The current state of feeling.

The only way I know how to make myself feel better because the PRN meds don’t work anymore, is to sleep through everything and seeing as I can’t do that most of the time anymore either, the only thing left is to write. Because writing has always been my vice, the only outlet that has truly been consistent, whilst others have fallen by the way side.
I have had enough. And I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate that this is my life. I hate being ill and I hate walking round in pain all of the time. 

I’m self confessed wasted potential because I didn’t even stand a chance from the second I was born. It was in my cards to have the upbringing I had and the life I’ve had as an adult. I feel like I must’ve been an absolute bastard in my previous life to have deserved this one. 

 And It’s not like I haven’t been proactive in a desperate bid to improve my lot either. But you cant cjange your stars no matter how hard you try if it’s not what fate intended. See the truth is being happy terrifies me because it always goes away. Usually because I crap all over it and self destruct before it gets taken away from me but more often than not it’s attributed to being ill.

I’m sitting here writing because I don’t know what else to do. I spoke to my friend, I spoke to my uncle. And I just feel like a cunt because they worry. But I don’t want to call the home treatment team either as I can’t face talking on the phone again this evening. I don’t think that I’m ever going to feel better. I wish that all one of those suicide attempts had been successful or that any of the numerous occasions I’d thought about doing it that I just had  because then I wouldn’t sitting here right now wishing that I wasn’t. Am I suicidal. No. Am I wishing I was dead and that I won’t wake up again. Yes. That’s the difference though between being suicidal and suicide ideation. One becomes an attempt or a success and the other is a wish and carrying on the misery.

It guts me so badly that I’m merely existing and that because I’m not normal in comparison to those that don’t have BPD. I know I don’t get the basic perks of being a human being. I don’t get the career, the family or the bloke. Fuck I don’t even see my friends because I’m too ill. And I haven’t seen my uncle since August! I just can’t face it. My social circle is close. I’m blessed in that regard that my three best friends and my uncle are so patient and understanding and non judgemental but if I’m honest I don’t tell them half of the crap that is going on with me. It’s just easier that way. Keeping people at arms length even those that care about me. 

I spend half of my time worrying and apologizing to people for being me. Because my how I am because of the BPD because as much I don’t want it too…it does define me. I am my illness, my behaviours, how I think, how I feel…it’s all of me. Sure it doesn’t dictate the kind of music I like but I have to be careful what I listen too, or the fact artists, books or whether I’m good at maths or if I prefer coffee over tea etcetera but it does dictate everything else. 

On the surface I’m well liked. Popular to some extent at least I certainly was in Exeter working at the strip club, going to clubs, amongst work colleagues and housemates etcetera but when people get to know me my cracks start to show and what’s revealed beneath those cracks is how poorly I am. I’m intense and full on and arguable over the top, emotionally unstable of course hence bods other name EUPD, paranoid, insecure, the word aggressive has been used in regards to my manner sometimes and look the fuck out if you piss me off because Lord is my temper explosive and ugly then there’s the constant fear of abandonment and the need for reassurance. Sometimes I’m numb or cant stand to be around people and the next I’m the opposite.  So it’s simply easier to not let people too close. Because if I do I always feel hurt when people run for the hills because of how I am. And that guts me too. In fact it floors me. I’ve learnt the hard way that it’s easier to just not get too close or involved with people. Better for everyone all around to be honest.

That’s just friendship. Don’t even get me started on men. Again all of the above applies. And as I stated before I am so selective about who I choose to let in. It always back fires and again it is easier to be just be single. Less complicated because again…I don’t get the normal things everyone else does and honestly I feel like anyone would be insane to get close to me, because aside from being a worthless and unlovable piece of shit I would just crap all over it anyway. Also if people get too close I freak out and if they don’t get close enough I freak out so really it’s a lose lose situation for everyone involved.

This can’t be my life, this can’t be it. Just existing, not living just constant shit.

Everything is getting worse, my psychotic episodes, my temper, moods all over the place, I’m not eating or sleeping properly etc. The only thing I am doing is taking care of my cat, making sure she’s fed and watered, clean litter trays, let her in and out and giving her affection. My impulsive behaviour is getting out of control too and so is my dermatillomania, I’m picking more than ever and as result my skin including my scalp is an absolute shit state, one of my picking sites in particular is scarred and I still I pick at it. And quite frankly right now I could eat a cigarette. Fuck my e-cig I want an actual smoking cigarette. But nooooo I thought binning my tobacco was the best bloody idea ever four months ago. 

I need to go the doctors next week and sort out my script with the increased dosage of my antidepressant…which I should’ve done a month ago after seeing my psychiatrist (sorry Doctor F if you’re reading this) but I’ve had no motivation what so ever. 

Fuck this I’m just pissing myself off now. And getting more and more wound up with the state if everything, with who I Am, how I feel. And also with the fact that when someone has their minds made up about you, no matter what you do, you can’t change it. I do it too. Doesn’t bug me any less though, being aware of that fact.  


She’s gone. Probably terrorizing the devil as we speak.

It took me three attempts, two changes of topic/direction and two sittings to compose my latest post. I’ve been feeling more unwell than usual so I was all set on Thursday to type it up and post, admittedly that was a week after I had drafted it up in my notebook. 

I had actually slept for more than my usual 4 hours which is a recent thing. I didn’t surface until gone 12.30. Ten minutes later when I was only 3/4 of my way through my first cup of coffee and actually enjoying the sensation of being in a good mood my phone started ringing. I saw It was my uncle and I thought it quite odd as I usually call him when I get up and he rings in the evening. 

He told me that he had just gotten off the phone to my sister, sister 1 and those of you that are regular readers, will know that I ceased all contact with them all a few months ago. I wasn’t really expecting what came next to be honest and bless my uncle he is as subtle as a house brick, much as I am and he told me that sister 1 had asked him (because they dont have my new number) to pass on the fact that our mother had died. They had only found out an hour earlier themselves. From what I can gather none of our other siblings or anyone connected to her had reached out to her or sister 3 to break the news and they’d found out in a roundabout sort of way that she had died the day before.

I knew she was sick. Sister 1 and 3 had told me. She had cancer and was being fed via a tube and that was a few months back. It must’ve been before March as that’s when I stopped talking to them. I had wondered over the last few months and even aloud to my counsellor Apollo whether or not she’d died. 

I went numb. After hearing it. The exact same way I did when I was told my father had died. It’s like a subconscious security blanket to protect me. To be honest I was shocked anything happened emotionally other than feeling pure rage, upon hearing of her death. I knew that when the numbness dissipated and I knew it would, that I would probably become apoplectic and have to try my damndest not to tear the walls down. The only thing I inherited from my parents aside from my mother’s green eyes and both of their stubbornness is their tempers. Naturally thanks to BPD it is amplified and I don’t have a fuse these days let alone a short one, it is so miniscule that I lose it over what most would perceive as trivial shit.

I kept myself busy forcing myself to do distraction as much as possible, and Friday was hectic between having to take my cat to the vets etc that my blissfully numb state remained in play until Friday night when all of a sudden my head wasn’t distracted by sorting out the vets, messaging friends etc and it was just me alone on the couch, my phone quiet for a change and the tv on, then it hit me and to my utter surprise I found myself crying, fuck it I was downright howling at one point, I even contemplated closing the window for fear of someone hearing me. 

The thing is…I wasn’t crying or grieving because I had lost my mother….I was crying because she had had the audacity to go to her grave without making amends for what she did. That she had the cheek to die without apologising or explaining what drove her to not only treat me the way she did but for actively encouraging her sicko husband to abuse me. See I can never bring myself to talk about what that bastard did to me. For a multitude of reasons, the main one being is that it hurts too much. It knocks me fucking sick, it makes me feel too vulnerable and exposed and that same fear I felt as a child, I become ensconced in it. So when I did my counselling and I forced out that those words that when strung together in a sentence, told of some of the memories. And my counsellor gave his opinion and the conclusion of my mother clearly being in cahoots with him. I felt she owed me a fucking explanation. So the fact that she gone to her grave without allowing me the opportunity to scream a blue streak at her left me fucking seething. 

It’s been a couple of days since I started this draft. And a what happened the night before last well it wasn’t good for my rage. Let’s put it that way but I’ll get to it.

There are so many things I want answers to from her. But alas I’ll never get those answers. I’m struggling to wrap my head around that. That 18 years ago when I was just fifteen years old she abandoned me to the care system and I never laid eyes on her again at least not in person. She did me a favour to be honest as my foster family was and still are incredible. But knowing that It’s been 18years since I last saw her and I remember the look on her face in that room filled with social workers, her in sitting in the middle of a plump couch with her monster of a husband and his old battle axe of a mother staring at me. I could tell she wanted to pick me up and tear the meat off my bones for breaking the secret. For disrupting her perfect idyllic life. I remember her saying she didn’t want me back. And I remember for the first time in my short life having the guts and gumption to stand up to her and spitting out that I didn’t want to go back. It was my idea of hell. I’d spent the last month bot being abused in any capacity and being loved and not made to feel like I was worthless. If I’d known then that it would be the last time I saw her I would’ve said more. But hindsight is a wonderful thing and the things I would scream in her face at her now…are far more articulate than those words that would’ve come from my child self. 

I would’ve asked her the following had she not been such a coward or a cunt. I’m not sure which she was to be honest. An amalgamation of the two probably. A selfish and evil one at that. 

1)Why did you think having me would fix your horrendous and violent marriage? 

2)I wish most days you’d had me aborted.

3)Why didn’t you realise that your mate that used to baby sit me was abusing me? How could you not notice bruises, or the fact that I only threw up on the evenings that I had been to her house? Why didn’t you think to take me to a doctor. Or question me again about the duck egg sized lump on my forehead? Or why I’d run away that day. She threw me across her living room when she had collected me. I hit my head on her hearth and I felt dizzy when I stood up. I don’t know still to this day if it had knocked me out. Why didn’t you care enough to see the signs. Actually I know, you were too busy slagging about behind my dad’s back to give a shite.

4)When you charmer of a new husband showed his true colours about a year/few month after living with him. Why didn’t you hand up for me. Why didn’t you tell him to be nice and not to treat me that way. For all the times he laid in to me or spoke to me like dog shit calling me stupid repeatedly, making me cry, and all of the other name calling that gave me a complex for years. To the point where people tell me to this day what an intelligent lady I am, that I balk and think It’s not true! And I couldn’t let people see me cry mainly men, for years! Because I was so terrified of what they would say, of what the would call me. And you stood back and you didn’t say shit other than ‘Ohhh *shit stains name*’ Christ even my god father said more than that to him! Admittedly He’s a fucking nonce and all be we’ll get to him in a second. I was head shy for years too. Seriously if anyone threw anything to me or put their hands near my face when I wasn’t expecting it etc…my arms would automatically cover my fucking head….because whenever you would go off to your night college…he’d slap me round the head….for shits and giggles and not just then he’d do it whenever the fancy took him and there was no one around. He was a fucking bullying piece of shit. And you, you didn’t want anything to ruin your dream life that you thought was something out of a Jilly Cooper novel. News flash lady, we were broke as fuck living in a bunch of mobile homes at the end of a field. Jilly Cooper novel it wasn’t. How could you not see the wood for the trees? I remember running to you one evening, scared shit less crying after I had been stood in the dining room and your husband came walking in carrying one of my siblings. I moved out of his way….he threw punches at me not connecting but it scared me. I remember the look of pure sadistic pleasure he had on his face when he did it. And still you didn’t do anything. But then again you did punch me once and it did actually connect and it did make my nose bleed. In was 7 years old you evil bitch.

