Attention All Shoppers – This crazy woman cannot find her husband!

I realized today that it has been a while since I have been out of the house. I have run a quick errand to the local grocery a few times. I actually believe my last long (more than 30 minutes) outing was December 21, 2016, finishing up Christmas shopping. I had a panic attack that day. My husband saw the exact moment it happened. The moment I was taken over by fear. He could tell by the look on my face I had to get out. He was afraid I was going to lose it, and hit someone.

Today we got out to return a few Christmas gifts and do a little shopping. After about an hour, I began to have anxiety. It grew more intense by the minute. I made it through the check out, and took my medication when I got to the car. I was hoping it would help ease my anxiety/panic.

My husband and I went to our second stop. I was hoping my medication would kick in and that I would be able to function. That did not happen. I began to panic, as I could not find my husband to let him know I had to leave the store. I searched and searched, and the anxiety was getting worse. I didn’t know what to do. I was in a panic!

I located a young clerk in the store, and told her I was having an anxiety attack and could not find my husband. I was extremely embarrassed to have to admit this to a complete stranger. She pages him over the intercom! I bow my head in shame, as I wait for him to appear. I feel as if the entire store has stopped, and they are all staring at the woman who had her husband paged across the entire store. He feels like a 5 year-old that is lost, being called by his mother.

I didn’t have my phone with me, so I could not call him. I didn’t have the keys to the car. I was at a point I was about to come unglued in this store. I had to get out, and get out quick! I am terribly embarrassed for myself and my husband that this happened.

I took the walk of shame to the car, where I can cry in private. I feel like a complete idiot for causing a scene. I feel guilty for causing him embarrassment in public. I wish this did not happen. I hate it!

It just comes out of nowhere, the anxiety and sheer panic, and hits me like a ton of bricks. I get a heavy chest, sweat, rapid heart-rate, my vision becomes distorted, my head aches, my body hurts, and I feel the need to run out of the store, fast!

He returns to the car after paying for our purchases. I apologize. I apologize that I am this way, that I embarrassed him, and myself. I feel like a failure. I cry and I cry some more. I cry for having this helpless feeling. I cry because I want to be normal. I cry because I know he must get frustrated with me.

I just cry …




Shaking … from the inside – out

I am sitting here, trying to write. My thoughts are scattered, and I cannot seem to get my act together.

Yes, I suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder. The symptoms can be debilitating. Add to this, Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder, and you have what equals hell on earth for 7 – 10 days.

PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder), is like having PMS times 1000. I am shaking inside, and I am at odds with myself. This multiplies the symptoms of BPD, creating a horrible picture.


I stayed in bed all day yesterday and slept. I was irritable and anxious. I ate 5 glazed donuts! (I have been following a low-carb, keto diet). I am sure the amount of sugar I consumed was more than I have had in months. But, my gosh, they were tasty! My husband came in the room and teasingly asked “Did the dogs eat all of these?” I wish I could have said yes. No, it was me. I ate them ALL!

My husband can read me like a book. He can tell, before I can, that I am going to start my monthly cycle. I cannot imagine the effects of PMDD were I not already on medications. I always suffered from PMS, at an early age. It seems as I have gotten older, it has turned into something bigger.

I only recently learned of PMDD after doing some research online. I have read that 5-8% of women suffer from this. About the time my body starts to ovulate, the symptoms show up. They last until a few days after starting my period. I get anxious, unfocused, angry, have a short temper. I am not a nice person. I try to stay away from people so I do not say or do anything that may hurt them.

At my age, birth control pills are not an option. I think having a hysterectomy would be my only viable option to not having this disorder. And I imagine having my ovaries removed would be necessary. That would mean I would need hormone replacement. I have heard horror stories from women who have had this procedure.

So, you take 7 – 10 days out of my month that I suffer from PMDD. Add that to any bad days I may have with BPD, and you can see where I might have some real issues. Luckily, my husband knows this, and tries to accommodate my needs. He is a buffer for me, knowing that I am suffering terribly and tries to pick up the loose ends.

