savannahsbpdadventures

[savannahsbpdadventures]

Guess Who’s Back, Back Again

Hey, everyone, it’s been almost a year since I made my last post. Well, more like 10 months, but who cares. A lot has changed since then, so I’m going to just go over the changes. 

I recently discovered that my mother is a gigantic fucking narcissist, as me and my therapist diagnosed her with NPD, and as a result, that’s where all the physical, verbal, and emotional abuse came from. It’s very freeing that I now understand that most of my emotional problems aren’t because I’m a “nutjob” or “crazy,” but rather because I had the shit beaten out of me when I was younger. Some more good news is that I’m hyper aware of all her narcissistic behaviors, so that whenever she... I don’t know... gaslights me, or invalidates me, or refuses to admit she made a mistake, I can tell that I’m not just being too sensitive, and these aren’t things normal people do. My next step is moving out and going No-Contact. It’ll be the freedom I’ve dreamed of for years. 

Nana has seriously declined since the last time I wrote. She used to cry about her dead husband, and now she asks what happened to him. Sadly enough, I’m still living with her alone, even though I was supposed to move in with my family in September, and then December, and then January, and then March. Now we’re supposed to move in in April, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to believe what my mother tells me if the construction on the addition keeps getting delayed. 

My sister got accepted to a major state university, so now there’s even more praise being heaped onto her, and less onto me. I mean, I’m proud of her, but at the same time, I also wish she didn’t get in. 

I’m in community college for a major I absolutely hate (nursing), but it’s the only way my mother will pay for school. Hopefully I can transfer to a university so it will be slightly more tolerable. 

I’ve gained about 15 pounds since I moved in, so now I am 205. My mother won’t let me hear the end of this. 

I dumped Ben, and he proceeded to start dating my sister, Kayla. I’m not okay with this, but the rest of my family is, because they don’t consider my feelings to be important. 

I have a boyfriend, and his name is Sam. He’s my favorite boyfriend and if he leaves me, I might want to kill myself. 

I can’t really think of anymore, but those are just some updates. Thanks for reading. Talk to you soon. 

[savannahsbpdadventures]

BISEXUALITY IS NOT TRANSPHOBIC

Sorry about the lack of posts this week. Shit went down.

Alright, I’m only going to talk about Tuesday. If any events that happened on a previous day come up, I’ll be sure to go over them in detail.

After staying up until 6 AM the previous night, it took me a while to wake up Tuesday morning for my psychologist appointment. When I came back, Nana had once again took it upon herself to straighten my room up. This was typical, as the stupid old bitch doesn’t respect boundaries.  

The state of my room has seriously gone downhill since I moved in about a month ago. I’ve spilled Diet Coke on the carpet, and while it wasn’t much, there are still little droplets. My bed is covered in laundry, potato chip bags, and art supplies, while I have a little strip of the bed clear so I can sleep. I usually don’t sleep at night anymore, though. I stay up until the early morning and then fall asleep to avoid spending time with Nana. She’s insufferable.

After the appointment, I went into my room and spent most of my time on the computer, writing a blog post for yesterday that is being reformatted to this one right now, since I couldn’t post it last night, since I fell asleep at 7.

Unfortunately, Nana came in multiple times to ask me the same god damn questions and tell me the same god damn things over and over and over again. Something that really bothers me about her is that she goes into the fridge every five minutes and gives me a briefing on what’s in there, even after I tell her I’m not hungry. The vibe that I’m getting from this is that she wants me to eat as much as possible so I get even fatter, which will make her feel even better about herself.

Then she started bitching at me because I was doing nothing but laying down. I wanted to scream at her and tell her that I didn’t feel like spending time with her because she’s not smart, witty, or even somewhat of a nice person. Instead, I sucked it up and pulled a board game out of the chest of them she has with a crazed smile. “We can play Scrabble after dinner! Does that sound okay? Will you finally stop bothering me?”

I honestly didn’t want to spend all my time in my room. I would have preferred to take a bus to the mall and just spend some time there, but I had accidentally left my allowance in my pants pocket and had given the pants to my mother to wash, meaning that I had no money that day.

I had already splurged my saved allowance last week on some travel size products that I might just buy the full sizes of since I’m so obsessed with having the best.

The reason I spent the money? I needed to cope. My friend Paul had blocked me on Facebook the night before I had spent the twenty dollars. He had unblocked me that night, and had told me why he had done so.

I had updated my relationship status to “In A Relationship” with Ben on Wednesday, which is something I’ve been waiting to do for a long-ass time. I was going to tell Paul I was seeing him earlier, but when I showed him the picture of us together, he immediately got jealous. I felt like I would just break it to him later. But he saw the status and blocked me.

Another reason he told me he blocked me was because I identified as bisexual, and that identity apparently is inherently transphobic??? Weird, I know.

I knew that on this blog eventually, I would start delving into social justice issues, and I think now is the perfect time to start.

Ever since I was eleven, I’ve known I was attracted to other girls, as well as guys. At thirteen, I took on the identity of bisexual, because that’s what most accurately described my situation. I never really faced any oppression over this, besides the occasional hateful street preachers and girls on Tinder trying to exploit my sexuality by trying to get me to sleep with them and their ugly ass boyfriends. Also, my mother believed it was just a phase, and that I would end up being attracted to only men in my adulthood, because there’s no way a person can be attracted to two genders at once!

I like men and I like women. It’s that simple. At least, I believed it was that simple. In 2015, I became familiar with people who existed outside that spectrum. I don’t mean binary trans people, because even though they were designated one gender at birth, they still are another binary gender. I’m talking about people who are nonbinary. People with genders such as agender, trigender, bigender, among others that exist outside of the male-female realm. I thought it was kind of weird at first, as it was different from something that’s been hammered into everyone since we were color-coded pink and blue as babies. I did always daydream about a third gender someday making an official appearance, unknowing that there’s many more genders that people identify under.

When I found this out, I did consider identifying as pansexual, to accommodate all genders, but I did some thinking and decided to continue identifying as bisexual, because the chances of ever meeting someone who would neither be male or female are very slim, or so I thought.

Joining social justice circles introduces you to a lot of different people, including nonbinary people. I was unaware Paul was nonbinary, and I thought he was just a trans guy. His official title is nonbinary transmasculine boy, which is quite a mouthful. I think I added Paul on Facebook because he was mutual friends with a nonbinary person that he is no longer friends with who is cool and really into social justice, and I thought Paul would be the same way. I was sort of wrong. Something that really pisses me off about him is that he’s VERY against sex work and sex workers. I��ve been too afraid to ask why, but I can’t comprehend why anyone would be thoroughly against it. Like??? Why??? Who are sex workers hurting? He even admits he has very intolerant views towards it, but he’s done nothing to open his mind on why that’s such a shitty opinion.

