Since it’s nonfiction November, I’ve been reading memoirs on borderline personality disorder, bipolar, and anxiety. I’ve read a few in the past but I can’t remember what the books were about. So, I’ve been writing reviews on multiple books. There are certain parts that it makes me roll my eyes. I won’t get into it but it does irritate me. I tried those methods that didn’t work for me. There was no “magical” cure for me. But anyway, I am trying to keep an open mind when I read such books.
I chose to read 50 books for the rest of the year. My unattainable goal is gaining ground. I’ve read twelve books so far. I’m making my way through the books. Nonfiction has been a big help to my total. I chose to leave the longer books for 2017. Time is running out in 2016. I have 38 books until I achieve such goal. Next year, I plan on reading at least 100 books for the year. I want to set it low enough, so I can achieve that goal but high enough to challenge myself. I’m also writing full-time. It’s hard to balance the force. Only because once I start writing, I can’t quit. I have to let it out somewhere or I’ll feel like I’m drowning with my characters scowling at me.
How is NaNoWriMo going? Well, I’m rewriting my second book. Things I have forgotten to plug-in, I’ll have to return and plug it in. I don’t believe I introduced each character as they entered the scene. The problem with writing a series is that you have to reflect on the prior books, and reintroduce all of your delightful characters. It’s hard not to info dump. But I think I’m doing pretty well. As soon as a new character talks, I introduce that character. I just want to tell the story! I’m sitting at 78,000 words. A little over the 50,000 words requirement. Okay… maybe way over the 50,000 word count goal. And it’s so hard for me to relate to other writers, who are struggling with writing. I write everyday and so I developed a habit. When it isn’t NaNoWriMo, I normally write 5,000-10,000 words a day anyway. I can squeeze 1,000 words on one to two pages with ease. And it’s kind of embarrassing to enter your word count total because you know your writer buddies are writing a whole lot less than you. I come off as the arrogant asshole. So it’s strange to me, when they say they’re struggling. Huh? I don’t see why you’re struggling. And I have no words of encouragement to help them. I feel guilty over their struggles. If that makes any sense.
The competitive side of me takes over. She’s a bitch. An obnoxious bitch. She hates to lose. Why do I have to make everything a damn competition? You wrote this many, I’ll write this many. And I’ve always been competitive. I don’t know why. It didn’t matter if I played sports or worked my ass off. I’ve always been competitive. What the heck? I remember wanting to beat my husband in picking items. It drove me nuts, when he would out pick me. It was like he was scratching my back. So, I worked my ass off one day and out picked him by one book. 2,581 items picked in one day. I can’t do that anymore but it was fun to beat him. Even in board games. I hate it when he wins. I didn’t do this in school. I did poor in school. Why wasn’t I competitive in school, where I should have brought my A game? That is one regret, I’ll have for the rest of my life.
Anyway, reading memoirs on borderline, has brought back a ton of memories. While they are probably at the beginning of their journey, I’m way past all those issues. I felt incredibly judgmental. I turned into a nasty judgmental prick! And then I remembered the things I’ve done as a teenager. I was a wildcat. I was hell on wheels. Thankfully, I never caught an STD. That’s common with borderline. Knock on wood, I was damn lucky. For what I could have done, I kept that shit under control. Anxiety saved me on that front at least. I was too afraid of catching something or giving it to someone else. That is one area, I’m glad I wasn’t competitive in. It is common for borderlines and bipolar. I guess I’m breaking that mold. It is also common to cheat on your partner. In my teenage years, I did do that. Have I done that since? No. My husband and I have had this monogamous relationship for twelve years. I don’t have any desire to cheat on him even though I do have borderline and bipolar. That should be enough for anyone to run for the hills. Why is he different? I don’t know. I’ve been in plenty of relationships that I knew weren’t going to work out. Either their views were really fucked up or they were too childish for me to handle. Maybe it’s because he stood out in the freezing cold and talked to me for two hours. I remember waiting for that first kiss. It took another freezing day to earn that kiss. He was always the dominant one. He still is today. I’ll just go back to a more submissive role. I enjoy him opening doors for me. I enjoy it when he picked up the tab. He got my head together in a dominant role. I hated taking care of myself. I hated being independent. I hated making crucial decisions. So, I gave that part of me to my husband. Not many women want to do that. I wanted to do that. He fulfilled that void and that structure in my life that I was missing. And trust me, it was hard in the beginning. We butted heads and probably came to blows from me. It’s like the mating call of two animals. I know, it sounds really fucked up. I need to feel protected. And he’s done that more times than I can count.
It took a long time for me to trust him. It wasn’t a magical wand, waving above our heads. It took a lot of work and compromise. I look at him today and I feel like he’s my soul mate. We say the same things now. It’s kind of funny. In bed, we’re tuned in to each other’s needs. And he’s a damn good father. He’s strong enough to ward off the invaders but gentle enough to hold me in a hospital room, crying over the loss of our pregnancy. He took a chance on me, when he shouldn’t have. I was on the path to self-destruction. There hasn’t been a day that goes by, I’m not thankful. Twelve years is a long time. But that’s what you do, when you love someone unconditionally. Yeah, he’s older than me. But I can relate to him more. I needed that structure and that security. From the person I was to the person, I am now, we are two different people. I trust him with my life. I don’t need to check over his shoulder. He still comes home to me. With borderline, you do everything and anything to sabotage any relationship. You don’t believe you’re good enough for them. You always have that little doubt in your mind, “They deserve someone better.” Dammit! I deserve him. I didn’t do anything wrong. I had a suck-ass childhood and teenage life. I did things that I wasn’t proud of. But I took that chance and told him everything. I told him everything about my past and he didn’t judge me. He said this to me. “We’ve all done things that we’re not proud of. You’re not the exception to the rule. I’ve done things that I’m not proud of. That’s called life.” It’s that thinking and that dialogue that made me trust him. Anytime I have a problem, I ask him first. We parent our kids together. We make financial decisions together. We state the pros and cons of each situation. It isn’t “her or his money.” We’re in it together. The kids are our kids. He put them in there. I was just the vessel that carried the kids for nine months. He was there for every single birth of our children. He got to hold each child first. And the day he found out we were having a girl, he cried tears of happiness. That was probably the best gift I could give him. He wanted to raise a daughter. Now she’s spunky and she loves both her parents equally. She has his chin and the rest is me. Thank God she has his legs though.
If I can keep my family in the front of my mind, I’ll be okay. I just need to forget the past that hangs over my head like a dark cloud. The guilt, the torment, and the fear. I need to learn to let all of that go. It still affects me. But the more I stay away from my dad, the better I feel. We’ve become strangers over the years. I don’t know him anymore. We are two complete strangers now. The emotional bondage is slowly releasing me. I have to focus on all the joy that I’m allowed to feel. I’ve waited for a man, who will never return. It feels as though, I’m grieving over a memory. He’s dead to me now. He isn’t and wasn’t a father. My uncles filled that role. My mom filled that role. My grandmother filled that role. The little girl, who waited for hours and her dad never showed up… she’s picking up that bag and rejoining her new family. She waited long enough.