5)At what point did you suspect your  new husband was a nonce? And why didn’t you do anything about it? What kind of sick twisted pretzel do you have to be to not only stay with him but to actively encouarage it? I swear to God if you hadn’t been dying and I wasn’t so crippled with mental illness when I’d spoken about certain memories to my counsellor and we drew the conclusion that you, were in cahoots with him…i’d’ve taken great pleasure in hopping on a train and giving you the ass kicking that most of your children wanted to give you. I mean were you twisted or a nonce too. I’m struggling to get my head around that in particular. Or were you that desperate and terrified of being alone that you thought if you didn’t go along with it you’d end up alone. Either way I hope you got your story straight when you met your maker. I know you’re a christian so if that’s the case and your God is real…you’re probably running hell now. 
6)Why did you think letting my godfather back into my life was a great idea what with one of my siblings having accused him of attempted rape years prior to his reappearance? We’re you in a cahoots with him too? Did you essentially pimp me out? Or were you genuinely that deluded like I was and were of the opinion that he was a nice a guy.  Although I mean that in itself poses the question as to what kind of mother would believe a man over her own daughter. You know other than a woman that is either a nonce herself or a nonce apologist. 

The other night I found out that she had died earlier than I was told and by all accounts earlier than sister 1 and sister 3 were told judging by what I stumbled across. I guess they really feared me turning up and turning her funeral into a circus much like sister 2 did at my fathers funeral. I mean I suppose singing and dancing along to ‘Ding ding the witch is dead’ might’ve raised a few eyebrows and not gone down so well. But luckily for then I a)Have a crippling mental illness with an equally as crippling anxiety disorder on top of it which makes going anyway an absolute fucking nightmare let alone actually getting on a train or bus for longer than half an hour being IMPOSSIBLE and b)I have got way more important things to be concerning myself with and doing such a cutting my toenails and or watching paint dry than to attend the funeral of the likes of her.

So now I have gotten everything off my chest. Well that I can think, of in regards to my mother. I’m going to bugger off and concentrate on actual real problems that are worthy of my time e.g concentrating on my own health both mental and physical, my Uncle, taking care of my cat and trying my damndest not to crack up or eat the rest of my Haribo jelly babies before bed. 

Here is me singing some of the songs that I have had in my head for the last few days since finding out about her. As aside from her eyes the only other thing I got from my mother is the ability to sing.  I wanted to write or paint, I needed to let the emotion out somehow  but I couldn’t settle to do it. So I did what I did as a teenager…I sang.

The first is Four Five Seconds by Rihanna ft Kanye West and Paul McCartney.

And the second is Save myself by Ed Sheeran. Oooh he is a bit lovely.

Catharsis *New main post coming soon*

Last night was shitty truth be told. The day on the whole was ok(ish) up and down but nothing out of the ordinary. Isn’t it sad that intense emotions and mood swings are normal to me and my fellow BPD sufferers. I did have one particular bad moment of frustration, that literally made me do the “Arrgh for fuck sake” thing. I am a skin picker….this needs to be addressed with my psychiatrist. It is known as Dermatillomania If you don’t feel like reading the medical definition in the link read below to see what I do. 

For years I sufferers horrendous OCD. And about three years ago all of a sudden most of the rituals just seem to vanish well the need to perform them seemingly went *poof* gone as if by magic. However he seemed to disappear when I started scratching my scalp, taking my nails through my hair and since then it has progressed to picking. I get these lumps on my scalp presumably from my shampoo every now and again and I pick at them until they are sore and bleed and I will continually pick the scab off once it has formed….regardless of how much it hurts. Because I know it will absolutely cane when I pick them off but I still do it. The same way I will squeeze and pick at a spot until It’s completely annihilated and there’s just a bloody splotch where it once was. Like the bottom right side of my mouth face is a mess right now. At one point two weeks ago I picked at one and blood ran down my chin. I know they will scar like the rest but still I do it….because It’s compulsive and when I can’t do it, because I’m trying not to, because I know how bad it is, and that yes it will leave me with scars, I become uptight and agitated. As in seriously twitchy.

It’s not just my scalp and face. I have scars sorted around all over my body, my arms, stomach,my knee and even on my right boob. In fact I have my most gnarly scars there…two. One on the underside and a more recent one on the top. It can be a real, or imagined imperfection that I pick or snip at. Either way It’s driving me up the wall because I can’t seem to stop. So today after counselling when I got back to the town where I live, I went on a mission to find a fidget cube. Sod fidget spinners. I’m a clicky type person. I’d always been tempted by the cube as it was marketed as a Mindfulness tool. When I got to the store that I’d seen one in a few months back I was told that they were no longer allowed to sell them however they did have this. Which has all of the elements on it (including the other side) but is more hand friendly. And I have

Subsequently been driving Lola mad with the clicking since I got home in a vain attempt not to pick. To be fair it has helped and I’ve only picked at my scalp absent mindedly and when i’ve caught myself or my hand subconsciously going to my head I have swapped to clicking. 

Going back to last night. When I went to bed and was sitting toking away on my e-cig, as part of my night time routine when I have brushed my teeth, and I’m digesting the day. I started dreading my counselling session because I need to address these issues pertaining to the abuse I endured at the hands of my step father, and I’d read a few bits online too that triggered me and before I knew it things had spiralled from feeling a bit sad, to not wanting to be here anymore. I cried, actually I howled at one point. Because of what he’d done to me, what my god father had also done to me and how my mother treated me and her behaviour. My insides felt raw and I felt like I wasn’t a survivor instead I was back there, a victim all over again. 

However I follow some pretty incredible people on Twitter and some of them follow me back and one lady in particular was so kind to me and supportive. I felt truly touched because after all of that hoohar awhile back when I attempted to reach out to someone, seeking understanding because they too were a survivor and having it blow up in my face. I’ve found that on Twitter. Alongside fellow survivors and BPDers and we’re all so supportive of one another. 

Today…well I slapped on my war paint ready to do battle with my demons and chucked a packet of tissues in my handbag and headed off to counselling. A was a little flustered as I was running later than usual and when i reached the building….my heart stopped and I started to panic. There was a car parked outside, my head instantly told me that it was my god fathers car. It was the same make, model and exact same colour as his, the one he’d picked me up in about half an hour before the whole “sorry I raped you” thing. I knew logically it couldn’t be his car….didn’t stop it from triggering me though. Thank God it wasn’t huge though and I’d managed to compose myself by the time my counsellor came out of his office. The session went really well. I even felt comfortable well to a certain extent and certainly more than usual because I kicked off my flip flops and sat crossed legged like I do at home and I’m currently doing now as I type this. I can’t keep referring to my counsellor as my counsellor so given the revelation today, that we both share a liking for Greek Mythology, I’ll refer to him as Apollo (The Greek god of light, healing, medicine and truth amongst other things) I feel at ease and comfortable telling Apollo my secrets. I know It’s tough, I mean it was never going to be easy. 

Today’s session was great. I told Apollow something that again I’ve never told anyone else before in regards to my step father abuse. I will be doing a piece on my step father. A proper one and getting it out in writing. Even though today I told Apollo about that incident in particular which compared to last week came out a bit easier and he encouraged me to keep going, to let the flood that I had been keeping bottled up for the last couple of decades pour out and It’s so weird because I did keep going and I some not only of the incident but of how it made me feel and how it still makes me feel…the shame. I went on to tell him about some of the verbal humiliation and bullying. The fact that my step father got his kicks from humiliating me and destroying my self esteem by the incessant name calling….calling me stupid and I’ll reveal the others within my proper post. But today….I just couldn’t bring myself to say aloud what he used to say to me when he’s made me cry….what he used to call me. Because it still evokes that humiliation that washes over me every time I begin to contemplate telling someone. The negative impact that those words have had, the power they still hold over me and how they impact my life on a multitude of levels. Earlier when it flashed up when we were discussing how my step father enjoyed humiliating me, I just couldn’t bare the thought of feeling that immense shame which would’ve felt more intense than just revealing that he constantly called me stupid or other epithets in the same ball park as that word and the memory of a hat incident I mentioned. But tomorrow I am going to act like I have a pair (of ovaries not balls obviously) and I’m going to write about it. Not all of it though because some things I need to work through with Apollo first. Just some of the things I need to get off my chest, that I need to let rush out even if it temporarily floors me. 

Apollo is fucking awesome at his job…there is no doubt about it. He said something to me today that gave me food for thought, which often happens. He said something along the lines of that I should let little me have the respect and love she deserves. Balls It’s chaotic inside my head my head and can’t quite remember exactly what it was he said  but that was the general gist of it because we’d been talking about my relationship with my father and why each time he would let me down I would get beyond livid and shout at him and throw every single incident or misdemeanor if you will back at him, and that it hurt that he didn’t give a fuck about me and when probed as to why it would make me so angry, I faced the question head on and answered as honestly as I could without a second thought….I’d get so angry because I was upset that he didn’t care about me and it was his job to. It was programmed into his DNA that he should’ve cared about me because I was his daughter. And then it progressed to me revealing that I felt I didn’t deserve to be loved, that I wasn’t worthy of anyone’s love. Apollo is a very smart man and had already gathered that from our sessions over the last 8 or so weeks. Little me deserved those things that as much it pains me to admit it, that as an adult I still crave. To be loved, to feel worthy of that love, to feel safe, wanted and protected. Little me was worthy, but those around me deemed me not. Deemed me unloveable, even unlikable. And now I’m crying for little me, for adult me because essentially, emotionally we are the same age, which is very common trait amongst those of us with BPD that were sexually abused as children. 

It’s like in every other way we mature but our emotional growth is stunted at the age the abuse started happening. I’ve read numerous papers on it that indicate that it is more than common. So our  emotional responses to things, our behaviour as a result of that is akin to that of child’s. Plus it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the above two paragraphs are the reason that I am more attracted to older men. I hate it, I hate that that’s how I feel, that my abuse hadn’t just fucked me up but obliterated my chances at a normal life. Instead I walk round feeling the way I do because of the abuse I suffered, I have BPD on top of that to contend with whicj again is a result well according to the doctor and nurses that have treated me, of my fucking nightmare of a childhood. 

I wasn’t intending on baring my soul in quite the extremity that I just have but I guess It’s about time I got it off my chest. 

One last thing in regards to today’s session. When I mentioned the first memory that I revealed last week, but during today’s session. My mouth clamped shut automatically and I felt my face follow suit and contort into a grimace. Apollo asked me what I was feeling…and him asking that made me confront my bodies response to my talking about it, even thinking about it. Honestly when I spoke about and wrote about it and my mouth clamped shut…it’s because it feels as though my step father tongue is in my mouth and I feel disgusted.

Right, on to happier parts of my day. I went for coffee….ahh. It is amazing what a good vanilla latte can do to me. How sitting at my usual table outside and taking that first sip caffeiney goodness and all becomes right with my world albeit temporarily haha. Then I treated myself to two amazing pairs of heels as an early birthday present and one of them was from my Uncle. I got home and sprawled out on the sofa and chatted to people on Twitter and my friends via text and Kik. Spoke to my uncle too and he said I shoukd write a book which I was deeply toucned by, as his faith in my ability amazes me. And now i’m about to get ready for bed. 