Like I said, sex workers are the most marginalized group of people on the planet. People are outed as sex workers every day, having their lives completely ruined. Take Louise Rosealma for example. She’s an Antifa sex worker who got assaulted at a pro-Trump rally after protesting. People have turned the footage of her getting punched in the face into a meme. Then, the alt-right doxxed her, releasing photos and videos of her work as a camgirl onto the Internet with her real name for all to see. The fellow left wouldn’t even defend her because she’s a non-black person with dreads. Like, really? This lady had her life ruined, and no one is even going to defend her because she’s supposedly racist because she decided to do her hair a certain way.

That’s not to say that I’m in favor of white people having this hairstyle. I think it is a racist act to have dreads as a white person. It’s cultural appropriation, plain and simple. Black people are shamed for wearing dreads all the time, meanwhile, when white people do it, it’s a fashion statement. If white people are shamed for having dreads, they can easily take them out and go back to being a white person who faces no injustice for their race. Something similar happens when covering the Berkeley Pro-Trump rally. Worse things happened to people of color at that event, and this white woman is the only one who is getting coverage. Anyway, that’s enough about that.

So anyway, I’m really scared that this could happen to me if I even accidentally find myself in the public eye. Like Louise Rosealma, or that lady who was being mean to a couple publicly being affectionate. Neither of them expected to be outed, and now, their lives are probably ruined. I get heart palpitations every day when my mind wanders to this, and it’s making me afraid to go about my daily life.

I seriously regret camming. THIS IS NOT EQUAL TO BEING ASHAMED OF IT. I think that webcam models, as well as escorts, strippers, fetish models, sugar babies, porn actors, phone sex operators, and even full service sex workers (the ones who actually sleep with their clients), deserve respect, because all of those are completely valid career choices. I was really into camming at some point. I started two days after my eighteenth birthday, and have even bought costumes for it. After that scare with the stalker I had mentioned, I got too scared to continue, and have since taken actions to erase my presence off the Internet.

But anyway, it’s typical for some white cishet Christian man to be offended by sex work, because those motherfuckers are making legislation to make it harder for us to do what we do all the time. I just didn’t expect opposition from someone who seemed so… woke…

Apparently, my identity is oppressive. Like… no??? I usually defend my friends who aren’t in the majority, but this is just ridiculous. He had a crush on me, and he’s just mad because I won’t sleep with him. That’s that.

Anyway, I could get away with not playing the board game with Nana. Instead, I just fell asleep at 7 PM.

Those were my thoughts of Tuesday. Talk to you tomorrow!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

Help yourself to anything in the fridge

If I thought Saturday was uneventful, I should have prepared myself for Sunday. I might as well have just stayed in bed yesterday, because nothing of value happened.

After last night’s major letdown, at least I had spending time with Paul to look forward to. Our plan was for his mom to drop him off at my place so we could spend time in my room so he could work on the dialectical behavior therapy workbook I gave him. Even though Nana wouldn’t stop bothering us the last time he came over, he decided that he wanted to brave it so he could spend time with me. I was so happy!

That is, until my mother announced her plans for the day, which involved Nana and me. She was going to take my brother to go see his tutor at a Panera Bread, and since the condo is on the path to said Panera, she decided that she would pick us up and take us there.

I informed her that I had plans with my friend, and she said that his mom would just have to drive him to the Panera.

Something that really grinds my gears is when Mom tries to explain something to Nana even though she’ll just forget in a matter of seconds. This time, it was the concept of being transgender.

The only reason my mother knows Paul is trans is because, when I first spoke about him coming over, I used male pronouns to describe him. My mother probably just assumed he was a cis guy and that is fine with me. Last week we went to Wendy’s and then his mom drove us to Nana’s condo. What I didn’t mention last time I spoke about this was that when Nana saw Paul, she saw a girl. I referred to him with male pronouns the whole time, and when I slipped up, I made sure to correct myself, but I think that went completely over Nana’s head, as she continued using female pronouns for him without question. Paul was understanding of this, since she’s eighty-three and demented, which doesn’t leave much room for learning.

Later that night, my mother picked Nana and me up for dinner at that seafood place we went to on Thursday, and then Nana said this: “That was such a nice friend. You’re welcome to invite her over to go swimming if you’d like.”

“Her?” Mom asked.

I whispered in her ear, “He’s trans.”

Upon utterance of this phrase, Mom completely fucked up his pronouns several times. She was now permanently referring to Paul as a she, even though I, the most woke person in the family was referring to Paul as a he. If the resident social justice warrior of the family is referring to a trans person a certain way, don’t you think everyone else should do it, too?

Without Nana even asking, Mom started trying to explain transgender issues to her, in very invalidating terms. I get that my mother is trying to do her best to be tolerant of LGBT people, but you don’t say that an AFAB person “wants to be a boy.” They are a boy. In fact, they don’t even have to do any transitioning to be considered a boy. If they want to stop at declaring they’re male, then we should all just respect that and call them by their proper name and pronouns. A lot of people who want to transition can’t because of socio-economic issues, meaning they don’t have the money or resources to transition. That doesn’t mean they don’t deserve respect. Not every trans person can be a Laverne Cox or a Gigi Gorgeous. I’d mention some notable trans men, but I don’t know of any, so I can’t. I digress.

So anyway, I was really excited to meet Paul at Panera Bread yesterday, but then, I got more bad news. Apparently, the appointment with my brother’s tutor was pushed up, which means that we’d be leaving too early to meet Paul. I was so angry. Two days’ worth of plans ruined.

I barely ate at Panera. I didn’t even mean to have anything at all, just some iced tea, but then my mother couldn’t finish her cinnamon roll, and so I ate part of that as well.

I am 5’5” and about 190 pounds, which is considered obese. I never thought that would happen. I used to be very thin, and then when I started at that special high school after being homeschooled for ten years, all the stress of not having a boyfriend and having deadlines for every single little god damned thing caused me to balloon up. For as long as other people weren’t there for me, food always was. I’ve tried to get back down to my original weight, but I got sick of the diet and gained like twenty more pounds.

Now that I’m in a (relatively) no stress situation, I can probably get away with eating less. A lot less. My mother is going to start making diet tea to bring over so I can live off one meal a day. It’s called ephedra, and that shit works like magic. I drank some of it, and I wasn’t hungry until 5 PM after waking up at 9 AM and not having any breakfast. So what if it’s illegal? If it will make me look like less of a whale, then I’ll take it. I got chaotic evil on a Buzzfeed moral alignment test once, so I feel like this is in character. Then again, I got lawful neutral on another. I really don’t know. I wasn’t digging the old-timey situations they had for the questions. Oh well. The point is, while I believe in the benefits of working hard to get what you want, it’s a lot easier to cheat your way to the top, and I’m too fat to work hard at this point.

