Where My Story Began

I actually wrote almost half of this blog before bed one night and forgot to save it, so here I am rewriting it all over again. Honestly, it feels fitting. This part of my story—the beginning—is the foundation of everything, and the place where I think people will relate the most. Still, it’s frustrating to pour yourself into something only to have it disappear, especially when it’s something you weren’t exactly excited to write in the first place. But that’s kind of how my childhood felt, too. So… here’s where my story starts.

I grew up in a blended family. I was born in California, raised in Nebraska, living with my dad, stepmom, stepsister, and half-brother. My mom eventually moved from California to Nebraska when I was eight, and I’d see her every other weekend until I graduated high school. At one point, during my sophomore year, I tried living with her for a year. It didn’t last. The lack of structure and the way she parented—especially as her alcoholism slowly developed—just didn’t feel like home to me. I was never given a clear explanation about why she let my dad take me to Nebraska or why he had primary custody to begin with. I’ve heard different versions throughout the years, but none that feel like the whole truth.

The truth is, I don’t remember most of my childhood anyway. Honestly, everything before high school is a blur, and even high school is patchy. The memories that do stick are the ones that weren’t so great—the ones that shaped me mentally and emotionally in ways I didn’t understand at the time. My psychologist later explained that I had anxiety and ADHD as a kid (undiagnosed), which explains a lot. Living in fight-or-flight mixed with chronic inattention can fog up an entire childhood. But the thing I want to talk about most is borderline personality disorder—BPD.

I’ve never been officially diagnosed with BPD, but when I listed the behaviors I’d struggled with—lying, cheating, stealing, impulsive decisions, unstable relationships, emotional explosions, fear of being alone, shaky self-image, mood swings—my therapist gently told me that if I’d been evaluated back then, that likely would’ve been my diagnosis. She also said that early psychological help could have completely changed the trajectory of my life. Instead, I grew up being told I was “just a bad kid” or “just difficult,” when in reality, something was deeply wrong and no one wanted to look at it.

A few years before that conversation, I had gone through my first divorce. I was pregnant with my son and trying to reconnect with my parents after the mess I’d made of my life—after the lying, impulsivity, and chaos. My stepmom asked to go to dinner. I remember sitting there, mostly quiet, listening as she listed out every behavior I had ever displayed from childhood up to that moment. I took it because I wanted my family back. I wanted some kind of forgiveness or understanding. But I still didn’t ask her the question that had been sitting in my chest for years: Why didn’t you help me? Why didn’t any of you see that I wasn’t okay?

I didn’t find the courage to ask until almost four years ago, in 2022. I met with my dad during another attempt to repair our relationship. I was terrified. I’ve always hated talking to him (or my stepmom) about my feelings. I’d get anxious, panicky, tear up. Conversations that were supposed to be supportive usually ended in judgment or ridicule, so bringing up this question after years of distance felt impossible. But I finally asked:

“You knew something was wrong with me. Why didn’t you get me help? Why didn’t you take me to see someone?”

His answer was exactly what I was afraid of:
“We didn’t have mental health problems growing up.”
“Mental health wasn’t a thing.”
“All of you kids were just different.”

I had expected that answer, but I also hoped—deep down—for more. I don’t know why, but I did.

So, here’s where I’ll end this for now: It has taken years of therapy, medication, and hard work to grow beyond the person I used to be. I used to lie because it felt safer than the truth. I avoided conflict. I was paranoid. I shape-shifted myself to make everyone happy. All I ever wanted was for my family to be proud of me, to be the favorite friend, to be loved by someone who loved the real me.

But for a long time, I didn’t even know who the real me was. I can see now that I wasn’t living as the person I was meant to be. I’m still not perfect—still learning, still growing—but I’m living proof that change is possible. Lying started to feel heavy and hollow. Selfishness faded the moment I chose to be truly present for my son. Cheating became unthinkable when I met the love of my life who never left my side—someone who has stood with me through every messy step of finding myself, and with whom I’ve been blessed to give me three electric bonus kids, raising four incredible children.

I’ve learned to rein in my hormones and emotions—at least the explosive kind—and now the only impulsive decisions I make are the fun ones, like spontaneous trips with my husband or deciding to order takeout instead of cooking.

Life feels completely different when your perspective shifts. Everything becomes clearer, brighter, more meaningful. There’s more honesty, more love, more joy. The woman I was four years ago would be grateful she held on and stayed… but more importantly, she’d be unbelievably proud of the woman she is today.