The feature image is by Aegis. I think it sums up how I was feeling today perfectly.

The Monster That Kissed Me.

I didn’t sleep well last night at all. I kept waking up. I’m tired and the only time I wake up during the night other than to pee is because I’ve either had a nightmare (ones about my abusers have been a regular thing these past few months) or because I’m worrying about something. So in my zombified state I got up before my alarm and set about feeding the cat and making my usual vat of coffee. I knew why I’d slept like shit…because I knew I had to be brave today. That during my counselling session I would be talking about him, the man that had gotten his kicks from humiliating me, from hitting me and making me scared and robbing me of my innocence by sexually abusing me, the same man whose word my mother chose over mine, when the latter came to light. The same woman, who took his lies over my truth, time and time again, who never defended me, who never protected me. The very woman that is going to her grave if she hasn’t already, not having made amends with me. Reading that back, I sound quite articulate. Which is the prime opposite of how I was during my counselling session today.

I never talk about the in’s and out’s of the abuse I endured at the hands of my step father. I give people the bare bones, or the ‘shitelights’ as I so eloquently refer to them as. I find it easier to discuss my godfather raping me because I’m so visibly livid and incensed by rage, that I feel the people listening to it, will see that anger, and see me as ferocious and strong. But when it comes to talking about my step father…it makes me feel exactly like I did then, scared, upset and vulnerable. And as a result I fear people will perceive me as weak. Which is messed up because if someone else was telling me their own experience and it was anything remotely like mine, thinking that they were weak would be the last thing to cross my mind. I’d think that they were courageous and strong and me being me I’d want to give them a massive cwtch and make them a cup of tea. So I’m not sure why I think that people hearing my personal truth and all of the secrets I carry around, wouldn’t respond in the same sort of way.

It’s taken me six weeks to even be comfortable to begin to discuss it all. Last week as I said, during my counselling session we ripped the plaster off. And to be honest I’m still not comfortable discussing it. I don’t think I ever will be to be, but I do trust my counsellor. So feel safe to reveal my secrets, that have been encased in cement, for the last god knows how many years and today we started chipping away at it all. Writing about it is easier, sure. But I know in order to heal, I have to say the words aloud and set them free in order to confront those demons. Because delving into the closet of skeletons lurking in your past, is like opening Pandoras box…Once opened there’s no going back and certainly no hiding from it anymore and the only thing left…is HOPE.

I won’t go into the in’s and out’s of the whole session because a lot of it was me being sweary and a bit ranty mixed with calm and concise conversation about certain things but I will be brave and warrior queenish and begin telling you about my step father here. It’s too long and grizzly to write all in one post, so I guess much in the same way I am doing it in counselling, I’ll tell it chunk by chunk. Like I wrote about my godfather, over the course of two posts, only this will be more.

I’ve been procrastinating for the last ten minutes, do I just write about what happened or do I write about sharing the memory with someone for the first time? And I have just decided that the latter, would give you a better insight to who I am and how I felt.

We’d been discussing my mother, my counsellor and I. Then I skirted around the topic of my step father. Well specifically memories of him abusing me. One memory inparticular had been kicking it close to the surface for a few days, a week maybe, since uncovering the wound the previous Wednesday. I was starting to get annoyed with myself because the words came rushing up, but for some reason I just couldn’t get them out. I sat there my stomach tensed up, everything else in my body, from fingers to toes, scrunched up. I remember my jaw doing the same and realised that i’d clenched my mouth shut so tight, I thought my teeth would crack. Then it came forcing It’s way up and plastered itself on the backs of my eyelids. 

I couldn’t manage to string the full sentence together just random key words crashed out. I did eventually manage it though. I felt vulnerable, sick…it was visceral. Even sitting here remembering it and thinking about it at home, alone, scratching away in my notebook, telling you dear people of the internet is having the same impact on me. And here was I, thinking it would be cake, writing it down, in comparison to earlier. So here’s the ugly memory in all it’s gruesome glory.

I can’t remember how old I was exactly, I think I was around 7 or 8 as we still had a sofa in the dining room then. My step father hadn’t added on the extension by that point. It’s evening. I can see the uncomfortable mint sauce coloured sofa. I’m dressed up. I’m not sure why, the outfit, the dress is a too faded part of the memory, to quite make it out. My mother is to the right but shadowy. I’m kissing my step father on the lips…and then his tongue is in my mouth! Only for a few seconds, ten at most, but it was there. I remember he was wearing an ugly pale blue shirt. Fucking hell! I feel sick as a dog, even writing it, my jaw is almost at teeth cracking tenseness, just like today. I can’t remember what happened before that shit cunt monster frenched me, and I can’t remember what came afterwards…I keep trying to remember but I’m drawing a blank. I can’t remember how I felt or anything either but considering it was 26 years ago I remember it with alarming clarity. 

The next memory I revealed came a few minutes later when after a brief yet concise discussion, my mother came up again and I said to my counsellor, that I wondered if she knew or not. She must’ve had some inclination that he’s a paedophile. I think in hindsight the memory I told my lovely counsellor next compounds the fact that she did…so evidently she is a big a cunt as my step father is.

I fast forwarded past a lot of stuff, not for any particular reason other than it was the one that popped up after saying the above. 

I was in my teens. My mum had bought me some new bras…white ones. I was around 13/14 I think. We’re stood in the kitchen, she has her back to me. My step father walks in and she looks over her shoulder in our general direction and says.

“Go and try your new bras on for your dad” Sick twisted bitch! I didn’t of course. I remember feeling so awkward and embarrassed. Seriously what kind of twisted, evil witch would say such a thing to her child. It is warped! My counsellor and I drew the conclusion that she obviously did know what he was and was clearly in Cahoots with him! That winds me up on a whole other level and makes me fucking livid, now that I have had chance to digest that fact. I was already pissed off for her part in my shitty childhood, for the way she treated me, abandoned me, for the time she punched me in the face and gave me a nose bleed, just because my older sister and I were bickering over who’s turn it was to take the milk bottles up to the farm house, for every time she was a massive bitch and shouted at me for no reason, for every time she believed his utter bullshit over my truth, for every time she took his side, every single fucking time she failed to protect me. And last but not least, for the time she was clearly suffering with post natal depression or something and decided that it was my fault that she had lost something and couldn’t find it, and screamed at me like a crazed person to find it, and then when I couldn’t, she proceeded to threaten to take my step fathers belt to me, just going to point out here how old I was…7 years old! Fucking heathen. I remember being outside in the garden next. She’s stood there in her sleeveless black dress not that dissimilar from the royal blue one I own, no make-up on, her hair already steel grey, with a crazed look in her eyes, brandishing my stepfather’s belt in her hand, a two inch thick, leather number with massive silver spikes all over it. I remember standing there frozen to the spot absolutely terrified. I can feel that fear swelling up in my chest as I’m writing. It makes me want to leap into that memory and scoop that scared little me up, after I’d punched my mother in her face of course for being such a cunt to her child! That was the first time I ran away. I dodged past her. She was less than 5ft tall but she was a mountain of a woman. And I fled. I was crying out to be saved, to be rescued even then. So when my godfather did come back on the scene, it was no wonder I was so easily groomed by him. I was so starved of love and affection that I was so grateful to have it, that I didn’t even think to question his motives. He’d hug me and make me feel like I was wanted and cared about and look where that naivety, that childhood innocence got me.

I wrote that on Wednesday after counselling, It’s now Friday and yesterday….I still felt raw. I’m completely ashamed and embarrassed to admit this but owing to having the emotional age of a child (which is apparently the general consensus of each of us amongst the BPD community) when I am upset I need to be held, that physical comfort to make me feel safe and to make me feel better again. For all I know It’s not just a BPD thing maybe It’s a normal people thing, maybe It’s an “I was never hugged as a child other than by someone that groomed and then raped me” kind of thing. Either way there was no doting, caring boyfriend waiting for me when I got home…I am soooooo way to dysfunctional and bat crap crazy for one of those. It’s ok though because Princess Lollipop cat gave me plenty of fusses and purrs a plenty, when I did get home which is enough for me, or at least that’s what I’ll keep on telling myself haha.

Before I sign off I want to end this piece on a happy note or two. So I’m going to tell you about my first kiss…I mean my first and nice kiss with someone my own age. Because it was sweet and awkward and all of those things a girls first kiss should be. 

I was thirteen, we as a family had popped over to Liverpool for a ‘do’ that my mum’s best friend was having. Aunty S we all called her…I bloody love the Scouse accent! So off we went. My long blonde hair was down, I had a dress on that I haaaated, even though it was the peak of nineties fashion and the only vaguely cool thing in my wardrobe, it was bright greens and vivid blues with a bright purple flower down the side, I’d nicked some of my elder sister’s bright purple lipstick too! I remember one of aunty S’s relatives coming up to me, she was a bit younger than me and telling me that M really fancied me…he was aunty S’s nephew and he was the same age as me and my god did I think he was fit! I thought it was a joke at first. As I mentioned in my previous posts…I was an ugly duckling. So any way I went outside, palms sweating, heart racing, stomach in knots and then behind the back of ummm what was it called, The Pink Hippo or something, somewhere in Liverpool had my very first kiss with a cute boy named M…it was pretty bloody perfect as first kisses go, not sloppy and wet and way too much tongue, I still felt awkward because I had no clue if I was doing it right and M had clearly been kissing girls for awhile. I thought it was perfection and I swear to god the entire time all I could think was.

“Oh my god a really fit boy is kissing me! Me!” 

What the sound Track to my first kiss should’ve been.

The Stone Roses-Sally Cinnamon 

What it probably really was. (Before I discovered cool music and guys with guitars haha)

The Backstreet boys-As long as you love me.

I wonder what M is up to these days, there is no doubt in my mind that he turned out absolutely bloody gorgeous…I would put money on that. Dark haired, tanned skin and dark eyes…he certainly made 13 year old me weak kneed.

 I don’t have a type in case your wondering. Well at least not when it comes to physical attributes anyway, I like funny, intelligent and creative guys. And just to indicate my lack of a type, here are a few examples of men that make me all swoony.

Sean Bean



Jason Momoa (that Kahl dude from game of thrones) 

Oh and Rhod Gilbert of course.  

And on that note I need a coffee. Stat.

Thanks for reading

Love Betty. 💜💜💜

Proper post coming soon, Coffee shower and my new name.

I will be drafting up my new proper post tomorrow. As I said in my last post it will be about how I’m feeling about sex these days, since having reported my god father. 

I’m also wondering if there’s a way for me to separate my mood diary-esque posts from the my harder hitting, almost article like posts. Perhaps I can post on separate pages within my blog or something. I haven’t fully figured out WordPress yet.

It’s been a turbulent couple of weeks. It doesn’t help that I’m still not sleeping properly which is super annoying obecause I’m sleeps number one fan and sometimes it’s the only time I get any respite from the way I am feeling. I did manage an nap today though. Which I am super happy about as I woke up feeling calm and wonderfully serene. Like seriously blissed out. My sofa is actually more comfy than my bed, so I snooze better when I cwtch up on it of an afternoon, usually with my cat Lollipop (nick name)

So lot’s of stuff has been going on lately. Some of which I’ll divulge and some of it I won’t due to wanting to protect my identity and not give too much away. I’ll give you the shitelights and then the highlights.