I got up late this morning, and ventured into the rest of the house. Of course, all I could see was chaos. The floors are dirty, laundry needs to be done, the litter boxes are dirty. (At least the kitchen was clean!) Where do I start? How can things get so out-of-hand in 24 hours? I am sure in most people’s minds, this is not a big deal. But to me, it is chaotic. I have lost the structure of my day. Structure is how I survive.

I have cleaned the litter boxes, started laundry, and am trying to find the gusto to clean the floors. It has been rainy here, and the dogs have brought in mud. I have no idea what we will have for dinner. I need to go to the grocery store, but that is not happening today. I have no patience for that.

I would crawl back in bed if I could. But my mind is racing like crazy, and I find myself bouncing between tasks. “Come on, let’s get it together”, I keep telling myself. I am not a good listener today.

I am hoping tomorrow I am back to my normal. You notice I say “my” normal. I am sure it is not like most people’s. But it is mine.



Finding Mercy and Grace

I attended my niece’s wedding last year. The Pastor spoke of mercy and grace. This caught my attention, and I listened closely. I became saddened. I realized, in that very moment, that I lack these.

Grace is defined by giving us something that we do not deserve; while Mercy is defined as not receiving something we do deserve.

I was hurt to my very core by my husband many years ago. He had placed me on a pedestal, and I felt as if I were living a fairy tale … until that day; that turned into weeks, months, and years of pain.

I was knocked off my pedestal, and I hit the ground hard. I was slapped in the face with the fact that I did not live in a fairy tale, and I was not special. Had I been, he would not have made the choices he did.

He has apologized. He has tried in every way to make things better. But, you cannot right some wrongs. At least not in the mind of someone with Borderline Personality Disorder. I know he deserves mercy and grace. I just don’t have it to give.


I do not know if this is something I lack spiritually, or if it is a symptom of my mental illness. As much as I love him, I still cannot let it go. Although, I never want him to hurt the way that he hurt me, I often find myself wanting to “pay him back” in some way.

I have come to realize that I feel this way about several people in my life. People that have hurt me deeply, leaving scars that will never completely heal. I know this is not healthy, but honestly, I am not a healthy person.

I often wonder if other people feel like I do. Do they carry resentment and pain? Do they wish they could hurt the person that destroyed a piece of them?

Black and white, that is how my brain works. There is no in between. I cannot rationalize his reasoning or excuses. I cannot process it mentally. All I can process is that he hurt me deeply.

Mercy and Grace … maybe one day I will find it.




Scattered Thoughts

I just can’t seem to get it together lately. I feel chaotic and not in control of my days. I look up at the clock, and before I know it, it will be one o’clock in the afternoon. What have I been doing? What have I accomplished?

Things have been different around here since the first of the year. One of my daughters, her husband, 4-year-old son, three dogs and a cat moved in temporarily. I am fortunate that I have the space, and they were able to use a very large room as their “temporary home”. This has definitely changed some things up for me, but I do not think this is the cause of me feeling out of control. It isn’t like we are cramped, or in anyone’s way. I sometimes forget they are even here. Well, until one of the dang dogs goes to barking non-stop. Then my dogs get antsy, and that does drive me a bit nuts.

I seem to have lost my balance, and the structure I followed daily to keep me focused. I still manage to get the laundry done, the floors clean, cook and clean the kitchen, etc. But I am missing something, and I cannot put my finger on it. I feel like I am losing time, that I cannot account for. I feel like I used to do something, and I don’t remember what it is.

I paint and do other crafts to distract myself from my thoughts. I really lose sense of time when I am doing this. I can repaint the same item over and over, never liking the outcome. If you have BPD, you know all too well how you can obsess over the tiniest thing. I obsess over something until I have made myself crazy – crazier than I already am.

