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eviscerated-pineapple · 2 years ago

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I need to take a social media break.

Social Media Obituary…or Something.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: suicide attempts, self-harm, rape, incest, emotional, and physical abuse mentioned.

I first told my mom I hated her when I was about 6, right after we moved from Sacramento, CA to Dayton, TX circa 1999. My mom, dad and I were in a coffee shop on a dreary day—or maybe it was a restaurant, who cares—at a booth and I distinctly recall saying that as plainly as it was the color of the walls, and a great maliciousness then blossoming in me.

Why did I say this? I struggle with why I hated my mom so much as a kid. There were very good reasons as to why I did: the alcoholism; the drugs; she and my aunt leaving my cousin and I alone to fend for ourselves, as young as six and three, without knowing when they’d be back so they could go gamble and score.

I think that’s where the intense fear of abandonment came from.

The jury is still out on whether or not Borderline Personality Disorder’s physical component (i.e., an un-fully formed amygdala, which is responsible for controlling emotions and impulsivity) is present at birth and causes the personality disorder or if the personality disorder is responsible for this region of the brain not developing properly. Ah, the ol’ chicken and egg scenario.

It, along with cPTSD (complex PTSD) and trauma, can cause brain lesions visible through MRI scans.

While the people who stigmatize BPD try to figure out in what way I will abuse, manipulate, and ultimately damage them beyond repair, I’m still trying to figure out why I was never worthy of love.

I think the hate for my mom, partnered with her actions, was heavily influenced by my dad.

I haven’t spoken to him in about three and a half years. I was too young to first realize the issues with him, and there’s even a suspected repressed memory in there that was revealed in the last year by my mom.

My dad is a hateful, spiteful, sad, lonely, and untreated man. His anime saga includes being shipped off to fight the Vietnam War in 1963 at the age of 17 with the US Navy, having been told “he would see the world.” He was one of 12 children by my grandparents, a little Spanish woman by the name of Natividad Torres from which I inherited one of my middle names (Nettie), and a Spanish/German guy named Joseph Smith (“Schmidt” from what I was told and then that family’s emigration to the United States is what ultimately Americanized their name). I’ve heard that my grandfather was pretty…rough. Alcoholic and abusive, but oddly remembered fondly. My grandmother was tiny and sweet, and often mistaken for being Japanese from what I remember (to be fair, she very much did look Asian, not Spanish, and we’re all heavily mixed so who knows).

Anyway, I’m sidetracking. My dad became skilled as a sniper (“sharpshooter” as he affectionately referred to it, as if that made it any less horrifying to go through as a literal teenager), which was a skill he brought back with him to the US. I can’t say much more—maybe I’ll talk about that in length after he passes—but why do for free what you can monetize back in the States?

We lived in a house on Saxon Way in Sacramento where my childhood memories truly begin. I had a couple neighbor girl friends that accepted me and though found me weird, still made me feel welcome. I remember playing a LOT of Nintendo 64 and original PlayStation games, oddly realizing I liked girls along with boys as early as Kindergarten (for which I was vehemently bullied for by other girls—I didn’t know then what being gay was or that it wasn’t okay, and wouldn’t for a long time), pulling the head off my Barbies because they made me really uncomfortable and sticking Barbie’s head on Ken’s body (Ahh, that’s better. I want to look like Ken when I grow up!), and desperately vying for the toys from the boys’ section at Walmart.

My poor mom tried so hard to make me a little girl. I already have three half-brothers, each with different men, and she wanted her dream daughter. Unfortunately she instead received some sort of chimera child that was often mistaken for being a little boy despite the mid-back length hair.

I’ll never forget that doctor referring to me as my parent’s “son” when I got pneumonia at the age of 12. I digress.

One of my half-brothers came to live with us when I was about four or five. He was 17 and a standard troublemaker, trying to get laid and smoke weed, nothing to really write home about. Except my dad needed things to go his way entirely.

One night, my brother went down the street to hang out with some friends. My dad had the final straw with my brother leaving his bong in my dad’s Jeep, a clear challenge of authority according to my dad. We had an RV in our driveway by this time so my dad could escape the house when my parents began fighting over my brother or whatever else was going wrong. My dad took it upon himself to sit up atop the RV and wait for by brother to come back home.

