Y’all fucked with a big mouth.
Hi. This, on the surface, is a story about the uncomfortable process of falling in love. Dig a little deeper and it’s a story about how trauma complicates love. Be warned: this is a rough draft with minimal edits. Also, I glossed over certain traumatic details because I don’t feel like dealing with them right now.
A good representation of what you’re about to read.
Bonjour. My French still sucks. I’m fairly certain people have given up on speaking French with me.
“Juh suisse Amerycane”
Today has been rocky. I had my first, “oh my god I need to leave Corsica or go back to the States or go to hell because I am an insane person and no one loves me” moment since arriving in Europe. I have those thoughts fairly often, but not necessarily all at once.
It was either this or a picture of a giraffe. I feel like this is more applicable.
I am sitting at my parents’ house with not much to do, so let’s talk about Borderline Personality Disorder for a second.
I was diagnosed with BPD last February, following a period of impulsive sex, drug use, alcohol use, and overall chaos-creating behaviors. It was humiliating. Books about “dealing” with the Borderline in your life have names like, I Hate You — Don’t Leave Me, Stop Walking on Eggshells, and Stop Caretaking the Borderline or Narcissist: How to End the Drama and Get On with Life. Borderlines in film range from the not-so-crazy Winona Rider in Girl, Interrupted, to her totally batshit ward-mate, Angelina Jolie. And then there’s Fatal Attraction, where the Borderline lead character acts like this.
