Fact, not detail.

Every time that I write a post on this blog I get the most amazing and complimentary comments from people. Now I can’t call you strangers because that would be incorrect (you know more about me than some of my friends), but you all exist in the 2D world. Not a single one of my followers have I ever actually met.

That’s a good thing by the way. It makes these comments even more lovely because you’re not comforting me because you have to. It’s not like feeling rude by blanking me in the street, you can just scroll down your reader newsfeed onto the next post and pretend you never saw mine and I wouldn’t know any different.

The comments vary depending on the post (I hate to state the obvious, of course they do!), but often I get this same response. People telling me I’m brave for discussing my disorders and sharing everything about my life.

‘Thank you for sharing!’
‘Very brave talking about having a diagnosis of BPD’
‘It takes a lot of courage to bring things into the open’

I’m not moaning, I promise. I love these comments – knowing that people find my posts useful and that they enjoy reading them makes writing this blog so worthwhile. And these comments are unbelievably sweet, I love that you find me open and willing to talk, because that’s how I want to appear and that’s what I want this blog to be. An open book. Which I am for the most part.


But I do have a confession.

I find it incredibly easy to write a single fact on my blog, for example: ‘Aged 13 – Sexual abuse, from another uncle‘ stated in a post during my 31 Days of BPD Challenge. 

frankIt’s a fact, a statement. Something which I can isolate from myself. However if someone was to ask me, ‘so what happened?

No. Stop talking about it, I don’t wanna know. No details. Because then it becomes real to me. It becomes my experience. And surely something like that never actually happened to me.

Please don’t now refrain from commenting on my posts for fear that I’m now going to call you out and quote you in a post, but in a very long-winded way I’m just trying to get across that I’m also fragile.

If you feel unable to speak so frankly about what’s happened to you, that doesn’t make you any weaker than me. Whilst I appear to have full confidence in speaking about these things, I don’t really.

We’re as equally strong and weak as each other.

I think I demonstrated this quite nicely in another one of my 31 Days of BPD posts where I tried to go into more detail about things but ended up clamming up at the last sentence, and so I’m going to end this today in the same defensive and blunt way:

End of post.


Day 24: If you could pick one year of your life to give back and start over, which one would it be?

31 Days of BPD

There are quite a few years that were definitely not fun.

At 14 I was panicked everyday.
At 15 I was depressed.
At 16 I was probably in the deepest depression I’ve ever endured.
At 17 I stopped eating.

I could go on. I think it’s fair to say that my teenage years were the worst. They were awful. Everyone hates the idea of turning 20 when they’re 19, because it sounds a lot more grown up – but for me I loved it. I loved the idea that I was no longer in a period of time that I considered so traumatic.


But if I had to chose one stand-out year that I’d change, it would be 13. Not because it’s the beginning of the dreaded teenage-dom, but because that’s when it happened.

On May 1st this year, it will be 10 years since everything changed. I was a normal 13 year old who was then ‘sexually abused’ I guess you’d call it, by an uncle of mine. I don’t like calling it that though. 10 years on I still don’t think it feels like it should be called something that bad.

Anyway. That’s the year. That’s when it all started. And that’s the year I’d change.
End of post.