We headed back to Nana’s place, and she made me attempt to ride the bike she bought me as an early birthday present.

My nineteenth birthday is more than a month away, but as soon as I moved into Nana’s condo, my mother made her get me a bike. The problem is, I don’t know how to ride a bike. I never wanted to learn how to ride a bike, to be honest, but all my siblings learned last year, so it’s only fair if I do as well.

I was terrified to get on the bike, because the last time I did so, I was getting help from a stranger who was holding me up. I was so confident, that I started to go too fast, and I fell off the bike and took the stranger with me, skinning my knee badly in the process.

I attempted to ride the bike for ten minutes, until I got too sweaty and sore and had to quit. Now, I probably didn’t have to quit, but I didn’t want Nana’s stupid ass telling me not to go near the parking lot entrance. I wasn’t even trying to go near it, but she kept telling me not to. Then again, her moronic brain kept causing her to ask if I knew how to ride a bike.

“Nana, I know you have dementia and can’t remember anything, but CAN’T YOU AT LEAST TELL FROM CONTEXT CLUES THAT I DON’T KNOW HOW TO RIDE A BIKE? SERIOUSLY, HOW DUMB ARE YOU?”

As we’re walking inside, she says, “Come on, let me try to ride. I know how to ride a bike.” She did this last time I tried to ride, too, and she almost would have succeeded if I hadn’t told her about the blood gushing out of my skinned knee. My mother warned me not to let her ride the bike. If she fell and hurt herself, it would be a pain in the ass to deal with. Luckily, this time, I came prepared.

“Nana, I have the home phone in my pocket and if you try to ride that bike, I’m going to call my mother,” I snarl.

She glares at me.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” I whimper.

“Alright, let’s go upstairs.”

After going upstairs, I head straight to my room and fall fast asleep. I sleep for the next four hours, so I wouldn’t have to deal with Nana. I did, unfortunately, deal with Nana, however. She came in twice to check to see if I was alright, and another three times to let me know I could help myself to anything in the fridge. She must have been so lonely.

My BPD thought of the day was, “I can’t manage to keep friends for shit.” I corrected it by saying, “My outside circumstances aren’t helping me keep friends for shit.”

Those are my thoughts of the day, talk to you soon!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

I’ll see you soon, Ben.

Simply put, yesterday was a gigantic fucking disappointment.

I slept in till about 12:30 in the afternoon after seeing the guy I’ve been dating the night before. My mother woke me up. She was going to spend the day with Nana and me in the condo and make pizza for us.

Still half asleep, I put some clothes on. I sat on the couch and started working on my comic book. It’s about superheroes. I’ll lend you that much information.

Unfortunately, last Friday, Ben had given me a nasty cold, and I was still suffering from it. Every few minutes, I’d start hacking and wheezing, and Nana would try to be a white knight and offer me tissues, which I would refuse almost every time.

I’m also menstruating, which means that I’m a lot more sensitive to bullshit than I usually am, which means that I find it eleven times more frustrating whenever Nana says something stupid.

As usual, she started getting all tearful about her stupid dead husband. Another thing she does that really bothers me is that whenever she gets like this, she points to the Mickey and Minnie Mouse plushies sitting in front of her bookshelf and says, “Look how happy they are. They’re in love. I used to be that happy,” or something along those lines. I’m not sure exactly why it bothers me so much, but it makes me want to steal them in the middle of the night and put them in a wood chipper.

To cheer her up, I pulled my collection of crocheted plushies from out of my room. My collection started with an Iron Man I bought at a library anime convention in 2015, and it’s been steadily growing. As of April 2017, I have Iron Man, the Winter Soldier, Captain America, Mittens Fluff ‘n’ Stuff, Agent Carter, Wonder Woman, Deadpool, Rogue, Black Widow, Loki, and Sari Sumdac. I showed Nana Agent Carter, also known as Peggy Carter, and SHE CALLED HER UGLY.

This really offended me. I’m used to people shitting on the things I love, but I didn’t expect her to call such an objectively cute little doll ugly. I mean, look at her:

Yep. Nana’s an idiot. An idiot who is also insensitive to my interests and how I feel when people disrespect said interests.

Whenever she says anything to me for the rest of the day, I hit her with the snark. Some of it was deserved, but some wasn’t. I’m sick, sick, sick, and tired of her asking me the same god damn questions repeatedly.

The last straw for her is when I sneeze, and she tries to offer me a tissue again. ��No, Nana I don’t want a tissue.” I might have said it a little too mean that time, because then she asked, “Oh, well then how long are you staying with me?”

I don’t answer.

“I said how long are you staying with me?”

“Mom, how long am I staying here?” I ask.

“Mom, you told her she could stay for as long as she’d like. Besides, you hate being alone,” my mother retorts.

“I can manage,” Nana says smarmily.

“Who’s going to answer the phone when Didi and Cici call?”

“I’ll do it.”

“No. Stop trying to kick her out. She’s staying here.”

“For how long?”

“About a week,” I lie. The old bag will eventually lose track of time and forget that a week has passed. If there’s an upside to her having dementia, it’s that I can bend the truth all the time to fit how I want things to go. I know it’s evil, but if it gets me out of my mother’s house and into my own room, then so be it.  

I almost forget about this benefit whenever she asks me what I went to university for, what I’m doing right now, or why I don’t have a bedroom in my mother’s house. The answers to those are things I explain to her time and time again, but she can’t seem to get it through her thick skull. I’m not sure if that’s because of the dementia, or if she’s just an idiot. According to my mother, she’s never been that smart. Whenever you explained anything to her, she never learned. I feel like this is just her normal behavior, but her stupidity has been amplified by the dementia.

Thankfully, I am moving back into my parents’ place, along with her, so I don’t have to be the only one who has to live with her anymore later this year. And then it will only take four years after the onset of dementia for her to die, which isn’t much in the grand scheme of things. Unfortunately, the last portion of those four years is going to be filled with dirty diapers and other gross old people things, because dementia is a degenerative brain disease, and the further it progresses, the more her cognitive functions decline, which will kind of bring her back to a state of infancy, except she won’t look cute, she’ll just look like the same old bag she’s always looked like, except with a sack of crap tied around her waist.

