Tag Archives: Short-Story

A new feature

Posted by Zeannaroux on

I do not have a best friend anymore.

That feels so strange to say.

I do NOT have a best friend anymore.

The one who held that place finally decided that they were done. Over. Enough. I wasn’t worth knowing anymore. Not by action that can be named but by those that still caused so much pain. This friend. This entity decided that I was their newest enemy.

I should have seen it coming. Actually, no, I did. Made a whole post about BPD and friends. But see it was not my personality at fault, in fact, one would say that I was downright innocent but that can be debated. See this was clearly fated when I spoke to my therapist about signs of abuse and if some could be found in the stories I shared of us since our youth.

“Well, she yelled at me, but it was totally my fault!”

“Haha yeah she made some off-handed remark about how I wasn’t enough, but where was the lie in that?”

“Ok no, she can be controlling but it’s endearing. How love is shown by manipulation. I mean, ok not always but she is happy so there was no need for my hesitation.”

My therapy sessions sounded like recorded excuses. One’s where I recalled all the times when she implied I was useless. But I stuck around cause I had no one else. Because I needed a best friend, above all else.

I no longer have a best friend.

She is gone.

Decided that I was someone who she no longer wanted to pull along.

It’s strange to say, after so many years.

Maybe one day I will get used to it and properly heal.

BPD and Identity

Posted by Zeannaroux on

At one point do people start to recognize themselves? I think one of the more interesting things about BPD is the idea of identity. We don’t really have one. Ok, that’s a lie, some of us do. I think we all can agree that some of us have titles that stick. I liken it to water. We shift with the tides changing course with the expectation life has on us. For some, the shift may come from the influence of those they hang out with. For others, it could be something different, like a new experience they have encountered. It can be a wide variety of other things as well but for me it is a mix of these two. My identity is dependent on my experiences and those I hang out with. I paint myself to fit the current narrative that is my life. It can be a bit…I guess much at times. Because people do not know who or what I truly am. That isn’t to say that I am completely without identity there are some things that stick that are similar to others

One such thing is that I am a mother. No matter what I feel as though I am a parent. I may not be a good parent but I am here.

The other, is queer, though I do not have any clue to what this truly means.

There are days when I wake up feeling trapped in a body not my own. I am disgusting, unlovable, deserving of pain. All because this body is not mine. It has…accessories that I despise. Yet, there are times when I wake up truly feeling myself. When I grab my breast with pride over the sheer size of them. A generous portion that overflows in a person hand, I am told.

If someone was to ask me which one was the real me…I don’t think I could answer.

There are days when I find girls to be attractive. When they thought of being with a man leaves me nauseous. But there are days when the opposite happens. There are times when I feel no attraction at all. When being with a person leaves me feeling disconnected. Why do people date tends to play in my head. My friends take full advantage of these days (with permission) because I am not hindered by emotions when they come asking for advice in their own relationship though “Leave him sis” tends to be my go to suggestions because why bother with relationships. They are to dumb. Why bother connecting with people at all. These days I liken myself to a doll. Just emotionless.

So what am I?

What label can I slap on that best describes me. Because my mental illness, in this case at least, does define me. So can I really pick and choose when there is something else at play making the decisions for me?

This is truly one of the more interesting things about BPD.

Posted by Zeannaroux on

My daughter is in therapy. There really is no reason for it. Mentally, she is fairly healthy. No, this is so she can work through the struggles that came from being raised in a single parent home when said single parent has a personality disorder. I can’t, I won’t let her turn out like me. Instead I put her in therapy so that she can speak to someone who can help her understand that I love her unconditionally even if I do not always show it and that my flaws are not a representation of her at all. So far, I think it has helped her.

But I overheard something the other day. Or was it today. I can’t recall. Well one day I heard something while she was talking to her therapist.

Normally, I do not my best to not listen in. I play music or watch something. There have been times when I will stand outside. Her therapy is her time. But today, or was it last week, maybe it never happened, she read a book to her therapist about people with BPD.

It is a book geared more towards children. A series, in fact, that details a lot of disorders but I gave her the one fo used on mine. She read this book to her therapist and told her how it was one that made me cry every time I read it. How, while reading it, she discovered that the charecter with BPD acted a lot like me. Her therapist asked her opinion on this and my daughter stated

“It’s fine”

….

It’s fine?

As she continued to read she ran across a part that gave her pause. Within this book is a section that talks about people with BPD often having problems with boundaries because they are afraid of being abandoned. So when someone goes a long time without answering text or phone calls, the person with BPD will start to freak out. In the process they may respond in anger or fear. My daughter, being the rather opinionated person that she is, told her therapist that this was something she found to be mean. When her therapist asked her to explain what she meant she just repeated herself and kept on reading.

Now, this is something that I do. But it is an aspect of myself that I tend to ignore. Mainly because I feel justified in my mass text or phone calls if I am repeatedly ignored. Of course I do not do it for long. Because after some time I will just convince myself that the person hates me and wants me dead. That’s exactly why they are ignoring me. It doesn’t matter what the true reasoning is. What I feel is right because I believe it is. They hate me, they want me dead, I annoy them, thus they are no longer my friend.

But this isn’t true. At least that is what reality says. Yet I still feel this way. So when my child looked to her therapist and said that she behavior was mean…I had to check myself.

Am I being mean?

I don’t rightly know.

