The unfortunate ways you become someone with very unhealthy coping mechanisms. (An attempt to raise awareness of what others may have been through)
I’m Talitha Byrne, and the story of how I became someone with borderline personality disorder is a long one, but I’ll try to condense it as much as I can. It started when I was only seven and a half years old. My mother, who was in a car accident when I was two, was disabled. She was on a lot of medication, and well, one day, some of it killed her in her sleep. She was the first dead body I ever saw. My father (if you can call him that) started dating again two months later. They married when I was eight. She beat, starved occasionally, and molested me until I was twelve, when she left my father after being caught trying to have an affair. My father knew, and did nothing unless you count lying to the hospital, the police and my local department of child safety.
My so called brother started showing signs of his narcissism and sociopathy at around fourteen years old. So he started to wail on me too. I was twelve.
I got a break from all of that while I lived with my grandmother from fifteen to sixteen years old. I ran away from home and started rebelling. Because I lived on the street and in and out of “squats” (abandoned houses and other abandoned buildings.) I had to learn to steal to eat. I was actually an exceptional shoplifter, but never stole from the general public.
At eighteen I got engaged the first time. He was a handsome half Italian man. He was also the man who beat me, raped me anally, drugged me when he broke my tailbone to stop me from complaining about the pain and showed me where he’d hide my body if he ever chose to kill me. I broke out of our flat and escaped from him.
Then I met my technically still husband. He beat me a lot. I lost teeth. I was generally abused and neglected for the next ten years. The man I married raped me after a fight once, not long after we got married. Our life together was a nightmare.
Because I’ve lived this life, I don’t react to things the same way normal people do. I can’t function the same way normal people do. Normal people, are products of having a normal life. I didn’t get to have one of those. I’m not normal as a result.
So try to be patient and understanding with people. You don’t know what they had to deal with before you came along. For all you know they might need you to show them that they’re worth the time and effort. That person might need you to be the one person that hasn’t abandoned them. The one person who doesn’t run, or lash out, when things get a little messy. You might be meant to be how they learn that things can be different for them. Their life doesn’t have to always be like this. You might show them they are worth the love and attention that they’ve never had.
Or you could be the person who makes them feel like they have no hope of their life ever being any different. You could be the reason that person gives up. You, could be what they’ve labelled as “their last try.” You might take away their ability to feel like they deserve to be loved and cared for.
And some of us already tell ourselves that inside our own heads every day. “I’m the only common denominator, so I must be the problem.”-science bitch.
Take it easy on new people. Be patient and gentle with them.
You don’t know what they’ve had to survive.