Right now, she’s had dementia for a year, and she’s still at the beginning stage, where she has less of a memory of things that had just happened to her, including questions she had that were just answered. The worst part is that apparently, you can’t even tell people with dementia that they’re wrong, or that they’ve forgotten something unless they ask. That pisses me off so much. Seriously, where’s the fun in that? I personally like to see the look on her face whenever I tell her that I already explained something to her, so I can see her try to weasel her way out of believing that there’s something wrong with her.

Nana is a gigantic narcissist, and has always been that way. She never likes to believe she’s at fault for anything, and she never apologizes for anything. Those are only a couple of her many symptoms, but my mother and I both believe she has narcissistic personality disorder. Then again, I also think my mother has that, but that’s another story for another day.

I hate her. My mother hates her. Basically, her whole family hates her, as far as I know, because she’s always been a very unpleasant person to be around. Unfortunately, she’s worth a lot of money, and when she dies, that money has to go to someone. Didi, Cici, and Nini are all in this huge rat race to make sure one gets more money than the other two sisters, and right now, Nini is winning.

So, I let my mom know about Ben’s concert that’s happening at a sports bar at midnight, and my mother told me she’d take me. Much to my chagrin, she invited Nana as well, and she agreed to going to this smoky sports bar at midnight for a loud rock show.

I tried to convince her not to go, since I don’t want her to know anything about me at all, but she and my mother insisted that she go.

My mother leaves and tells us to take a nap, and that she’ll pick us up at 10:30 to go to the show. I happily go back to sleep, just like I’ve been waiting to do all day, and when I wake up and take a shower, I get some bad news.

Two bands cancelled before Ben’s band went on, so he had to perform right away, meaning we weren’t going to make it to his performance. I told my mother this, hoping that she still decides to take us, so I can see him, and she says no. This sucks, because I had already woke my grandmother up as well, and now she wouldn’t get back to sleep. The old bitch was bragging about how happy she was that she didn’t have to go, because she was tired, and that infuriated me. I knew she wouldn’t have wanted to go, but my mother insisted that she go.

The stupid woman went back to bed and turned off the Internet on the way there. I angrily went to bed.

My BPD thought of the day was “I was burdened with a shitty grandmother because I’m a terrible person.” I changed it to, “I was burdened with a shitty grandmother because stupid people decide to reproduce.”

Those are my thoughts of the day. Thank you!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

Tinder dating gone right

It was Friday morning in the condominium where I live. I wanted to sleep in, but was reminded that we were going to the local theme park that day.

At 9:30 AM, Nana barged in like she usually does, and started criticizing the state of my room.

Something that would be useful information to you is that I am a very unorganized and messy person. This translates to seriously unclean living spaces for me. I wish I was a neater person, but that takes more effort than I’m willing to put in.

I wake up at the absolute last minute before Mom and my siblings show up, as revenge for my grandmother coming into my sanctuary and nitpicking everything.

We drive to the theme park, and me and my siblings all run off to go ride the roller coasters, while Mom takes Nana to the live performances.

I had a really good time with my siblings, and there wasn’t anything to complain about at all. After going on two rides (the wait times were long), we got kid’s meals from one of the in-park restaurants.

Nana even got a kid’s meal of her own. It was pasta with marinara sauce, and it was funny when this eighty-three-year-old woman spilled the sauce on her white purse and sweater. We also bought her a slice of carrot cake. Something that really bothers me about her is that when someone buys her food, she always tries to offer some to other people as if she was the one who bought it herself. I feel like it gives her a feeling of generosity, like she’s such a good person for rationing some of her food that MY MOTHER BOUGHT HER to someone else. She tried sharing some of the carrot cake with me, and she wouldn’t shut up about it for such a long time, that I did take some of it. Let me just say, I’ve had better carrot cake.

Mom takes us all to the bakery on the way out of the park and buys a pastry for me and a pastry for Nana. Then she drives us all back to Nana’s place to drop her off so she can take me to therapy.

Nana won’t admit how lonely she is, and so, the opportunistic bitch will always take any chances she can get to stop us from leaving her. We were already going to be late for the appointment with Adam, and she decided to chase us outside so she could get her mail.

“Mom, do you have your keys so you can get back inside?” my mother asks her.

Nana stays silent. She knew she fucked up her plans.

“We don’t have time for this. Go back inside.”

“Alright, alright. Goodbye,” Nana tells us.

Finally, we’re free from the devil’s clutches.

“God, I hate her so much,” I mutter after the elevator doors close.

“Well, you hate me too, so there,” Mom responds.

At that moment, I wanted to punch something. I strongly dislike my mother, but if I started a fight, she could easily send me back up to the Seventh Level of Hell (read: the seventh floor of the condominium where Nana lives).

We head over to therapy, and when that is done, Mom drops me back off at Nana’s place.

I go into my room and see that Nana has taken it upon herself to “straighten things up.” This is her code for misplacing all my things to make herself feel useful. She then gives me a lecture about how I should clean up my room before I leave the condo, but I ignore it. I only had to deal with her for a few more hours before my mother came back to take me to my man candy’s concert.

This is something I’ve been wanting to mention for a while now. I’ve been seeing a cute guy for more than a month now. His name is Ben. He’s a lead guitarist in a rock band, and I met him on Tinder, but the story I tell my parents is that I met him at a local record store. He’s the best person I’ve ever met on that god-forsaken app.

I met him in person for the first time in late February. His Uber made a stop at my school, and I left my dorm to go to his friend’s house. He was twenty-one when I met him, and he is such an angel. I really like him. I want him to be my boyfriend, but he’s not ready yet, which I understand.

He also really likes me, but sometimes I can’t believe it. There’s no evidence for why I shouldn’t believe him, but I’m just so used to people being disgusted by me.

I had seen him three more times since then, the latest being the last time my mom took me to one of his shows last week.

The only reason I told Mom I was seeing him was because she tries to set me up with random ugly strangers that she’d think I’d be compatible with. The last straw was a little more than a week ago, when she tried to set me up with this fugly neckbeard who worked at the DMV. She pulled me over to introduce me to him, and I glared at her right in front of him. He needs a girl who is blind.

“You know I’m seeing someone, right?” I said to her, snarkily, as if she already knew.

“What? No! Who is it?” she asked.

“The guy whose band is performing on Friday night,” I tell her.

Soon enough, she’s pressing me for increasingly more complex information. I tell her almost everything, omitting the fact that I met him on the Internet.

We go to see him that Friday, and my mother is amazed by just how good of a guitarist he is. This is one of the only times she’s ever been happy with my choice of guy. He’s now invited to any of our family outings. Granted, I haven’t told her that we weren’t “boyfriend and girlfriend” yet, but she assumed we were, and I haven’t wanted to correct her yet. The way I see it, my mother doesn’t invite “fuckbuddies” to family events, and she doesn’t even provide me transportation to see him. I feel like Ben and I are more than just fuckbuddies, but you never know what my mother interprets things as.

