Hello There

     I’ve been meaning to start a blog for a long while now. I’ve got several reasons why I never have. I suppose most of them seem foolish. I was overwhelmed by typical blogging sites. The meds are making my word salad worse, and typing has become a lot of effort. I didn’t know what to say. I figured no one would want to read it. Really, though, the biggest reason I haven’t blogged isn’t so foolish. It’s valid. I’m scared that people will see what I write and think less of me for it. They would have the right too. As much as I’ve lately been making the effort to not be shamed for who I am or what is wrong with me, I’m rightfully shamed of this. Even AA, though, seems to think we should willingly admit where we were wrong to another person. Christianity vouches accountability. I suppose this is my version of both, with some personal catharsis thrown in.

     I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder and various eating disorders shortly before I started my first serious relationship at 15. I fell head over heels for The Boy, and he said he felt the same for me. I never knew how to be in a relationship; my parents had divorced when I was 5 and my mother’s remarriage, though successful, was filled with squabbles. I learned from The Boy how to fight, screaming insults and tearing down the other’s self worth with insults. He taught me that, when you’re so overcome by anger, the appropriate reaction is striking back physically. He broke my nose that way, terrified me back into submission. I guess I didn’t know there was another way to be.

     I began showing signs of BPD shortly after, though I couldn’t be formally diagnosed until 18. I started dating the Fiancée when I had just turned 18. I loved her instantly, had liked her for years. I swore I wouldn’t do to her what The Boy had done to me. For a long while, that was true. We planned our lives around each other, with her applying to my college. She knew of my BPD, my issues, but loved me anyways. We fell, accidentally, into codependency, our friends having left after we came out. Then the insults started. I never meant to say them or to hurt her, but I did. She always forgave me. It escalated into me screaming at her and losing myself in tantrums. She, still, always forgave me. Finally, it escalated into me hitting her, shoving her, scaring her. Her temper finally got the best of her; she learned how to fight back. I never wanted to do it; I can remember thinking thoughts of love and adoration as my body and my mouth kept going without my permission. She forgave me for all of that too. She eventually left, just a month ago, to get her life back on track. I’m heartbroken and not functional, but I’m even more proud of her for being strong enough and brave enough to leave.

     This is the start of my healing and, hopefully, my real apology: I abused the love of my life, verbally, emotionally, and physically. They say abusers never change, but I refuse to be a statistic. Even if it takes me showing this to the world to keep me accountable for changing, then so be it.