F – Freeze me

Posted by Zeannaroux on

My mother wouldn’t look at me no matter how much I tried to catch her. I think a part of her knew. Of course she will pretend other wise, but what else is there to believe. The women who carried me would never be capable of this. At least, that is the story I wish I could believe. My own mother can not bare to look at me. She turns away every chance she gets. Lips tremble as she lies. Eyes glisten as she hides. She can stand to touch my hand. Or rather, what little that is left. I think it scares her. But I wish she could see that it scares me more. I am the one who will never be loved. The one who will always be alone. I can find my beauty in other things. But not if she can not do this simple task. I need my mother to see me. I need her not to grieve whats gone. She can’t bare it though. Despite that fact that it was I who was wronged.

Killer Instinct: Story Of A Cliche Teen

Posted by Zeannaroux on

Jasper dreams rasping behind closed doors

Pretty boys fall in love with unexpected girls

Trouble happens and all soon ignored

Lies get told and told and told some more

Hidden behind a well tamed fist

Tears fall down though more lies about not being pissed

Days flow by and by and by

Truths are told beneath a starry sky

Romance happens to be forgotten again

Lies prevail because that is the truth that sells

Corruption of a good friend is expected now

Someome dies and we crawl towards an end

Some kisses shared a please don’t tell

But of course to be discovered

‘THAT PERSON IS YOUR LOVER’

Kept away to be safe only released because of plot

Devices deceived by a sellout plot

More drama and drama and drama

But then end draws near

Hopeless life is resuced despite our cries

Please just let the stupid bitch die!

What was once ignored, a romance, is now happening before our eyes

Suddenly and suddenly and suddenly see

The heroine we hate (or love) starts to fade

The Hero we crave (or whom disgust) doomed to save

Writes the end but to be continued on another day

 

 

What a stupid teen cliche.

K

Post haste with paper and paste.

Posted by Zeannaroux on

What is it like before it ends? Moments filled with laughter and pain? Is it worth it?

I think it is.

I was created to a punching bag, something meant to be destory all in the name of fun. Do not pity me though, I am ok with this.

I knew the moment I was born that I was meant to die this way.

I remember the smile on my  creaters face. 

Their pride was addictive. Held together with paper and glue; I never thought I amounted to much. Cheaply made but they where proud anyways.

The exciment, the laughter, easy to forget the pain.

It took awhile for them to find me. The perfect family to want me. The feel as the child held me in their arms. I don’t think I will ever forget it. 

The car ride home was the  scariest part. while the child was happy to have me they still worried. What if their friends didn’t like me? What if I wasn’t enough? Where they to old to love me?

I remember how their  parents just laughed, “It will be ok”.

The child grasped me closer nodding but still confused. 

I wanted nothing more then to comfort them. Even though I knew my fate I still wanted them to smile. 

When we had gotten to their home the child gently walked in and placed me on the counter. Running their hands along my face and tail. Leaving warm trails along my side. 

The parents walked up;  bowls of candy in each hand. 

I won’t lie, I was afriad. I wished I had the abilty to run at that moment. I knew what would happen. I was proud  but still… the pain wasn’t something I looked forward too. 

They were gentle though. Not to rough as the filled me to the brim. Still I shook (or at least I think I did).

The child  stood by me the whole time though. Reminded me off my creater with how serene he was. Even when faced with something difficult and new, they stayed brave. In the end it made even me feel brave. 

Once the parents were done they walked away. I stayed that way for sometime before someone came for me. They gently carried me outside and tied me to a nearby tree. To me it seemed to high but I know the little ones would it perfect so I had no complaints really. It took awhile longer for people to arrive. As they did I made sure to watch and get an understanding of the guest. The kid in blue looked like he packed a punch while the boy with the cornflower hair seemed timid and thoughtful. Many more beside them ran inside. Each with their own story, their own personality, their own power. 

I was still in control though, I got to choose which one had the honor of taking my life. 

To others it  seem like a grave power to have but I was ok with it. Proud even; I was in control of my own destiny.  How many others could say that? 

As the final hour crawled closer I sat and watched. The children played merrily as the adults rushed around stopping little spats and encouraging fun. 

It was all so exciting.  I watch as the little timid boy, the oddest in the bunch of hyper children, stand by himself. Ignoring even the young birthdays boys attempts to play. At first I felt pity for him but then I realized that he was truly enhoying himself. Sure it wasn’t like the other little boys but the soft smile on his face allowed me to see that he took pleasure it watching the lives of others. 

This little boy reminded me much of myself. Watching from the outside. As carefree as can be, yet thoughtful. 

I decided that he would be the one to kill me. 

A/N 

I was never one for happy stories but this is the closest I have ever gotten to one. I have decided to not show the finishing moments because we all know how that goes. Instead i wanted to show the pinatas viewpoint from creation to moments before it is destroyed. 

If it had feeling would it be ok with it being broken? I like to think it would. It would be bringing joy to children. Yes it will hurt but life is never easy. This was a special pinata and it felt looked because it was. I remember always wanting one as a kid. I loved going to others peoples parties and having fun especailly with this ginat paper mache madness come out. These words of art that will be destroyed in the end but is well loved beforehand. 

How many of us has had one and held it closely to our hearts because we felt it was the best thing ever. The excited smiles and giggles. 

Even though it is the parents and other kids who decide who is lucky enough to break the pinata I felt that it was best to leave it up to the one who will be broken. It was always interesting how much effort it took to break one and how sometimes it seemed to take forever and others it didn’t take as long. Almost like the person who broke it was choosen. 
I found this via google and think I may keep doing this.