I hit a new bottom. I saw who I was, who I am, the anger and pain and dysfunction that came from being raised by people who abused me. I saw how it worked. I let myself say out loud the things my mom had done to me. I began to reckon with how dependent I am on the other people in my life and the shame that came with it.
I don't feel triumphant about any of it. It just sucks and makes feel feel uneasy, like I've perpetually committed some misdeed in need of punishment.
I don't know what I'm doing right now. Teetering on the edge of adulthood again. Small. Empty. I can't take care of myself. I don't know if it's the depression or the BPD/C-PTSD, but I feel powerless to change the course of my life.
Now that I understand the extent of my mental illness, I can't trust myself. Every blind spot I find is another reason to question my judgment. Every move seems like another twirl in the spiral down.
Death has reappeared in my fantasies, the maiden I daydream about when desolation overwhelms. I want to embrace her with all my heart, consummate my marriage to Santa Muerte. I went goth a bit more. It's who I am in the deep-down places.
The people I live with scare me. All the drinking and denying and aggression make this house feel a bit too much like home, the familiar drama of dysfunctional people bouncing off one another. It's hard to watch this new band of players say all the same lines straight off the script. Unhappy families may each be unhappy in their own way, but they tend to express it in the same frustrating storm of slammed doors and drunken challenges.
I'm done. I've got nothing left.
