Not the best marketing strategy on Budweiser’s part. I’d say. Homosexual people are not Budweiser’s normal demographic. Rednecks are. I should know, I’ve lived in the bigoted south my entire life. I understand them trying to reach out to other clientele but Budweiser is just one of those things you’ve drank your entire adult life or not….besides all of the gay couples I know have far more exquisite taste than a 10 ounce can of Bud!!
Okay give me a sec so I can unpucker my asshole enough to have a seat to type the rest of this blog..
I don’t give a fuck if you are a man or a woman, if you are gay or straight, black or white or miscellaneous, this HEAPING pile of man meat at the pinnacle of his hotness was one fine, sexy ass (and I do mean that literally as I’ve watched him in Troy and stopped the DVD player on his ass scene so many times it finally just only shows that one frame. YESSSSSS🔥🔥🔥🔥) mother fucker. Whoooo whee, if I had a cannibalistic nature, I would crawl up that beautiful ass of his and eat my way out.
Few afflictions carry the existential dread that dementia does. Five-and-half million Americans currently suffer from Alzheimer’s disease, the most common form of dementia, and the gradual loss of memory and motor skills it causes. In 2014 alone, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Alzheimer’s led to nearly 100,000 deaths, making it sixth of all leading causes. And the numbers are only expected to get higher with an aging population.
— Read on gizmodo.com/nothing-we-know-of-stops-dementia-broad-review-rules-o-1821438317
Empathy:the capability to share and understand another’s emotion and feelings. It is often characterized as the ability to “put oneself into another’s shoes,” or in some way experience what the other person is feeling.
Healer:one that heals or attempts to heal. A person skilled in a particular type of holistic therapy.
Empathy is the ability to read and understand people and be in-tune with or resonate with others, voluntarily or involuntarily of one’s empathic capacity. Empaths have the ability to scan another’s psyche for thoughts and feelings or for past, present, and future life occurrences. Many empaths are unaware of how this actually works, & have long accepted that they were sensitive to others.
Empaths Sense Deep Emotions
Empathy is a feeling of another’s true emotions to a point where an empath can relate to that person by sensing true feelings that run deeper than those portrayed on the surface. People commonly put on a show of expression. This is a learned trait of hiding authentic expression in an increasingly demanding society.
An empath can sense the truth behind the cover and will act compassionately to help that person express him/herself, thus making them feel at ease and not so desperately alone.
Empaths experience empathy towards family, children, friends, close associates, complete strangers, pets, plants and inanimate objects. Empathy is not held by time or space. Thus, an empath can feel the emotions of people and things at a distance. Some are empathic towards animals (ie: The Horse Whisperer), to nature, to the planetary system, to mechanical devices or to buildings etc. Others will have a combination of the above.
Empaths Have Deep Sense of Knowing
Empaths are highly sensitive. This is the term commonly used in describing one’s abilities (sensitivity) to another’s emotions and feelings. Empaths have a deep sense of knowing that accompanies empathy and are often compassionate, considerate, and understanding of others.
There are also varying levels of strength in empaths which may be related to the individuals awareness of self, understanding of the powers of empathy, and/or the acceptance or non-acceptance of empathy by those associated with them, including family and peers. Generally, those who are empathic grow up with these tendencies and do not learn about them until later in life.
Empathy is Inherited
Empathy is genetic, inherent in our DNA, and passed from generation to generation. It is studied both by traditional science and alternative healing practitioners. Empathy has both biological/genetic and spiritual aspects. Empaths often possess the ability to sense others on many different levels. From their position in observing what another is saying, feeling and thinking, they come to understand another. They can become very proficient at reading another personís body language and/or study intently the eye movements. While this in itself is not empathy, it is a side-shoot that comes from being observant of others. In a sense, empaths have a complete communication package.
How Empathy Works
While there is much we don’t yet understand about how empathy works, we do have some information. Everything has an energetic vibration or frequency and an empath is able to sense these vibrations and recognize even the subtlest changes undetectable to the naked eye or the five senses.
Words of expression hold an energetic pattern that originates from the speaker. They have a specific meaning particular to the speaker. Behind that expression is a power or force-field, better known as energy. For example, hate often brings about an intense feeling that immediately accompanies the word. The word hate becomes strengthened with the speaker’s feeling. It is that person’s feelings (energy) that are picked up by empaths, whether the words are spoken, thought or just felt without verbal or bodily expression.
Psychic empathic traits not only involve the ability to receive energy, but also include the ability to heal in many cases. For this reason, an empath’s life path is best suited to the healing arts, whether it is in the field of healthcare or counseling, or working with children, plants, animals, or even healing places through design and renovation. There are many different paths for how to become an empathic energy healer – you just need to determine which characteristics and levels of an empath resonate with you most. When you have a positive outlet for the psychic abilities of being empathic, you can experience peace and fulfillment. This allows you to overcome the overwhelming feelings of why an empath feels anxiety.
Remember that those with psychic empathic traits are not only able to receive and pick up energy, but they can also project healing energy. The reason that empaths pick up on energy and information in the first place is because they have the power to do something about it.
We all have bad hair days. We also are aware of our physical flaws, but most of us are able to accept them without obsessing or becoming paralyzed by them. If you know someone who has become depressed and is excessively preoccupied with his or her appearance, consider the following information regarding body dysmorphic disorder.
When individuals suffer from BDD, their triggers, obsessions, and compulsions form a cycle similar to theOCD cycle. For instance, waking up and getting ready for the day was a trigger for Aaron. He had to look in the mirror and notice his perceived imperfection. He’d evaluate his hair with thoughts such as: “My hair looks terrible. My friends will think less of me. I can’t make my hair look decent.”
In order to reduce his shame,anxiety, and disgust, he would respond with repetitive behaviors such as combing, brushing, and spraying his hair. He would wear hats or beanies when he felt exhausted. The relief he found with his rituals, avoidance, and reassurance-seeking behaviors were only temporary.
Individuals who suffer from BDD most likely will experience symptoms ofdepression such as social isolation, low motivation, poor concentration, sleeping difficulties, and significant changes in appetite. They may experience feelings of sadness, anger, guilt, and hopelessness. They may have poor self-esteem, suicidal thoughts, and may have lost interest in activities they used to enjoy.
BDD sufferers obsess about one or more perceived defects in their physical appearance. Friends and family often don’t understand the sufferers’ torment and can’t see the flaws. One difference between OCD and BDD sufferers is that most individuals being challenged by OCD have insights about their obsessions and realize how irrational their thoughts may be. On the other hand, those struggling with BDD may experience little or no insight about their appearance, beliefs, and behaviors.
No matter who they ask and what treatments they use or undertake (e.g. cosmetic products, cosmetic and surgical procedures, dental, dermatological treatment), those with BDD are never satisfied. Their perceived defect continues to plague them. They feel depressed and may experience anxiety, among other feelings. However, a prevalent feeling with BDD is a feeling of disgust. They hate and loathe their appearance. They also feel ashamed of their perceived blemish.
