Born Bad

For as long as I can remember, I have always felt that I have felt things more extremely than others, and I can remember everything that I've ever seen or felt all at once and at the same time in a single moment, like blinking an eye if that makes any sense. My story is a long and wretched maze that I'm still trying to find my way out of.
I guess you could say it started at birth. People go back and forth on environmental factors or predisposition to BPD, and honestly I'm not sure. All's I know are facts and events.
When I was an infant, my biological father who was a meth head and satanic machinist (this is pretty much all I know of him) saw me once when I was a few days old, and he put his cigarette out on my forehead, leaving a scar I had for quite a bit. I often thought about the burn, and how it seemed to me that I was branded with some kind of a cursed kiss to be what I am and that he knew it ahead of time. Either that or the moment that the thing touched my flesh my fate was established, and maybe he had hexed me. Either way, I feel as though this was the beginning.
My mother soon after that was married to another man who made my childhood a living hell. Psychologically, he was torturous. I wanted very intensely to be close to this man because I wanted a real father very much so, and I put up with so much pain just to be near him and then pushed away and ignored. A weekend with father number two after their divorce was always a different sick game. Example: Me, my younger brother, and at the time my infant sister (both his biological children) are in the car with him. He stops at a Mcdonald's to grab a free cup of water,and then we proceed to go to a particular house. My brother leaps from the car with dad number two, and dad number two tells me that I need to stay in the car with the baby because there's no girls allowed in this house. I ask him how long this will be, and he says a few hours, but not to get out of the car ever because it's dangerous. I ask him what I should do if I have to go to the bathroom, and he tells me that's what the McDonald's cup was for. He slams the door and walks in the house. Days go by, and I'm still in the car with my little sister, taking care of us both and hiding from people passing by, not daring to ask them for help because I was led to think they were bad and would hurt me. The only food I had was a sandwich. Two slices of white bread a piece of ham and a sliver of mayo. I'll never forget it. Sometimes when this game was played, it would only be a day. Sometimes it would be weekends. The longest stretch was a week. I stopped seeing father number two when I got my first period. He lost interest in me after that, besides to let his friends watch me shower. The nickname Papoose he gave me means baby carrier in Native American, and meant more than I had any clue about at that time period. I never said a word about any of father number two's atrocities until I was in my early 20's because I was raised to believe that if you have sex before you're married you go to hell.
My mother was a single strong Christian woman for the next few years. These were probably the best in my life because I had her to myself. I felt I had a place in my family and (despite my gender as female) I could be the man of the house. I could take care of her and my siblings and not hurt anymore and not hear them fight or see her cry. Outwardly, I always seemed happy, but inside I was being torn up and lost in horrid thoughts. I was very confused. I felt torn between worlds. I was selfish and possessive, but terrified and angry. Especially when Mom met Dad number three. A special button in my head seemed to be pressed when she found another, even though this one was not bad. I never gave him the chance. After they were married and we moved in with him, I was no longer passive and silent. My hatred seethed in me and stewed and I exploded. I was constantly skipping school or kicked out of different schools. I was doing drugs and having sex with men in their 20's when I was 14. I was constantly running away. Even if it was the darkest night (we were rural in living area) and it was a mile at least to the next road light and it was snowing, I was still roaming through the dark, hiding from police that were searching for me and living off of the land and others that would have me in. I was burning myself and cutting on a regular. I remember it all started one day when I was ironing and I accidently hit my arm on the iron. It made me jump at first, but then the numbing sensation of my pain receptors kicking in attracted me, and I let my arm sizzle longer and longer.The iron and the oven, Woman's best friends, right? I lit fires in the house on multiple occasions and beat my Mother, who was my only saving grace when I was younger. I tried to kill my entire family by lighting them by fire in their sleep.I was stopped by the police, and sent away to a psych ward.
This would be the beginning of a long line of mental institutions, group homes, boot camps and foster homes. Doctor's wouldn't keep me (they called me incurable), foster parents were scarce and terrified (I ran from them also), and boot camps would send me back to the mental institutions claiming that I was an psychological issue rather than a delinquent. I was on every medicine you could probably think of, and nothing helped.And I still found ways to run and to escape my reality. I finally turned 18.
