I Read Somewhere Once

...or at least I think I did, that our identities are tied to our experiences and relationships. That means that the life you've lived, and the people that have held influential roles, help you to define yourself as a person. For most people, I guess that works. For m, not so much. The more I try to figure it out, the less sense I can make of it, actually.

I have no identity. I don't know who I am.

I thought I did, when my mother was alive and I could be angry with her for the shit hand she dealt us all without feeling guilty. I could call her and ask her for advice. I could laugh with her about something completely stupid.

I thought I did, when I could stand out on the porch with my dad, smoke a cigarette, and talk about nothing and everything. When I could call him and ramble on bout whatever inane bullshit was getting on my nerves at the time and hear his voice on the other end of the phone.

Now I realize that I am not who I thought I was. I don't know who I am at all.

This is very hard to admit for someone like me. Well, for me specifically. I'm not really sure there is anyone out there like me anymore, because I can't even tell you about me. With few exceptions, I know basically nothing about myself.

Here is what I do know, for sure:

I never hayed my mother. I never forgave her for the damage she caused, but I did come to terms with the fact that she really didn't mean to.

I swore it wouldn't matter very much to me when she died, because I had convinced myself I didn't really care anymore. I was wrong, wronger than wrong. And I lied to myself.

I was right when I said the losing my father would devastate me more than anything else in my life ever has. And trust me, that is an insane amount of devastation.

I absolutely have Borderline Personality Disorder. This is not the curse I was led to believe it was, and shame on the media for perpetuating it as such.

My children come before anyone. Anyone.

I don't want to be alive. I never have. Ever.

The above statement does not imply suicidality. I work hard, every minute of every day to show the kids a happy face, and a mom that loves them above all else.

I know I spend every minute of every day in pain. Some physical, so much emotional. I know I keep fighting because that's what we do in my family. We keep pushing through every wound, through every agonizing blow and stab...and we do this until we cease to exist.

What I don't know is...

Who am I?