BDD sufferers experience thinking errors that worsen their state of mind. For example, mind reading is a common thinking error in BDD. Individuals believe that others are going to react negatively to their perceived defect. This is one of the reasons they spend excessive time trying to “fix” the defect or become isolated.
What can you do to help your loved one?
Remember that this is not a vanity issue, even though it appears to be. Individuals suffering with BDD feel ashamed. Their friends tell them they are vain and shallow, but they are not able to stop obsessing. Body dysmorphic disorder is as real as depression, OCD, anxiety, and other mental and biological disorders.
Keep in mind that when people experience a mental illness, they may appear selfish. Quite often parents complain about their children who suffer from BDD being focused on themselves, and that they don’t engage in family activities. Encourage them to participate and find ways to get them involved and decrease their isolation. Remember to show unconditional love and let them talk about their struggles and experience with BDD. Be patient and supportive. Maintain a positive and close relationship with them. They need you.
Don’t forget that individuals with BDD have poor insight regarding their perceived deformity. Don’t try to talk them out of it. No matter what you say, they won’t feel satisfied with your answer. They may repeatedly ask you questions to feel better about themselves. Reassurance-seeking is a compulsion that doesn’t get them anywhere. Acknowledge and validate their need for reassurance, but don’t become part of their BDD rituals.
Educate yourself and understand the symptoms. BDD can become a debilitating illness. If possible, share pertinent information with them. Don’t lecture or push them to do things. Help them consider the benefits of medication. Patiently encourage them to take small steps toward change and receive professional help. Prevailing Myths
Though it’s received some media attention, many have difficulty grasping BDD and misconceptions remain. In fact, even health professionals and physicians largely overlook BDD.
Several myths regarding body dysmorphic disorder continue to circulate:
It’s not a real disorder. “Many fail to understand that BDD is a real psychiatric condition,” viewing it “as vanity, narcissism or being overly self-involved, and, as a result, don’t take it seriously.”
It’s rare. Though many think BDD is an uncommon condition, “community and clinical settings have suggested BDD affects about 0.7 percent to 3 percent of the population,” Greenberg said. Research in medical settings suggests even higher rates, she said.
It occurs only in the extreme. BDD isn’t always a case of cat woman or Michael Jackson — quintessential cases often sensationalized in the media. Instead, a person might obsess over one birthmark or a skin discoloration on one area of the body, said Los Angeles clinical psychologist Sari Shepphird, Ph.D, who regularly works with BDD clients. “It might seem minute to someone who isn’t suffering, but the obsessiveness and torment can be extreme,” she said.
It occurs only in women. We tend to associate body image issues with women, but BDD occurs equally in both sexes.
Symptoms of Body Dysmorphic Disorder
All of us in some way are dissatisfied with our looks, especially in today’s appearance-crazed society. So what makes BDD all that different? Two things, according to Shepphird: intensity and impairment.
Intensity. On average, individuals with BDD spend three to eight hours a day thinking about their deformity (Phillips, 2006), which typically involves the face and head, including acne, ear size, nose, teeth, hair and overall appearance, though it can be directed toward any body part. BDD sufferers wholeheartedly believe that others can’t help but stare at their hideous defects and judge them.
Impairment. Because of their intense thoughts and severeanxiety, BDD patients avoid social activities, school and work. This impairment leads to a poor quality of life — poorer than the general population, individuals withdepression and those with recent heart disease, Greenberg said. They’re also at greater risk for psychiatric hospitalization and suicide, she said.
Individuals with body dysmorphic disorder use various ways to alleviate their appearance-based anxiety. They may:
Request reassurance. “Does this seem big to you? Doesn’t it bother you?” By asking such questions, they regularly seek reassurance from others or discuss their area of concern, Shepphird said.
Use camouflage. They’ll often try to cover up their concerns with cosmetics, clothing, dark glasses, hats and other items.
Undergo cosmetic surgery. Instead of seeking mental health services, many BDD patients reach out to dermatologists and cosmetic surgeons, because sufferers believe fixing their flaws will fix their lives. According to one study, 77 percent sought cosmetic surgery and about 50 percent sought dermatological treatments, Shepphird said.
In desperation, some patients will play doctor. In his study, Veale (2000) described several DIY cases: one man used sandpaper to lighten his skin and eliminate scars; another used a staple gun on his face to tighten loose skin; a woman, who wanted liposuction, cut her thighs with a knife and tried to squeeze the fat out.
Repairing the deformity rarely relieves anxiety, however. In fact, anywhere from 76 to 83 percent don’t see changes in symptoms, Shepphird said. Others feel worse and regret the procedure. “More often individuals may subsequently blame themselves for having had a procedure they feel made them ‘look worse than before,’” Greenberg said. Some patients might obsess over a new area. In severe cases, BDD patients “have committed suicide and threatened harm against or acted violently toward the treating physician,” Greenberg said.
Compulsively exercise. Many BDD sufferers exercise excessively — common in muscle dysmorphia, a subtype of BDD, that affects mostly males. Because of an intense obsession with muscle shape and size, these individuals spend hours exercising, weightlifting, dieting and using steroids or supplements.
Engage in other behaviors. BDD sufferers might also compare their concerns with the same area on others; check their reflection in mirrors or windows; tan excessively; pick at skin, which can lead to scarring and, in severe cases, life-threatening wounds.
I have somewhat of a conundrum. I realize that by blogging my personal opinions, day to day life problems and sharing so much of myself that I’m potentially inviting debate and/or criticism.
Debate me all day long, just come at me with your own opinion the right way and I’ll respectfully listen and eventually we might just agree to disagree. Politely.
I have neither the temperament nor the restraint to be “told about myself” in what I deem as an aggressive manner. As a matter of fact it is one of my MAIN BPD triggers.
I know many of you that follow me know that I’m quirky, self deprecating and can find some sort of obscene humor in just about any given situation. Many of you know the funny, tough, cursing, genuine, giant hearted traits that make me…well me. You laugh with me and give me words of support and encouragement when I need them the most.
I know EXACTLY who I am….I don’t need to be “told” who I am or how I should feel. I battle the rage, insecurity and worthlessness of Borderline Personality Disorder every second of every day. The BPD also brings a much darker, much more cruel aspect of my personality front and center when I’m going through a rough patch, or when I feel overwhelmed by life as I currently do.
To those of you who love me and/or read my blog because I’m sincere, raw and absolutely real, from the bottom of my heart, thank you. Your comments, advice and encouragement keep me grinding. Even on the days I can barely drag myself into an upright position. Y’all are my family. Perhaps not by blood, but more importantly by choice.
For those who read a blog post or two and think they KNOW me and have the the audacity to tell me why and how I should change, to you I say the biggest and most heartfelt FUCK YOU and the horse you rode in on.