He lied to the SWAT team that was called, whether by my brother, mom, or the neighbors, and said the discharged round they found was him recklessly firing in city limits at New Years in celebration. He did some prison time, paid some fines, and completed some community service.

I’m not sure he wanted to kill my brother or just intimidate him. I think he wanted to kill him and tried to goad my brother and his friends to charge him so it’d become self-defense. That’s just my theory, though.

Shortly after, we moved to Texas. My dad told everyone it was because of his family spread throughout the state, but only my mom and I knew the real reason: he wanted to ditch California and be free from his parole. My dad would fondly tell me that when he called around, his would-be Texas parole officer reassured him, “Sir, what you did there isn’t illegal out here. Come on out.” I was uprooted and lost the only two girlfriends I ever made because my dad couldn’t bear responsibility for his actions.

Things grew worse in Texas, but my mom was sober for as long as I can remember which was cool. I tried so desperately to make friends and developed my first crush in fifth grade on one of the popular boys. The bullying began in fourth grade, though. I started to get hairy arms and legs, acne, bushy eyebrows, and other androgynous characteristics that the other girls didn’t have. I became friends with two girls, Katy and Stormey, but didn’t know it was a ploy (and why not use their real names here? They’ll never see this).

They took all my secrets and hopes and fears and weaponized them in fifth grade. I started getting harassed for how hairy and ugly I was, being told I needed to shave my legs and wax my eyebrows, and at one point that, “[I’d] look a lot better if I took a sander to my face.”

For sixth grade, my dad moved us back to California but this time to Bakersfield—again because of family, but for real this time. One of my beloved uncles, a beautiful artist that painted hyper-realistic portraits using oil paints and a brush in his mouth (he was a quadriplegic), had passed from pneumonia because his sister, my aunt, denied him my grandmother’s home where he lived after my grandmother passed. This aunt was a real estate agent, and much like all the other Smith aunts and uncles, money was king. So out my uncle went into a month of homelessness before it ultimately killed him.

At least that’s the story I was told. I’ll never know the truth.

Bakersfield was hot, dusty, and terrible. For sixth grade, I had a terrifying teacher by the name of Ms. Laffoon who had anger issues. She’d punish us with physical exercise and flip desks (one of which hit me) in rage when someone didn’t turn in their homework. It wouldn’t be until I was an adult that I realized she should’ve been reported and arrested for various instances of child abuse against us.

From here, I’ll use initials in places of names.

P. was also an androgynous girl, but she hated me upon first sight. One time, she cornered me in the girl’s bathroom and picked me up by my throat and threatened me. For what, I have no idea.

S. was bubbly and loud but well loved. She and A. became best friends, and I was somewhat the third-wheel of the trio, but in eight grade was cast out because I told A. I was sick of hearing her bemoan boys all the time. A. told me she’d “beat my ass” at a time and place, but she was nowhere to be found.

G. was the first crush I ever had that was reciprocated. Our innocent little affair began in the summer between sixth and seventh grade over email, to which he confessed he liked me a lot. Wow, me?! Someone liked me for me!

I started band class in seventh grade and will never forget the entire class excluding myself huddled in Mr. Moynier’s office around the computer. To my horror, G. had shown the entire class my pathetic admissions of like for him, and something about this flipped a switch for me because I became a bully to others after. One stormy day, I wrote the head of band class (or who I recognized as their leader) a death threat via note, explaining that their actions are what lead good people to become school shooters. She told me later in high school she kept that note and vehemently apologized. I think she and I were okay after that.

In seventh grade, E. became my first boyfriend and kiss. I fell in love with him quickly and had never felt pretty or accepted before. In the almost year or so we were together, I learned at one point his asking me out was for a dare by the guys to ask the ugliest girl in school out. I dumped him not long after finding that out. I carried this complex I developed into every relationship I’ve had thereafter, and to this day I will never believe a soul that I could be found attractive, whether physically or by my personality.

I wrote Mr. Falk a suicide note that year after realizing I didn’t want to be around anymore. He was the first teacher I ever trusted, and we bonded over his beautiful sketch art, which I also partook in at the time. My mom thought I was a child prodigy because I could sketch photorealistic portraits of people and objects. Luckily, a focus on GATE and AP classes beat the absolute shit out of that dream to where I experience panic attacks to this day when I try to even attempt artwork of any media.

