13,052 Days Alive
So I’ve been doing some research. And I’m livid. Not mad, not pissed off, fucking livid. Because this new diagnosis? It basically means that I’m fucking broken due to trauma experienced in my past.
I know anger doesn’t help. Fuck if I ain’t mad anyway. At every fuck that made me feel lesser, made me hurt, made me cry because they raise a hand, a hairbrush, a wooden spoon, or a knife at me. Every fuckwhistle who assaulted me, threw me into walls, beat me, I’m angry at. And maybe it’s anger long past due.
I always say that I try not to hate people. I do try, because it would be so easy to be hateful. It would be so easy to wish ill on those who have wronged me. But what good does that do? It just burns through my emotional reserves. And I don’t need that.
But fucking hell, am I angry at my parents. Most of them. Papa Ben did the best he could to help and still does. But everyone else? I don’t know if I can speak to any of them until I get this anger under control. Because all I want right now is for them to hurt as much as I did, as I do.
Not productive. It really isn’t. I’ll work past it. I will. But I really can’t get past the mad right now.
I’m going to go meditate. I can’t read any more on BPD right now. It just upsets me.
Take your meds, folks.
Postmark Wonderland 