One doesn’t KNOW me by reading a couple of posts or even by comments on other bloggers posts whom I follow. My advice to you fucking fuckfaces that do not like what I have to say or how I say it and just can not help but direct a snide shitty comment my way, is quite simple. Keep scrolling and keep your dicksucker shut. When you get done scrolling, judging and commenting about me or my life, might I suggest taking your keyboard and shoving it straight up your ass. Sideways (just in case you decide to be a cowardly keyboard warrior to someone else) at least it will be in the correct position to type.
If one continues to want to verbally spar with me in an assholey way, I’m sorry. I refuse to engage in a battle of wits with an UNARMED person. That just leaves me with one option. Violence. Something I’m VERY familiar with.
You see if I’m backed into a corner to the point of having to respond with violence, rest assured I’ll bury my foot so far up your ass, you’ll need a root canal to have it removed.
To the rest of my beloved blogging family, happy Monday, Y’all♥️
Anastasia craved love and acceptance from the time she was a little girl. No matter how nice she was or how well she behaved those two things both eluded her like wisps of smoke in the air. If she tried to grab onto them, they disappeared into her tiny fist. The one man that should have loved and accepted her no matter what was her father. He did neither.
Anastasia grew into a rebellious teen. In her mind if Daddy was going to savagely beat her again and again to vent his own anger and frustration within his own life, she was going to at least “have fun” and give him some good reason. The rebellion was the kind of vanilla sort that many teenagers fall prey to. Sneaking out to hang out with friends from the neighborhood, occasional underage drinking and a very small partaking of the weed, when one of the older, more bold teens could smuggle a pinch of it out of their parent’s sack without them noticing. Anastasia didn’t know very much about the stinky, feel good cigarettes but she was pretty sure what she later learned was called a pinner by cannabis smokers, didn’t go very far with 12 people hitting it.
Anastasia was REALLY glad that she made sure to have fun even if she had to sneak out to do it, one “normal” teenage night with her friends became the night that her daddy caught her and beat her within an inch of her life. Except this time he took it up a notch and wrapped an electrical cord around her throat and started pulling. Daddy was not a small man, it wouldn’t have taken long…..just as her vision began swimming in front of her eyes and she was convinced that her short life had come to its pre-ordained conclusion, her meek and scared mother, for the first and only time that she could ever remember intervened. Daddy loosened his grip, stood up, spat on her as he called her a whore and stomped out of her room. Her mother just looked at her blankly and scurried quickly after her father as she silently closed the door.
That night something died within her. That something was her innocence. In its place something dark and evil was born (Borderline Personality Disorder a/k/a the monster within). Prior to that particular beating she was a sweet, loving, compassionate, empathetic, naive girl. After that episode she viewed the world through a completely different much darker, more sinister lens.
As soon as she graduated from high school, she found out she was pregnant with her first child who turned out being a gorgeous baby girl, and shortly thereafter married the infant’s father, her high school sweetheart, that same year.
For a while things were at least as normal as she had ever known, as the precious dark haired little girl was the center of her universe. Being a mother gave her immense peace and joy, of which she’d never known.
After about a year of marriage her husband started staying later and later after work. Their tiny budget became tighter. As it turned out, he wasn’t sharing a six pack with his buddies around the corner like he had implied. He and some guys from work had been going to a strip club near their job after work and his paycheck that paid their rent, grocery and utility bills was ending up in a strippers thong.
She and her family started getting evicted and having various utilities cut off month after month due to his extracurricular activities. By this time her high school sweetheart had turned into a mean drunk, and the cycle of abuse that she thought she had finally escaped from started anew. Her husband turned into a replica of her abusive father. He used his fists, his words and her own fragile psyche as fodder for his cruel abusive games. There were times that the monster inside of her, the one that her father created with those very same actions, sprang back to life and she would fight back. She let loose with all of the worthlessness, sadness and fury that she tried so hard to keep bottled up inside to “keep the peace”. The beatings were much worse when she fought back, but she didn’t care, she was indifferent to physical pain. Truth be told, she didn’t even feel it because the psychological and emotional pain hurt far worse than any physical pain ever could.
Around the time that the abuse became too much to bear, she found out that she was pregnant again and that they were having a son. The abuse completely stopped for the entire pregnancy, as her husband was so delighted and proud to be having a boy child to carry on his family name. By the time their son was born, their daughter was four years old and when after about a month postpartum the abuse began again. Her husband beat her for everything and also for nothing at all. The difference was their daughter started to notice. She started throwing up and having stomach aches every day. At five her pediatrician said she just had a “nervous stomach” and put her on a mild sedative. Anastasia knew the cause even if her five year old couldn’t or wouldn’t verbalize it. Nonetheless, she stayed in the abusive marriage for another two years.
One day as she was putting up the folded laundry, she happened to pass by one of the kids’ rooms where they had been happily playing just a few minutes earlier. As she was passing the door her daughter slapped her two year old brother across the face and he started screaming. Anastasia immediately dropped the laundry and sternly asked her daughter, “Why did you slap your helpless baby brother? We don’t do those things in our house. It’s very ugly and not nice at all.” Through her tears her gorgeous little girl said, ” but Mommy, Daddy does it to you all of the time when he gets angry.” At that moment another piece of Anastasia’s battered heart broke into a million pieces.
She went to her room and had herself a good cry, packed the kids and herself up, left her wedding rings on the counter and went “home” to her Mom and Dads. Her Father had quit hitting her the night he almost took her life as a teenager. He also NEVER raised his voice in front of the children, but continued the verbal and psychological torture when they were out of earshot like the last ten years not living under the same roof had never happened.
Anastasia’s parents were her jailers and her cruel tormentors. Her father was the abuser, her mother by proxy was just as guilty for standing silently by and doing nothing at all, not even nurturing her afterwards with any words of affection or validation whatsoever. She grew up understanding that she would NEVER be worthy of love.
Despite the way they treated her, they absolutely adored their grandchildren and were completely different people with them. After a few months of her fathers abuse about not being able to find a day job, Anastasia got her liquor license and started bartending to make money to at least help provide for her children. Her father called her a white trash whore and told her to get the fuck out of his house. “The children can stay but you’ve got to go,” he growled menacingly. She packed her meager belongings in her raggedy old car and left after explaining as gently as she could to the children what was going on. She had no qualms about leaving them with her parents because she KNEW that they were adored, perhaps even a bit spoiled by the very people that had traumatized her for as long as she could remember.
She knew as a bartender that she’d be gone at night for long stretches at a time and that she would be living from pillar to post, sleeping on this or that friends couch, wherever she could crash. No matter how much it broke her heart, she knew that her parents could give the children stability and schooling (private school for their precious grandchildren) that she could not. At this point in her life, Anastasia knew that she was financially, psychologically and physically broken. She knew that whether she liked it or not that the best place for her children WAS with her parents. She kept reassuring herself that it would only be for a few months. Just until she could get a regular day job, get back on her feet and get her own place, to be settled enough to give the children what they deserved and needed.
