A Letter to my Mom with BPD
Dear Mom,
I never got the chance to say this, but thank you. For every smack. For every threat. For every angry outburst that shook me awake at 2 a.m.
Like every good mother, you acted as my teacher:
You taught me to hate.
You taught me to cry.
You taught me to live in crippling terror.
You taught me to envy the mother-daughter couples around me, ignorantly blissful as they delicately hold hands and whisper, “I love you” to the point that it makes me sick – I could never relate to those girls; while they played with dolls I played with the idea of never seeing my mother again. While they were skipping, carefree, I was timidly walking on broken eggshells.
I found myself lying to every girl I met, thinking they would only want to be friends with me if I knew Avril Lavigne personally or was actually (not-so) secretly a vampire, or generally knew how to be a social being. Blinded by my self-image of inadequacy, I spent my entire childhood trying on an assortment of masks rather than trying to explore my own individuality. And hell, I still don’t know who the f*** I am.
You taught me to never speak my mind for fear of having the wrong words roll off my tongue at the wrong time, triggering yet another episode and another episode and another episode. Praying to a god that doesn’t exist, please don’t let me be hit again. And please, fix her.
Your narcissism, your vicious toxic air slowly and unknowingly choking me, yet enticing me to keep throwing myself back in, to say “Mom I’m sorry,” to diminish my own self-worth and to go through the motions of life – or lack thereof – feeling numb, yet natural. I was comfortable in my discomfort and I was drowning but oblivious.
My brother always told me growing up to speak my truths. To this day, I am struggling to find meaning in that.
Nevertheless, I want to thank you.
After all this time, I am healing.
And I don’t want anyone’s pity. Pity implies that I am still hurting, that I am torn and fragmented and scraping up the broken pieces of me that you scattered about.
I won’t let that be true. I won’t let you have that satisfaction.
I still will always have those 479 (and counting) unread text messages from you to remind me that you’re there, but you’re not there.
So I am writing to tell you: I am present, I am worthy, and I am stronger than ever.
Your daughter, but not yours,
Katrina