I try to keep busy, from the moment I wake, until I go to bed. I do not watch television. I love(d) to read, but I haven’t in a while. I downloaded several books on my tablet months ago. I still haven’t felt the sense of ease to be able to sit down and read. I listen to music. Music speaks to me. Music has been a source of comfort (and pain) for me. Music helps me identify my feelings, and helps me with thoughts that I am unable to speak out loud. It also allows me a place to escape mentally.

I have only recently started to blog, and I enjoy reading other people’s blogs very much. I identify with so many of them. When I read blogs from people I follow, I feel I am at a place that is comforting. I have found a place I fit, and where I can be myself. I don’t have to pretend, or try to impress anyone. I am actually very surprised to see so many people who are like me. The word “darkness” is what I call it when I go into one of my fits. I realized that word is used by many people to describe themselves as well.

Darkness is a place that can be scary, yet I am known there. I have become friends, of sort, with the darkness. I think I sometimes miss the darkness, and need to go visit, if I haven’t been there in a while. Darkness is something I know all too well. I feel welcome there, and although it is not a good place, it feels like home. At first it is like putting on my favorite fuzzy robe, and being wrapped up in the warmth . But then, it takes a hold of me, and keeps me as it’s prisoner until it decides it is done with me. When the darkness decides to let its grip of me go, I am left completely exhausted. I am physically and emotionally bankrupt, and it takes days to recover.

I have a sense of dread that has been washing over me lately. I don’t know what I am dreading, if anything at all. I will get a sudden heavy chest, and my anxiety will peak. I have no idea why. But, what I have noticed, is that it usually happens around the same time each day. Typically between 3 or 4 o’clock in the afternoon, I will start to feel a bit of panic. I have yet to be able to identify the source of this.

I try to guide my thoughts to a certain area, and I just get scattered. Everything runs together, and nothing makes sense. I lose any focus. What was it I was supposed to be doing? What was I planning to do? Where is my coffee? My brain is full of chaos and noise. I think that is one of the feelings I hate most. Chaotic thoughts that I cannot control, like a lighted ticker-tape sign running across my forehead.

I suspect I am looking for a place that does not exist. I am searching for a sense of peace that is not to be. I don’t know if I will ever know peace again. I think being cursed with BPD strips you from any peace you ever had, and robs you from feeling at ease. I am constantly on high-alert, waiting for the darkness to come.






Tales From Being A Mentally Broken Teenager


The physical and mental abuse started almost immediately in the relationship. I was just 15, and he was 17. I was not mentally strong enough to realize how wrong this was at first. I mean, my dad hit my mom, so I assumed I might have deserved to be hit too.

Driving down the highway, I am in the passenger seat gazing out the window. A car passes, and it is full of guys. SMACK! Right across the face, because he assumed I was looking at them. Blood drips from my lip, and I am stunned. I did not see that one coming.

We broke up often, and the relationship was turbulent at it’s best. He would never let me go for long. He would harass and stalk me to no end. And I would go back, but not because of why everyone thought. During this two-year time, I was protecting my family, and actually myself, in a sense. I learned early on that he was very mean, and what he said he would do, he did.

From stalking me, threatening me, hitting me, and driving me off the road (after I got my driver’s license) … there was no end in sight. So I always went back, because it was how I survived. It is how I protected my family from the promises of blowing up my house, killing my brother, and killing me.

I was kidnapped by him in the high school parking lot. Students walked by, no one caring enough to try to stop it, or maybe they knew better than to get involved with this crazy person. I was kicking and screaming, because I knew I was surely to die that day. By the grace of God, he did not kill me.

Threatening to bury me under concrete, throwing knives at me, raping me, my soul died a little more each time. Yet, my mind didn’t understand that I could have gotten out, and I could have gotten help. Mentally, I was still protecting my family and myself from what I believed he would do if I did not stay.


A teenage mind is not fully developed, and especially one that grew up in an abusive home. I would lie if asked where a bruise came from, why my lip was swollen, etc. I tell you, the locker hit me a lot. That was my go to story. I don’t know if my parents believed me, but nothing was ever said.

