My therapist recommended a book to me. I recently changed therapists/psychologists. Last Friday was the first visit with the new therapist/psychologist. Even my husband has noticed how much calmer I am. The therapist helped me sort out my emotions and anxiety over writing. I repeated my past and explained the things I was going through. It felt good to get all the junk off my chest. He was able to help me refocus. I feel better than I have as of late. No, I’m not on any medication. Medication was discussed but I chose to remain off of it for now. Not to mention, this is NaNoWriMo and I can’t afford to be doped up this month. NaNoWriMo is National Novel Writing Month. If you look up jeenforcers, I’m everywhere. I need the million thoughts, coursing through my brain at this time.

I’ve learned to take all my thoughts and write books. The therapist was surprised and I’m not as bad off as I thought I was. What aggravates me is when people declare that Borderline can’t be cured. You’re stuck with this for life. Like it’s a plague, nobody wants to have. It reminds me of the first time, I attended group therapy. I hate group therapy. It’s a joke to me. Anyway, I attended one once. I was placed in a room, full of people with Bipolar. As soon as I mentioned that I had Borderline and Bipolar, they kind of backed away from me. “Ooo… you have the bad one! You must be really crazy.” Considering that I was the only one who was laughing, while others were crying, I guess that might be true. I couldn’t help it. Nothing is worse than sitting in a room full of people crying. That’s probably why I hate going to funerals. The first thing that pops in my mind and I know it’s inappropriate. “We’re coming home for Jenny’s fried chicken.” Dear lord! Are these people serious? Yes, the preacher said that at my Great Aunt Jenny’s funeral. I wanted a bottle of whiskey to listen to that. I wish I could make this shit up. I was cracking up in laughter. My husband nudged me and scowled at me the entire time. And when you know about a person, you crack up even harder. My Great Aunt Jenny cursed like a sailor and she was an alcoholic. She could out-drink me any day of the week. That preacher had no clue, who she was. I can’t handle those preachers, who go off the wall. Hellfire and brimstone type of preachers. The ones, who need to smoke a joint. I cracked up at another funeral. There were several funerals, I was cracking up at. I couldn’t contain my laughter. My mother was bad for one of them. She came with us and wondered why they used the picture with the toupee. “Jen… that man was bald! Where did they come up with that picture! It looks like a squirrel on his head!” It’s bad… my mom was bad. The only funeral I remember crying at, was my maternal grandmother’s funeral. That one kicked me in the gut.

As far as family reunions go. When you’re the one with the mental illness… they whisper among themselves. They stare at you funny. “Will she go apeshit on us? You know, Jen is crazy… you might want to stay away from her!” Like, what the fuck? I’m going to dig your eyes out with a plastic spoon? Wait, I’ve got it! You’re worried that I’m going to somehow turn into the Incredible Hulk and kick over picnic tables that are bolted to the concrete! I may throw that sugarless pie back in your face! “We can’t invite her to the baby showers… she might do something horrific!” Oh, please! I’m a mom with four kids. But, I’ll keep my mental illnesses as long as I don’t have to attend special family events. That’s the good thing about having mental illnesses, you get out of family functions. They never invite you or your invitation got lost in the mail. I can attend funerals. Surely, I won’t act up there. Yes, because sitting in a room with crazy family members, mourning over dead family members, is cool. I mean, we wouldn’t want me to turn into the Incredible Hulk or anything. “Maybe the word of God will cure her!” But here’s the funny thing. I still laugh about this today.

My older sister “notice me,” chose to arrive in a dress that was suitable for a bar. She wore flip-flops for my Great Uncle Ray’s funeral. Oh, yes! I can’t make this shit up. Even my husband was snickering and nudging me this time. Here I am, wanting to duck under the pews. Needless to say, the dress showed her ass cheeks. I’m dead serious. She didn’t have the body to wear that dress either. Well, I put that on the back burner. It was after the funeral that had me laughing but I did feel sorry for my older sister. This time, the attention wasn’t focused on me. This is my dad’s side of the family. My dad changed since he found God for the tenth time. Anyway, they cornered my sister in a room. This gets even worse. My dad and his family descended upon my sister like a pack of wolves. They had their bibles out. They laid their hands over her and did an Exorcism on her. Well, my sister ran out of there in tears. I made her laugh, shortly after. For once, they didn’t exorcise my demons. My poor sister and the terrible exorcism! She vowed never to return to another one of my father’s events. I took a note from her page and vowed the same. We still laugh about it today. The terror in her face. Do you realize that I had to spend the next several months telling my sister she wasn’t possessed by demons? She stewed on it for months. I couldn’t say that I blamed her. Oh trust me, I was born in a crazy ass family. No wonder, I have issues. Stick around me long enough, I’ll tell you some more horrific tales. But I did laugh. I know it was wrong to, but I still laugh at that memory.