Tonight I found out that a young lady in one of the BPD Support groups I am in, killed herself last night. She was so young, a uni student with her whole life before her…BPD is a killer and It’s method is suicide. That poor girl was failed by the system and discharged from the mental health team. Yes the NHS is being starved of funds so vital services are being cut (get the Tories out!)….but some times people are failed because those treating them or in this instance not treating them suck at their job, they fail to either notice the signs, or in this instance refuse to listen. The young lady I’m talking about asked for help. She told people that were professionals that she was suicidal and they didn’t hear her. And now she’s gone. Where ever you are I hope you’re not in pain anymore, RIP babe. 💜💜💜

I got very sweary at the police call handler yesterday for numerous reasons, the main one being…I was not in a stable frame of mind. And when she said she was sending someone out to check on me, it sounded more like “I’m sending someone out to section you because you are being very aggressive and swore at me” as opposed to we’re concerned for your safety. I completely made a knob of myself and cried as the conversation progressed and I lost more of my marbles and unravelled. I did apologise of course at the end of the phone call for being a shouty, sweary wench, because I’m a nice, respectful person most of the time and when I’ve been a prick I am the first to hold my hands up and apologise. 

Number three on the shitelights list is that I have been seriously struggling with my temper the last few days. Even when nothing in particular has happened to annoy me I’ve felt angry and had to call home treatment who advised me to take PRN meds and go to sleep. I took the PRN and it didn’t do squat so I didn’t snooze. 

I’ve also been having psychotic episodes more frequently too, which of course is scary. And no matter how many times your rational side of your brain is trying, like your friends or family to intervene by telling you are being paranoid and that you are safe, the crazy just overrides it and them. I swear to god I’m glad It’s episodic because be fucked if I could handle feeling like that 365 days of the year. 

Suffice to say I am feeling frazzled and distinctly more battered about the edges than usual and feel a hospital admission or worse is on the horizon. It’s just one thing after another and I worry that given my precarious hold on my sanity, and how I’m feeling and dealing with what my god father did, and the fact that he isn’t being charged, that the above is imminent.

Now that I have depressed the fuck out of you all, how about something succinctly more cheery.

I legally and officially changed my fore names via deed poll on Saturday. And if I’d known how good it was going to make me feel I would’ve changes it years ago. I have hated my name for, well ever since I can remember. It’s pretentious sounding and I don’t like the way it feels on my tongue when i’d introduce myself to people nor did I like hearing it. The same way I hated what it meant. My siblings names mean nice things like ‘wanted child’, ‘gift from god’ ‘beautiful’ or ’emerald’ etc. Not mine though. It was like my mother was labelling me ‘unwanted’ from the get go before she even gave me a chance. So I shredded the last vestiges of her and named myself. It fits me perfectly apparently and I agree and love it obviously haha. Plus I love the meaning of the names and both of them mean something very personal to me because of what they mean.

In other news, Geordie Shore had me cracking up the other night again  by recalling me with his antics on the weekend. I swear he has magical powers because no matter how shit things are, how bad I’m feeling etc…he always makes me laugh. Which incidentally Lollipop is also a pro at too. Last night I was taking a shower and she had her funny five minutes legging it through the house, chirping away to herself and pouncing on things that only she could see then she came skiddering into the bathroom and leapt on to the lid of the loo and kept me company for a bit before she peered round the shower curtain to either check I was still there or to see what I was up to haha. She brings me so much joy. Plus she is super photogenic 🙂 Awwwww.

The latest Paramore album is something that is bringing me joy too. Three of my fave tracks.

Caught In The Middle

Hard Times

Rose-Coloured Boy

I also made some serious headway today during my counselling session. I actually spoke about my step father. It was brief and hurt like fuck and made me feel so vulnerable and exposed….I just usually give people a brief overview of what he did to me. I don’t go into too much detail because I hate the way it makes me feel. It’s different when I talk about being raped because yes I feel vulnerable when I am discussing it but I am so angry about it now, because I essentially become a seething ball of rage as the conversation progresses that I feel because people can see that I am so clearly livid that the won’t perceive me as weak. But when my counsellor and I ripped the plaster off and started to discuss my step father…I zoned in the memory of when it first started and it was like I was back there. And I didn’t like it one bit so I changed the subject back to a topic I felt comfortable with, that didn’t make me hurt and feel the way he made me feel all of those years ago at the age of 7 and up until I was rescued by social services. My counsellor firmly guided me back to it though (thank you) That plaster needed to come off eventually and the time was today. I have spent so many years depressing things, trying my damndest to avoid thinking and feeling and remembering stuff but that hasn’t done me any favours. I knew counselling was going to be tough and next week will be tougher because It’s time to talk about how my step father made me feel, about the things he did to me. It’s time to get the poison out. And even though it hurt and made me feel so exposed and uncomfortable…it was a good thing….because when I got home and got changed and made myself a cup coffee and was then sitting on my couch reflecting upon my session I felt serene, I felt a little lighter. Fair play my counsellor is a legend! The counselling sessions and that nice calm, light room with It’s comfy chair is a safe space for me to talk everything through and I am comfortable enough with my counsellor to tell him those secrets….the stuff I walk around with.

I will tell you about you my coffee shower now and then I am off to bed. As you have all probably gathered by now, I love coffee and Costa is my church. I always go after counselling too, because it takes me awhile to simmer down from my session. I missed the bus which made me a bit grumpy but I was all smiles when I entered church. The staff at my local are so lovely too, they know my name, I know theirs and they know my order. So I bought my coffee, sat outside and made a phone call. I then started heading towards the bus station but needed to sort my head phones out so tried to put my coffee down and ended up knocking the lid off and it went fucking evvvverywhere….all over me. I was soaked in a large three quids worth of coffee….and it even went into my shoes and I’m laughing now as I type this because I’m such a clumsy twat but oh god I was drenched so looked and Smelled like I had literally been showered in the stuff. As I trudged to the bus stop in my coffee soaked squishy shoes I did wonder if they would let me on the bus. They did….once on the bus and we were moving I saw out of the corner of my eye moving on the window next to me….A BIG FUCK OFF WASP! I then proceeded to shout “SHIT!!!” at the top of my lungs (not helped by the fact I was wearing my headphones) and began freaking out and also slightly praying I wasn’t seeing things and a nice man sitting behind me came to my aid and handed me his copy of the Metro which I used to thwack the little mother effer with. And then apologized for swearing so loudly to the packed bus that of course were all staring at me by this point. Jesus. When I have a bad day I sure do it in style. Hahaha. And on that note I am going to go to bed.

The shoes that got a rousing earlier….they’ll live. I think vanish will get the coffee stain out of my laces and dinosaur socks.

BPD and me

I swear to god if I had a quid for every time someone said the following to me, I’d be minted.
“You’re such a drama queen”

“Why are you over reacting?”

“Attention seeker”


“You’re so intense”

I can also add “Desperate” to the list now. 

The world isn’t designed for us BPD/EUPDers. At least not me anyway. I could sit here and list all of the traits of Borderline Personality Disorder/Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder but I’d be here all night and as I mentioned the other evening my concentration is shot at the minute so I’ll just list a couple of the main ones. And I’ll post some interesting links on my ‘Useful links and info’ page.

  • Intense mood swings (emotional dysregulation) depression etc.
  • Intense anger or rage over the smallest thing.
  • Periods of numbness
  • Impulsivity 
  • Engaging in dangerous or risky behaviours  (gambling, shopping, drug and alcohol abuse, unprotected sex)
  • Promiscuity
  • Suicide ideation
  • Feeling suicidal
  • Psychotic episodes (hearing voices and seeing things, paranoia)
  • Self harm
  • Black and white thinking 
  • Abandonment issues (fear of abondoment whether real or imagined)
  • Intense relationships (romantic, social or familial) that end badly

I hate it. I hate how it makes me behave and how most people don’t understand it. It’s why I choose to keep my distance and keep people arms length most of the time. It’s just easier that way. Sometimes i’m stupid and let my guard down with people that I think might understand me and some times It’s great like for example my friendship with my Geordie Marra but other times it back fires and I get the above thrown at me. Lesson learnt though I suppose. Now I’m back to letting people just onto the surface level and not too close.

Let’s just go back to my opening paragraph about things that us BPD/EUPDers get thrown at us a lot and address that.

We are not attention seekers, or drama queens, or over reacting…We just feel differently to most “normal” people which means we have a more intense emotional response to things. It is literally like we walk around with the equivalent of ten people’s worth of emotions inside us. Plus our moods change dramatically in a nano second. I shit you not I have been on the verge of killing myself and then half an hour later I’m laughing or feeling numb. 

Yes it is probably considered ridiculous by most none BPD/EUPDers that one day when I was having a tough day, I thought I’d try one of the cupcakes I made and burst into tears because they were actually bad…and tasted like soil but to me it felt like the end of the world and spirals to me feeling completely uesless and shit at everything. Or what about when I get excited or I’m happy, to you none BPD/EUPDers I’m being over the top or like a child, but to me it is just how intense my emotion is and usually my good moods are infectious so what’s wrong with spreading a little joy. And fuck it, grumpy gits haha.

My temper though. Wow! I loose it over what others perceive to be silly insignificant shit (as well as the not so insignificant stuff) but to me it is huge. And I can’t help it. I’ve lost count over the amount of mobile phones and crockery and mugs I have gone through (I tend not to throw or punch or kick stuff anymore though) how many blazing arguments I have gotten into. How many times I have called someone a cunt or told them in no uncertain terms to go fuck themselves or been called over the top. That’s the thing….to us it is normal behaviour because it is just our natural emotional response to things, we can’t help that we feel incandescent rage or that we feel livid when someone tells us to “fuck off” or the computer or phone is refusing to submit and just work like It’s supposed to. Or when someone cuts us up when we’re driving or the bus is half an hour late etc.

 I think the intense rage is the worse out of the emotions. I remember arguing with my father once when I was about 18/19 and it was on the brink of getting violent and I mean we were raging. I was screaming at him and he was shouting at me and he locked me in me in my bedroom, I remember as he tried to swing me in to the room I hit my elbow on the door frame and that was it, it was hurricane Betty. I booted the door twice and it cracked. Christ.

BPD/EUPD is such a stigmatized illness because of people’s responses indicated above. We’re very unfairly judged and completely misunderstood. Usually because we are the way we are, people don’t have the time to get to know us to the point where they might be arsed to Google BPD. 

I know it’s bad but I wear my diagnosis as a biohazard sign because it keeps people away or at most at arms length. It’s just easier that way because I don’t have to deal with being rejected then when they realise what a needy pain in the arse I can be. We need to be liked and loved differently. We need someone that is patient and that will gently reassure us that we are enough, that they are happy being with us and that they won’t ditch or bail on us. 

I think trying to find someone like that is a fairy tale…in other words a load of bollocks and completely far fetched. Because the truth of the matter is it’s a lot to ask of a person. For me personally because of my background and what I am dealing with now, it means that I am even harder to like let alone get to the point where I might be loved. I feel that I am worthless and not good enough, like I don’t deserve to be liked or loved. That even if I am lucky and someone likes me in the beginning that eventually they will see what I see. I have issues with my sense of self. Plus to make matters worse I am a bit of a commitment phobe and this is how that comes into play going on my previous history. When people get too close (rare) I get freaked the hell out and run a mile but if they don’t get close enough or show me enough care and attention (reassurance etc) then I also get freaked out and either come on too strong and be my usual intense self or get pissy and usually make an exit on my own terms before they have the chance to reject me. It’s just easier to be single. I’m done with taking the occasional chance on people because I always seem to pick the wrong  person. 