At some point, things must have gotten worse. I remember my father taking me to the District Attorney to get a restraining order. I believe I was 17 years old. That piece of paper was a joke. If anyone is a victim of domestic abuse, and has ever gotten a restraining or protective order, you know how useless they are. A piece of paper will not save you if someone is determined to hurt you.

I don’t recall exactly how I was finely able to be free of him. But one day, he just finally let me be. I learned from those years. I learned that no man would ever lay a hand on me again. I knew that if I was ever hit again, the person better hope they kill me. Because if I got up, I would certainly kill them.

This monster that took up much of my teenage years, ended up spending over 12 years in the prison system. He continued his pattern of abuse, but was incarcerated for manufacturing/selling drugs. He was released several years ago. He contacted me on Facebook. I was scared at first, mentally going back to that teenage mindset. But, I quickly realized he had no hold over me.

He apologized for the way he treated me. I thought he was sincere. Shortly after, he married a girl I went to high school with. I learned that he was very abusive to her, and did terrible things to her. Luckily, she was able to get away from him, and get a divorce.

I laugh thinking about his apology to me. He had not changed. He still thrived on beating women. A person like him, will always beat women, or anyone less powerful than him.

The fact is he is a coward.

I am sure there is a special place in Hell for him …

Don’t learn the hard way … know your meds, and always check your refills!

I have been very sick, both mentally and physically for about a week now. I hit a very low spot mentally, and it was ugly. I was also having physical symptoms, and I could not figure out what was going on.

Don’t be like me! Research your medication, know who the manufacturer is, and know the inactive ingredients as well. Always double-check your refill to ensure you are getting the same medication every time.

Day after day I was still sick, and getting worse. I could not stop crying. I was an emotional and mental wreck on the verge of completely spinning out of control. I was sick to my stomach, body aches, lethargic, could not focus and felt like crap!

I knew something was wrong, and it took me a few days to remember that I had just gotten a refill on my quetiapine, the generic of Seroquel. I had recently had a dosage change, so when the pill looked different, I did not think much about it. Yet, I knew this was the only thing that had changed.

I researched my new pill, along with my old one. I discovered not only was it a different manufacturer (made in India), but the inactive ingredients were different as well. This is probably not always an issue, however it can affect the way your body absorbs medication. Apparently, a large quantity of our medications are manufactured overseas. The FDA has issued reports in regards to some sub-standards of quality, and meeting the FDA guidelines. I actually find this to be very scary. I understand, from reading several articles, that the FDA is under-staffed overseas, and regulations are not always followed.

I called the pharmacy the next morning, and Yes! they had changed manufacturer’s recently. I personally believe you should be notified of any variance in the medications you receive, especially when dealing with serious psychological medications. Of course, the pharmacy claimed this could have no bearing on why I was so sick. I disagree.

I then called my doctor. They agreed I could be allergic to something in the new medication, or it could, in fact, be a bad batch. Another refill was called in to a different pharmacy. I called to verify who the manufacturer would be, and luckily it was not the same one. However, it was still made in India.

I took my new pill last night, and I am hoping this madness will stop. I honestly believe this is the source of what caused me to become so ill.

Please be mindful, always double-check your medications, and if something does not look right, call them!


Holiday Blues … or to be exact “Why I hate Christmas”

Growing up in an alcoholic home as a child was not easy. My father was an alcoholic, and physically and mentally abusive to my mother. I am the youngest child, and the only girl. My two older brothers also got the brunt of his anger, after he was done with whatever abuse he chose for my mother. He did not come after me as often, although he did at times once I got older. (That is a story for another day).

I don’t know exactly what my first “bad” memory is. I have a lot of them, and it is hard to always be able to put an age on the memory. Although I know the memories are real, I often wonder if my age at the time is correct. I try to base it off the ages of my brothers, as we are all about 5 years apart.

