Tomorrow will be February 1st, 2011. This time last year I had just decided on moving to SA. I was in my third week of student teaching and working like crazy. I've been in Texas for seven months now; past the unofficial 6 month adjustment period. When I first moved, I didnt seem to miss anything about Minnesota. Maybe a few select friends here and there but after college I wanted to get as far away as possible.
I must distinguish the most important aspect of the move. I was in no way running from my problems. It was a move that I needed for myself. In essence, it was the next step to my recovery. I started treatment just over five years ago, add three years of high school where I knew but no one believed me. I feel like those last four words are still haunting me to this day. To feel as though no one believed you about something so serious; only drove me into a deeper depression and lead to many of the numerous suicide attempts I had.
I can vaguely remember times in my early childhood when I was in a blissful state of happiness. Unaware of the things that were to come. My body knew how to be happy and did so without hesitation. So what changed? Why in sixth grade did it all vanish? Who knows. It just went, no reason and no plan on returning. I felt empty and alone. The normal teasing and joking that occurs in school seemed far too hurtful to me. I would cry when I was alone, only because I had no one to talk to. Banished by the so called friends, parents too occupied, rebellious sisters who wanted nothing to do with their ten year old sister. Other family you ask? By the time I came around, all extended family relationships had dwindled to almost nothing. The family we did see was so ultra-religious that any mention of mental illness was hushed up, covered up, and never spoke of. It would bring shame to the family if others found out.
I know I still have so many issues with my family. It was a struggle to make them believe I was sick at any time. Whether a cold, bronchitis, sprained ankle, or toothache. I never felt my needs were important. Sure, there was a nice house, nice cars, food on the table, presents at holidays and birthdays. But I never felt loved. There were so many years of yelling echoing through the house. How can you yell and scream hurtful things to someone you love. I didnt understand and still don't today. So when someone tells me they love me, then yells, and says I love you again. Am I really expected to believe you? Dont tell me its not possible not to yell. I do it all the time. To this day, I hate yelling of any sort. I have flashbacks of my childhood, the parts I wish I could forget.
they didnt believe me. I was lying. Making it up. Choosing to feel that way.
My family still does not understand or accept that I have a mental illness. We never talk about the 'real' things in life. I'm sure they've never read a book or went online to look up BPII. Sure as hell know they've never asked me what its like. I know I make it look easy at times, but i've had thirteen years to work on getting it under control. Controlled enough so that no one ever notices, I dont burden others with my problems, and I maintain a level of sanity so that I no longer cut, no suicide attempts, no eating disorders, and no serious addictions. I work like crazy because what I've realized is that there arent that many people that can handle being my friend. BPII is now seen in a few quirky traits that I've modified but cant get rid of all together. These are things that wont ever change and just too much for some to handle. I completely understand, its a lot for me. I never expect anyone to stay around for very long. Like I said, its hard being me but even harder being a part of my life.
The outcome of all of this is a very small social circle. I'm beginning to feel it more and more as I'm living down here. I thrive on social interaction and when its lacking life becomes an even greater struggle. There are a few people that I connect with but I wonder if its them leaving or me pushing people out. I really hope it isnt the latter, but maybe i'm wrong. Maybe I do push away the people that care. Maybe because I never felt loved growing up, that love scares me. Its unknown, unfamiliar emotions for me.
Through the progression of my illness, treatment, and recovery i've learned that the only thing I can do is to be true to myself. I got better because I took action to get better. I wanted to get better and for no one else except me. Because at that time, there was no one else but me. It may seem selfish to a lot of people that dont understand. But you wouldnt understand if you didnt experience it or didnt bother to ask me.
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