I feel like I can’t have the basic normal things that my friends have simply because of my illness and how bad it is and because of how damaged I am and also because I feel that I am being punished for the things I did in my past life….I believe in that stuff. Reincarnation. I can’t see myself ever getting married, having a successful career again because unfortunately I might never be well enough to go back to work, and I’ll never live to be an old dear or regale my grandchildren with stories from my wild youth. 

I feel low tonight. I was ok earlier, perky, smiley and chatting to my friend out the front with a cup coffee. It’s the only social situation I can handle right now because I know if it gets too much I can just retreat back indoors. Fuck knows how I’m going to cope in a few weeks time when Geordie Shore comes down for a visit. Actually I’ll probably be ok because we have known each other for so long and if things get too much we can hang out at mine and I’ll pop some PRN. Now I just feel depressed and a bit anxious but a WhatsApp just came through from Geordie Shore aka Geoff aka Geoffy (not his real name, another ‘in joke’) so reading that’ll make me smile. 

I know I’ve literally touched on like one maybe two of the traits….but they are the main reason we get such a bad rep and ergo BPD/EUPD is so stigmatized. 

Aaaargh it has just started raining! Don’t get me wrong I love the rain more than all of this sunny summer malarkey…but my washing is still on the line. Twatty bollocks.

In my next proper, less ranty post I will be addressing the promiscuity trait and how I have been feeling about sex the last two years or so since reporting my godfather.

Peace lovelies and Nos Da

Love Betty x 

The storm that came to stay.

How did I feel after my godfather raped me? Honestly I didn’t feel anything, I just went numb. It’s like after it happened it went to a pokey little lock-up some where in the abyss of my memory banks and was locked away for years afterwards. It was as though my mind and my soul had a conference and decided that it was just too much for me to handle on top of everything else. It would of course attempt to rear It’s grotesque head for years to come, and raise questions that I didn’t want to begin to contemplate, I would just swat them away like they were mosquitos and swallow the memory back down.
The day after it happened I was taken into foster care. The long and short of it is, my nest friend told our form tutor at school about my step father, he was questioned by police, they took his word over mine and so did my mother because he’d spent years making me out to be liar. The police had me down on record as being a runaway and evidently didn’t or chose not to spot the correlation between the two. My godfather stuck around for awhile afterwards, presumably to make sure I kept my trap shut, then one day he rang and told me to “fuck off” and never contact him again. And that was that. I was alone with out anyone. I moved to Wales a few months later to live with my dad. Smoking weed and listening to music became my solace. I got into metal when I befriended some pot smoking college guys when I was living in care (my foster parents didn’t know I smoked it of course and I am massively sorry if you’re reading this haha) Here are a couple of tracks by bands that were pretty much the sound track to my mid to late teens. I couldn’t bring myself to post anything from Korns ‘Issues’ album as It’s too triggering.


Machine Head-The Burning Red


In 2009′ I got itchy feet and moved further South to Exeter. I had two weeks to find a place, and pack my shit and to arrive there by the first of September to start my new job. I made my life there, I miss it, but I’ll save that tale for another post, a happy post, because apparently when I talk about it my face lights up, because even though I struggled emotionally and badly at times too just like now…I smiled more.

In 2012′ I had to move back to Wales because my anxiety disorder had gotten so bad that I was practically agoraphobic. My life just crumbled. I went through Cognetive Behavioural Therapy. And months later I got a part-time bar gig working in a quaint country pub, thanks to one of my friends. I decided to head North to go and see my sister, Sister 3. Everytime I go up there on the train, I have to go past my mother’s house, the farm where it all happened. It’s always a total head fuck, you know when you see something gruesome on the news and you just can’t not look. Sister 3 and I took a walk into town to go for lunch at the pub where she used to work. It’s called something else now, and low and behold who was sitting outside but none other than my godfather. We just walked past and didn’t say anything. Sister 3 knew that I’d lost my V-Plates to him (she thinks he is a despicable human being) but she didn’t know that he raped me. I’d conveniently left that part out because even though he and I hadn’t spoken in thirteen years, I was still refusing to acknowledge or accept what he’d done so I was still protecting him. 

When I returned to Wales, I wrote him a letter, because this is how screwed up my head was. I still loved him like a dad, still missed him in spite of what he’d done. If you’re thinking It’s warped then fair play to you, trust me on this one I agree but read this article before making a decision as to whether or not you feel I need my head examined…again. I’m going to be querying this with my doctor.Stockholm syndrome. I chucked my email address on the bottom of the letter and sent it on to his parents house for him. A week or so later I received an email from him, asking me if I was trying to give him a heart attack. Which obviously I found odd because I was still so under his spell. He skirted around the subject further but I stepped over it rather than getting into it with him. Again when the memory came rushing to the surface and the accompanying barrage if questions, I shoved them all back down and distracted myself with other things. We added each other on Facebook but had very little contact with each other.

At the start of 2014′ I had it all. I lived in a nice house, in the village I’d lived in prior to the move down South. I was in the throws of a very promising career with actual prospects, decent pay and weekends off, working alongside my friend and housemate, who’d got my foot in the door for the change on vocation, as an IT test manager. I was actually pretty great at the job, someone was paying me to be an anally retentive pain in the arse! I also had a nice boyfriend too, he lived in Romford in Essex. We’d chat on the phone three times a week and we’d commute back and forth, alternating, on weekends. I used to love going to see him though, even when he would do over time on Saturday’s, we’d catch the train together, he’d go off to Canary Wharf and I’d jump on the Tube to Camden or Soho, then we’d meet up later and meander around Laaaandon taaaan. I love London. I often joke that It’s the longest love affair I’ve ever had, with the city that is. Anyway I broke it off with him, as there was no passion, no spark, that heat and crackle of electricity and I need that. We parted amicably of course and we’re still friendly. Life went on as normal then. My housemate/friend/work colleague followed his heart up North so an acquaintance moved in and we became close friends. Then I had a sort of nervous breakdown, because I was still dealing with my illness I just didn’t have a diagnosis at that point. My anxiety disorder was getting really bad again, as was my paranoia, I thought everyone at work was laughing at me, and then I thought they hated me and that they were constantly whispering about me behind my back (which wasn’t the case as (a)They aren’t arse holes and (b)They had way more important things to be thinking and chatting about like their own lives) I ended up leaving because things got so bad. A few days later I lost the plot altogether. I was adamant that the new neighbour was a spy sent down from up North to spy on me by my mother, that if I stayed where I was someone was going to come and get me, don’t ask me who as I haven’t the foggiest. So one evening I buggered off, I was not thinking anywhere close to clearly because I flew out of the house leaving all of the windows wide open, and caught a train to Bristol. A few days later when I was back at home the out of hours doctor was called, because how I was feeling had made me suicidal. I was assessed at the local psychiatric hospital the next day and then got taken on to the ward to keep me safe and to start me on medication. At the time I was giving my dad and uncle the silent treatment and I was lead in my hospital bed more scared than ever, I was too stubborn to reach out to them so I reached out to my Godfather instead for the comfort and reassurance I needed. Fair play to him he was pretty amazing, as he was a few months later when my dad died. He was also willimg to drive all the way down South and drive the rental van in February 2015′ when the friend that had promised to help me move, bailed. In the end my ex J stepped up to the plate and came to the rescue. Shortly after I’d moved into my new place my godfather wanted to make me his next of kin because he didn’t have anyone else. I thought that was nice of him.

At the start of June I headed up North to go and visit him, and to swing by sister 3’s. The few days leading up to it I’d had shit in one ear from Sister 3 and sister 1 and shit in the other ear from him about them. So I gave all three of them a bollocking and told them all that I was sick of listening to them bitch about each other, either they shut the hell up or I’d have nothing to do with any of them. After seeing my sister’s my godfather came and picked me up and we went to his place. I sat on the couch and texted a blunt reply to my sister’s in response to their “We want to know where you are, what his address is and when you are on your way home” message. Essentially I told them to bugger off and that I was grown woman of thirty years of age and rebuffed them for having previously referred to me as a “vulnerable adult” (because of my illness) I rolled my Godfather and I cigarettes, he made the coffee and sat down in the chair to my left. There was silence and then he opened a can of worms which was more like a can of cobras, completely out of the blue.

“I’m sorry I raped you” The words slapped me and then just hung there. Then he started rambling on about how he’d been worrying about the police turning up to arrest him, about how he’d been reading about people, big names like Saville and the rest of the scummy cunts in the press, getting done for it. My response was.

“I don’t want to talk about this” I got up and moved outside onto his decking and smoked, he continued apologising as though I hadn’t said anything. The whole not listening and not caring what I wanted or didn’t want was something he clearly had issues with.

There it was. Well and truly unleashed from the box where I’d been keeping it all of these years. I couldn’t hide from it or deny it anymore. I was quite happy living in denial-ville but noooooo he just had to unburden his soul to make himself feel better. He didn’t give a damn about my feelings. I do wonder if he even questioned why I’d never bought it up or why I always changed the subject if he did. I went back to feeling numb then and we carried on as normal. It’s when I got home that evening that things went to shit.

The next few days were spent thinking about what he’d done. Remembering what he’d done, everytime I closed my eyes, questioning whether he was a paedophile, why he hadn’t stopped when I’d said no repeatedly, why was I only dealing with it now, why did he do it, why me, why was he apologizing now, why had my mother let him anywhere near me when sister 2 had accused him of attempting to rape her all those years ago.

I was a train wreck. I was crying all of the time, I didn’t shower and barely ate. I couldn’t call home treatment because I couldn’t tell them what the problem was. I spoke to my Godfather and told him that I needed to speak to someone, a mental health nurse because it was fucking me up. He said that he was worried about what I’d tell them. A couple of days later we spoke on the phone again, talking about him having raped me, and the end of the conversation was me asking him if what he’d done to me made him what my step father was….and he said yes. I burst into tears and hung up. I didn’t want to acknowledge what he’d done or what it made him, what he was, is. I wished that it hadn’t happened and that if it was my fate to endure yet another atrocity that he hadn’t been the one to inflict it. He’d taken advantage of the fact that I was a vulnerable kid. Because that’s what I was you absolute shit cunt! A child, a little girl. How the fuck could you do that to me. To anyone! I became suicidal after I’d hung up the phone, it was all hitting me like a ton of bricks to the face.

Right then and there is exactly how I feel when I get triggered and remember the rest of the hell that was my childhood. But you see what my godfather did was way worse because he fooled me into believing he gave a shit about me, because he was always so nice to  me and hugged me a lot, and because I trusted him. The urge to top myself was becoming hard to resist and things were rapidly spiralling out of control. I have very little impulse control, I had to ring someone and talk it through. Home Treatment closed at 8pm then, so I called the ward. Thankfully it was my favourite ward nurse that answered. Nurse J, he is an amazing psych nurse and out it all came. He posed the question of “What would you tell me to do if this conversation was the other round and I’d just told you what you’d told me?” Of course I said that I would tell him to go and report it to the police.

At some point during the night, some time after the phone call to the psych ward or the next day I called 101 to see if the police would be able to get an email back that I’d deleted (the email conversation between my godfather and I that I mentioned above). I knew going on past experience that without concrete evidence it would be my word against his and he’d walk free. And the content of that email exchange would be just that. The call handler asked why and what the email contained and for the second time out it all rushed. I’d reported it, which was what I should’ve done years ago.