As life tends to do, things did not go as planned. She learned that it was hard to save money when you were making less than minimum wage plus tips. The bar was somewhat of a dive so tippers were few and far between. So after six months, she still didn’t have enough money for a place of her own with all of the various deposits and things she would need to buy in order to make it a home. Obstacles seemed to mount at every turn. At some point she started drinking heavily to numb herself from her new reality. That’s when she met husband number two. He owned a car painting business down the street from the bar he told her. They got along like gangbusters (probably because they both stayed shitfaced) and on a whim one night he proposed. They went to the justice of the peace the following day and got married. Six months later he left town with a stripper.
Anastasia was beyond crushed. Not so much because she was deeply or madly in love with him, but more so because here was another man in her life that had let her down. As she was about to hit bottom and start living out of her car, her uncle called her mother and suggested that she live in their deceased parents (Anastasia’s maternal grandparents) house until and while it was on the market. That way the house would be looked after and also he figured a criminal would be less likely to rob an occupied home. Her mother reluctantly agreed.
Living in her grandparents home, surrounded by all of the familiar and beloved things was like a soothing salve on her wounded soul. That same year her best friend Missy moved in. They were thick as thieves, two peas in a pod, practically conjoined twins separated at birth. Truth be told they wanted to be reattached at the hip because they were constantly together. The acceptance and love that Missy showed towards her was a wonderful new feeling for Anastasia, but alas like everyone else in her life, Missy would leave her too. Not like the others though…..Missy was involved in a horrific, fatal car crash, were she was almost decapitated. Anastasia knew because she had to identify the body. As she was still deeply grieving the loss of her best friend her grandparents house sold. She had 30 days to go through their belongings, pack, sell, donate their things and look for a new place that she still couldn’t afford.
She finally found a small two bedroom townhouse where the rental amount was determined by ones income. She went to a rent to own store, got a table a small sofa and a bedroom set for the kids, her bedroom furniture could wait, she would sleep on hot coals if it meant her children had what they needed and were with her again. She was so excited at the prospect of having her babies back. That excitement was short lived though. A phone call from her Father informed her that they would be raising the children to adulthood because she was so worthless and that he knew that she was broke and couldn’t afford an attorney so if she tried to fight him in regards to this that he’d personally see to it that one of his law enforcement buddies got her on a charge so big that they would throw her under the jail.
She was totally and utterly defeated. She withdrew from society and disassociated within to not feel the excruciating pain of her life anymore as it was a living hell. She searched endlessly on non-painful ways to just end her life. In this deepest darkest time in her life, she considered suicide but then realized if she committed suicide that she would NEVER have a voice. The children would believe every awful thing her parents ever said about her because no one would debate it. She was no quitter, and no matter what else her children ultimately thought of her, it would not be in that way.
Days turned into months that turned into years. Anastasia’s children were doing wonderfully under her parents (tormentors) tutelage. She was not so lucky, as she went from one abusive relationship to another. She finally truly hit rock bottom and was snorting heroin (no needles for her as she was terrified of them) and partially living with an old neighborhood friend who also happened to be her drug dealer. They had meet at summer camp when she was a young teen. He bullied and abused her in every way possible. He wanted her sexually and she was not interested, mainly because of his occupation and long term drug abuse via needles.
One night he was in an especially violent mood when she came to pick up her “candy” and as they were casually talking he snatched her out of her car with her pony tail wrapped around his fist and drug her into his house with no electricity brutally beating her all the while. By the time he got her to his room she was barely conscious. She saw him raise his fist again, covered in her blood then everything went black. When she came to, he was on top of her sexually assaulting her. He had both of his huge hands wrapped around her throat and growled, “If you make a sound, I’ll fucking kill you, if you call the cops or tell anyone, I’ll fucking kill you.” Mercifully she fell unconscious again. When she awoke the second time it was dark outside and dark inside, but he was gone. She tried to wrap the clothes that weren’t ripped to shreds, he had obviously cut them off of her with the switchblade he was so fond of always toying with. She went to her lifelong friend Deb’s apartment (which Deb insisted she keep a key to) thankfully Deb was working late and didn’t get a chance to see her condition. She quickly threw on some clothes that covered her, wiped the blood off of her face and went for her .38 special that she kept in a small safe because it was loaded at all times. She had bought it for herself several years prior due to an abusive ex-boyfriend that had convinced her that he would kill her with his bare hands if she ever left him.
Something died in her for the third time in her life that day, or perhaps something ugly and awful died (her victimization) and something new was reborn. She headed back to Jack’s house and as she got out of her car he laughed at the damage he had inflicted on her face, both of her eyes were nearly swollen shut, her nose was broke and a tooth was knocked out. She raised the pistol and suddenly he wasn’t so smug. She must have stood there silently for at least 60 seconds with her finger practically trembling on the trigger. Not from fear this time, but from rage. Finally she pulled the trigger and the sound filled the otherwise quiet night air. She didn’t kill him. She didn’t even hit him, but the bullet came within mere centimeters of his temple. She missed on purpose. The summer camp they had initially met at was a camp about Gun and Skeet shooting. Even at 13 years old she won the top prize at camp of 13-18 year olds. She was an expert marksman and he knew she could have put that bullet dead center between his eyes if she had indeed wanted. Anastasia said, “If you make a sound I’ll kill you, if you tell anyone or go to the cops I’ll kill you. I’m done with your fucking drugs and trashy lifestyle. Don’t ever contact me again or it will be the last call you will ever make.”
She then went to the hospital had a rape kit done and had her worse injuries treated, she had a bone cracked in her ocular cavity as well. Fortunately for Anastasia, that piece of drug dealing shit had the foresight to use a condom because he knew she would press charges even though he had threatened her. Once she knew that he hadn’t given her any STD’s, hepatitis or worse, she decided to forego pressing charges because she had in fact went BACK to his house with every intention of killing him.
The basics of making babies seem simple. You need sperm, an egg, and a womb to incubate in. Combine those, and a baby starts to grow. However, most people don’t know what develops first in the womb as far as the baby’s growth. Does it start with a brain? A heart? What organs come …
— Read on m.ranker.com/list/order-body-parts-grow-in-fetuses/laura-allan
There it is. In black and white. We all start our lives as assholes. I just never personally evolved past this stage of development.
Don’t feel bad for me though, I have a plethora of company. As a matter of fact, as far as I can tell, the last two generations have been filled with a LOT of assholes that never developed past this stage.
Just remember kids, you can stick a flower up your asshole but you still can’t call it a vase😊
I don’t care what end of the political spectrum you are on, unless you’re a pussified, snowflake, baby back bee-yotch, this asshole is a drama full, lying, hysterical, shit stirring she-devil!! Someone needs to choke slam this cunt! Even the other three shit starters, Congresspersons Booker, Omar and Tlaib have even slowed their assy rolls just the tiniest bit. Not AOC though. She’s not happy unless she’s making a god damn mockery of her elected office. I sometimes wonder what in the fuck kind of sheeple voted for this twat waffle?!?!
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, probably many more times….what in the fucking fuck?!?
