Project: My Story

Vanna Never Smiles Introduction

Draft 1

Stories have a beginning, middle, and an end. For me, I assure you,  the ingrained beginning and intermediate memories of my story are tattoo with the finest of needles and the most brilliant of art. I can always remember being extra emotional. I can’t control them no matter how hard I try, always getting made fun by my siblings, teasing me because I would be so easily upset. With this I am called crybaby and worse. By the time I was three, my mom was on her third marriage to a man (we will call him Tim). Tim had had four kids of his own I was barely three so much of my memory is hit and miss. I vaguely remember much of my biological father at this age, a park trip where I had hit my head on the monkey bars. One of her second husband’s house with a man named Douger, drunk passed out on our kitchen table. Her third husband, though memories at such a young age aren’t too hard to forget when they are nothing but horrendous.

My mother and her then-husband had my little brother together. This made my mother’s fourth born child and his fifth child. The 10 of us lived in a decent-sized house in a small town. I think in the very, and I mean very beginning, things were picture perfect. My mother had gotten pregnant, then gotten married while pregnant. After birthing my brother, I believe are when things started getting complicated. But I was barely three or four. This is how I remember being raised over the next several years.

My older siblings were in charge most of the time as my parents were never home. They were always out drinking and partying. The thing is, I didn’t even know that’s what they were doing until I was old enough to understand. I remember many nights they would pull every dish out of every cabinet and make us stay awake until they were all rewashed. Usually, my older siblings had the worst of it, I mean really how do you make a three-year-old wash dishes to that extent. But yes, I had to help and I remember we couldn’t eat or sleep until the dishes were clean. Along with this, we had cousins that came over and they stayed over as the parents all went out. I remember one day the older kids had the younger, including myself, touching each other’s privates. I don’t know why or what started it; I wasn’t old enough to get it. But I knew it felt wrong, and I wasn’t comfortable. There are only the bits and pieces, nooks and crannies of this home that I remember. It’s like one big night terror. My siblings tell tales like scary campfire stories. My mom used to beat my step-sibling with wire cords. Just things I never remember but never disbelieved their stories as I grew older as she was never afraid to lay hands on her children.

Eventually, my step-siblings moved out and for many years we didn’t see them. I never really understood where they went or why they were just gone. We moved out of that white house in that small town to a neighboring town with a little old lady we called grandma. She wasn’t our grandma; I think we were just told to call her that and that’s how that worked. I have a full-blooded older sister by nearly two years and a younger brother just thirteen months apart. Then my half brother who was the baby five years my younger. So it was the four of us kids and three adults living in a 2 bedroom trailer. This unraveling a new chain of unfortunate life new life-changing events.

As I mentioned, there were eight of us living in a two-bedroom trailer. The lady we called grandma, her oldest son, lived next door and a grandson. Catty-corner from her trailer was another trailer, and that was a relation of some sort. I was in kindergarten, yes, I’m so old we still went half days then. Our day comprised finding out a letter of the alphabet and playing red rover. I recall, I wasn’t yet wholly an outcast they often invited me to Amy’s house; she was a popular girl with a swimming pool. We played that dating game her older sister Candi had with the fake telephone. The board game, dream phone. We thought we were the coolest kids.Oh, and another popular girl, Cierra, ran away to my house, ha haha. That joke was on well, I’m not sure, but it didn’t take long before Cierra’s parents rescued her.

My two full-blooded siblings, we will name them Zeek and Ariel. We made every other weekend trip to my biological father’s house. In these moments I recall my first real memories of him. I don’t have a single memory of how we ever got to or from his home a few towns away. I remember his then-wife Karen. Her hair fiery red, I can’t remember her as anything other than nice all the time. His house was white, and it was significant, at least to me it was considering I was sharing such a little house with so many people. We always seemed to have a good time there. I just have two memories from there that aren’t picture perfect. This doesn’t mean it was picture perfect. It precisely means in my young mind, and I knew that it was better than my moms. When I was at dad’s house, I was secure, and we were a family. We were normal. He taught us to play this game out of army men and a Carmex tube, set up the army men, roll the Carmex tube, and knock down the army men. Such a small, cheap game, but it was always so much fun. My dad, which we should probably give him a name, let’s name him Tom.

Tom may or may not have been everything my mother made him out to be. She often told us he was worthless and didn’t love or want us. I can always remember her trying to convince us he was evil. I had never believed her. He taught us how to play 007 and DOOM on the computer, our first video games. He introduced me to my first love, animals. I wanted to be a veterinarian for many years. It was a passion of mine, and animals seem to cling on and adore me. another reason i clinged so tightly to animals is there lack of jusdgment you see they either feared you or they didn’t

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The Borderline in Me

I am a 32-year-old female who received a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder in late September 2019. After being wrongfully diagnosed most of my existence as many other borderline patients have, it was almost a relief. Shortly after, it felt more like another bomb of worthlessness went off. I felt cursed until I decided it was time to speak up. I am one of many created borderlines. The trauma from my history created inside of me a blessing or a curse. I am choosing to make use out of my BPD instead of letting it overpower my will to survive it. When the professional compared it to third-degree burn victims all over there, body physicians nailed it. This pain we feel our emotions are not exaggerated, and most of us would give anything not ever to shed another tear. I want to help others and connect with those alike. I am here to share my story as my voice deserves to be heard and give courage for others to speak.

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