Me, Mom, and my siblings all come to the concert. After another amazing performance, he and I hang out for a little more, and my mother takes me back to Nana’s place. He was performing the next night at a sports bar, so I’m excited to see him.

My BPD thought of the day was, “Ben didn’t put his arm around me in the picture my sister took of us because he’s embarrassed of me.” I changed it to, “There’s a lot of factors that could be the reason behind him not putting his arm around me.”

Those are my thoughts of the day! Talk to you soon!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

This Old Man (died six years ago)

After yesterday’s pissy disaster, nothing today could be more interesting. And it wasn’t a very interesting day to begin with.

Mom and Kayla picked Nana and I up to go to a local seafood place for appetizers and drinks. My relationship with my immediate family has gotten a lot better since I moved in with Nana, which I’m thankful for. It makes my whole life easier when we all get along.

During the meal, Nana bursts into tears multiple times over the death of her husband.

Pop was diagnosed with Stage IV Lymphoma in May of 2011. This could have been caught and treated earlier if he had just hired a better doctor, but Pop was incredibly cheap, even in matters of his own health. Two months after the diagnosis, he had passed away at the condo in the very room I stay in. Creepy, right? Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts!

By the amount of times Nana gets all weepy over this, you’d think this had happened a few weeks ago at most. No. She’s full on sobbing about something that had happened six years ago! It wasn’t even a premature death by any means. He was eighty-three! And she gets incredibly sad at least once a day over this!

My mother knows exactly how to handle this when it happens. She tells Nana to stop crying and takes away her drink until she shuts her mouth. “You’re putting a damper on our good time!” she tells Nana.

“Good. Let her know who’s boss here,” I thought.

“Besides, your life is going to be so much fun! We’re taking you on cruises, and out to eat! You’re even moving in with us!”

Oh, yeah. I guess my living situation here in this condo isn’t going to last that long. Later this year, I’m moving back in with Mom, and Nana is coming with me. Gag.

Thankfully, she’ll be somewhat isolated from the rest of the family. She agreed to pay for a second story for our house, and that second story is going to be just for her. Bedroom, bathroom, living area, kitchenette, walk in closet, elevator. It’s going to be a lot like her condo. We’re even going to buy her a puppy to remind her of the family dogs she had back in her hometown.

She’s even going to name the puppy after one of those dogs, which I’m not too crazy about, since I prefer original names, but whatever, it’s not my dog to name.

We’re also having the ceilings on the first floor of the house raised to fifteen feet. This means that the entire roof of the house must be torn off, which means that the rest of my family who lives in that house, including the two dogs we already have, must move in to Nana’s condo for about three weeks.

You heard that right. Seven people, including four under the age of twenty. Two dogs. A 1,280 square foot living space, much smaller than the house that’s already tiny for six people. Three weeks.

Yep. Nana’s going to want to kill herself. And I think I’ll probably want to as well.

If there’s one thing I love about living with Nana, is that I get my own bedroom and bathroom all to myself. That will all change once my family moves in. At least I’ll get to see my dogs every day then.

We finish our meal, and Nana is all liquored up. Mom drops us off back at the condo, and Nana goes right to bed for a couple of hours, which means that I have the Internet on with no interruptions for as long as she’s asleep.

When I’m not bothered, I don’t just go on the Internet. Sometimes, I work on my original comic book. I’d like to elaborate, but if I do, it might point back to my identity, and I’d rather that not happen.

I’m working on the comic, when I hear sniffles coming from outside my door. It opens, revealing Nana with tears streaming down her face. “I’m upset.”

I groan, on the inside of course. “Let me guess, you’re upset about your old-ass husband dying of a totally common disease that took him exactly when it should have. If that’s the case, then I’m upset, too, since you’re going to make me deal with this.”

I get up off my bed and hug her, mainly so she doesn’t see my mess of a room and start complaining. “Come on, let’s go sit down.”

We move to the living area, and she starts asking questions probably caused by her dementia. “When did your grandfather die?”

What I wish I had said was: “Bitch, you’re the one who’s so heartbroken over this. You tell me when his ass kicked the bucket.”

What I said was: “Six years ago.”

Strangely enough, she says, “I just wish you had gotten to meet him.”

What I wish I had said was: “Excuse me, hoe, but just how stupid are you? I have met him. I’ve known him until he died when I was thirteen, which you were also there for. Do you remember none of the family events you both were invited to? None of the birthday parties? None of the times you had invited me and/or my other siblings to spend the night at the condo? None of that rings a bell? You dumb fuck.”

What I said was almost as snarky. I said: “Actually, I did meet him. I had gotten to know him very well until he died when I was thirteen.” (That paired with the “you fucking idiot” look I had on my face is what made this snarky.)

That should be proof enough that she’s losing it, by the way. Apparently, she even forgets things from back when she was living up north when she was younger, according to Mom.

It’s funny, because this whole wailing session, she describes him as her one true love and all that other sappy shit. What most people don’t know is that she cheated on him multiple times with the next-door neighbor back when my mom was younger. Pop probably cheated on her, too, but I only ever hear the story about Nana cheating on him.

Miraculously, the subject gets changed. Unfortunately, it changed to forcing me to play the electric piano. I guess she likes piano music or something.

I unsuccessfully played “This Old Man” and decided to go back into my room like the hermit I am.

After that, she went to bed, turned off the Internet, and my night ended there.

The BPD thought of the day was, “I am a mediocre singer at best.” I corrected it (sort of) by saying “So what if singing isn’t my strong suit? People need me for other things.”

Those are my thoughts of the day. Talk to you all soon!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

Y’all mind if I... piss on myself?

I had a pretty good day yesterday.

I awoke at 10 AM after having Internet access all night, thanks to Nana getting drunk off her ass before going to bed and forgetting to shut it off. I could accomplish so much with the Internet on and her not bothering me after 7 PM, when she went to bed.

Mom picked us up at about 11 and we went to go get Cuban sandwiches from an amazing place downtown near the hair salon.

The whole time, my mother and I rolled our eyes at each other whenever Nana did something stupid, or did any typical old people things. My mother and I get along great whenever Nana is around. I guess you could even consider it bonding. If there’s one thing we share, we’re both very annoyed by Nana almost all the time.

Like right now. I’m annoyed at her because she turned off the Internet. I could go into her room and turn it back on, but I’d rather just be mad at her. Especially since she’ll just turn it off again next time she goes in her room. You’re my worst enemy if you get between me and my Internet access. I’ll write about today for tomorrow’s post. But that’s probably going to be the main gist of tomorrow’s post if nothing more interesting happens.