I was flat on my back after my spinal tap. The arrogant young doctor insisted I stay in that same position for the next five hours so I did not develop a colossal headache. Right about that time I realized I had to use the restroom and it was going to be a deuce.
So of course when the doctor asked if I had any questions, noticing he was at least 15 years younger than me, HAD to have been straight out of med school, and my puckered asshole had to have a better bedside manner than this douche, I decided wickedly to rattle his chain a bit.
I replied with what do I do if I have to drop the “Browns” off at the “Super Bowl, homie”? His fucking eyes almost popped out of his head, he sneered at me and said, “I beg your pardon? Also the name is Dr. Browning and I am NOT your homie, I’m your doctor!”
Oh hell to the NAW!!! I, by this point was so pissed off I responded scathingly with, “I don’t care if you are Jesus Christ, Jack Sprat or Jason Bourne, mother fucker, NO one is talking to me like that, so unless you want me to take an enormous shit right here on these super luxurious sheets that the fuckers up in the Accounting department charge me $300 a night for, someone best help me upright and get me to a toilet. Fucking STAT!”
I got help to the toilet in time, Dr. Browning passed my case off to a colleague, because he refused to step back in my room because I had also previously told him if he even thought about trying to come back in that I would crap in my hand and fling my own shit at him.
Moral of this story?
Don’t fuck with The Bella when she’s got a deuce prairie dogging her asshole😂😂😂😂😂
Due to my severe social anxieties I’m pretty much an agoraphobic by nature. I only leave when I absolutely must (doctors appointments, food for the kiddos, etc). I don’t like getting out one fucking bit, but especially as a parent one sometimes MUST.
Yesterday was one of those days. I had an appointment with my Neurosurgeon at 10:30am. The ride from my little rural town right outside of Baton Rouge was mostly interstate and mercifully uneventful at that time of day. As I pulled into the parking lot of the medical complex where all of my specialists are located I noticed hundreds of people. Outside. “What in the fucking fuck,” I muttered to myself as I got parked, grabbed my purse and headed for the building. As I got closer I asked a super sweet, chatty, older African American lady what was going on. She replied with “Lord, child some stupid ass young ‘un done called in a bomb threat.” “To a medical facility?” I asked incredulously. This sent Miss Gladys (as I later learned her name was) into the most hilarious rant about the chirren these days didn’t get dat ass beat nearly enough. That’s why they ALL acted like assholes. I was so caught up in her story and doubled over in fits of giggles, I didn’t even notice or mind the medical complex officials herding us back into the building. I of course sat by Miss Gladys as she was there for Neurology as well. By this time it was 11:20am and those fuckchops at reception told me that I was late for my appointment. You fucking think?!? Perhaps it was because you had 300 of us sick and hurting patients milling about in the hundred degree scorching heat with ninety percent humidity. Want to know what that feels like. Go wet a wool blanket soaking wet, lay it over your entire body including your face and try to breath. I was so enraged I threw a full fledged, stiff armed bug stomping fit. Right there in the check in line. I was sweating, swearing and ranting to such a degree they had to call security to calm me down. I think the two twenty something rent-a-cop’s were a bit intimidated by me because all they did was bring me a glass of cold water, a cool rag for my livid, feverish brow and gave me a few soothing words and hand pats. I shit you not, I got a standing ovation led by my new BFF, Miss Gladys, cheering loudly, ” You tell ’em, baby!”
Good thing she and I were having such a grand ole time because it made the hours pass much more quickly. It was nearly 2:00pm before either of us was seen.
The real fun didn’t start until I finally got on the interstate to head back home.
This is what I drove into. Remember I’m a shithouse rat CRAZY BITCH who had already had an unsettling fucked up day (except for meeting Miss Gladys, with whom I exchanged numbers so we could keep in touch) and as MY luck would have it drove into one of the biggest traffic cluster fucks of all time. People with BPD don’t do well with aggressiveness. In any form, and Baton Rouge drivers are the biggest road assholes on the whole god damn planet and I am their Queen. Queen of the Motor Assholes. The more aggressive other drivers became with me, the more I lost my shit! I mean seriously, I was going fucking beserk. I tried to run a semi-trucker AND two little old ladies off the road in less than half a mile. After two hours of inching along at a snails pace (I could have literally parked my car in the middle of the interstate and walked briskly home and I would’ve gotten home far more quickly than from sitting in that shit). By the time I made it home I was beside myself with rage. When I saw the house (remember I’m an OCD neat freak as well) and saw my fucking house in shambles from teenagers being home for the summer, I briefly contemplated murder but quickly realized that horizontal stripes make my fat ass like doubly wide AND neither black or white is on my color wheel.
Soooooo I did the only thing a raging mother fucker can do without being arrested……I went at my heavy bag in the garage (with my ex-husbands picture secured in a clear pocket I had so thoughtfully attached to it) until I puked. Just another day of 50 shades of CRAY in BR!!!
I remember being a young girl. Probably eleven or twelve years old when I urgently had to use the facilities at K-Mart as soon as mom had herded my brother, sister and I through the front doors. Back then there was no unisex bathroom where my mom, my sister, little brother and I could pile up into as I did my business because everyone knew what gender their fluid was back in those days. Being the eldest, mom decided to send me in alone as she and my sibs waited for me outside. As I hovered over the seat (no touching for me as I was a germophobe for as far back as I can remember) I noticed a word I had yet to read before. FUCK. It said other stuff too, it actually said for a GOOD FUCK call Lisa and there was a phone number. I hurriedly finished my business, got a fresh dry paper towel after washing my hands and copied what was written on the bathroom stall wall verbatim with my trusty red, blue and black clicker ink pen. I was on to something. This girl Lisa had a bunch of GOOD fucks, and since they were good and I didn’t think I owned any FUCKS AND we were at K-Mart, I decided to loudly proclaim my desire to have a GOOD FUCK from what I assumed was the toy department. All of the good stuff was in the toy department. Right?!? So I was convinced that was exactly where I could find the GOOD FUCKS at.
As I was not so quietly begging my mom for a whole bunch of GOOD FUCKS, she went white as freshly fallen snow, snatched her purse and my toddler sister out of the buggy and said “Let’s go. NOW!”
Neither my little brother nor eye could understand what the hell was going on as we sat in the back seat of mom’s station wagon staring at each other with wide eyes.
Once we got home mom sent my siblings into the backyard to play and tried to calmly explain to me that not only was that an ugly word…..it was the ugliest of words in the English language. Defensively I said “but those FUCKS were GOOD!!” So I got my mouth washed out with soap and grounded from going out to play with my neighborhood friends. In my tweenage rebellious mind I knew I had hit fucking paydirt. As soon as dad got home I got another lecture and a minor ass whipping (by minor I mean no belt was involved). By the time my punishment was up I was positively brimming with questions for my friends, two of which happened to be a couple of years older and boys. They told me ALL about those fucks and why I got my ass beat over giving one. From that day forward I have consciously incorporated that and a plethora of other equally shocking words into my vocabulary.