My godfather messaged me, I asked him if he’d always fancied me, even when I was little little, he ignored the question so I asked why he’d done it, why he’d wanted to have sex with me at such a young age, why he’d raped me. He said and this is a direct quote from the screenshot of the conversation.

“If memory serves you came on to me my love.”

I pointed out that I hadn’t and that I was a child regardless of what he  said. He was an adult twenty years my senior and half way through I had wanted it to stop, not only did I get up and move to another room I said “NO” at least three times! I had a screenshot of that WhatsApp exchange and of other conversations we had via Skype and Facebook which I went on to show the police. 

I waited weeks to do my video interview because a special officer was needed because of my mental illness and prior to doing it I found myself back on the psych ward because I just wasn’t coping with any of it, because every waking moment I was plagued by it. And I felt so unclean, like I wanted to, no, needed to scrub myself with bleach and wire wool. I kept having flashbacks and started having nightmares about him all of which I am still afflicted by now. My video interview was about 2 and a half to three hours long. I told them every single detail I could remember, every awkward question, I answered. I cried and took three fag breaks. I even got down on the floor at one point to demonstrate the exact position I’d been in when it started. I told them everything that had happened leading up to it, what happened afterwards and the chain of events that lead me to finally reporting it after all these years.

My case went up North to the police there, where it had happened. The police officer in charge of my case….she is lovely and total legend! I’ll call her DC Legend. You can tell she cares about the job she does and about people like me, the survivors. Whilst I was trying to deal with the aftermath of what i’d gone through, of what that monster had done to me, she’d invited him in for questioning. He denied it. Instead of doing the honourable thing and corroborating my story and admitting what he’d done, he denied it. So much for him having changed ey. DC Legend knew he’d done it. It was just a matter of proving it and having enough solid evidence to get it to court. My mental health deteriorated even more whilst all of this was going on, which to be honest I didn’t think it was possible given the wreck I already was and to top it all off my anxiety disorder also got worse and to the point it is at now. I emailed him, when I was at my lowest point asking him how could he do it and that I loved him like a dad and asking him why he hadn’t just told the truth when he’d been questioned, why was he determined to put me through more hell.

I spoke to people about it all, you know close friends, my uncle, staff at the psych hospital and my amazing support worker. My psychiatrist wanted to give me a CPN (community psychiatric nurse) but I declined. I told them all I felt conflicted about my feelings now having reported it. The rational side of my brain told me I’d done the right thing but the irrational side that was clearly suffering Stockholm syndrome felt guilty for reporting him like I’d done something wrong. I called the whole thing off at one point, I even filled out the withdrawal statement and sent it back to DC Legend who told me that if I changed my mind to get back in touch. A couple of days later I logged on to an old test account and saw the status he’d made about how he’d had such a tough life. Which sent me up the fucking wall. I loose my temper fast, just as fast as my other moods change. It is huge and it is ugly. It’s certainly the one thing I’d change about myself if I could. I lost my shit completely when I read his status. I mean are you fucking kidding me! After I calmed down I sat and had a long think about things and do you know what. I came to the conclusion that it was about time that at least one of my abusers was held accountable for the fucked up shit that they did to me. I mean sure I’ll probably go through the rest of my life being punished for what ever the hell it was I did in my previous one but enough was enough. I got back in touch with DC Legend and she reopened the case. 

I’d been a mess since that day a few months before when he’d apologized. As though saying sorry was going to make it all better, like it was going to cut it and that I’d be all forgiving and It’d be ok. But it hasn’t made everything ok. It became the catalyst to me finally dealing with it. Another life sentence on top of the one’s I was already serving (three, one from each of my abusers)

In January 2016′ I couldn’t cope anymore. I couldn’t live with what he’d done. What was left of my mind completely unravelled and I tried to reach out to someone for help and they encouraged me to it, my voices were cheering me on too when I started swallowing pills. I lived to tell the tale of course because here I am telling it, most days I wish I wasn’t though. 

In March this year, I received a phone call from DC Legend, it was her day off but she wanted to tell me. The CPS had decided not to charge him. I was devastated and completely bereft. All hope of justice, my reason to keep fighting, lay like rubble at my feet. There was no point now. It just compounded the fact that people were allowed to treat me however the fuck they wanted and I just have to take it, because I’m nothing, my feelings don’t matter. I don’t get justice. My abusers get to walk around Scot free living their lovely lives whilst mine is ruined and in spite of trying really hard to make myself and my life better….it doesn’t stick or I crap all over it by self destructing. It seems like I’m not allowed to be happy.

There were a few reasons that he wasn’t being charged  but all I’ll say is that what sister 1 did say and what sister 2 didn’t played a vital part in it all. Needless to say I haven’t spoken to either of them since around that time. And never will again. Fucker for holding grudges me, not over stupid stuff just things as monumental as fucking up my case. It’s been tough these last few months. Like I mentioned in a previous post I almost walked out of the house in just my dressing gown armed with my bus pass to go and throw myself in front of a train. Suffering with suicide ideation and feeling suicidal happens on such a regular basis to me that It’s become normal. I still have nightmares and flash backs, which although less frequent they linger sometimes. For example I’d had a nightmare about him and even in the dream I knew he’d raped me and that he was dangerous. All day I couldn’t shake it off, everytime I moved and my T-shirt moved, grazing my chest I felt like he had literally just hugged me, I also felt like I had his spit around my mouth and could literally smell it which is particularly odd as he hadn’t kissed me when he’d raped me. It was absolute hell all day and I ended up calling home treatment and they advised me to take some PRN (as and when required meds) I can’t use the white carex handsoap either, sounds small and insignificant but it triggers me. It took me days to figure out what had triggered me. Then I remembered that that was the soap i’d been using at the time when I’d gone to visit him. I don’t usually buy that one but I would  get it if they didn’t have the one I normally use. 

I’m going through counselling now. It’s proving very cathartic and insightful. My counsellor is cool and I feel comfortable baring my soul during our sessions and don’t feel like a complete knob if I cry haha. It’s quite liberating to openly talk about the monolithic secret that I’d been carrying around for almost 18 years now. 

I started a petition on (give it a click and a sign please if you agree with it) to try and get the government to abolish the 12 month time constraint on section 6 of the sexual offenses act:Sex with a child under the age of sixteen. Because as the law stands now if a child is over the age of thirteen but under the age of sixteen then the sexual assault needs to be reported within a twelve month time frame of it happening. Unfortunately because I, like so many other survivors left it so late in life to report it so he couldn’t be charged with that instead they were going to charge him with rape but apparently they couldn’t prove that I wasn’t consenting or that I had revoked my consent halfway through. Erm what part of I was barely just turned fifteen therefore a child and I said no repeatedly half way through did you not get CPS. It makes me so angry. You see from my point of view the law is designed to protect these evil creatures. No one with the exception of DC Legend seems to give a flying fuck about us, the survivors. It’s all, poor paedophile, here have a slap on the wrist and some “therapy”. So even when these ‘things’ do get charged their sentences are laughable! And what do we the survivors get? A life sentence and a barely tolerable existence. Do I sound bitter. Yeah I do. And on that note I am going to go and make a coffee. If any of you are effected by anything I talk about in my posts feel free to get in touch if you need someone to listen and I’ll be posting some links to sites that might help you too over the next few days.

Peace lovelies.

Love Betty x

New post coming tomorrow, craving an actual cigarette and why my cat is an idiot.

I have spent the last few hours drafting up my next proper post in my notebook. It’s force of habit from when I wrote my old blog when I was living in Exeter. I find putting pen to paper cathartic and I like having a hard copy of what I write. Plus I am a geek and collect quirky stationary. 

I am currently relaxing and have Russell Howard’s ‘Good news’ on in the background. I am contemplating another early night too, as I have to go to town tomorrow to pay some bills so I’ll pop into Costa for a coffee, then come home and blitz the house and post my blog. All of that of course is dependent on how my moods are. My paranoia was really bad yesterday so I didn’t even make it in to the shower. Bless my Geordie Marra though and nurse B at the Home treatment team for being awesome and telling me to take my PRN which didn’t kick in until 930pm which saw me in bed by 10.30pm. Nurse B was working on the ward during my first hospital admission…she is great.

I have also been craving an actual cigarette all day. Which is annoying as I have been a vaper for two months now! Why can’t someone invent an e-liquid that actually tastes like cigarette smoke! And on that note I am going to go and toke on my e-cig. 

I’m now on Twitter too as Betty Hopeless. So feel free to follow me @betty_hopeless. I’ll sort out a link to it at some point.

And how funny is Nathan Caton. I’m creasing! I love comedians. Russell Howard, the Welsh sex pot Rhod Gilbert, Billy Connelly and my current favourite Sara Pascoe. And that cute Geordie guy Chris someone, Ramsay I think. It feels good to laugh. 

Nos da (one of two Welsh phrases I know because it sounds like North Star)


I have just come to bed and as I was brushing my teeth I could hear my cat meow. So off to the front door I went toothbrush in hand to let her in but she was no where to be seen. Hmmm strange. I walked back into the bedroom again and she meowed. Some cats do more of a mew noise but not mine she sounds like a very high pitched human saying the word meow. Anyway I went to the window to see if she was at the back door and almost shat myself as when I opened the window to nose outside she was sitting on the roof of the shed staring at me! It is like a foot from my bedroom window. She then proceeded to meow pitiously at me…as in help mom I’m stuck. I am the epitome of crazy cat lady and chatter nonsense to her all the time. So I chastised her.

She obviously didn’t learn her lesson from before. She is an excellent hunter but she isn’t so good at the climbing up and down things, thing I am too short to help her down from the shed so the first time she climbed that mountain she managed to get down via the garden fence And then a few weeks ago she decided to go exploring and got on top of the roof and my neighbour who is scared of cats had to scale my huge fence and rescue her. She was lovely to him, she is such a trollop and loves men but when he handed her down to me and I was giving her a lovely cwtch she decided to climb down my back and stab her claws into me in the process, she went and hid under the hedge and glared at me until I opened the front door and she darted in and sulked for hour. Ah the perks of being owned by a cat haha. She’s an idiot but she makes me laugh and I love her so much.

Happy endings are a load of old cobblers.

People say I was born to be a writer. That I’m talented. I’m not so sure. I doubt myself all of the time. I figured I’d lost my voice when I moved back to Wales from Exeter. I thought that people wouldn’t want to read about my life now that my voice has matured and now that it’s a lot less exciting than the mischief I got up to in my twenties. But the truth is back then I was struggling too. I’ve been struggling with life since I was a kid and struggling with my illness since my mid to late teens when no one gave enough of a damn to notice. Hence it going undiagnosed until I was thirty years old. I have Borderline Personality Disorder  (BPD) more commonly known here in the UK as Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder (EUPD) Low functioning. I’ll get on to the traits at a later date but trust me I’ve got them in spades.

