This may offend you….. if you’re Caucasian.

I am a Native American Woman. My tribe is Nez Perce (Nimi’ipuu~ “We the People”). 

I am a Sunni Muslim. Converted on my own, in 2013. 

I am a Pflag mother, a left-winging Liberal

And I am really fucking passionate about the above listed. 

I have a raging problem with “White America,” I am not a terrorist. 

My paternal grandparents were from the Netherlands. 

My Maternal grandfather was Finnish, Maternal grandmother was Native. My grandfather converted to Native-Americanism. 😉 this is only slightly a joke. Though he spoke Finnish, he took on our native culture as his own. 

My skin is light, but the pride for my native culture is thick. 

I was not raised by my biological paternal family, I know nothing about being Dutch. 

I was raised with moccasins, goulash, fry bread, stories of my ancestors, etc. 

However, I was also raised in a family who used racially charged language that offended me for as long as I could remember. 

When I was 9 months old, my mom married the man I refer to as Dad. I love my dad so much, that will never change. We do not share DNA, political stances, or even the same values, but we do share love. It was nothing to sit a Christmas and hear the ever forbidden “N-word.” Or “R-word.” I knew it wasn’t right, and it hurt me to my bones when I heard it. My voice was too tiny to stand up to the white man, and say, enough is enough, stop saying those words!

But I can say them now, and I do, you better Fuckin believe it.  I AM LOUD.

The opposite on my Maternal side. Grandma was always talking BAD about “The white man.” The white man basically fucked everything up for Native Americans. Unapologetically raped and pillaged, and now just wants us to pretty much get over it & stay on the Rez. I did not grow up on my reservation that my family is from. I grew up in Smallsville, where there were only about 3-5 Native families. We lived like white kids, with some Native culture splashed in. When I was a teenager, I tried to absorb myself into the the Latino culture, as I just could not relate to white people. I still to this day get charged over the natural entitlement a lot of white people feel, ESPECIALLY on the heels of this fucking presidential election. I AM TERRIFIED.

I didn’t want my kids to be raised in Smallsville, because I didn’t want them to be subjected to middle class, white, Republican, conservative, Christians. Fast forward 10 years after I moved them away, we have returned. And imagine that my return to the homeland, did not spark a zombie apacolypse. I am dissapointed. 

Today I was in a room, filled with middle class, white, Christian, republicans. I had to pray their prayers, and stand for the pledge of allegiance. I ALMOST FUCKING DIED! This was the most amount of anxiety I had felt in months. I wanted to crawl out of my skin. I wanted to run away with my middle fingers in the air. It was aweful…… TBC

This is my fucking life today….

I am absolutely in love with my BF. But I really fucking miss my husband (getting a divorce soon, already filed.) My BPD demons murdered my marriage, and I am grieving it like a mother fucker today…… I wanna cry. I MISS that life. So much. I crave it again. When I was normal. When I felt normal. #hurting

Pink Dahlias

This is the part about having BPD I hate the most. 

Current situation; About 2 hours ago, the BF told me he was going to get the car washed and his hair cut. I am currently in Seattle at his apartment, which has become my 2nd home. I have flat ironed my hair to get ready for a fancy Iftar dinner tonight, where I’ll be introducing him to my girlfriends that live here in Seattle. 

Currently going through my mind…..Where is he? Shouldn’t he be back by now? Did he go meet up with some girl? He’s fasting, he wouldn’t do that. But what if he broke his fast to go meet up with another girl, but he just won’t tell me. What if he brings me back a surprise? No, he wouldn’t do that. Where could he be? Why wouldn’t he take me with him? He looked so good when he left too, like he was going somewhere important. Why didn’t he save those clothes for tonight. What if he breaks up with me? I’ll have to pack all my clothes out of here, like a walk of shame. What if he breaks up with me while I’m back home in Smallsvile? Will he ship me all my stuff. Doubtful. Why does he even love me? Does he love me? Maybe I am just a companion for now. Maybe I should just leave.