I was about 5 years old, (maybe 4), when I was sexually abused. This is related to Christmas, because my parents went to a Christmas Party. I was left home with my older brothers. My mother very rarely left me home without her. She did not work outside the home at this time. I can close my eyes and vividly see and feel (like looking down at someone else) what happened to me. I recall exactly how the bedroom was laid out. I can see it clearly. I never spoke of this, and it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that I told my mother. Her reaction was not quite what I had envisioned. I do know she told my father, who’s response to her was “I can’t believe that.” With that being said, this has been swept under the rug, and is not talked about. I recently went to help my parents do a few things at their home (end of October 2016). I do not go there often, as it is not a healthy place for me mentally. We were in “the room”, and I described the lay out to my mother. She confirmed that yes, it had once been like that. My memory was validated. I broke down in tears. I am sure this let her know I had been telling the truth. I had to leave soon after, and I have not went back since. Again, this was swept under the rug, and not discussed. As you can probably guess, I have no contact or relationship with my siblings.

We do not have a large extended family. My father was an only child, and my mother was not close to her brothers. I am sure this is due to the fact my father was an alcoholic. My maternal grandmother passed when I was about 5 years old, and my maternal grandfather had a stroke that left him in a vegetative state soon after. My paternal grandmother was not close to the family, due to issues my own father had as a child. His father was near 60 years old when he was born, to a young mother of around 20 years old. He was put in an “old folks home” and my father says he died of a broken heart. My father was raised by his grandparents. I believe my father suffers from mental illness, and probably his father also.

So, I grew up with no grandparents to visit, or to love me. I had several uncles, and a few cousins, but I rarely saw them. But one year, we were going to one of my uncle’s homes for Christmas. This was a rare occasion, and I was pretty excited. I was in the fourth grade. On Christmas Eve, my father hit my mother and caused a black eye and busted mouth. How no one heard this going on, I do not know. So, Christmas morning we wake up to open gifts. Imagine the horror of seeing your mother beaten. Our trip to my uncle’s was cancelled. Of course, you had to hide the abuse.

My parents pretended as if everything were normal, and we set down to open our gifts. I know this may sound selfish, but remember I was young. I had wanted one specific gift, a Baby Alive. I did not receive that gift, nor did I receive anything that I even remotely wanted. I recently found out that my father did all the Christmas shopping back then, and my mother wasn’t allowed to. So, I had a miserable Christmas, and probably what set the course for me to hate Christmas. Thanksgiving was always just us, my parents and brothers, at home. Although my parents prepared a big traditional meal, it seemed to just be a repeat year after year.

I recall going to school after Christmas break, and confiding for the first time in a friend. I actually told someone my father hit my mother! That was something that was forbidden. If I recall, I believe my mother’s story was that an encyclopedia fell out of the bookshelf and hit her. (She worked outside the home once I started school, and this was her cover up to her co-workers). I highly doubt it was believed.

I always dread the holiday season. It is overwhelming, and having BPD does not help with that. When my children were young, I always made sure to pretend to be happy and excited. They are all adults now. I can no longer pretend, and I am sure they resent me for my lack of the “Holiday Spirit”. This is also when I spent most of my time in and out of the mental facilities a couple of years ago, after I became so ill I could no longer hide it.

There are a lot more memories, abuse, and stories. Of course, they are not all based around holidays. But today, I felt like sharing this. I am glad the holiday season is behind me, at least for several more months.





Life … it doesn’t stop because you are having a bad day

I have those days, that I just don’t feel quite right, something is off. My mind and body are tired. Tired from what? Tired from just existing. Tired from trying to stay constantly busy, so I don’t have time to think. Tired from being a little OCD, which is something rather new for me. I don’t mean the OCD that totally dictates one’s life, but just enough that I feel that I must accomplish certain tasks daily or I have failed.

