The Story of Someone with Borderline Personality Disorder

I am the older-middle child of four. I have an older sister, a younger sister, and a younger brother. I have a mother and father who are still married, grandparents who are still alive and well, and many relatives who all try to show up to family reunions.

So why am I writing this? I already sound like I have the perfect life; I'm privileged to have parents who are still married, especially in today's society where divorce is so common; I still have grandparents who I can hang out and laugh with and enjoy life with.

I am writing this because it is tiring. It is tiring seeing all of the memes and listening to all of the arguments of who suffered the most as the eldest child. It seems to always be about how the second-born is the one who is rebellious and gets away with it, how the oldest child suffers the most out of every other sibling because they had to set the example. Well, I am here to tear all of those stereotypes down because my life did not turn out like that. In fact, it was the complete opposite.

I am a year and a half younger than my older sister. My younger sister is ten years younger than me, so this does not involve her and the way she has been treated by my parents.

For me, I grew up with parents who, from a very early age, called my older sister the "Angel," the "Perfect One," the one who never caused trouble. With me? I was called the "Demon," the "Rebel," the "Hardheaded one." It does not help I got ginger hair from my grandmother. You know what they say: "Like a red-headed step-child!"

Growing up was extremely difficult. Fights, arguments, abuse.

I do not remember too much except for the truly devastating moments because my brain has kicked it out of my system due to the trauma.

I remember being picked up by my father by the ankle and lashed with a belt, then being dropped onto the ground and locked in my room. I remember being told to stop crying or I'll be given something to cry about. I remember being sick and coughing, given no medication, and being yelled at to "try and hold back" the coughs because my father was exhausted from working.

I had no escape; I had no social life. I was homeschooled in a private religious academy. I had no friends, I lived in a neighborhood where everyone was over the age of fifty. Everything seemed to add up that I would never escape from my family no matter how hard I tried.

I remember being dragged into the bathroom because I began to get acne and she would pick at my face. I remember nervously asking my mother if I was supposed to shave my armpits dry or wet because she never had those conversations with me. I remember my mother pointing out I was getting a unibrow and hours later, she would forcefully take me into the bathroom and wax my eyebrows. However, if I shaved the center myself, she would get upset with me and tell me that I made a bad decision and that it will only grow back thicker.

I remember being in the laundry room for homeschooling and we would have arguments all the time. I was always the one who got in trouble even when my mother instigated. I remember her setting up arguments, triggering me with certain memories, and we would scream at one another. I remember that sometimes, just as I finally broke, she would open a drawer and pull out a recorder and tell me that she will play it to my father when he gets home and he will decide my penalty, now head to my room.

I remember being seven years old and crying to her, asking her how I can help fix my anger problems. The answer? "You need to figure it out yourself." I asked her, "Why can't you help me?" The answer: "Because I'm still learning, too." I asked, "Then how can you expect me to fix my anger when you haven't even fixed yours?!"

Of course, I got in trouble for this. I was talking back. I was instigating.

I remember one day, after, once again, another argument with my mother how she told me I should never have children. I should never have children because I would abuse them the same way she abused me. I should never have children because I would be a horrible mother.

Why does any of this matter? Because my older sister never received this treatment. The "Perfect Princess" carried all the way to today. Never has she received a true "punishment" or "lecture" from my mother or father.

When she was sick, she received medicine and sympathy. Our "after-school" activities were that we were in a group that did plays (obviously with a religious tone), full-well knowing that I was terrified of the stage and had memory problems and struggled with memorizing lines, but they still pressured me into having a role, despite my failing grades and my inability to focus properly.

When we were homeschooled, my older sister received all of the attention to the point where I failed a grade due to my mother's lack of teaching. "Go grab the book and see what you need to do" was a sentence I heard nearly every day for an entire school year -- essentially, I was to figure out what I had to do, find what I had to do, and teach myself everything.

As my sister and I grew up, I remember a yearly tradition my mother and sister had. My mother would sit down with her and they would talk about my sister's future wedding dress. This never happened with me. I remember the only conversations about "wedding dresses" with me would be jokes about how they would be black or how I wouldn't ever need one because "Who would want to marry you?" I remember my mother telling me that I would never get married because nobody would love me, nobody would ever want to be around me for that long.

I remember having a single pair of shoes for years to the point where the bottom of it was becoming like a flip-flop. Meanwhile, I remember my sister having around five to seven pairs of shoes. I remember asking my mother: "Can we go shoe shopping?" and she agreed. Excited, I finally thought I would get new shoes. We even went out of town to a mall!