This is my fucking life. I could go on and on with all of these thoughts that race through my mind all damn day. It is a constant battle to shush these demons daily. I know it is not a reality, most of the time, If I can pull myself out of it in time, or something external happening (like him walking through the door with a perfect explanation), then I will not disappear into my own head, to the point my anxiety consumes me and I cry, then want to die. 

Let me tell you about my boyfriend. Maybe if I describe all the reasons I love him and why he is so incredible, I can get this filthy shit out of my head for a while. 

I stopped online dating like a long time ago. Thought dating in the work pool was a better idea, turns out, not so much! About a week before I moved to Smallsville I met my BF, via an online dating site. If I already wrote about this, in a previous post, I apologize. Just kidding I don’t, I don’t really care.  Anywhoooo, I really just wanted to flirt with someone. We texted and decided to meet up at the mall, so we did. Then he invited me to his apartment, so I went. Prior to that we went out to lunch which was nice, he paid. 

Arrived at his apartment, it’s nice here, children playing outside, it’s very clean. We went strait to his room. We kissed, hung out, rubbed all over eachother, etc. I gave him a blow-job, because I was on my period, and well, why not. I am not too humble or shy to say, I know how to give a good blow job, which is probably what’s had them all coming back over the years. TMI, I know……

I had a BF at the time, named Brix, I had been seeing off and on again over the past few months. The sex was AWEFUL, but he loved me, so I kept going back. I probably broke up with him like 4-5 different times. Each time he would just say, oh, it must have been your condition. Lol…Fuck. I cheated on him all the time. I cheated on ALL OF THEM, except one, my current BF. 

So, after I moved, I broke up with Brix, and went about my business. I had a few little romances in the 1st week I was in Smallsville. One was a Jamaicain who fucked like, naked Dirty Dancing, and I came alllllll the time! OMG. He was good. The other was Zim who I had been talking to for a few weeks prior to moving. I knew both of these dudes were temporary, but in the meantime had still been texting with the who is now BF. 

I had made plans with him to spend the weekend at his apartment in Seattle about 2 weeks after I moved. I still wasn’t so sure about this guy, but was like, okay, I’ll go. Well the night I was getting ready to leave, I tried to cancel on him, and he texted me back, “Don’t do this to me.” 

Those words, those 5 words, Friday May 15th, 2016 @ 5:04pm,  saved my life. I spent the weekend with him, had incredible sex, multiple times, went on fun little dates, and my tiny, cold, blackened, broken heart, sprouted a little yearling. Since then, I have been spending every other weekend with him. That yearling turned into a bud, that bud blossomed into a beautiful pink Dahlia, and my heart has almost completely shed all of its iron clad armor. I have not had any big urges to cheat, like I had in the past. Like, I am actually in love with him. He is trying to understand my BPD, but there is no way he’ll ever be able to wrap his mind around it. Who can. Thankfully, right now we do live 3 hours apart, which slows down the process, and makes me be incredibley patient. I wanna be married now, living together, sharing our lives, but I know at this point in our lives, it’s just not possible. 

A day in the life of us. Alarm goes off, the 1st thing I do is check my phone to see if he left me anything in the middle of the night. I get ready, then start my 8 minute commute to work. Every single day, on that commute, I leave him a voicemail, telling him about why lies ahead in my day, what the weather is like, if I’m getting coffee, but most importantly, I wish him well for his day and tell him how much I love him. 

After he wakes, he does the same. My favorite is when he calls me baby girl, beautiful, or gorgeous in his greeting. We leave eachother anywhere between 3-9 voice messages a day between the 2 of us. Coupled with texts and pics. Sometimes we send some little quotes. It’s pretty adorable. Before we go to bed at night, if I have not fallen asleep (he works 3-11pm, I work 7:30-4:30pm), we video call eachother. We chat, and giggle, I get sleepy, and we say goodnight. It’s the only thing that makes this long distance relationship work. THANK YOU TECHNOLOGY! Never does a day go by, this little routine gets skipped. 