I tried to go to college. I wanted to be a mortuary beautician. I was going to school and doing drugs and killing this thing in my head and then I found that I was pregnant. I was with a fellow junkie at the time and for some reason I decided to go through with the pregnancy and not abort or adopt. I had my son as I was turning 19. He was the most love I've ever had for anything in this universe. You know, that's one of the only good things about my brain. The littlest feeling thing can be the BIGGEST thing, and that goes for love too.
Two days after he was born, I killed myself because his father abandoned us and went on a binge. I chased 60 effexor xr pills with a cap full of bleach. It works. I woke up in the hospital enraged after they brought me back to life and told the doctor's I needed to get home to my child and lied saying that I had the "baby blue's" that new mothers often get. What they didn't know is that I could hardly take care of myself, let alone a baby, and acting on impulse I decided to die.I relived never knowing my real father or having one and saw it happening to to my child and I couldn't bare it. I wouldn't.
I instantly found a new guy who was 12 years my senior to help raise the boy, because I didn't want him not have a daddy. I chose very poorly because it was done hastily. This boyfriend number two was like father number two in so many ways (surprise, surprise), but not to the kid, so I took it. It drove me insane inwardly, but I didn't want my child to see me getting hurt forever, so I started killing myself in a different fashion. Starvation. Standing at 5'11 on flats, I dropped to 85 lbs drastically and was hospitalized yet again. Feeding tubes are not fun. Either is drowning, I don't recommend it. When I left the hospital weighing 110 lbs (they only keep you for a month on my insurance), I made a decision that almost cost me my life again, and a decision that I will never forget.
I stole my boy from boyfriend number two and I gave him to a family in my old church that I knew couldn't conceive. I requested an open adoption, but I rarely get to see him.He was 2 then.Occasionally I get a picture.
I went back to boyfriend number two, and he strangled me for the last time. I pretended I was passed out after he got his fist out of my throat and left me bare breasted from ripping open my shirt, and while he was ************ in the corner (as this was obviously a turn on for him) I sneaked behind him and bashed open his head with his skate board. I wouldn't stop after he was passed out. I kept kicking and kicking and stomping. I limped out of the door, delirious after all of that jazz, still bare breasted and mutilated. My face was a bloody pulp, and there were bruises and finger prints all over my neck and I couldn't speak. I found later that I am not supposed to be able to talk due to my throat being so badly wounded.
Boyfriend number two would be the first of a long line of father number two mimics. It's not that I felt as though I deserved to be punished and therefore was attracted to these types of men (although so many therapists have tried to convince me other wise),it was the thrill of the fight as sick as it sounds, and trying to conquer the perpetual "foe"(father number 2) Without me even knowing, I was repeating the cycle of my mother's.
5 years have passed. Years in which I've found father number two's in many forms and repeated that pattern, and some where I've even turned others into him. Drugs, sex, enemas, pills, death stunts. I don't want to hurt myself physically anymore, so I find people to do it for me. I wake up every morning and wonder why I'm still here, because that is one thing I am truly undeserving of. I have the gift of life, but I do nothing with it than **** myself up. It's been 5 years and a long hard trip but it still feels like yesterday when I abandoned my child. It feels like yesterday when I was abandoned,
I wish I could tell you that this all ends happily with a magical fairy tale ending, but it doesn't. I am still running through the dark the same way I did in my youth. I am still the little girl locked in the car with a screaming baby.
I inebriate myself to no end. I am horrible to other people because I hate being close. I am scared of living and scared of dying. I have chased away anyone that's ever really loved me long ago, I am selfish.I am stubborn and spiteful to the people that get the closest to me. I am malicious. To an acquaintance or to the outside world, I do not appear this way. I have been a model for many companies due to my tall and thin physique, and am always smiling. It's almost like leading a double life.
Don't love me and I'm perfect.
As I age, I know that I'm gaining traits like father number two has. I keep myself away from people because i know I'll be terrible if I get close. I hate being alone with my thoughts racing at such a pace all their own. I don't ever want to be like him. Never. I am no longer productive. I will never breed again (especially after two abortions and one miscarriage) and I am addicted to dying. I often wonder if reincarnation exists, and if so, what the hell have I done karmically to have drawn this deck in life?
For the longest time I couldn't see it. None of this. When the veil is lifted, it's worth more than a thousand prayers.

BreakingSamsara BreakingSamsara
26-30, F
Jan 18, 2013