I found some feminine shoes and I would hold them up to her saying, "I like what these look like! Can I get these? Please?" and she would look at them with a small grimace on her lips and say, "Would you really wear those?" To which she would take them, put them away, and hold up a pair of male shoes and say, "How about these?" This continued for some time until she finally gave up, believing I did not want any shoes, and proceeded to purchase my older sister a pair of shoes she found and asked for. I proceeded to go home with no shoes in hand, only a crushed hope for some in my heart as my sister sat in the front seat and giggled out of excitement for her new pair she would add to her collection.

I remember when we were in high school (we entered the public school system in seventh grade due to finances) how my mother allowed my older sister to go to every "special" event, paid for her and her boyfriend's tickets, bought her new dresses, set up hair appointments, and even nail appointments for the ones for her senior year. Seeing this and knowing my family's ongoing financial situation, I was scared to go to any event, so I didn't... until my senior year prom.

I told my mother: "If I go to prom, which I want to, I haven't been to any other event like Homecoming and this is my last chance, I want to wear a suit. I don't really enjoy dresses and I think I would look super good in a suit." Once more, a grimace and a shock. Her response: "There's a dress code. Girls have to wear dresses."

An argument ensued. Excuse after excuse. Am I going to pay her back? Who is going to buy the outfit? Who is going to drive me there? Do I truly want to go? Is my boyfriend going to pay for his own ticket?

The school, for one, did not enforce such a dress code. There was a theme and you could not be inappropriate with what you wore, the "usual." After many counters and proof of her lying later, I finally reached the truth with her: "I don't want people thinking you're a lesbian."

I remember a point in 2016 where I finally stood up for myself and told my father I was going to move out and live with my boyfriend. I could not handle the (previously) physical abuse and (currently) verbal and mental abuse of my mother. It hurt, it pained me, I could not bear it. He told me to talk to my mother about it, about my plans, simply so that she would not be in the dark about this possibility. So I did.

This argument became one that I still have not forgotten. Every time I breakdown, it plays so clearly in my head like it was just a few hours ago.

My mother was sitting in the front yard on a lawn chair, blue, in front of the oak tree. It was mid-day, a weekend, Saturday. She was on her phone, one with a case that was floral, pinks and purples. I walked out, told her I needed to talk to her. I told her the situation and she laughed at me. I grew angry, I told her I did not appreciate the way she has ever treated me, she has never treated me like I was ever a child she cared about. She barely put her phone down on her leg and looked at me and told me that I could move out, but to listen to her carefully.

She knows me. She has raised me. She knows how I act, how I am. She knows everything, especially my anger problems. She remembers how I was all those years ago. She told me I haven't changed, especially by the looks of the "argument" we were having at that moment.

She called me a stick.

She told me that no matter what, I will always be a stick. It does not matter the environment I am in, it does not matter if "the grass is greener," I will never change. I will always be a stick. And soon? Everyone I ever live with will know that and will see that. They will all see how horrible of a person I am. They won't want me around anymore. They'll kick me out. Who would want such a toxic and horrible person in their house? And who will I come running back to. My mother. The "only one" who has cared about me and dealt with me for all of those years.

And you know what hurts the most? She never apologized.

When I brought this conversation back up to her, she was shocked and told me she never remembered saying that or that conversation at all. She told me, despite this, that she's sorry "if she ever did say those things."

Everything she has done to me that I have said here? She does not remember. She does not remember how she treated me. I have to life my life without a true apology.

I have to live my life with my mother having told me I was a stick. I should never get married. I should never have children.

How can I live my life when all I have ever known is to stick to myself, to live alone, that nobody will love me, and that I should not have children for the fear that I may give them the life she gave me?

All of these thoughts constantly circle around in my head. Here I am with my future husband still terrified he will notice who I "truly am:" a stick. Here I am, excited to possibly be a mother in the future with someone I know will be an amazing father, but I still tremble at the thought because: "What if my mother is right? What if I will abuse them?"

And then I started going to therapy. I was officially diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. I was told to leave my mother in the therapy office. I was told she is like the devil on my shoulder; I was told she basically haunting my every step.

I cannot think properly. I cannot buy clothes or shoes without thinking I don't deserve them or the phrase "Would I actually wear those?" I cannot love properly. I cannot hope properly. I cannot live properly.

I am suffering, hopefully, I will get married and, one day, believe he really loves me. Hopefully, I will have a family and live happily.

Hopefully, I will discover myself.