She loves me….she loves me not

My mother at one point had to love me. She wrote me notes in my school lunches when I was in elementary school. She had a nickname for me (squeege). She made popcorn balls for my class at Christmas. She went on field trips. She threw me birthday parties. Where was the disconnect?

Don. Don the destroyer. I remember those things she did. But. I also remember nothing else. Going to work with them every weekend. They joked around the whole time and had me and Annie and Jackie entertain ourselves. The stock market is Monday through Friday. Why were we there other than Don had the girls for the weekend and wanted to make his relationship with my mom look professional yet friendly.

They would leave me with them while they “worked”. Maybe work did get done at points, I don’t know. What I do know is we were there every weekend. And whenever Annie and Jackie were there my mother tried her best to make them like her. She spoiled them. I was an afterthought when they were around. So much for all that “love” she showed me.

The time I remember my mother making time for me is when she found out when I was 6 or 7 that I was trying to poison myself to end my life. She wouldn’t let me say why, just gave me a long talk about how good my life was. Sorry mom, but if your daughter is trying to kill herself she doesn’t really think her life is good. Next thing you know she is diagnosed with MS when I turned 8 and I had to start helping her. So I had to stay.

I stayed for her. And as I got older and the MS started taking over her body I was her nurse. At 12. And from that point on I was a prisoner to my mother and Don because I had to be there for her. We moved to CT and my way of living changed. The love that she made a point to show was no longer even an attempt.

And yet now, at almost 40, I feel guilty that I left her to start my life with Josh. I had to run away at 27. I left everything except the clothes on my back and had to start over. Then Don died and I stepped back up and was at her beck and call. I was degraded by my god father for not being a good daughter. Then she decided to stop talking to me. And her friends expected me to just show up and make amends. I can’t do it to myself and yet I feel SUCH guilt.

Author:

I am sharing my story of why and how I developed BPD and what I am doing to rebuild myself.

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