I think at this point if something did happen, I would have a mental breakdown. Okay, I know I would. So here I sit in his apartment, waiting for him to get home. Wondering WTF is taking him so long. See, for like 45 minutes, I actually forgot about him being gone for so long. Fuck…….The thoughts return. 

Then he came home, with juice for me. I am fine. All demons gone. He is laying next to me. Sleeping. I am happy. I am content. I am in love. Thank you to my team of Unicorns.

DBT Tuesday, or so I thought…..

For fucks sake. 

I began therapy last week, had my 2nd session yesterday. Before I left Seattle, I wanted to take DBT through UW, the Mecca of DBT. I knew they had a good program there, and I was so super stoked! However, things changed, and I moved to Smallsville instead. More on that at a later date. 

Anywhooser, I googled DBT therapists in Smallsvile, and found 3. Why I chose to pick the one I did, I have no idea. It was like throwing a dart at a spinning wheel. You never know right. Well, my therapist is about 75 years old, and that is not even an over estimate. She could be even older. Older is wiser right??? Fuck. I hope she don’t die on me. 

So the past two weeks, I’ve just been spilling and spilling. Talking about everything under the sun and all my craziness. But yesterday, I was thinking, okay, she’s going to give me some tools right? We’re going to start DBT. Right? Apparently not. She keeps talking about clearing the table, and making room for us to talk and work. 

My table is clear chick lets get started before I make some really bad choices again. Frustrated. This is why people stop going to therapy. And hate therapists. Maybe I need to change, idk. I’ll give her another 2-3 sessions and see how this goes. This shit ain’t cheap either. 

Stuffing rape.

“You’re moving anyways, do you really want to be traveling back and forth dealing with this whole thing? I mean, I have my own opinions about this, but it’s not professional of me to share them. My advice to you, would be to just wrap it up and put it somewhere in the back of your mind. -Some Snohomish County Sheriff Douche Lord.

That was the response I got when I reported my rape, 24 hours after I became just another statistic. 

“Rape is Rape! No means No! Even if you’re having sex, and you say no, or stop, it’s still rape!” -Says all the federal laws and rape advocates. Yea right, on what Fuckin planet! My rapist, a temporary co-worker, raped me in my apartment while I was training him. And everyone, including my company let him off the hook. I let him off the hook. 

Part of being borderline, can also mean you’re a slutty little whore. Okay, that was a little rough, it can also mean you tend to be exceptionally promiscuous. I definitely fit into that category of the diagnosis and symptoms. The more I learn about BPD, the more I understand myself, and why I did the things I did/do. I did not become borderline in the past 3 months, I have struggled with this diagnosis since I was a teenager. I did not know an official term for it until now. 

Some may say, I put myself in that position. Being raped. Are you fucking kidding me……Nobody puts themselves in a position to be raped. The reality of it is this; I had created a reputation for myself (promiscuity, overly nice & incredibley accommodating.) By nature,  I am ridiculously naive, and vultures seem to smell it a mile away. I love to flirt, but that does not mean I want to fuck you. Well, I mean, most of the time it does, but not always. In this specific incident, I flirted, I gave into the grooming, and his seduction. Then he took from me what he wanted, while I yelled NO!, and STOP IT! And GET OFF! What led up to my rape, and post rape, I could have handled differently looking back, but I didn’t. 

You know they should really give us a fucking manual when we’re born on how to appropriately react to rape. That way there will be no question. It’s like when your dad tells you, “If you get into a car accident, never admit fault.” We learn that shit early on. I mean, it’s a really great piece of advice, but when it came to my rape, I had no tools. Just guilt and shame. 

The fact that I was promiscuous, and it was known, coupled with the fact that I let him back in my apartment twice afterwards, basically dismissed my rape. The Sheriff was right, Why in the fuck would I want to put myself through all of testimonies, and victim shaming. I don’t think I could emotionally handle it, and really in the end, what would I gain. Look at the swimmer that just raped that woman. He got nothing really but a slap on the wrist, and that was a highly publicized rape.

