Books For Daughters Of Mothers With Bpd Novels & Stories

“Finding The Spouse You Married.” I would have laughed had my heart not randomly started aching for her. This beautiful woman, full of love and interesting stories and lessons to pass on, was reading some bullshit self-help book on how to make my dad treat her the way she wanted to be treated. It was sickening, and yet very telling of what my mother must’ve gone through with Dad. I wondered if she’d ever tried reading books to fix what had become so broken. “Want me to read you a page? The anecdotal stories are pretty funny.”

She popped one into her mouth, chewing slowly as if it might calm her. But just when I thought she had regained control, her left hand lashed out toward my face. I caught her wrist midair, my grip firm but careful. I wasn’t surprised. This was normal. Expected. Violence had become a part of my mother, a cruel gift from the bipolar disorder that accompanied her dementia. "Mother," I said, my patience thinning. "Can you calm down?" She glared at me, her golden eyes blazing with fury. The kind woman from moments ago had vanished, replaced by a violent storm I had no way of controlling.

"Papa, so what if all this is true? Elisa is dead! Can a dead person inherit the family business? Can a dead person lead the Neri family? Everything is mine now! The casino, the smuggling operations, the nightclubs, and even Enrico—they're all mine!" Mattia stared at her, long and hard. Then, he raised his hand and struck her across the face. "Bitch!" Rita's head snapped aside, and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. She wiped it off and laughed even crazier. "Did you just slap me? Papa, have you forgotten? I'm your favorite daughter! Didn't you say, even though I'm adopted, I'm more like your daughter than Elisa?" "Shut up!" Mattia roared.

He had no right to pity her, he reminded himself sharply; he was no saint in inher life either. The doctor continued, “BPD episodes may not last long, but their effects can linger. I recommend physiotherapy and dialectical behavior therapy (DBT).” With that, he excused himself, leaving Damian alone with Blue, an unknown feeling churning in his gut. She was so damn pitiful, more than he had thought. ________________ The night enveloped the room in a veil of quiet contemplation, the only sound the gentle rhythm of their breathing. Blue lay beside Damian, her eyes dark and hollow, the weight of her past

A few days later, Rose went back to see Miss Felicia. “My secretary said you wanted to see me again, what’s the problem? Felicia asked. “We were having a discussion a few days ago, before some man interrupted,” Rose said, eyeing her suspiciously. Felicia’s face hardened. “Miss Rose, please leave. This is not your business.” “It is my business,” Rose said firmly. “My son is a victim here, and I need a proper explanation.” “Look, I understand,” Rose said gently “I'm a single mother too. I've faced threats. But you cannot let them see you as weak.”

Bryan’s remark annoyed me to no end. I was wrong about him. He hit on Mom, and it was not recent, either. Mom pushed me to the ground, the broken shard on the floor piercing into my back. An excruciating pain washed over me. Without looking at me, Mom cupped Bryan’s face between her hands. “Does it hurt, Bryan? Let me blow the pain away.” They made me sick to my stomach. Despite her years on earth, Mom lost all reason and turned against me, her daughter, for a man.

Even the blood still running down my forehead seemed to turn cold. So in her eyes, her eldest daughter was just an unsightly embarrassment, something that couldn’t compare to Suri in the slightest. I struggled to my feet and started toward the door. I didn’t want to stay here for even one more second. I didn’t want to watch Mom and her precious Suri clinging to each other while I stood there like a stranger. However, before I could reach the door, Mom blocked my path. Frowning, she rummaged through a box, pulled out gauze and antiseptic, and shoved them into my hands.

My mother, Sophie Nash, was also my homeroom teacher, and she loved nothing more than using me to assert her authority. She was convinced that the worse off I was, the more afraid my classmates would be, and the higher her authority would be. Once, when I passed an eraser to a classmate during class, she slapped me so hard across the face in front of the whole class that my face swelled up. Another time, after I secretly ate a crumb of a classmate’s snack during recess, my mom dragged me up to the front of the classroom and pricked my lip with a needle until blood gushed out. Later, when a classmate was caught by the vice principal for having a romantic relationship while underaged, my m

You're going to pay for being such trash! The manager of my early learning center called me in tears, "Ms. Smith! It's chaos out here! There's a crowd at the shop's door, waving signs calling you a 'Heartless Mother', and they're even splashing paint on the doors! Parents are demanding refunds in the chat..."

I sighed, "What about when you hit her? Was that BPD then? Does it make you violent? Make you drink?" "I spent every second of every goddamn day regretting what I did. I cheated on her that night and I lashed out my anger and frustration in the worst way." He said. "BPD does make one violent, yes, but it really doesn't affect me like that." "I was fucking 8. I was just a fucking little girl and you hit my mother right in front of me." I avoided his eyes as I spoke, flashbacks replaying in my mind. "Mom begged you to calm down and control your temper because I was there but do you know what you did? You hit her in a way I had never seen before and that was-"