My illness is a by product of the abuse I endured as a child. It’s just another label I am forced to wear like ‘Anxiety Disorder’ Like the worst one that people try and stick on me…’Victim’. But you see I furiously scribble that word out with permanent marker and write in massive capital letters the word ‘SURVIVOR’ over it. Because I hate the word ‘victim’ it has never sat well with me as it has negative connotation’s that imply weakness on my part. Well fuck that!If I have to wear a label it will say ‘SURVIVOR’ And people will know me as a warrior because that is what I am, because I have been to hell and back and I fight wars every day, with myself of course. Because each day is a battle living with the aftermath of childhood sexual abuse and living with BPD/EUPD, with feeling suicidal and trying my hardest to overcome the urge to go and throw myself in front of a train or doing a swan dive from the top of a tall building. I’ve been down the old overdose route before and either I don’t take enough or someone unfortunately finds me but there’s no coming back from jumping off a bridge etc is there. The list of personal battles is endless but if I decide to keep writing and you decide to keep reading my blog you’ll soon see what it’s truly like living with the aftermath of the abuse I endured as a child and I say abuse in every sense of the word.

But where do I start, because everything has a beginning doesn’t it. So logic would dictate that that’s where I should start, the basic rules of penning one’s story as in books more often than not is to start there…at the beginning. Well sod it. I’ll break that rule and start where my heart and the chaos inside my head tell me too, the same way I did when I started counselling three weeks ago. where it hurts the most, where it feels the most raw, the recent cut that’s spilling blood only to reveal years of scar tissue when the wound is cleaned.

I’d spent years praying that he would come back. That he, my godfather would come and save me from the nightmare I was living in, and he’d be my knight in shining armour and I’d be rescued and get to live happily ever after. That’s the thing when you’re a kid, you still believe in magic and happy endings and are burbling with optimism. It’s when you grow up you realise that wishes and fairy tales and happy endings are a load of bollocks. And in truth you should be very careful about who and what you wish for or in my case pray for…because you might just get it.

I had idolized my godfather since I was a kid. He always made me laugh and he never shouted at me, instead I would feel utter joy when I saw him. Like the time when I was, I don’t know, two maybe and my mother woke me up at night and I screamed blue bloody murder much in the same way I do now when I am woken up unless you come baring the gift of a cup of coffee. Any way she was trying to console me as she carried me down the stairs and there lounging in my mother’s favourite arm chair, wearing his army greens and clompy combat boots, drinking a cup of coffee was my godfather. I stopped crying instantly and practically leapt out of my mother’s arms and into his. 

I never once felt growing up, that he was someone to be feared, like my step father or my mother. So imagine how elated I was when she came home from town one day at the start of the summer holidays and said that she had bumped into him and that he was going to come and see me. I was thrilled and relief flooded through me because finally I was going to be saved. He would protect me. A couple of days later he was due to come over after he finished work and for reasons I couldn’t figure out, I was dreading it. I was too emotionally immature to realise at that point. In hindsight I was pissed off that he had abandoned me for the last seven years (I was fourteen when he came back on the scene) So when he did come over, I couldn’t speak to him. Instead I walked from the living through the dining room where he and my mother were sitting and gave my excuse of just needing to go to the toilet and began heading through the kitchen, we were still living in mobile homes at this point on the farm and the bathroom and the loo were adjacent to the front door. My mother could see by the look on my face that I wasn’t going to the toilet. And as I made it to the end of the kitchen she shouted out.

“Don’t you dare run out that door [My name]” a second later I was gone. I ran all the way to the canal, occasionally checking over my shoulder that they hadn’t followed me.

I was known for running away. Not just to my mother and her piece of shit husband but to the police too…problem was I never ran far enough away and I never had the guts to tell them why I did it. And because of that they threatened to do me for wasting police time if they were called out to me again…funny, I wasn’t the one that called them, my mother was, so figure that one out.

I was at the canal for awhile, getting my breath back when to my utter astonishment my god father appeared, god knows how he’d found me because I definitely hadn’t seen him behind me and I was a sprightly little fucker and was wearing my trainers. I wasn’t trendy like other girls my age, I was bit of country bumpkin, living in jeans and baggy T-shirts that were hand me downs from my step cousins, most of the time. Even my hair was unfashionable because my mother was so strict that I wasn’t allowed to dye or cut it so it hung like a blonde fountain down to my waist. And just to make me that extra bit more super cool I had braces on both top and bottom teeth…oh well could’ve been worse I could’ve had a head brace I suppose. Sorry I digress, I do that a lot, my thoughts are often erratic so I end up going off on a tangent. Where was I….aaah the canal. My god father and I shared a moment on that bridge, we talked and he apologised for abandoning me and then he hugged me and for the first time since he had buggered off all those years ago, I felt safe and like someone cared about me and as I stood there with my arms wrapped around his waist with my head barely reaching his chest  (he’s tall and I was an even smaller short arse than I am now) I felt that the god that I now no longer believe in but did then had listened to my prayers and sent me a miracle. 

Later that afternoon we were in the kitchen at his parents house where he was staying at the time. I was sitting at the table whilst he pottered about the kitchen and he said that there was something obviously going on with me because I didn’t seem like the happy smiley kid he used to know. I couldn’t look people in the eyes (that has my step father written all over it but I’ll get to him on future posts) I had no self esteem and he was right, that happy smiley kid that he used to know was long gone…she didn’t exist anymore. So I looked over at him and blurted the whole thing out, telling him exactly who had stolen my smile, I told him how my step father had been treating me and what he’d been doing to me. I remember word for word what my godfather said to me when I’d finished. 

“If you’re lying to me I will put you over my knee and smack your arse so hard”

My step father had perfected the art of painting me out to be a liar….namely to my mother and why he did that will be revealed at a later date, but my mother had obviously mentioned my so called penchant for lying. Mommy dearest if you’ve stumbled across this…..I didn’t lie about shit! Stop living in cloud cuckoo land and wake up and smell the horse shit! Also back to the point I was going to make, whilst that bacon had made me out to be a liar the thing is I would never of lied to my godfather, the man that I had put on a pedestal since forever, the same man I both trusted and loved like a dad in equal measure. No fucking way. It just wouldn’t of even crossed my mind let alone to lie about something so heinous and monumental and I told him as much. But he still made me swear on his sword, Bloody Mary he called it. He said he’d used it in the army. For all I know it had never seen the blood of man but at the age of fourteen it certainly gave me the heebie jeebies, regardless I was fearless when I swore that oath of truth on it…because I meant it. He dropped me off home a bit later on and came in for a coffee. My step father was in the kitchen as the two of us walked in. He and my godfather exchanged a look and I’m not going to lie it was nice to see that prick squirming and looking a touch on the scared side for a change, I relished the fact that he was getting a taste of his own medicine and I remember thinking. “Yeah! How do you like it” and “Try and lay a finger on me now, I dare you” 
That summer was the best. My god father and I would hang out and he asked me to go to archery with him, it became a regular thing….I am a wicked shot with a long bow (not at real animals of course) It was at this point he started calling me his little Amazon. He would also hear the way my step father would speak to me….like I was piece of garbage. I mean kudos to the cunt, he hadn’t laid a finger on me since my godfather’ s return, so would end up consoling me once we were out of ear shot or hug me really close and tight when he’d drop me back off knowing full well that I didn’t want to go back into that house. He sounds like a pretty nice guy so far right….

I remember asking him once why he never said anything to my step father about the way in which he spoke to me and his response was.

“Because they might not let me come around again to see you” 

I also quizzed him about why he hadn’t gone to the police about what I had told him. I can’t remember his response. But I do remember over hearing an exchange between my mother and him where she said something about “[shit cunts name] gets up for midnight snacks” Nothing else was said on the subject.

One day and I remember it being the day of the week that we would go to archery. Someone and I won’t say who simply because it’s the part of my story that isn’t mine to tell and said person would kick off big time about it on account of them being a selfish bitch for reasons that become apparent in my next post, Told me that my godfather had attempted to rape them and evidently my mother knew about it! You may of noticed that I never refer her to her as ‘mum’ because she was never a mum to me. Seriously how fucked up do you have to be to let someone that someone has accused of attempted rape, around your fourteen year old daughter. Seriously woman have a word with yourself.

When my godfather came to pick me up I confronted him about it. I can see the look on his face when I remember it and can see that he clearly lied to me when he denied it but I was so blinkered back then, so well and truly under his spell that I didn’t even doubt it when he denied it. As far as I was concerned he had told me the truth and his word was gospel….oh and if you’ve stumbled across this too….you’re a total shit cunt!

Over the coming weeks my godfather turned the heat and the pressure on. Because as I’m sure you’ve already guessed, my beloved god father, the one person that I trusted and thought had my best interests at heart, that I felt protected by and for the first time since he’d vanished felt like someone actually gave a shit about me…was in fact GROOMING ME! It started out tame (ish) for example, we were sitting outside my house in his car and he was smoking (my mother didn’t allow it in her house) and I remember saying to him

“[Shit cunts name] all of the boys at school think I’m ugly. I hate my nose”

“There’s nothing wrong with you, you have a cute nose”

Then it gets creepy. I can’t remember what I said but I’m presuming was moaning about the fact that all of my sister’s were well endowed in boob department and mine were small in comparison and he said.

“Don’t worry it, anymore than a handful’s a waste”
I was very innocent, by this point I had kissed two boys and had an awkward fumble with one of them a friends birthday party, he only did it because he had some how gotten his hands on a bottle of cider. It was back to school then for me. The start of year ten and the first year of GCSEs. There were other loaded conversations initiated by my god father like whether or not I had had full on sex or not, he was aware that my step father aka massive shit cunt had done stuff to me but I’d never gone in to too much detail. It was bad enough I’d lived through it let alone having to talk about it.
My birthday came around quickly (17th sept) And I remember it sucked because I was at school but mainly because my godfather had cancelled but he’d passed a birthday card on to my mother to give me…black with blue and silver stars on. Silly isn’t it, some of the stuff we remember. I kept on to that card for a few years after and then I remember my mother yelling at me because she’d be bought me some school trousers as my birthday present and they didn’t fit me when I tried them on. I had an athletic looking body but had quite muscular thighs for a girl my age having been bought up riding horses, that and I have my grandfather’s rugby player legs. So they just wouldn’t go up around my thighs. I remember how she made out like it was my fault and her making a bitchy comment about how I was always going on about how skinny I was. Which newsflash lady I never once referred to myself as skinny…..I thought I was fat. Jesus I didn’t chuck my sandwiches away for nothing you delusional bint.

Also between my birthday and the 23rd of September 1999, the significance of that date will be revealed in a sec, I had told my best friend about what my step dad had been doing and that I was going to lose my virginity to my godfather. I swore him to secrecy on both accounts because my step father had been keeping his grubby mitts to himself since my god father had been back in the picture…I was safe.
So what’s the deal with the 23rd of September 1999? I’m sure every survivor has an anniversary. That’s mine. It was the day I was raped. And it’ll come as no great shock as to who by. I was just a messed up kid that wanted some one, anyone to give a fuck about me, and in a pure and innocent way that my friends families cared about them. I got my feelings mixed up, I mean seriously how can a child be attracted to a man that is twenty years older than she is? Those mixed up feelings lead me into a dangerous situation that would rob me of what innocence I had remaining. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back and sealed my fate along with the other monsters in my childhood that ensured I wouldn’t make it through life as a well balanced individual, instead I would turn out like I have. So damaged and scarred and completely fucked up and plagued by mental illness….most people myself included end up with BPD/EUPD as a direct result of childhood trauma/Childhood abuse.