Laundry used to stay in piles, clean or dirty, and folding and putting them away just didn’t happen. The kitchen would pile up with dirty dishes, I didn’t care. But not these days. I am a laundry professional. My husband and son could wear the same clothes every day. And, dirty dishes … or clean … I don’t want to see them. Immediately they must be washed and put away. These are not necessarily bad traits, but they are definitely different for me.

I wanted to stay in bed today, keep myself toasty under the blankets and do nothing. But, I cannot focus enough to watch a TV show or movie, and I have not been able to read in some time. Reading was what I did … always. I hope that I am able to get lost in a book again, soon. It is times that I am idle, when the darkness can creep in. Oh, don’t get me wrong. It can come anytime, never invited! I have to keep my hands busy, my feet moving, and the music playing loud to get through my days.

Discovering one’s self, after meeting your illness head on, is quite a journey. I don’t really know this person I am. I am still evolving, ever-changing. But I know I did not like the person I was. Honestly, I hated myself. I was never good enough, thin enough, pretty enough, smart enough … I just wasn’t enough. I am learning, slowly, that I am enough; even with this mental illness I carry around like a heavy chain. I still have a long journey ahead of me, to find myself, and my purpose. One day, I will be able to break the chains, one day …





Letting it out, and letting you in

This is a monumental moment for me. I am finally putting my life in words for others to see. This was not an easy decision for me. There is shame, embarrassment, and so many other things that stand in front, trying to stop me from doing this.

I am sitting here, trying to decide where to start, what to say. I don’t want to put some of the things into actual words, but I know at some point I am going to have to. I hope doing this will help me accept my life, and rid myself of some of the weight I carry with having Borderline Personality Disorder.

My story is not pretty, and seeing it evolve in print is going to be hard for me. Am I strong enough to do this? To expose my soul, thoughts, and feelings for anyone to see? I guess I will find out.

For my husband, I hope this helps you understand things I cannot verbally say to you. Whether it is a photo I share, or a quote, or my own words. Thank you for standing by me, during the darkest of dark days, when I could not even stand myself.

I cannot really start my story from the beginning, because at the time, I did not know that is what it was. Years and years of built up emotions, that finally my brain could no longer handle, and one day it exploded.

My mind is like a ticker tape, constantly running with thoughts. I can key in on a certain memory or thought, and it can overtake me, and I will obsess about it and be mentally exhausted. I learned how to let the obsession and pain escape, and I am not proud of this – I cut. My body is covered in scars.  I have hundreds of scars, that remind me of where I was, and where I am. I was good at hiding them from people, but I am at the point, that I no longer keep them hidden. They are a part of who I am and what I have been through. I am not going to lie, I still get to the point that I feel like cutting is my only option to release my pain.

I did not know I was mentally ill for many, many years. I just thought I was too emotional, wore my feelings on my sleeve, and was sometimes just a bitch. It was not until 2012 that I sought out psychiatric help. Of course I was misdiagnosed, as most are, and it was not until 2015 that I started being treated for Borderline Personality Disorder. My medications help me get through the days. I still have dark days, as I call them, but they are not as often. The dark days can hit at any time, without warning, and I will be its prisoner until it decides to leave.

I am not going to get in to details right now, as it is too painful, but in 2008 is when I started to have very pronounced symptoms. Remember, at this time, I still did not know I was mentally ill. I had what I thought was a “nervous breakdown” due to something that happened. I am not ready to speak of that incident yet.

There is much more to my story, years and years back, that I will one day get to. The source of when my mental illness started, unbeknown to me until a few years ago. I will say, I am an adult child of an alcoholic who was abusive, and I was sexually molested at a young age by a family member. I married young, to an alcoholic and drug addict, and the abusive pattern continued. It was really all I knew at the time. I was married to this man for 15 years. I do not know why I stayed married to him for so long, other than I had no self-esteem, and I was scared of the unknown. Getting my children out of that lifestyle was the best decision I made, for them and myself. My only regret is not being strong enough to get them out sooner.

Words spoken from my heart today, with more to come …