Healing Is Learning to Stay — For Yourself
Cognitive Distortion: are inaccurate or irrational thought patterns that can negatively impact a person’s perception of reality and their well-being. They can arise from various factors, including experiences, beliefs, and cultural influences.
This year feels different — slower, more intentional. Maybe that’s because I’m changing. When the clock struck midnight on January 1st, something shifted inside me. And when I turned 28 last month, that feeling only deepened. I found myself craving a new way of being, a life where I was no longer a slave to my emotions or my past. I wanted control — not over others, not over outcomes, but over the way I saw the world and how I responded to it.
For as long as I can remember, I have struggled with the weight of abandonment. It has followed me like a shadow, whispering doubts into my mind, making me question my worth. If I was too much, would they leave? If I let someone see me fully, would they run? My need to protect myself often turned into self-sabotage. I pushed away the people I loved, cursed them out, ignored their calls, and blocked their numbers. It was easier to burn bridges than to watch them slowly crumble. I convinced myself I was in control, but really, I was drowning in fear.
It’s strange how much of our childhood lingers inside us, shaping the way we move through the world. My father was a young, sharp-witted Black man from South Central. His presence was commanding, his movements calculated, like a soldier always on high alert. Even in moments of ease, he carried the weight of survival on his back.
When I was a little girl, my father decided it was time for me to learn independence. One afternoon, he pulled up to a corner store and handed me a few dollars. “Go in and buy your snacks by yourself,” he said, his eyes steady. I was shy, hesitant, but I wanted to prove myself. I stepped into the store, heart pounding, and picked out my treats.
As I walked back to the car, my hands were full — chips in one, money crumpled in the other. The moment I got in, he looked at me, shaking his head. “If I wanted to rob you, I could’ve,” he said. His voice wasn’t harsh, just matter-of-fact. “Never walk out of a store like that again. People are always watching. Any slip-up is an opportunity for someone to take advantage of you.”
Vulnerability, I learned that day, was dangerous. Smiling too much, trusting too quickly, showing any sign of softness — all of it made you a target. And so, I built walls. I spoke with sharpness. I carried myself like someone who could not be touched. I thought I was protecting myself, but really, I was just hiding.
At home, my father was a sergeant, and my brother and I were his soldiers. His anger was unpredictable, looming over us like a storm cloud. If he wasn’t high, he was irritable, his patience thin. I adored my father, though. I studied his moods, searching for the right moments to sit beside him, to talk his ear off when he was in the right headspace. When his eyes were red from smoking, he was lighthearted and playful, happy to humor my endless chatter. But there were times when I misread the signs, when I stayed too long, and his patience ran out.
I remember those moments vividly. The way I would quickly retreat, slipping away mid-conversation, trying to beat him to the rejection I feared. Sometimes, even as he spoke, I would abruptly get up and leave, running to my room to bury my face in music, letting the bass drown out the ache. “He doesn’t love me,” I would think. “I’m too much. I’m annoying.” My father never chased after me. Once or twice, he glanced up and asked, “What happened? We done?”
I’d answer, voice clipped, “Yeah, we’re done.”
I wasn’t done. I just didn’t know how to stay.
Growing up in a house shaped by masculine energy, I struggled to find where my femininity belonged. My father and brother bonded over sports, music, and the streets of LA. I was different. Sensitive. Quiet. Always watching. My brother, effortlessly charismatic, moved through the world with a confidence I envied. Everyone loved him — the way he dressed, the way he joked, the way he never seemed to care what anyone thought. I wanted that. So, I hardened myself, pushed away softness, tried to mirror the detachment I saw in the men around me.
But no matter how tough I pretended to be, my mother’s absence was an open wound.
I remember watching her get ready for the club, mesmerized by the way she lined her lips, how effortlessly beautiful she was. I remember the way she smelled, the way she always told me, “I’ll be back before you wake up.” And I remember the way morning after morning, I woke up to silence. I tried to hold on to sleep, to keep my eyes closed, waiting for her voice, her presence, anything that would tell me she came back. But most mornings, she didn’t. And when she did, I never let her see how much I had missed her. If I let her see my joy, it would mean I trusted her again, and I didn’t know if I could survive that heartbreak one more time.
From age seven to 27, I kept giving my mother chances to prove her love to me. Every time, I held my breath, hoping this time would be different. But chasing someone who cannot love you the way you need is deadly.
At 28, I finally realized: It is not my job to answer the why. Why she left. Why she couldn’t stay. Why I was never enough to make her choose differently. That is not my work. My work is in how I choose to respond, how I choose to grow from it.
For years, my mother called me bipolar, told me I needed help. Peers in school labeled me a weirdo. I started to believe that something was wrong with me, that I was broken in a way that could never be fixed. I was terrified of love because love always left. And if I felt it slipping away, I clung to it desperately, begged it to stay, or destroyed it before it had the chance to hurt me.
I have spent so many years hating myself, punishing myself, believing I deserved to suffer. It never occurred to me that I had the power to rewrite the story. To see my upbringing for what it was. My father’s anger wasn’t proof of my unworthiness, but a reflection of his own struggles. My mother’s absence wasn’t a rejection of me, but a symptom of her own pain. We were all just trying to survive with the tools we had.
More than a diagnosis, I wanted steps. A way forward. Something that told me that despite all of this, I could still be whole. When I started researching mental health, the symptoms that resonated most with me pointed toward Borderline Personality Disorder. Naming it felt terrifying, but it also felt like a key. A key to understanding myself. A key to change.
Borderline Personality Disorder: (BPD) is a mental health condition characterized by intense emotional instability, impulsive behavior, and difficulty maintaining healthy relationships.
Symptoms include:
- Impulsivity, such as reckless spending, substance abuse, or unsafe sex
- Intense and fluctuating emotions that shift rapidly
- Difficulty controlling anger and aggression
- Chronic feelings of emptiness and boredom
- Fear of abandonment and unstable relationships
- Distorted self-image and feelings of worthlessness
- Suicidal thoughts and behaviors
This year, I am reclaiming my story. I am no longer a victim of my past or a prisoner of my emotions. I am learning that peace is something I can create for myself, even if the world once told me it was never mine to have. I am learning that I am not broken beyond repair. And most importantly, I am learning that I am worthy of the love I have always longed for — starting with the love I give myself.
Thank you for reading my blog!