So that is the way my profanity story began, the rest is history, and I’m still wondering what poor ole Lisa did with all of those GOOD FUCKS she gave😂
Yin and yang is a concept of dualism in ancient Chinese philosophy, describing how seemingly opposite or contrary forces may actually be complementary, interconnected, and interdependent in the natural world, and how they may give rise to each other as they interrelate to one another.
I’ve suffered in my life. Oh, how I’ve suffered. There was a time that I allowed myself to be buried so deeply in my own tragedy that all I knew was suffering.
One morning Iwoke up and said, “FUCK that”!! That was the day I took control of my own destiny. Yes, as adults, life tends to hand us a plethora of shit sandwiches. Instead of turning up our noses at said sandwiches, one needs to learn how to tie on an adult sized bib and dive right in to that bitch. Life gives us circumstances. Some are rich, some are poor. Some are happy, some are sad. Some are easy, some are hard. The only certainty is that life is only going to GIVE you back what you give to it.
I started being abused when I was four years old. Four. The lens of innocence that I viewed the world through was shattered into a million tiny splinters of the sharpest crystal.
Through poor self esteem and bad decisions due to the poor self esteem, Icontinually made poor choices throughout my adult life. I have been victimized in every way there is to victimize a person. My life was my misery and Iwallowed in it.
Learning that you have a mental disorder is not on many people’s top ten list of best things that have ever happened to them, but alas I’mDIFFERENT. Being diagnosed with BorderlinePersonalityDisorderchanged my life. For the better. All of the odd and different things about me finally had a name. A royal title if you will. I mean I’m quirky as fuck anyway, but add a double scoop with sprinkles of BPD on top of that and you’ve got one misfit, looney tunes mother fucker😊
I used to let my suffering and craziness define me. It took me coming to the cusp of completinglosing myself to the darkness for me to finally shatter again, but this time shatter to a rebirth where I could see the bright, beautiful prisms of light that bounced off all of those broken splinters of my own heart. I OWN my suffering and craziness now. I run this koo-koo ass shitshow that is sometimes my life.
Although I have suffered, my blessings are great and many. I have learned never to judge. We never know what kind of internal war our fellow man is waging just below the surface. These days kindness and empathy just seem like words from days long past. It doesn’t have to be that way. I’m living proof of the balance in the great equation that we call life.
Although my heart has been broken time and time again, the greatest of loves was practicallydropped in my lap. I personally think it’s because I GIVE so much love. It’s good for ones heart to spread love in these times of chaos and hate. It did come back around to balance all of my previous suffering and pain.
I had a small little nest egg that I took an uncharacteristic chance on by investing into a few risky high yield stocks, because I’ve always had a generous, charitable nature and have ALWAYS gone out of my way to help those less fortunate than myself (even during my darkest days) my gamble paid off for me and grew my nest egg exponentially.
The common denominator is balance. I, as a practicing Buddhist try to incorporate balance in every aspect of my life. From how I live my life to how I arrange my furniture. If you feel like you are in a rut. Do something. Anything. Get those wheels spinning again, because I know for a fact that “It can’t rain all the time.” (The Crow, 1994).
I started my blog eighteen months ago to try to deal with my Borderline Personality Disorder diagnosis. I was at the time only hoping to connect with others with my condition so I could possibly get insight and advice on how to cope with the dramatic highs and lows of BPD. Little did I know what a life altering journey my blog would take me on.
I have made so many dear lifelong friends from all over the globe. I have found unconditional love and support from the unlikeliest of places. I have laughed, cried, ranted and raved with all of you and I wouldn’t change one single second of it!
You all have become my giant loving supportive family and I am so very grateful to have each and every one of you in my WP family. Thank you for 500 Follows. Here’s to many more years of our profanity laden (me), happy, sad, exciting, crazy journey♥️♥️
Insomnia. It’s such an awful bitch. Nights are the absolute worst. Dark and endless. I’ve always hated nights. Bad things happen in the dark. I am saying so from personal experience. I crave sleep like someone who is lost in the desert craves water. They eventually hallucinate and see beautiful mirages consisting of glistening pools of water. I hallucinate deep, dreamless sleep. It’s bad enough that during the daylight hours my mind is in constant turmoil. The night only increases the battle within to a fever pitch. Occasionally I doze fitfully only to have vivid, violent nightmares of other dark nights long past. The abominations perpetrated upon my person flicker rapidly across the back of my eyelids like a horror movie on fast forward. Although I am at the cusp of the shadow lands, I can feel my body writhe and my breathe quicken as the shadow serpent starts coiling itself around my body as I look into its cold dead eyes and watch its forked tongue touching my skin like an evil whisper I suddenly realize I can hear it. Over and over again it names every sin I’ve ever committed. I shudder as I feel the BPD Monster come out to join the macabre party and wrestle with the Serpent of sins past.
As the serpent continually repeats each sin it’s voice gets louder. Not to be outdone, the BPD Monster starts a litany of all of the sins committed against me. It has to scream to be heard over the Serpent who in turn gets louder to be heard over the Monster until it becomes a shrieking cacophony that eventually turns into a silent scream that my dozing body can’t lend a voice to. I’m frozen in terror. I gasp as I feel the Monster start to rage and the Serpent tighten its coils. Mercifully the gasp startles me awake. I bolt upright in my bed drenched in sweat and my heart galloping in my chest. “Another fucking nightmare”, I whisper to myself for reassurance. Truth be told I did it to make sure I was really awake. Really alive.
Waging this internal battle day and night is exhausting. Most days it manifests itself into excruciating physical pain. What a loathsome life to NEVER have a moments peace. One can not say that I have not tried to do something about this internal conflict. I religiously go to therapy and take my psychiatric medications, I paint, write, continuously clean and organize. I’ve tried acupuncture. I do guided meditations several times a day. Absolutely nothing has worked to block the horrific memories. At this point I don’t think anything short of a lobotomy, a psychiatric ward or death will stop them. They have become as much a part of me as my own body and the organs that keep me in the land of the living. If I thought amputating a limb would work I would saw that fucking limb off with a dull handsaw myself. Alas this is only wishful thinking. My eyes are red and gritty. My jaw has been clenched all night which has given me colossal headache. I toss back four Tylenol’s like they are Tic Tac candies. I listlessly flip through the channels and realize that not even the news is on anymore. Only endless infomercials hawking their shitty wares. Everyone is so happy and energetic. I realize that I envy these anonymous people. In my mind they all sleep just fine. No nightmares for these exultant people. I don’t wish to trade places with them though. Not even for a second. I wouldn’t wish my walking wounded crazy mind on my worst enemy much less some gleeful strangers. So as usual, I will fight the good fight for another short day and another long night. I tell myself, “I am Sparta”, like an encouraging mantra.
At last the sun is slowly ascending the sky. I am finally able to unclench my jaw and reach for the eye drops that have taken up permanent residence on my night stand. Tonight was by far not my first rodeo. As I stand I hear every joint in my body screech in protest as they crackle and pop. I have a moment of vertigo that insists that I sit back down. I know exactly how this day is going to go by the way it has started.