Mr. Falk brough the note to my house later that week and tearfully apologized to me, saying he was so sorry to betray my trust but he’s a mandatory reporter and needed to let my parents know. My dad was the one to answer the door when he arrived, cool and understanding as ever: “No, sir, I had no idea she was feeling this way. Yes, sir, we’ll get her to see a therapist.” Then once the door closed: “What the fuck do you think you’re doing spreading lies about the way we treat you?”

From there, it was a string of guys and one statutory rape relationship. I could never feel safe with any of them and was often cheated on for various reasons: flat chested, ugly, boyish, loud, obnoxious, bad sex, just felt like it, wasn’t into it, etc. But we’re jumping ahead a bit here.

My mom’s alcoholism and drug use escalated to new heights while we lived in Bakersfield, and I recently learned she used to buy meth from D.’s dad. Ha. Hahaha. D. was my supposed best friend and crush. I think he was genuine, though. I can’t fault him for something our parents did.

Ah, this leads me into high school and the crowd I hung out with. Two D’s and two J’s. One of the J’s was a giggle monster and a sweetheart. I once had a crush on him purely because he treated me the kindest. The other J. was a Dumpster fire of a person who I hate to this day. He could puke on command, sexually assaulted me publicly in the quad at Golden Valley by pantsing me in front of everyone to show all that “I really had a dick,” and almost broke my ankle once by shoving D. into me while we walked along a curb.

This J. will find me on social media throughout the years, a couple times harassing me about my breast size or lacktherof, and it won’t be until I was about 26 before I realized not all attention is good attention, so the blocking began. He recently followed me on my Twitch stream, the stunt I briefly had in early 2023, and I remember getting so much anxiety that I threw up after I realized it was him.

Sorry, tangent again. High school is when my Borderline traits began to come to the surface and the abuse against me was cranked to about a 7. My mom would get a DUI or two during this time and threw herself further into alcoholism the more my dad stonewalled and emotionally/psychologically tormented both her and I, but mostly her. He despised her, was disgusted by her, and wanted her gone. I’ll never forget crying and asking her why she and Dad didn’t get a divorce already because I was miserable.

She did leave when I was 14.

The winter after she left, my dad couldn’t make both rent and utilities, so we just went without electricity and gas. I was in mostly AP classes at this point and could barely manage my workload WITH such luxuries, so I began flunking. My AP Biology teacher approached me one day and asked why I stopped turning in homework and didn’t I know I’m flunking rapidly? Yes, I knew. But how do I do homework that requires a computer with no electricity? How do I juggle such a complex workload, even by college standards, solely by candlelight? My dad refused to take me to the library or anywhere else, and even before my mom left, he’d get his way by arguing that “he wasn’t my babysitter.” Despite the severe depression I was feeling by the time we lost power and hot water in our home, I thought this was just life and what others went through. People began noticing that I was dropping down to 90 pounds, unable to afford much of anything other than canned Ranch Style Beans that my dad insisted we eat (I gag to this day at the thought of eating these).

Even though my dad forced me to work after school and on weekends with him on his “palomitas wagon” as he affectionately referred to his meager pull-behind concession stand, we still couldn’t make ends meet enough to eat.

My AP Biology teacher took it upon herself to have the school host a canned food drive for us and the district paid several months of our utilities to help me out. I’d never been more mortified, and my dad had never been angrier with me. This was around the time he began becoming more meanspirited toward me, now regularly regarding me as “Boy” when I was at home.

It was hot and dusty on the trek home with DDJJ from high school, and one awful day I came home from school after being accosted by several dirt devils (dust tornadoes for the unfamiliar). I was already in a prickly mood and sick of life’s shit by this point, often deliberating the path of least resistance when it came to committing suicide. I came in through our open garage to my dad sitting at what used to be our dining room table when my mom was there, and what had been transformed into his project table for motorcycle engines and whatever stupid mechanic bullshit he had been cooking up at that point. He was enjoying Ritz and a can of cheez-whiz when I threw my backpack on the floor and flopped into a chair next to him. He chuckled at me with how caked in dirt my face was (I have oily skin even as an adult) and on the first, “Boy…” uttered, I took that can of cheez-whiz and beat the FUCK out of his face as hard as I could.

The thrill of power and adrenaline I had was amazing for all of three seconds until utter terror ripped through me with the face of contempt and venom I saw on him. He grabbed the whiz can, reared back, and changed trajectory at the last minute, launching it into our backyard sliding glass door.

