Feeling like a little girl

I’m very triggered right now. Just went to the supermarket with my mom to buy some food for me to take to the other city. I’m leaving tomorrow.

My mom has the ability to drive me cuckoo.

There were some problems with my car and now I’ll have to drive my dad’s car to the other city tomorrow. Because of this my mom started arguing, screaming, making noise. All hell broke loose. And the noise and arguing just kept going on all through our trip to the supermarket and even after getting back home. She kept shouting about how everything is about other people, not about her, and how she has so many things to do at home.

The thing is, it all became clear to me suddenly why I developed BPD. It became clear to me why I distrust others so easily and fear their reactions to me. It also became clear why I was with an older, married man for 5 years. So many years in such a triggering environment can do so much damage.

It all hurts. All these years have been like drops of water falling on a glass, and my developing BPD was the last drop that made the water spill over. No, I wasn’t abused. Yes, there was and is love in my home. Yet I’m proof of what years in an unstable environment can do to you. I’m living proof that things can go wrong in spite of everything being “alright”. I mean, years of having your mother be sometimes all good and other times all bad and screaming has to have some effect, right?

Sometimes I wonder what I would have been like if there wasn’t so much arguing and shouting and anger at my home. How did I as a child interpret my mom’s instability? How did that influence who I became? I don’t remember much from before I was 10 years old. Is it normal to not have much memories from such a long period of time?

I remember, when I was a pre-teen and teenager, I was always fantasizing about having another woman coming into my life and saying she was my mother. Usually, this woman was a teacher of mine. I would look for similarities between me and these women just so I could convince myself that they were my mother. Isn’t that sad? I’ve never told anyone that. Not even M. Especially not M. I haven’t told her about that because deep down I fear she’ll think I want her to be my mom. But maybe I should tell her, I think she already knows either way…that to me she’s a mother figure. That’s why I miss her so much right now.

And isn’t it sad that for the most part I don’t want to be like my mother? I envy people who say their mother is their inspiration, because I can’t say that. And it makes me cry.

I’m crying right now.

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