Anyway, my therapist is proud of me. He seems to think it’s my family that’s crazy and not me. I agree with his assessment. I still can’t handle group therapy. There are always people crying in them. Here I am, wanting to make a joke to get them to stop crying. I can’t handle my own kids, crying. I’ll make a joke every time. I’ve never been the type of person, who can handle people crying. I turn into Rodney Dangerfield or Robin Williams. Christ, I thought I had problems! Whoa! Mine is not as bad as theirs! I may break out in a show tune. Annie Get Your Gun or Little Annie. “The sun will come out tomorrow!”

It is as bad as watching YouTube videos. I’ve watched a ton of them and they break down on camera. I have to back out of their videos. I’m sorry, man… I got nothing for you. Or the videos, you know they’re in mania. They speak quickly and very loud. I don’t think your current medication is working for you. Honey, you’re in mania. I can tell who is in manic and who is in depression. When they talk about cutting, I have to immediately back out of it. I don’t care if it’s tips to stop cutting or someone explaining why they cut. That is one of my triggers. I don’t want to hear it, read about it, or see it. There was a book I read and without warning, it had cutting in it. The author actually described what it was in vivid detail. That almost caused me to run for a knife. I’m looking at my scars on my arms right now. I shiver at the thought. I haven’t cut in over a year. But the idea is still in my head. The temptation is there. I can handle zombies and vampires blowing up, but I can’t handle a scene where the act of cutting is performed. The blood lust is still there. It is a beast that I’m trying to keep contained. There’s nothing worse than your child asking you why you have marks all over your arms and legs. My own daughter will bring me a Band-Aid if she notices a boo-boo on my arm. I can’t have her witness that. I feel that would be traumatic for her. I always kept mine concealed from my kids. But one slip up, they would find the ugly truth about their mom. That is one thing, I’ve kept away from my kids. They love it when mommy is in mania. They hate it when mommy is in depression. I try to stay upbeat for them. Considering two of them are on the honor roll, I don’t think I’m that bad of a mom. I have to hide things from them. But  I made it clear to them, I’m not to be put on a pedestal. I will mess up. I’m not a perfect mom. I live for my family.

Something else I wanted to add, before I close this post out. I saw a meme on Facebook the other day. When you think of committing suicide to release you from burdening others, it only passes the burden onto the people, who loved you. My family is why I’m still here and I fight my demons every single day. I always pray for a cure. I don’t want to be afraid of my own shadow anymore. I also want to do this without medication. It only numbs the pain, it won’t cure it. At least for me anyway. There are people, who need these medicines. I just don’t want it to be me. I got myself into this funk, I should be able to pull myself out of it. I receive more criticism for having Borderline and not the others. To them, I’m a danger. To me, it’s just another diagnosis that I believe, I can overcome. I had my heart-broken, many years ago. I wish I could go back in time and hold that 8-year-old girl. I wish I could convince her that everything will work out. She’s fine and perfect. I wish I could ease her pain. I wish I could be her shield and protect her from the people, who failed to protect her.

And even when my kids believe they are going through a tough time, I comfort them and hold them. I make them laugh over something silly. I give them hugs and kisses. I tell them every day that I love them. Even if they are tired of hearing it. I watch my daughter today and she has no fear. I wish I could have been as fearless as she is. She is a little spitfire and I’ve enjoyed watching her personality explode. She doesn’t fear anything. She doesn’t care what others think. She will tell you that her name is Samara and I’m pretty. She will also tell you that she is a mommy and a daddy’s girl. She’s a little tough cookie. I hope and pray this world doesn’t tear her down like it did me. I will make sure that she stays strong. She knows what she wants and she will get it. I’ve built her up to hopefully become this strong woman in the future. She is caring, affectionate, and strong. She blows me away every day. I took her trick or treating last night and she wasn’t afraid of the people, who were dressed in hideous costumes. She made them break character. She told the monsters Happy Halloween and thank you with a big smile on her face. She is teaching me new things. I’m happy that I’m still alive.


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