It happened the 23rd as I said, it was the day before I got taken into foster care (to my foster family I love you always. Thank you) for step father related reasons. I’d pulled a sicky from school (I was bullied and at this point I was too much of a wuss to stand up for myself) I had the house to myself so I rang my god father to come over. To this day I can’t remember if I said “Come over for sex”  or if I just said “Come over” Any way I answered the door to him with my hair  up and no make-up on of course I probably looked about twelve as opposed to my freshly turned fifteen years. I had my cream t-shirt night dress on, the one with horses heads all over it. I can’t remember if I was wearing knickers or not. I think I made him a coffee and we walked through into the living room. He sat down on the end of the sofa nearest the door and I’m just stood there looking awkward, not really sure what to do with myself. And he says smiling.

“Come and sit on my knee”

So I did. I’d sat on his lap loads when I was a little kid and whilst I found it a bit odd such was my innocence and naivety that it didn’t even occur to me that it was some twisted precursor to sex. My memory is a little patchy here but there was no kissing. I remember being on the floor next, propped up against the couch, we were both still fully clothed apart from him having his dick out of course. I remember my pelvis being at an angle and how excruciatingly painful it was and at one point I looked down between my legs and his cock was bright red and I couldn’t tell if it was my blood or if it was a coloured condom, I don’t remember seeing him put one on though. I remember thinking that I wanted it to stop and at some point I managed to get up (I was still consenting at this point) (stay tunned for my next post where I will be having a rant about the joke that is the law and justice system in this country) and walk through into the dining room clearly indicating that I wanted it to stop…then the shit cunt bent me over my mother’s massage table and raped me….he was too busy raping me to listen to my shouts of “No!” Which he took no notice of at all. I said it loud enough and at least three times and he didn’t stop, he just carried on raping me. It was fucking excruciating and he didn’t give a fuck about what he was doing to me, or how old I was, that I was just a vulnerable kid.

I didn’t cry though, by the time he got hold of me I was so used to people taking whatever the fuck they wanted from me and treating me however the fuck they wanted too that it was normality for me. It certainly explains why he didn’t go to the police about my step father. All you cunts are the same aren’t you…protecting your own kind was why you didn’t do anything.

I’m hurt and angry about it all now, because for years I kept my mouth shut and for years I lived in denial world and delusion land and whenever that memory came up to the surface I would drown it and swallow it back down because I refused to accept that someone that I loved, idolized and looked to as a father figure could turn out to be just another fucking monster. The only happy memories I have from my childhood are tarnished and filthy because of what he did. Which is how I fucking felt when I strapped on a pair and reported him to the police…it’s how I still feel.

I’ll tell you all in my next post about how and why I ended up reporting him to the police.

I’ll also be posting the link to my petition on which will all make sense during my next post.

Before I jet off and have a shower and a well earned cup of coffee. I just want to say a massive thanks and show my love to the following people. I count you all when I count my blessings. 

Geordie Shore aka Geoff aka my brother from a Geordie mother. Cheers for being the best mate a broad could ever have, for always having faith in me, for always making me laugh even if I am crying haha, for being as clumsy as I am and for not being a Tory of course. Obvs. Haha.

Uncle for being a legend and always being there for me. The words are few but the love is huge. Thanks for always rooting for me, for scraping me off the floor, for feeding Lola when I go on my little holidays to the psych hospital. For every time you check to see if I’ve eaten or managed to take a shower etc, for being my sounding board. And for telling me i’m being a dick when I need to hear it.

And to my close friends. Thanks for being awesome in so many ways and not deleting me off Facebook for posting too many cat pics/vids haha Love you all.

And last but not least my ex/current friend Divito. Thanks for encouraging me to take up writing again and for having faith in me too. For always making me laugh usually when you’re ratted haha. Let’s hope there’s not a game of “Who can be the biggest cunt” in our future….again haha. Cwtches Popeye.

My reasons to smile

Most of the time I walk around feeling like some form of natural disaster is inhabiting my chest. But that’s how it is, and when things feel huge I need to write, you know unless of course I’m crying hysterically and then what I need is a diazepam and a nice long nap. That being said though I forget to write when my moods are ok or when I’m happy. However, when things are all going to hell in a hand basket and I find myself reaching for my notebook or meds I forget about the good things I do have in my life or the good things about me. So tonight in spite of my mood having plummeted and facing the prospect of having a battle of wills with my cat before bed later on account of needing to give her some Zantac, as she has just puked everywhere bless her (she has irritable bowel syndrome) and the fact I have come out in hives (unrelated to the cat sick. Obvs) I am going to write about the things and the people that make existence tolerable.

My heart is off limits to most people and I have a tendency to keep people at arms length, It’s easier that way. I’m selective about who I choose to let get close. But I have nothing but love for a couple of people I have chosen to let in, let them get close. 

My best friend Geordie Shore is certainly one of them. We’ve only ever met the once and we were friends for a whole year before we did that. He is like the big brother I always wanted. He always has my back, and we’ve been there for each other through thick and thin and bless his Geordie Shore he has always been there to chuck me an umbrella when I’m attempting to weather whatever storm that is trying to drown me. He is hilarious. I swear to god he makes me laugh so much to the point I get face ache and end up coughing because I’m laughing so hard! He has exceptionally good taste in music and turned me on to The Straycats in particular and he is also a brilliant artist…you need to paint again! He is always on my side too. And he is so patient with me, my brother from a Geordie mother and he’s one of the few people that I feel actually understands me, like he knows all of my secrets, knows me inside and out and even though I feel like an alien most of the time compared to other people, normal people because of how my illness makes me behave, he never makes me feel that way. Or makes me feel judged. And it is quite possibly one of the least complicated friendships I have ever had. Given that I am the eternal pessimist I feel the need to add the word ‘yet’ on to the end of that sentence. I’d explain why I call him Geordie Shore and what he calls me but It’s sort of an ongoing ‘in joke’ and I don’t want to give the jig up about his identity. I love you my Geordie marra hope you have fun going to toon for a stottie haha. Fuck yeah I still remember the time you taught me to speak Geordie!

My uncle too is one my favourite people. He’s so sweet and kind and smart and I can see that I am a lot like him, he is stubborn and we bicker because we are so alike which is always funny afterwards. He has good taste in music too not that he listens to it much bit I remember when I first moved to Wales to live with him and my dad and finding his record collection….Blondie! He is really proud of me too which I find odd but comforting at the same time. He sings my praises when it comes to my writing and when I went through my nail art phase and was painting mini murals on my nails, or when I draw something, like the portrait of our old Boxer dog Shadow that I did for him for father’s day years ago. He still has it hanging up in his room. My father was particularly put out that year as he got a big fat eff all. I’ve been promising to do a portrait of his three hooligans for a year for him but I keep putting it on the back burner as I have been so poorly. Hmmm Christmas present this year for you dear Uncle? He is also one of my favourite photographers. I had one of his black and white pictures of an old Abbey on my wall for years during my goth phase….it was awesome so sinister and haunting looking….beautiful. Thank you for loving me and not expecting or wanting me to be any different. 

Music is up next. I have been listening to it constantly the last couple of weeks which is unusual because I have to be careful of what I listen to because I am so easily triggered. But for the last two days mainly on my Spotify I have been blasting Skunk Anansie-Stoosh because let’s be honest it is an amazing album! And Ed Sheeran’s latest ÷. Feast your ears on these.

Skunk Anansie Weak

Ed Sheeran ft Yelawolf -London Bridge (so much love for this ep)

Papa Roach ft Skylar- Periscope(flash backs to going to metal clubs in my late teens, papa roach of course)

Coffee. Good coffee, makes me happy. I don’t drink or do drugs and I quit smoking again (I now vape) so coffee is my main vice. I like nothing more than going to my regular haunt and ordering my usual which they know and male it just how I like it and sitting outside to drink it. Sitting inside makes me anxious so I take up residency at my usual table and people watch. I do miss the accompanying roll-up though even though I can’t stand the way it smells now I miss the taste. So vaping my Berry Blast does the job though.

Being creative makes me happy but as I said above I’ve been too sick to do anything other than write. The last thing I drew was the picture below. Sean Bean is the only man over the age 50 that I would let get in my pants, actually Nikki Sixx too but that is it. I’m sure that hints at latent daddy issues but I really don’t care haha.

Christ I’m boring myself now. Plus I can’t concentrate properly because I’m hungry…I have been off food more than usual lately and haven’t eaten since breakfast, but It’s late and I can’t be bothered to even make toast. Art is a big passion. That photo at the top is by a guy called Dan Kitchener (Dank) he is one of my favourite artists and I looooooove Graff art, murals though not tags. I love art in general. You should check out Jim Carrey’ s art work too…I was sceptical at first but some times I love eating my own words. He is amazing! He uses a lot of vibrant colours which I like. I am not a fan of the old masters though, don’t take that as me being a philistine because I respect the hell out of them It’s just more often than not their work just doesn’t resonate with me. Take for example when I was an art student. We had to choose an artist to do a paper on in art history, we also had to recreate one of their works in a medium of our choice. Everyone else on the course was doing theirs on Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet etc and I was struggling and then my lecturer handed me a weighty tome of a book and said that I’d find someone in there….She was right and in the end I chose to do my piece on an artist that was massive in the 1980’s. I chose to recreate one of his paintings in ink…to risqué to publish here so here is one of his sculptures instead. It’s called ‘Hysterics of love’ and is so beautiful. And in case you’re wondering I got a distinction grade on that paper which I’m proud of because I really enjoyed doing it.

I also love reading. Sprawling in bed with a good book and escaping my own head and into someone else’s is sheer bliss but my concentration has been shot to pieces lately so I’ve been struggling to indulge. But here are my top five books.

The Good Faeries of New York -Martin Millar. It is hilarious, filled with piss head fairies that end up in New York, cause absolute mayhem and fairy gangland wars, a bag lady called Magenta who likes drinking Fitzroy cocktails  (methylated spirits, boot polish and juice) Kerry the shop lifting lovely who loves Johnny Thunders and has Crohns disease and the foul tempered male lead Dinny that can’t play the fiddle for shit and thinks He’s going mad when he starts seeing Heather and Morag the delinquent fairies that were run out of Scotland. My copy is battered and well travelled and signed by the lovely man himself. Expect the whisky in the post again for Christmas Martin x

Happy Baby-Stephen Elliott. Google it, Google him and read his stuff. He is one of my favourite writers and film makers. Seriously both the book and the film adaptation are poetic. So gritty, grim, ugly and beautifully written. The man is genius.

Suffragette City-Kate Muir. Albertine Andrews is an artist living in New York in 1999 and is wasted potential, she inherits an old trunk from her hip Scottish granny, belonging to her great, great grandmother Agnes who was a suffragette. Agnes starts haunting the shit out of Albertine and generally medlling in her life. It’s split between Albertine’s antics and Agnes’ letters that she finds in the bottom of the trunk to her sister, documenting her life as part of the suffragist movement and the things she did for the cause. It is both funny and moving.

Girl Interrupted-Susannah Kaysen. It is about the authors time spent in a psychiatric hospital in the 1960’s in America. She has Borderline Personality Disorder. The film of the same name is rubbish in comparison to the book as it was too dark and not true to the book. The second you read the first paragraph you will be hooked…it is fresh, vibrant, intense, harrowing and dark, It’s erratic in the sense that it isn’t in sequential order which in my eye’s makes it even obvious that she has BPD the same as me because it is a true representation of the illness.

The Secret Life of Bees-Sue Monk Kidd. Google it, read it and then once you have had your mind blown watch the film adaptation because it is great!

And on that note I am going to go and give my furbaby some medication and head to bed.