Inching Closer to the Borderline
It May Take a Lifetime to Heal
I am afraid of other people’s emotions.
Just writing that fear down feels like an epiphany. I am so tired of this story, but it continues. With every breath. It continues.
I fear their emotions, but I do not avoid them all together. I think I have always liked the taste of fear, a slow burning intensity, a ghost pepper.
I have also learned how to avoid the temptation to antagonize, needle, or slander. As an empath, I sometimes cry and shudder while I write. I can read emotions, and if there isn’t some voodoo in other people’s tears, I don’t know magic.
I grew up with a father who, I have been told recently by my own therapists, has borderline personality disorder. As a child, I was wired to be attracted to the drama. I have had to learn how to embrace restlessness and boredom, but my only chance of survival is to create the illusion of calm. You don’t hear me, but I am screaming on the inside a lot of the time.
I cannot handle the tone of people screaming at each other. My parents screamed at each other all the time. My father never understood my mom. They screamed in the car. He would scream at her to stop the car. He would get out, and we wouldn’t see him again. For a while.