Because I have a pussy, and you wanna fuck, even if I say no, you’ll take what you want anyways.  You will suffer no consequences, wipe the sweat from your brow, let off a slight “whew”….and call it a day. Meanwhile, I remain a victim for the rest of my life. 

But there were 4 people in my room that day. Saytan, you (piece of shit rapist), myself, and Allah (SWT). It is the latter you will have to answer to. 

PS; In case you haven’t noticed, I refer to my God as Allah, as I am a Muslim. A very liberal Muslim, who says very naughty words. 

If you are a victim, I am sorry. Fuck your rapist. They’re worthless. The universe does not forget them. Trust that.

Okay, 1st day on the job.

First day on the blog job. But not really, because I tend to create 5,000 different Gmail accounts for different things and have started about 10 different blogs, and never follow though. Until today, (mic in hand) I will follow through today people! I will create a funny blog, that everyone will fall in love with, I’ll become famous and have an audiobook. 

I am a borderline. Do I capitalize borderline? Borderline. Basically I have a personality disorder that causes me to fight my mental health demons daily with a big stick and a herd of unicorns. (Googles, what do you call a group of horses.) Okay, I have a “Team” of unicorns! How appropriate. 

I was diagnosed with BPD somewhere around March of 2016. Suicidal ideations were at their all time high, so before I knocked myself off, I reached out for help. Prior to this my mother, who actually needs a Wonder Woman uniform, was the quintessential super hero. I was living in Seattle and would call her in panic, crying, expressing my ideations, creating the biggest panic possible for her, unintentionally. My mom was 3 hours and a mountain pass away. She could not just come and rescue me with every manic or depressive state. (Skip forward 2 months) I moved home with mom. I am still alive. 

This blog will never have a streamline to follow, because I am borderline, and we jump around from moment to moment, so you can follow along for this wild ride, or simply stop reading. Oh and I like to say words like fuck and shit, and will often be explicit. I’m writing this on a whim, but if I can project into the future, I think it will get very explicit, and a lot of “F” words. My advice to you is, if you do not like explicitness, naughty words and random thoughts, I’d go now. And don’t be all judgey either. Mmmmm-Girl, we all got them demons in one way or another and we all need a team of unicorns. 

You can google BPD, but it’s different for everyone. Thankfully, I don’t have the tendency to be angry and violent, or self harm, thanks to Allah (SWT) &  my team of unicorns. Everything else is pretty textbook. For me, I’m like if you take Dory and a squirrel and squish them together, that’s me in mania, which is 85% of the time. I can’t remember shit, and I have the attention span of a gnat, yet I am a happy fucking camper! I get super exited about new things, practically cure world hunger, solve the national debt, create 15 self help groups, lose 75lbs,  (all of this in theory) then, all of the sudden out of nowhere, I am bored, and have lost all interest. 

When I was in my depressive state, my BGF (best guy friend) would constantly  try to cheer me up, but he would always say, Tiffany you need a hobby or something that makes YOU happy inside. This suggestion,  (find what makes you happy) is always like nails on a chalkboard to me. I could never find what makes me happy inside or a hobby because it changed from day to day, hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. I’m really counting on therapy to fix this shit for real. I’d like to take up jogging, but I’m a lady, and ladies don’t jog or run. And what I mean by that is, I’m too overweight and I smoke too much. I’d die. Suicide by jogging and being non-ladylike.

Therapy began last week. I went and met with my therapist who specializes with people who have BPD. She does DBT (dialectical behavior therapy) which is ones only hope with BPD, or so I’ve read. However, there is no cure or medication for BPD, just therapy. Hope this lady knows what’s she’s doing. 

Exhausted from this post….Okay not really, but I could use a nap, I kneed more coffee….it’s Monday, and Fuck.