Anyway, I get my hair cut for the first time since 2015. It’s now the shortest it’s been in a very long time. It’s a little shorter than shoulder length, which is a big difference from my usual look, where it’s down to my boobs.

I feel like this new haircut is the first step towards looking better. Even though it can make me look like I’m eight-years-old at times, I can upgrade my makeup and wardrobe so I look like I’m mature. Fashion Nova will help with that. Plus, if I dye my hair the galactic colors I want to dye it, I won’t look eight. Eight-year-olds don’t have dyed hair, that’s why.

After the haircut, we head back to Nana’s place, and I stay for a little bit before I catch the bus to meet my best friend, Paul.

Just to clarify, I have different categories of best friends. There’s my long-distance best friend, Michael, who lives far away for school, but usually lives in my city. Then there’s my high school best friends, Ava and Vanessa. But my all around best friend is Paul.

I met Paul on Facebook. Like me, he also suffers from BPD, and that created an instant bond between us. He is twenty-years-old and lives with his mother and brother. He’s also a trans boy, but his mother always misgenders him and dead names him purposefully, which bothers me. We decided to meet in person for the first time last Saturday. I met him and his mother at the Wendy’s near my place, and I bought lunch for us. After that, his mom drove us to Nana’s condo, where we stayed in my room, because Nana was trying to force him to play the electric piano we have. She also tried feeding him expired food. Nana doesn’t know to check the expiration dates on food anymore, so I have to inspect the fridge every once in a while, to make sure all the foods that went bad are taken out.

This time, we decided to meet at the Dunkin’ Donuts near his place, so we could avoid that whole mess of Nana’s memory loss. Also, so we could get cheap coffee drinks.

This was my first time using the bus to get anywhere from Nana’s place. I’d have her drive me everywhere if she could, but my mother took away her keys so she can’t drive. So, I just use my old student ID to get free bus rides. I’m going to have a hard time getting around once that thing expires. Until then, I have this whole summer to use it. Maybe even the rest of the year.

To get from one place to another using the public transit system, I must put in a lot of effort. My first step is to leave the condo parking lot and stop at the light right outside. The street the condo is on is very wide and busy, and there is no sidewalk on my side of the road for about half a mile. I look both ways and run to the median, where I look both ways again and run to the sidewalk. For half a mile, I walk down the sidewalk, and then I cross the street where the sidewalk begins on the other side of the road. Then I walk another half mile to get to the bus stop. I was supposed to get to the bus stop at about 3:30, but I took 20 minutes longer than I should have, since I am very out of shape. Plus, the buses are always too early, so I missed my bus.

I read an article that says that our general metro area has the worst public transit in the country. We spend far less than many other metro areas of the same size, we’ve made numerous plans to close the gap between us and other metro areas, and we’ve scrapped them all. Thankfully, I only ride the bus to meet friends and not to get to work.

I left at about 4:08, which is eight minutes after I told Paul I’d meet him at Dunkin’. If there’s one thing the county transit system does right, it’s putting wireless Internet on all of their buses. I Facebook messaged him and told him I was going to be running late, which he said was okay.

The reason we chose to meet at Dunkin’ is because he told me there were ninety-nine cent iced coffees there between 3-6 pm. But unfortunately, that was an old announcement, and there were only full priced iced coffees. I had just gotten my allowance the previous day, though, so it didn’t really matter much to me that it was a couple of dollars more. We bought two large iced coffees, and with the receipt, a survey was included that gave us a code for a free donut with the purchase of a medium or large drink. So I filled out the survey, and we bought some large iced teas and a donut.

I love buying things for friends. Luckily I still had about eleven dollars left, so I put that in savings. Soon enough, I’ll have lots of money, and I’ll be able to buy that makeup I want.

I made him a workbook based on all the things my psychologist has been teaching me, since his family can’t afford to send him to therapy. It’s only fair to share with him. Sharing is caring after all.

At about 6:50 I bid Paul adieu and made the mistake of not using the bathroom before I left to catch the bus. All through the ride, I felt the urge to pee get more intense by the minute, and it didn’t help that my mother was sending me water droplet emojis.

Before we got back to the condo, we made a fifteen-minute stop at a hospital, and I had to pee so bad that I just decided to leave the bus and use the bathroom, hoping the bus would still be there upon my return.

It was a long and laborious walk to the women’s restroom. I could only take a few steps at a time before I had to cross my legs so Niagara Falls didn’t spill out of me. A few feet away from the restroom door and that unfortunately started to happen. Time was of the essence at this point, and if I didn’t get to the stall quickly, I probably wouldn’t have had anything left to put in the toilet. I broke into a sprint and wasn’t even able to pull my pants down all the way before the floodgates opened completely.

I walked back onto the bus almost in tears because of the big wet spot on the back of my pants. Everyone who saw that must have known what had happened.

The bus made a stop close enough to the condo, and I decided to make my leave. I walked the mile trek back to the condo, and just decided to go straight to my room.

A BPD thought I had today was that I am too fat for anyone to find me attractive. I corrected it by saying, “There are plenty of fat women who look awesome in clothes, and I could too!”

Those are my thoughts today. Talk to you all tomorrow!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

Whorephobia

Yesterday, my morning was off to a rough start.

Nana barged in my room at 7 in the morning, and I was still half asleep, so I didn’t understand what she was saying. After about a minute, I realized that she was saying I left the shopping cart from the other day’s grocery shopping in the hall. When I realized that, I snapped awake and put on some clothes so I could go downstairs.

“Nana, I’m going downstairs to put the cart away!”

“You should,” she replies.

Wow, you mean bitch.

I come back to the apartment, and am bombarded with questions from Nana, whose memory is very poor, as I mentioned earlier.

“Why are you here?”

I’m looking through the fridge and I pause. She was pissed. Probably about the shopping cart.

“You called my mother up one day and asked if I want to stay.”

“Yes, but why are you here?”

I try to change the subject.

“Don’t you enjoy my company?”

“Yes, but how long have you been here?”

“A few days.” That was a lie. I had been here for eight days. Honestly, I felt bad lying to her, but I can’t have her kick me out and ship me back to my mother’s place. I just can’t.

I spend the rest of the morning in my room, since I don’t want to see her. I stay in my room until my mother comes to pick me up for my appointment with Dr. Williams, the psychologist.

