If you met me, I know you would understand why people assume I am spoiled. I have friends who are married or divorced from doctors, who live in the premium part of the city, and take for granted always driving a 2 year old or newer BMW or Mercedes. I can be seen at fancy schmancy garden cafes drinking mimosas with them, and look just like one of them.

But I'm not.

It wasn't until I was about 33 years old that I first told my story to a therapist. I had never, ever spoken aloud these words: molested at 4. raped at 16. gang raped at 18.

I still don't really feel anything about that. I told the therapist at the time all about it without shedding a single tear. I have had many more therapists and womens' groups since then, and repeated my story over and over, and even now I'm writing this without the faintest twinge of emotional pain.

But my first time being in love, and being dumped by him, and the most recent time being in love and being dumped, a few months before meeting my current boyfriend - those events are in my thoughts almost daily. The last one had me suicidal.

I'm a high functioning BPD. Which means I have perfected the calm exterior, polite behavior, appropriate behavior at all times. All my pain is carried inside, and I never know when the storm is going to hit or what will trigger it.

I also don't find excitement, anticipation, or joy in anything. I never had kids. I never really thought about having kids as part of a life I expected for myself. I was too focused on finding LOVE, that is all I ever wanted, to be loved. I got on the pill immediately upon becoming sexually active, when I was 16. I was terrified of getting pregnant, and that terror never really left until I got to be about 43 and realized the danger is probably behind me.

I don't have any hobbies. Everything I touch turns to $#%^. I could make the most wonderful painting, craft, jewelry, whatever, and the next time I see it I will think it's the stupidest looking thing, what was I thinking, this is ugly and it sucks I will never try THAT again.

Same goes for writing, which is why this blog is a major, huge risk for me. I will come back in a few weeks and delete everything, or try to.

The key for my success in my career is the fact that I am so terrified of not being accepted, that I pour every drop of myself into my work, I become fanatically obsessed with whatever business topic happens to be the current objective. I'm still not completely sure I'm doing it right.

I don’t remember exactly what I was doing, but I was probably reading or listening to music when my step father came running into the house in a panic. I had never seen him act afraid of anything, ever, so I was immediately afraid of whatever could have caused this reaction in him.

He shouted out to me and my mother to go to the back of the house and stay there until he said it was OK to come out. I remember cowering in my room, my imagination racing, afraid and confused. What could be so terrible that we had to hide? (Thankfully I had never seen any of the murder investigation shows that are so commonplace on TV now!)

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, he said everything is OK, we can all go back to doing whatever. When I asked what on earth had happened, I was told not to worry about it. Just relax, everything is fine, go back to whatever you were doing.

Now, more confused than ever, I went outside to look around. Our house sat in the middle of some acreage, which in turn sat in the middle of an enormous expanse of prairie that can probably be seen from space to this day. There were 3 houses that could be seen from our house, just barely. The closest one had been built sometime after we moved there, and I remember my step father lamenting over the fact that the new house was a blemish on the otherwise empty landscape. In recent weeks, I had seen moving trucks bringing a new family to live there. I was forbidden to go to that house, and only much later did I learn that they had kids my age.

That house had a driveway connecting to the dirt road that bisected the space between the two houses, which was probably at least a quarter mile. The land rose in elevation, our house being in a valley, and the new(er) house near the top of the rise. Now, in the afternoon sun, I could see a human figure, with a basket or bag of some sort, slowly walking the long walk up our driveway, and I watched as she continued up the hill to the neighboring house.

This is my story.

I decided to tell my story because I’m sick of people making assumptions about me.

People see me and they see a nice, fashionable, articulate woman. They ask me the usual polite questions:
“Where did you grow up? Got any brothers or sisters? Ahhh… “
Then they have enough information to label me. Spoiled. “Ohhh so you were SPOILED then, hahaha!!”

I don’t know why it angers me. Maybe it’s because I try really hard to never make assumptions about anybody, or if I do, keep them to myself until I learn more about them. So I always hope to be treated likewise.

And they couldn’t be further from the truth. Sure, if you call having my own room, and as a teenager, my own bathroom, that might qualify for “spoiled” coming from someone who had to share.

But I was lonely. I would have been thrilled to have someone – anyone – to share my space, my struggles, my unanswerable questions. There was no Google when I was growing up.

And loneliness is just the tip of the iceberg. The mountain of devastating pain, isolation, and betrayal is there beneath the surface. I guess I have to acknowledge that the face I present to the world is a masterful disguise – I put a lot of effort into looking the part, and playing the part, of a well educated professional from a normal, middle class white family.

I am going to do my best to write this in a way that is not utterly depressing and dreadful and boring. I loathe self pity, and I feel it is of paramount importance not to dismiss the impact and consequences of my own bad judgment. There are plenty of adults who could have and probably should have done something to help me when it might have made a difference, but I’m finished playing the blame game. Even if I can see a direct connection that explains why I grew up without the necessary foundation to handle life’s ups and downs, and without the skills required to learn good decision making, what does that do for me now? So, I can blame my parents and other adults, if I want to remain a traumatized victim. But I think it is better for personal growth to let go of blame and use all of my energy to focus on learning new skills, and nurturing every little tiny seed of compassion and gratitude until they become my sustaining strengths.