He didn’t speak to me for about two weeks afterward.

About a month later, we moved three houses up the street to a bad deal home that he took up. By this point, this straight-A student was skipping school and desperately wanting out of life. Which was the lesser of evils? The angry, abusive father who directed his hatred for the Mexicans, Blacks, and women now toward me? (Oh, yes: my dad is also very racist. This was a norm for me that I wouldn’t realize until my late 20s.) Or the unreliable and shrill alcoholic mother who at least feigned love for me?

I called my mom to pick me up. This was my last opportunity to try to live a life with some blip of happiness.

My mom had rekindled her relationship with Dave, her first husband from the age of 17. All I knew about him when I moved in was that he looked like Bluto from Popeye and my dad treated his name like Voldemort’s, but I’d soon learn that both he and my maternal grandmother (her house that we lived in) were all just as awful as Dad but in different ways.

About a month into living in Sacramento [again] with my mom, grandma, and Dave, I woke up around 4 am to belligerent crying. My mom and Dave were wasted, and he open-palm slapped her for dancing with another guy at the bar they had gone out to.

Nope. No. No. No. Absolutely not. Not this all over again.

I called my dad almost 300 miles south. “What do you want me to do? Call the cops. But hide your phone in your panties; don’t let your mom have it.” Mom tried so hard to get into my room for consolation about her situation, and I was tired at this point of being the parent to my parents and enduring the emotional incest of both. I began slamming my bedroom door on her arm in attempt to break her elbow or shoulder, then locked it when she quickly faltered.

The cops came and arrested her for being drunk in public later that morning. She was quite upset that I called the cops on her and vowed to get me admitted to juvenile hall (yeah, it doesn’t work like that, but the message was still received that she hated me in that moment), moving into the street towards the two officers that arrived—and that was all they needed. I was left with Dave and my grandma, but I’d be damned to stay with them: so, I called my aunt, the one my mom would gamble and drink with about a decade prior.

I stayed with my Aunt Janie for a couple of days. She still abandoned my cousin and I for the casino or meth, but I was older at this point and the reprieve from the screaming, threats, chaos, and fear was welcome. My cousin Desiree was well versed by Janie’s antics at this point and was unphased, having learned to take care of herself by the sad age of 12 [and I had recently turned 15 at this point].

Unfortunately, Mom had been released from the drunk tank and was on her way by the end of the second day. Normally people are housed for about 12-24 hours in jail for drunk-in-public charges, but she was lucky and stayed the whole weekend due to their booking system going down during that time. And she. Was. Livid.

Everything that proceeded her short stint in jail was a blur, but it happened something like this: Dave left, my dad moved in, we lived in Sacramento together for roughly 2-3 months before the fights grew vicious enough that we needed to get out, and he and I moved into a 16-foot camper trailer to a mobile home court down the street for the next six months.

During this time, I began charter school and was in an accelerated program to catch up dropping out of Golden Valley to move to Sacramento halfway through my sophomore year. This charter program only required one hour a week for me to be in class and see my teacher, which afforded me enough time to get a non-palomitas wagon job and I began working full-time [illegally] for a nearby KFC for the next two years.

I graduated a year early and as a Valedictorian in 2010, right before turning 17. During this time, I endured:

More abuse from my father.

Dave trying to kill my mom, her now boyfriend R., and my grandma by burning their house down. The homeowner’s insurance resulted in my charred possessions garnering me a $4,000 check in which I bought my first SUV with.

Ended my almost two-year relationship with D. (unrelated to DDJJ at Golden Valley) who was my statutory relationship—I was 15 and he was 19, and everyone knew but didn’t give a damn.

An awful month-long relationship with C. who was an abusive Mormon-turned-Catholic-turned-Atheist-turned-heroin-addict. He let me take his virginity and when I had a miscarriage, he said I killed his son. Then he cheated on me.

A six-month-long relationship with W. who at that point had turned me into a massive stoner. Cannabis became my escape from reality from 2009 through 2011. He also cheated on me.

A one-month relationship with K. Who cheated on me with eight women.

A one-month relationship with E. He was nice but ghosted me after a month because he liked video games better.