Dr. Williams is probably one of the youngest mental health professionals I’ve ever met. She seems kind of young, anyways. Her hair is a pastel, rose quartz color, and she is familiar with all the memes I mention, unlike my therapist, Adam. Don’t get me wrong, Adam is great, but he’s somewhat unfamiliar with some of the things I see on the Internet. That’s okay though. He’s very knowledgeable on a variety of different subjects, and is very fun to talk to.

Dr. Williams and I begin dialectical behavior therapy. The homework assignment I’m given is to challenge one borderline personality disordered thought a day until my next appointment with her. The thought I had today was, “Other girls get more likes than me on Instagram because I’m ugly.” I changed it to, “Other girls get more likes than me on Instagram because they have more resources than I do, such as professional photographers and expensive makeup.”

Social media presence is something I’m very sensitive about. Up until about a month ago, I’ve had a public Instagram account, where I’ve tried my hardest to get as many likes as some of the girls featured on TFMGirls.

TFMGirls is an Instagram account many would say is misogynistic. They post multiple photos a day of conventionally attractive college girls who submit their pictures to them. These girls appear to have the best lives. Fun vacations, coolest friends, hottest boyfriends, you name it, they have it. Someone who still goes to my high school was featured on that Instagram, and it was totally allowed because they’re technically a student at the community college the high school is located at.

Marie Hernandez has a huge following on Instagram. I don’t mean a thousand followers, because I have that and only get twenty to fifty likes per picture, which is a huge gap in the followers to likes ratio. No, Marie fucking Hernandez has twenty-four thousand Instagram followers. And she comes from our little old town, that isn’t really a little town now that I think about it. I’m not going to say where I’m from. That would reveal too much.

My friends tell me all the time that it means nothing in the grand scheme of things if you have twenty four thousand people wanting to eat your ass. My good friend Ava told me that this girl is white bread compared to me. I mean, yeah. White bread has little to no substance, and a person needs fiber to survive, but I’m not the good kind of fiber, like whole wheat. I’m like wood chippings, or sand.

And there’s another thought I can correct.  I am like whole wheat. There are good qualities about me. I’m creative. I’m curious. I’m generous. Among other things. If I don’t think another harmful thought tomorrow, I’ll just use this one.

In the future, I’d like to switch my Instagram back to public. I set it to private because I was a webcam model, and I don’t want anyone who watched my livestreams to somehow find my vanilla profile and out me, possibly ruining my life.

If you weren’t aware of the gigantic stigma against sex workers in our society, then oh, baby you’re in for a shock. Sex workers are perhaps the most marginalized group of people in our society today. Sex work spans all ages, races, and genders. It has been described by many as the world’s oldest profession. Whorephobia is the technical term for the hatred of sex workers, but if you’re not comfortable using the term “whore” as a non-sex worker, you can block out the o with an asterisk, like so: “wh*rephobia.”

Webcam models are an interesting case. Their form of work is completely legal, but if anyone finds out that someone is a camgirl (or camboy, or camperson), they could be outed for the fun of it, and their chances of finding a future career diminish. This wouldn’t be the case if sex work was treated like any other job, but since it allows people, especially women, to freely oversee their sexualities, this is not what’s happening.

I wasn’t concerned about anyone outing me until I looked up my camgirl name on Google. To my shock, someone was trolling 4chan with a picture from my vanilla profile, asking about me using my camgirl name! I was so scared, so I made all my social media private. I have dreams of becoming famous, but I’m scared that someone will send my whole life tumbling down by simply posting a link to a video I had made online.

Now that I have absolutely no income, I decided to ask my mother for an allowance. To my surprise, she agreed to twenty dollars a week. I just got my first twenty yesterday, and I decided to save half of it for that expensive Sephora makeup I wanted.

After my appointment, I basically spent the earlier half of my day with Mom. We made a stop at the hair salon to make an appointment for me and Nana for the next day. Then, we went clothes shopping, and then we picked my sister up from school.

That’s my experiences for the day! Talk to you soon!

[savannahsbpdadventures]

You’re 18 and you don’t know how to cook?

It’s been a week since I moved into my grandmother’s condo, and I feel like she’s at her wit’s end.

I slept in yesterday (Monday), as an unemployed person who doesn’t go to school would usually do, and Nana came in twice to wake me up to let me know the housekeeper was coming. Thankfully, she didn’t say anything about the condition of my bed, as I guess I hadn’t messed it up this time.

Everyone is a little different regarding how they would like their living spaces kept, and Nana just so happens to be very particular. She insists that I make my bed every single morning, which is a pain in the ass. It really bothers her if she walks past my room and sees that the bed isn’t made. I feel like the reason my mother never made us do this is because Nana was like this in her childhood. This was one of the few things my mother was chill about.

When I first realized that this would have to be a part of my daily routine, I said, “Fuck that,” and decided to just sleep on top of the bedspread so I wouldn’t have to even bother making my bed. Stupidly, I revealed this to Nana yesterday, thinking she would just be amused, and instead, she called me ridiculous and told me to sleep on the sheets.

So now, I’ve changed up my routine. I sleep on top of the bedspread for most of the night, and then, a few hours before I officially wake up, I peel back part of the bedspread and get under it so she thinks I was sleeping like that the whole night. Not that this helps me, since I still must make the bed, but it’s a big fuck you to her, and if there’s one thing I like, it’s spitting in the faces of people who inconvenience me… behind their backs of course. I hate conflict.

Mom showed up a few minutes later, and if I’m with anyone else, it means my day is ruined. If I’m with Nana, however, my day is saved. Followed by Mom, came the housekeeper. He did a super great job cleaning her place, and even tidied up my room a little bit. After he left, us three went to the mall.

I absolutely adore going to the mall. Usually just to visit the Sephora inside J.C. Penney, since they always have some cool shit in there. My last haul got me a Supergoop primer and setting mist, a Kat Von D Lock-It Foundation, and a Kat Von D Everlasting Liquid Lipstick. Next time, I’m hoping to get some NARS Radiant Creamy Concealer, Too Faced Chocolate Soleil Bronzer, and Too Faced Better Than Sex Mascara. I digress.

At the mall, we did unfortunately come to go shoe shopping for me. I enjoy shopping for myself, but not on my mother’s dime. Usually because she always nitpicks things I think are cute. My mood can change very easily when she ridicules the things I like. If I had the choice between paying for the things I buy myself, or having her buy them on the condition that she would verbally beat down everything I think is worth buying, you can bet that I’d buy the things myself.

So anyway, we’re at the mall, and my mother gets me a pair of heeled Dr. Martens, which I’m super happy about. I really want to start dressing better, because my current wardrobe of washed up band tees and shorts must go. Normal people look at the mall for clothes, but I’ve taken it a step further. Online boutiques are where it’s at. Some of my favorite stores are Fashion Nova, Dolls Kill, Happy Monday, Killstar, and O Mighty. They sell all sorts of avant-garde clothing that I would totally wear if I didn’t have so much debt.

