last year and I started therapy with a GOOD therapist, I’ve felt guilty. I feel like I’m fabricating shit in my head. Because I don’t want to disappoint a dead man that broke me. I tried my whole life to live up to his expectations and even though he’s been dead for about ten years I don’t want to let him down. I get in my head and start asking myself if this is all just made up? Am I just this batshit crazy person who creates all this shit in my head?
But. I can see these very real memories in my head. I lived these things. My brain tried to protect me from them. Yet I still feel like the grossest, dirtiest fiction writer. Could it be that I wish it was just a disgusting book series instead of my life? Do other people feel like this? Am I self sabotaging again? Why is all this so hard? Why can’t healing be easier? It isn’t fair. I’m tired. I’m tired of all of this.
I think I just need other people to tell me I don’t need to worry about his feelings. Or my mom’s. They damaged me and don’t deserve my guilt. They. They should feel guilty. But Don is dead and I’m dead to my mother, so they win again.
On a completely separate note. The author that inspired me to start this blog, Cindy Collins, has given me a few audio versions of her book to share with you. If you are interested, shoot me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org. I only have a couple, so don’t dilly dally. It is a deep, honest book that anyone with BPD can appreciate and learn from. She is an inspiration and I’m incredibly lucky to have a relationship with her.