And the worst birthday present I’ve ever received. One of the childhood girlfriends I had before I left for Texas re-entered my life, D. (so many D names). D. and her boyfriend W. promised me a good time for my birthday, and they knew just the trick: W. had a brother named Dustin, and Dustin was horny for just about anything. Including my naïve ass. For my birthday, D. and W. took me to Dustin’s house, barricaded the door to his bedroom from the outside, and giggled while I screamed for help as I was being raped.

I began attending Sierra College at 17 where I took one semester at 16 units while juggling a full-time schedule at KFC. I was tired, especially of taking care of my dad. By this time, we had moved into an apartment where I was covering half the rent and most of the utilities. Why didn’t he work all these years? Well…

While in Vietnam, he was stabbed in the back by a young Vietnamese girl of about 10. She met her untimely fate at his hand, but that back injury prevailed to the current day. He used this injury to get out of a good paying job when I was about three years old and retired early with Social Security disability. And once you’re on that, you can’t get it back if you forfeit it through taking another job. So, my dad has been working under the table and committing tax evasion for about 20 years.

While I was at Sierra College, I met C. and this was right about where my life became irreparably worse as my unknown and untreated Borderline and cPTSD symptoms were fully out in the open. Up until meeting C., I was vehemently against drinking of any kind because of my mom, but it was his vice. This was the beginning of what would become a terribly unstable almost five-year relationship.

From the age of 17 to 22, C. and I took turns hurting each other through cheating, drug abuse, physical violence by my hand on one occasion, suicide attempts and self-mutilation (also by my hand).

With Borderline Personality Disorder, there are nine criteria total, and one has to meet any five of them to be diagnosed. These nine are: fear of abandonment, whether real or perceived; unstable relationships; unclear or shifting self-image (or unstable/lack of identity); impulsive and self-destructive, behaviors through either binge eating, risky sex, spending issues, reckless driving, etc.; self-harm and/or suicide attempts; extreme emotional mood swings; chronic feelings of emptiness; and explosive anger.

I was diagnosed with BPD in 2014, less than a year before things with C. ended, and I had checked off all the boxes. I wouldn’t learn until 2018 that cPTSD shares quite a few of the same criteria as well.

Before summer of 2015, I had had very short relationships or one-night stands with five more guys and a 5250 hospitalization at Heritage Oaks in Sacramento from an almost successful attempt by hanging after I was raped via sodomy once more. I was so exasperated of life at this point, of feeling unloved, rejected, unworthy, ugly, unsuccessful, and by this time I was coming to terms with the contradiction that as an existential nihilist and Atheist, there couldn’t possibly be a god with treatment like this, but also maybe…my role in life was to be used.

Maybe that’s why all of this has happened to me. This is my God. This is my Higher Power: the concept that maybe rape and violence and mistreatment happen to certain people because that’s their pre-determined role. I decided I was a martyr for pleasure for others. I was unlovable, flawed, broken, and ugly: please, can we spare the pretty, successful, clean, and happy women/men/children and make me a beacon for hate and rape? If I can keep just one more guy away from all of that, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. Because it’ll all make sense in the end, right?

My internalized misogyny and self-loathing warped my perception of life and how I navigate it well into the present day, and currently this is the concept I struggle with: that sometimes, bad things just happen for no reason other than wrong place and wrong time. To cope with my life experiences by the time I was 22, I began seeking out movies in the extreme horror genre: Salo, or a 120 Days in Sodom; A Serbian Film; Martyrs; I Stand Alone; Irreversible; Nymphomaniac; Cannibal Holocaust; Cannibal Ferox; I Spit On Your Grave (1978); Ken Park; Kids; Trash Humpers; Gummo; Trauma; Dogtooth; Antichrist; and more.

These movies became my personality. I never sought them out for shock value or to be perverse, but rather to feel less alone. My tastes in movies became ever more depraved, and some of you reading may be well versed in them. For those who aren’t, they’re snuff-film in nature. I’ve since switched to books as my current extreme horror genre: Eric LaRocca, Aron Beuregard, Samuel R. Delaney, Matthew Stokoe, and many other authors who cover topics of incest, rape, necrophilia, cannibalism: you name it. I’ve grown desensitized to just about anything and every time I indulge, I’m left with a widening internal void and adrenaline. Feeling miserable is my safe, my norm, and I’m used to it without ever being truly used to it. I like increasing my internal void in hopes that one day, there’ll be nothing left to feel and I’ll be free.

