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What Gave Me a Flicker of Hope When Living With Chronic Suicidality

Before I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD), my life was already hell. I was raised in an unstable and violent home. A white collar broken Victorian. I too, was a wide-eyed and lively child in the beginning, but after our family home suspiciously burned down things really went off the rails. Nothing was for certain and everything was on fire. I started glitching. My position as the family scapegoat hardened which would set into motion my eventual early estrangement. I fell behind in school and in every way imaginable. Sometimes I was depressed, with dark bags under my eyes. Other times, I became maniacally hyperactive with the temper of a UFC fighter. Rules and authority were difficult for me. Teamwork was a challenge. The word “no” aroused a dogmatic defiance. I was masterfully reckless and hair-trigger impulsive. I once dove headfirst off a bridge into a shallow river (I didn’t even think about it) to show off. I hit a pipe and cracked my head.

I was off the wall, even I knew it. My best friend wasn’t allowed over for the weekend unless she packed a fire detector. Which is understandable, she did injure herself pretty badly that weekend. M was supervised by her parents. They had conversations about life and My Little Pony. They had Guinea pigs. Visiting her for the first time tipped me off that something at home was very wrong. I hid my shoes at her house so I’d never have to leave.

Somewhere in the terror of dinner time or the chaos of moving, the dregs of joy permanently gave way to fear. The glitching intensified. Everything and nothing was my fault. I was frequently miserable, quick to anger, unable to self-soothe, manage my impulses, or understand and honor my emotions or wants or needs. It

liking life feelings

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