Moral of this story?
The early bird does not get “the worm”. The early bird does not get shit except a lot less sleep than everyone else.
Truth and Justice. It is a motto that stands for personal honor and truth in actions and in justice, regardless of the circumstances.
Various people have told me that I am an attractive forty seven year old woman that looks much younger than my years. To be honest when people associate me with the wordattractiveit literally makes me squirm because when I look in the mirror, that is NOT what I see. As far as my “attractiveness” goes if that is in fact what one might think the only thing I can think of to say is that I was just blessed with really good genes.
If you really want to know someone, look at their hands. That’s where theirstory lies.
My hands absolutely do not look like an “attractive woman” (my BPD refuses to let me agree with this word) in fact I’mcringing as I type it.
In truth I am Anastasia and her story is not fiction. It’s my story. There was a time that I was ashamed of it….but now I OWN it. Love her or hate her, she is I, although I was a victim for so very long, I never labeled myself as that. The thought never crossed my mind. Anastasia was, is and will always be afighter. I will ALWAYS fight the good fight. I will ALWAYS err on the side of righteousness. I will always root and fight for the underdogs, thedowntrodden and the victims for I was all of these things at some point in my life.
Look at my hands, Ididnot lie down and cower and take it. I fought back. I fought until I couldn’tphysically rise up again to fightsome more. I fought with all of the anger, hurt, betrayal, humiliation and sadness bottledup inside me. I could always hear dear old “Mickey” urging me on from my corner. I have fought back from drug addiction, homelessness and hunger. I have fought back from psychological, emotional and physical abuse. I have fought this monster inside of me (Borderline Personality Disorder) and for the most part have won that battle too. This mental illness is incurable, it is wildly erratic and one of the hardest mental illnesses to get control of short of a psyche ward. The suicide rates of Borderlines compared to all of the other mental illnesses in thePsychiatrists “little” Merck Manual combined are off the charts. I fight that bitch with every ounce of willpower and intestinal fortitude I have, every single hour of every single day. That being said, in my own way that gives me the W, one day at a time.
I don’t make excuses for it.
I don’t blame others for it.
I don’t lie, manipulate or connive to toy with peoples emotions “because my disorder made me do it.”
I fight this ugly beast and the horror of my past because although I may be little, I am mighty. I am fierce. I am fucking Sparta.
I fight because I love too much sometimes. I fight FOR the ones I love, even when they refuse to fight for themselves. All my heart knows how to do is fight for what and whomI love and love what and whom I’m fighting for.
Anastasia will never break. She’s got far too much fight in her because she KNOWS, it’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’sthesize of the fight in the dog that gets you through this Borderline life.
Those who fight monsters inevitably change. Because of all that I feel and have done, I’ve lost my innocence, and sometimes a tiny piece of my humanity with it. If I want to survive, sometimes I begin to adopt some of the same characteristics as the monster I fight but whatever it takes I will never allow this monster to win. My monster is Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s changed me to my very core on so many different levels and in so many different ways. It’s made me delight in rage and violence that I never knew I was capable of. Like a malignant tumor, this BPD grows inside of me. Not with the cells of cancer, but with the cells of the unknown, the emptiness, the rage, the worthlessness and the most soul searing emotional and psychological pain that a human being could possibly endure. In equating it to physical pain, some professionals compare it to having third degree burns over ninety percent of ones body.
I try and keep the monster tendencies locked in a cage, deep inside. The monster only comes out for self preservation and only then. I can no more contain it when it becomes ready to burst forth any more than a runaway train. I just hang on for dear life and pray that I’m the only casualty. It is not for the perverse pleasure that the monster feels when it harms others. In fact, the monsterous tendencies cause more damage to the Borderline than the Non Borderline could ever fathom. Guilt, isolation, depression, PTSD. There is a cost for visiting violence on others when it is the antithesis of your very nature. I am not a monster, the disorder is. The cost inflicted upon the ones we love the most and hold deepest inside of our hearts is far greater than anything I could ever imagine in my worst nightmares. That is why I try to stand against those BPD impulses lurking inside with every ounce of fight I have within my soul. It is so difficult and lonely when I have no support network to speak of. I spend all of my days and many, many sleepless nights trying to deal with this ferocious monster alone. In my own heart. In my own mind.
I don’t always succeed but I do give every fiber of my being within myself to keep the evilness inside of me caged. That is what BPD is to me…pure unadulterated evil. Evil that I never asked for, or deserved, but was given at the age most toddlers are learning to love, trust others and to believe in themselves.
While trying to minimalize the damage I do with my venomous words and unfettered rage, I am eviscerated psychologically and emotionally a bit more each time I am unable to contain it. Being left exhausted and numb for days on end from the savage battle that I have just waged inside.
I witness things in my nightmares that any sane human is not programmed to see and ever be normal again. Alas, I try to never burden a single soul with the horrific recollections of them. I bury them deep, deep down inside so the ones I love the most (my spouse, my family, my children) who are on the front lines of this disorder whether they want to be or not, never really know the scope and depth of the psychological pain I never asked for or wanted but carry around like Atlas, with the constant weight of the world on my shoulders.
For those I love, I will always run head first toward the Borderline monster and fight it with savagery of a woman possessed.
Just to walk a very thin tightrope on the opposite side of what society deems normal is a delicate and brutal dance that I spin to in tune to music that no one else hears, because it plays only in my head.
“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”
I will always fight for what I truly fear. The battle for my sanity. I will always stand between my loved ones and this cruel disorder to the best of my abilities through which the Borderline monster wants to hurt, damage and create chaos with it’s horrible words and behavior against my closest allies. The ones who love me no matter what. Believe it or not, I acknowledge the thing that the vast majority are too soft, too weak or too cowardly to even address. The stigma of mental illness and the toll it takes on those who not only rage a daily battle with it and suffer from it, but also deal with the judgments, cruel words and hurtful comments, complete disdain and/or utter contempt and doubt that there is anything wrong with one at all. “It’s all for attention.” “It’s all in your head (of course it’s all in my head because I wage a daily exhausting war to keep it contained as much as humanly possible to minimize the fallout to the very ones who speak those exact words to me)”. These are the same people who would NEVER ever be able to wrap their condescending, small, judgmental minds around what a day in the life of anyone who has the misfortune to suffer from mental illness, which one has no control over, is like.
To my fellow sufferers of ANY and ALL types of psychological disorders, we are the beautiful ones though. The ones that battle mind numbing psychological pain that more times than not manifests itself into mind numbing physical pain who still find enough beauty in this world to smile at a stranger or offer a kind word to those that we can inherently feel may need them.
The current political climate in this country and on a much greater scale this whole world holds very little near and dear, that is except the almighty dollar and ones personal smartphones, iPads, PC’s and other technologies that lessen the interaction and the necessary skills it takes to navigate this life in the midst of one another. This age of technology and vitriol is robbing mankind of its humanity just as BPD tries to rob me of mine. It is there, that we the ones that suffer the burden of mental illness, in the time of our darkest hours, feel every bit of our humanity, because our pain at least let’s us know we are still able to feel anything at all in the times that we must totally mentally disconnect to keep us sane. The pain. It lets us know we are still alive.