I met T. in the summer of 2015. We were together about six months before we got married. In 2019, we separated and to this day, I’m trying to idiot my way through the divorce. On New Year’s 2018, the last girlfriend I had named K. was sexually assaulted at a party we both attended. Her predator was the husband of the host, and K. told me about this the next day. The Husband tried the same on me, but I wasn’t yet drunk enough to fall victim. On K’s birthday, Friday April 12th, 2018, it was my turn and I was kidnapped and sexually assaulted by a Lyft Driver after my husband angrily left the tavern we were celebrating K’s birthday at.

I wandered downtown Sacramento for a couple of hours, drunk and sad with a dead phone. I wasted the last of the battery trying to contact T. but his phone was either off or dead. Then the Lyft Driver came and followed me. I ran into him twice in his car and he seemed nice, and I was desperate. I explained that my phone was dead, but he was okay doing this trip pro-bono because I seemed lost and stressed.

I didn’t know that fear would lead a person to try to jump out of a car going 70 miles per hour while the driver tried to forcefully digitally penetrate them.

The Lyft Driver gave up after my escape attempt and took me back to my apartment complex. I gave him the wrong apartment number and he locked me in his car until I complied with a disgusting, blubbery kiss. (This is indeed the story referenced further down in my Tumblr; some details in that story were fabricated, such as the date, names, and phone percentages to keep it hidden, but fuck it: the above are the true events.)

A part of me came unhinged that early morning and for the next few years, I would try like hell to make it out of this life, to include falling victim to one more account of rape by I., a guy from high school who tricked me into feeling wanted when I was finally reduced to dust emotionally.

But at least the Lyft Driver was charged just a few weeks after he was caught: https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2018/05/16/lyft-driver-charged-in-sexual-assault-of-passenger-in-fremont/

My dad suffered a severe stroke in July 2019. He called me from the hospital and told me he wanted to kill himself, and could I find the gun in his underwear drawer. “Dad, you’re not supposed to have guns. You’re a two-time convicted felon.” I found the gun and did the opposite by hiding it in another part of his house, some Frankenstein’s contraption he made himself. My dad was cunning and artistic like his brothers and sisters, and I’m convinced he could rig a gun out of tree bark and acorns at this point if it meant he could avoid the law.

He grew worse over time, forgetting who my mom was on occasion, forgetting key events, and went from being an Atheist to a megalomaniac Christian who would’ve married Trump himself if it weren’t for the whole being-gay-is-wrong thing. His comments towards me and my body became increasingly inappropriate, his racism proclaimed with less awareness of his surroundings, and the manifestation of PTSD from the Vietnam War came out in ways I’d never seen before. He also struggled to walk and move like he used to.

In February 2020, Dad called me and offered me a full-paid trip on a cruise to wherever I wanted, the catch being I had to come over and say hello. I thanked him and declined, then hung up. I haven’t spoken to him since and I also avoided being trapped on a cruise ship with hundreds of others as the world descended into panic over COVID-19.

I’m still reeling over my most recently ended relationship (or maybe I’m still with him? I don’t know—I’ve broken up with him several times now, but we try to repair and the dysfunction continues) and I’m not ready to add that here.

But I’m trying. I tried to drown myself while high on edibles last month, but the body’s will to survive even while heavily intoxicated overtakes the desire for the void (or afterlife depending on what you believe). I still struggle with thinking my only purpose is to give myself to others which has turned me into a workaholic, but I’d say throwing myself into perfectionism over insurance is several steps up from accepting rape as my responsibility and fault. I deal with emotional flashbacks (cPTSD symptom) almost daily and learned last year that I was raped by my dad when I was about three years old; the nightmares of him doing this to me over the years make a lot more sense now even though I don’t remember the details.

I’ve always wanted to bear my soul and experiences to someone who would understand but my resolve is that there’s no one that could possibly understand whether they had it better or worse than me. I often feel unsafe even when I’m home with my cats and nothing bad is happening and I walk through life with a sense of, “When will the other shoe drop?”

I’m really trying to be okay. I don't want compassion. I don't want pity. I don't want love. I don't want justice. I just want to know why the fuck I'm here and where do I belong?

#bpd #borderline personality disorder #trauma #writing #cPTSD #sexualassault #autobiographical

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