We have lunch from Chick-Fil-A, and then we head over to my sister’s school to pick her up from class.

Kayla McCarthy is the daughter I wish I was. Even though I was the “whiz kid” in early childhood, she has surpassed me in every aspect imaginable. Schoolwork, social life, artistic abilities, you name it, she’s better than me. She isn’t even taking the same classes as me in school. While I retook basic College Algebra in my second semester of junior year, she passed that class with an A last semester and is now taking Pre-Calculus and is passing the class with excellence. I took Biology and Earth Science, just to get college credits, and now, she’s taking General Chemistry I to go into the sciences in college.

I can’t stress enough how poorly I did at my high school. Like I had mentioned in my previous post, I went to a school that allowed me to finish two years of college while in my junior and senior years. Though I’m met with praise upon even mentioning that I attended this school, I ranked almost last in my class, and I failed three classes.

Those three classes were College Algebra, Earth Science Lab, and Composition I. I failed Composition I twice. Yes, I know. Basic English. I failed that class twice. Also because of complications with my BPD.

Anyway, my essential point is that Kayla is a much better student than I am, and as a result, she’s treated a hell of a lot differently than I am by my mother.

For instance, yesterday, when we went to get her from school, we waited in a hot minivan for almost an hour for her to get out of her Chem Lab. This was bad, since Nana was with us, and she is prone to getting extremely irritable when things don’t go her way. When Kayla finally arrived, my mother said nothing about her being so late, and just greeted her and asked her how her day went. If I had pulled the same shit, my mother would be pissed at me.

We went to the grocery store to get some food for my stay at Nana’s. Nana had reared her ugly head. She basically confirmed that she wasn’t aware that I would be living there semi-permanently. My mother was asking me how much bread we’d need, and Nana answered, “Not too much, she’s only staying for another week, right?” In response to me saying I couldn’t cook, she once again, asked me how old I was. I told her eighteen, and she said, “And you still don’t know how to cook?” If I was a boy, I know she wouldn’t have asked me that.

Mom and Nana started arguing. I basically drowned this out, since I’m sick of it. They argue all the time.

That was the highlight of my yesterday. Talk to you all tomorrow.

[savannahsbpdadventures]

Well, how do I start this?

I’m Savannah McCarthy, and I have issues. 

Most notably, borderline personality disorder. Among other, less diagnosable things.

Once a whiz kid in childhood, I’ve since grown up to become a complete disappointment. I attended a special high school that allowed me to finish my first two years of college completely free by the end of senior year. This was after being homeschooled for ten years, mind you.

As if that whole experience at that school didn’t already fuck me up, I was propelled into a small state university in the fall of 2016, and ever since then, I haven’t had a successful semester there. I dropped all my classes my first semester after I realized the field of marketing wasn’t for me (and my sudden hospitalization, can’t forget that). More complications regarding my BPD arose this spring, forcing me to drop out of the whole university indefinitely.

This was pretty bad, since I moved into a dormitory this semester in hopes of making lifelong friendships. Almost a week ago, I hightailed it out of there and moved in with my maternal grandmother, who will be referred to simply as Nana for the rest of this blog series.

Nana is… Well… Something, alright. Born in 1933 and dumb as a sack of potatoes, she married my grandfather and then gave birth to the three witches from Hocus Pocus, each just as messed up in the head as Gary Busey.

Didi and Cici are the two oldest sisters, and they are both seriously terrible people. They almost make Nini, my mother, look like a normal person.

Back in my mother’s childhood, Nana was incredibly abusive to her. There were cruel and unusual punishments abound, and since no one cared if you beat the shit out of your kids back in the 60′s and 70′s, she was never caught.

This must have screwed with my mother so bad, that I guess Nana passed on the ceremonial torch of child abuse to her, and I was treated almost the exact same way for a few years of my life.

Someone’s gotta be really weak to have to use a child as a punching bag to take out their anger on. Not that she did that, exactly, but it wasn’t a cakewalk, what happened to me.

The worst part is, since I was homeschooled for most of my life, and I wasn’t even around my peers during that time, no one ever found out while it was still happening, and no one prosecuted her.

That’s not to say no one found out, and she didn’t eventually face some (minor) consequences for what she did. I had written a poem about the experiences in eight grade and submitted it to my virtual school teacher for an assignment, and she called the police on my mom.

CPS showed up at my house, and unfortunately, I was too scared to give the officers the proof they needed to throw her ass in jail. Not that they would have, anyways, since they can’t do that for something that had happened five years prior.

Man, did I go off on a tangent. Well, my original point was that, Nana was and still is a terrible person, but ever since her dementia set in, severe memory loss and her fear of her own mortality has probably caused her to be nicer.

She randomly called up my mother one day and asked her if I would like to stay with her for, in her words, as long as I’d like. Once my mother found out about my academic misadventures, she raised this opportunity to me as a potential solution to me not having any place to go after leaving the dorm. I reluctantly said yes, since almost anything is better than living with my mother.

And so here I am today. I’ve been living with Nana for five days, and it’s been surprisingly tolerable. When she said that I could stay with her for as long as I’d like, I don’t think she meant that I would actually be living here. Thankfully her memory is so far gone, that I’m sure she’s forgotten how long I was staying with her.

Seriously, it’s like clockwork with that woman. She’ll ask me if I’m currently in a university. I’ll tell her no. She’ll ask me if I have a job. I’ll tell her no. Scarily enough, she’ll ask me how old I am. I’ll say I’m eighteen (because that’s the truth). She’ll ask me what I’m doing if I’m not working. Every fucking time, I tell her I’m trying to work on my mental health, and she is obviously confused, but doesn’t ask anymore questions. I’ve done my research on the history of mental illness, and in the earlier half of the 20th Century, healthcare for those types of issues was almost nonexistent. Now, most of my research has gone towards ancient treatments for mental illness, but American Horror Story: Asylum can’t be so wrong, can it?

But aside from that, life hasn’t been so bad. I still see my mother and siblings a lot, and we still do fun things like go to concerts and stuff. I feel like that’s only because Nana never does anything, ad can’t even leave the condo if she wanted to, since she would probably crash her car five seconds after pulling out of her parking spot. But whatever it is, I’ll take it. Ever since I’ve left the university, not one of my friends has contacted me asking to hang out. I know it’s only been a week, but it still really hurts. 

This blog is basically going to chronicle my life living with my grandmother and dealing with mental illness. See y’all soon! Bye!