Today I went to my first ACA (Adult Children of Alcoholics) meeting. It’s not just for children of alcoholics, but children of dysfunctional families. Mine’s normal dysfunctional. Divorced. Remarried. Two half brothers. I’m the oldest out of four. But I belonged at the meeting, regardless.
My dysfunction is searching for love from my mom. Both moms. Birth and step. And I’m not getting what I need so I turn to addictive behaviors such as sex, eating, smoking, and cutting.

I shared my short story of how I look for that love in other people, in abusive people. That despite I get it from my wife it’s just not enough. I want it from my mothers. From the one who gave birth to me. From the woman who married my father. Who CHOSE ME. Didn’t regret me. Who chose me until I wasn’t enough and she had to have her own. She says she loves us all equally but I felt replaced.

This group knows me and calls me Cassandra. A name I hate and don’t use. A name my mother gave me. But I am here to heal the little girl, Cassandra. Where the BPD started. It was Cassandra who was emotionally abandoned. It was Cassandra who was raped at 6 by her friend’s cousin. It was Cassandra whom parents were divorced.

I’m doing this for her so Icarus, the genderless being that I am, can thrive.

Group was not what I was expecting. I was shaking the whole time with fear, feeling like the fraud police were going to get me. Tell me that I didn’t belong there that I wasn’t “bad enough.” (But I have the scars and cuts and I’m a repeat rape victim with my list of mental illnesses, believe me, I need this)
But everyone there who shared shared something that I have been through, that I have thought, that I had felt. That I was currently feeling. One person stole the words right out of my mouth “I have to be the most insane one to justify all of this.”
Another person spoke about how he painted the ugly and deformed because that was where he found his Higher Power.
People spoke of looking for love from parents who weren’t giving it. About feeling like a freak.
We talked about how it was them who weren’t accepting OUR gift of OUR love. It was them, not us who were wrong. But we still had to be accountable for our feelings and actions. We are valid, but that doesn’t always make us right.
We talked about how we are responsible of our response to our traumas.
But what about PTSD???? Are we responsible on if we get PTSD then?

All I know is that I did not ask to have PTSD. I did not asked to be raped. My behaviors and facts made up of what others created for me may have lead me to those who abused me, but I did not ask for it. I did not know how to ask for help out of it. I did not know how to avoid it. How can I be responsible for that? How can I be responsible for something no one taught me???

It’s like fool me once shame on you, fool me twice or more times shame on me. Rape me once, shame on you. Rape me again…and again…and again… shame on me?

Something isn’t right there but that’s how my trauma/marriage therapist describes it.

Shame on me for getting raped by Damien. Especially since he did it many times, right? That’s my fault? I don’t get it.

My trauma/marriage therapist is afraid (if I am truly Borderline as she says) that I’ll split on her. That I’ll tell my general therapist that I don’t like her. Because that’s what borderlines do. We try to get people on our side once we don’t like a person.

How dare she call me out like that.

But also, why is that a bad thing? I’m hurt. I’m offended. Why is it bad to seek comfort from someone that agrees “yes what she said was wrong and unfair to you.”

I am fragile. Handle me with “kid gloves” damn it. I’m still a kid. I haven’t grown up from 6. I haven’t grown up from 15. Too many ages in my head to act 26.

Cassandra was raped at 6 years old. I didn’t even realize it until I was much older but the more I dig up the memory the more techno color it appears.

Cassandra wasn’t raped at 15. She was dead before that.

But Rin? Rin was molested a handful of times. Then she was raped. Many times. By the same abusive boyfriend. Molested again by male friends she mistakenly got close to.

Then Rin was raped by a female friend she got too close to. We don’t like talking about that.
That was when Rin died and I was born.

They say it takes seven years to have completely new cells. I was born with seven years to get my own body again. One she hadn’t touched. Three down, four to go.

But I, Icarus, refuse to be touched again in ways I don’t want to.

I’ve already fucked that up, whoring myself out to a male friend to hurt myself. It isn’t rape. But it’s self harm.

It’s been a week almost, hasn’t it? Can I make it 7 years. Will I make it to 33? Will I even make it to 30?

Fuck, will I make it to 27? To 2017. Will I make it to tomorrow?

My wife left her keys here today, by accident. I have access to my medications. I could over dose right now if I wanted to or not. I don’t know if I want to. I know I want to cut again. Oh I really want to cut again. But I also want to take a handful of Ambien and sleep. Sleep until I die.

I don’t like groups. Though I’m going to keep going. It opens wounds. Group doesn’t close them. Maybe it does and I’m not letting it?

This is on me to make it work.

But do I want it to work?

Am I just that so in love with my pain that I am incurable?

Why do they bring God and a Higher Power into everything. I have a complicated relationship with God. They began and end with the Serenity prayer.

“God, grant me the serenity
To accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things that I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.”

How is serenity going to help me?
How can I change anything?
Courage? I have none.
Wisdom??? I have zero.

I want to change everything, I do not fucking care if there are things I can’t change. Fuck me.


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