Submission is the popular mantra of the times. I will NEVER submit to my illness or the stigma attached to it.
Warriors are decried, denigrated, and cast as morally inferior in the world today. Warriors come from many walks of life, genders, faiths and occupations, but let’s not forget us, the warriors of illnesses. Physical and mental. The ones who fight through the fear, trauma, pain, exhaustion and for some, ridicule. These warriors fight monsters too. Theirs may not be made of flesh and blood but are nonetheless just as real.
We know how childish, how asinine, and how cowardly the mindset of most of society is today. They would rather look the other way and pretend such ugly things do not exist rather than speak of something which my be unpleasant to their “delicate” sensibilities as the most vulnerable suffer alone. Today I realize that it is a duty, my duty, our duty as the warriors that some are and that many of us will have to become, because we must, in order to bring out into the light what society would prefer to keep in the dark. We must stand up and change the mindset of how people view mental illness. We must start uncomfortable conversations.
As a person who personally suffers from severe social anxiety as well as BPD and PTSD, something of this nature is much easier said than done, but the spark to light the fire of understanding and acceptance MUST be lit. If I can start one difficult conversation, one open dialogue that needs to be opened because I “raised my voice” for one beautiful and freeing moment and brought this normally taboo subject out into the bright glaring light, then for someone whose illness is characterized by self worthlessness, today in my own eyes, I became worthy of being a warrior for my cause. If only for that moment, perhaps, I was even a voice for another who suffers the same battle, who is still working on finding their own voice and needs someone to speak up for them as well. I am not “recovered” nor will I ever be because there is no cure for my kind of crazy. I am no hero for speaking up. I will be battling this monster for as long as I live but I realized just this day that until I viewed it and treated it as something visceral and tangible that my fight would be so much more difficult.
I DO know this…..There ARE things in this life worth fighting for.
Faith, love, liberty, family, friends and standing up for those who are too afraid, weak or ashamed to stand alone as I have been for so very long.
I woke up changed yet again by this disorder but this time I’m fighting back.
There are some of us that believe that fighting what others disagree with, turn a blind eye to, or battle the physical and/or psychologically real monsters in our midst are honorable, noble, and just….and are willing to pay the price for that deeply held belief. Why? For us, today I discovered that there is no choice.
I have to speak out and hold on as tightly as I can to these beliefs, the reason being is that today is NOT a good day. I feel like I am being sucked deeper and deeper into the bottomless abyss. That being said I will continue the good fight against this “THING” that has destroyed my whole life AND practically everyone and everything I’ve ever loved. I may go down, but MY “monsters” know I will go down fighting until the sweet, bitter end.
Participation medals, high schools not having Valedictorians because it makes others “feel bad” about themselves, the ACT test adding extra criteria in the scoring process so more “diverse” people will be accepted into college. Are they fucking serious?!?? My son worked so hard in high school in Advanced Placement Courses that he was a sophomore in College by the time he graduated high school and was also given a full Presidental Scholarship to at least five different colleges and was also Valedictorian of his class. I wish those snowflake fuckfaces would have tried to take that hard earned honor from my baby.
Do you know why he excelled academically? Because he worked his fucking ass off and put his social life on the back burner. Even in high school he knew that being a social media hot shot would NOT pay his bills in the future. He has worked towards his dream of being a doctor since 1st grade. He made straight A’s his entire school career and graduated at the top of his class in pre-med Summa Cum Laude this May, all the while being the president of his fraternity, President of the entire Greek Council, worked THREE jobs and still graduated with honors. He was obviously accepted into med school, just got his first year class schedule and is finally realizing his dream. Not by having extra points on his ACT which he made a 35 on (36 is a perfect score) BECAUSE he was focused, ambitious and worked hard for 16 years to get there.
Mediocrity is celebrated and promoted by all of these Progressive Lawmakers and whiny snowflakes that want something for nothing. Even good grades and automatic college admission, but can some one PLEASE tell me how by progress you mean making everyone the same, like oatmeal or like we say in the South, “grits y’all “.
Now most of this whole generation think that they are hot shit on a silver platter, but someone (I totally volunteer) to burst their stupid mediocre bubble and let them know that they are only cold turds on a paper plate.
Exceptional and Extraordinary MEANS going above and beyond you fucking jackasses. In this world their are Winners and their are losers, snowflakes. So suck it up buttercups, get the fuck over yourselves and put forth some effort!!
Racism, Sexism, Sadism, Homophobia, mass murders, genocide, Necrophilia……the political mud slinging has turned into politicians slinging their own shit….we are fighting other countries, we are fighting amongst ourselves!! Has EVERYONE forgotten that we are but one race??? The HUMAN fucking race! Climate change, an errant asteroid strike or Alien life is not going to destroy us. We are doing a mighty fine job of that shit ourselves!! Much more quickly than any of the above ever could.
I’ve studied many, many different religions and ethnicities and at the very core of each and EVERY belief system, they are the same. Love your God, whomever that may be and be kind, generous and do right by your “neighbor”! None of these religions say only do so if your neighbor looks, acts or worships the exact same way as you. WTF is the matter with most of society?!? Try a little love instead of hate. Empathy instead of judgement. Acceptance instead of fear. I’m no great mind or brilliant philosopher, yet I understand this with crystal clarity. If others can not do the same, I suggest we start paddling faster….I hear banjos!
Well I knew that it was going to happen sooner rather than later. I just didn’t know when. Living with Borderline Personality Disorder, one is ALWAYS waiting for the other shoe to drop. Right on our fucking heads. The good times are amazing, the bad times I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy (well maybe that bitch that fucked my husband six weeks before we were married), I wish that shit squared on that whore. Along with Ebola, SARS, Malaria, Meningitis, Equine Encephalitis, Mad Cow Disease, Chronic Wasting Disease, Swine Flu, Bubonic Plague, HPV, HIV, Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, Syphilis, UTI, Renal Failure, blindness, deafness, muteness, Leprosy, Legionnaires Disease and the absolute worst case of dysentery there ever was. I pray for this vile creature to come down with EVERY single one of them EVERY night. I’m already going to hell for my own shitty past so at this point praying for someone like this slut to suffer so greatly will not impact my immortal soul any more than it’s already impacted. Go big or go home is my motto.
Obviously I’ve triggered. No matter what I trigger over this horrific part of my life ALWAYS gets thrown in for good measure by myself.
I’m not sure if my trigger was the upcoming holidays, having two extra “guests” in our 800 square foot condo, or if it was the fact that my husband was exhausted from work, in a shitty mood and said some (in my opinion) awful shit that Daddy Dearest used to say to me. I completely fucking lost it though. Every single time, I think I’m making progress, that giant shoe drops and shows me who’s boss…..and my boss is BPD.