❤️ **The Boy on the Shelf: A Story of Survival, Resilience, and Hope** ❤️
I was born in the spring and grew up in a small town. My first 11 years were filled with happiness, stability, and love—a foundation that many children rely on to grow and thrive. I have no bad memories from that time, only warmth and joy. My childhood was a safe haven, a time when life felt simple and full of promise. Family holidays with my parents and grandparents were a highlight, and I remember those trips with fondness, a reminder of a time when everything felt right in the world.
One of my happiest memories from that time was during a winter when my dad told me I was going to have a sister. I remember bouncing on my bed with excitement, over the moon at the thought of becoming an older sibling. When she was born, it felt like our family was complete. I loved watching her grow and being part of her early years. Those moments were precious, a snapshot of a time when life felt full of love and possibility.
One of my earliest and happiest memories of bonding with my dad was during a major football tournament. We’d stay up late together to watch the games, sharing in the excitement and camaraderie that football brought. Those moments were special, a reminder of the connection we had before everything changed. But it wasn’t just football that brought us together. I also remember watching Mike Tyson fights with him, sitting on the edge of the couch, wide-eyed as Tyson dominated the ring. My dad would tell me stories about legendary boxers like Muhammad Ali, weaving tales of their strength, resilience, and heart. He made those fighters come alive for me, and I hung on every word.
My dad was my hero back then. I loved going to work with him in his lorry, feeling like I was part of his world. The rumble of the engine, the open road, and the sense of adventure made me feel like I was on top of the world. He’d let me sit in the passenger seat, and I’d imagine I was his co-pilot, helping him navigate the highways and byways. Those moments were golden, a time when I felt truly connected to him, when I believed he was the strongest, bravest man in the world.
But everything shifted when I was 11. My father had a stroke, and life as I knew it turned upside down. The man I once looked up to—the one who shared late-night football matches with me, who told me stories about Ali and Tyson, who let me ride shotgun in his lorry—became someone entirely different. His illness left him abusive, distant, and eventually absent. The stability of my childhood was shattered, and the family dynamic I had known was forever altered. By the time another major football tournament came around, I was only 13, but I had already experienced more pain and upheaval than many people face in a lifetime. That year, my father moved away, and my fear of abandonment took root. The man I had once relied on was no longer there, and the void he left behind was immense.
It was around this time, at age 12, that the traits of Borderline Personality Disorder began to develop. BPD often stems from prolonged trauma, especially during childhood, and my experiences left me with a deep sense of emptiness and instability. The fear of abandonment became a constant companion, shaping my relationships and leaving me terrified of being left behind. This fear followed me into adulthood, manifesting in relationships where I constantly worried about being abandoned, even when there was no real threat. My relationships became unstable, marked by intense emotions and a desperate need to hold onto people, even if those connections were unhealthy or damaging.
My sense of self felt fragmented, like I was constantly trying to piece together an identity that had been shattered. I struggled to understand who I was, and my self-image shifted depending on the situation or the people around me. This lack of a stable identity left me feeling lost, as if I were drifting without an anchor. To cope with the overwhelming emotions, I turned to impulsive behaviours—drugs, binge drinking, and other risky actions that offered a temporary escape from the pain. These behaviours were a way to numb the emptiness, but they only deepened the void inside.
Self-harm became another way to cope. I would smash my face with objects to make it look like I’d been beaten up, and I cut my arms and legs. These acts were a physical release for the emotional turmoil I carried, a way to make the invisible pain visible. My emotions often felt like a rollercoaster, swinging from intense anger to deep sadness in a matter of moments. These extreme emotional swings were exhausting, leaving me feeling out of control and disconnected from myself.
The chronic feelings of emptiness were perhaps the hardest to bear. No matter what I did, I always felt a void inside, a reminder of the love and stability I had lost. This emptiness was a constant companion, a shadow that followed me wherever I went. At times, my pain and frustration erupted as explosive anger, sometimes directed at others but often turned inward. This anger was a reflection of the helplessness I felt, a way to release the pressure that built up inside.
There were also moments when I felt disconnected from reality, as if the world around me wasn’t real. This sense of disconnection made it hard to trust others or feel grounded, leaving me feeling suspicious and alone. These traits of BPD—fear of abandonment, unstable relationships, shifting self-image, impulsive behaviours, self-harm, extreme emotional swings, chronic emptiness, explosive anger, and feelings of disconnection—shaped my life in ways I couldn’t yet understand.
By the time I was 14, my mother’s new partner had moved in, bringing with him a constant undercurrent of fear. I was terrified of him, so much so that I would hide on a shelf, curled up with a book, trying to escape the tension and danger that filled the house. It was a small, fragile refuge, but it couldn’t last forever. I had hoped he might become a father figure, someone to fill the void left by my dad, but he had no real interest in me. Instead, he was as abusive as the rest, and the safety I longed for was nowhere to be found.
Eventually, I thought, *sod this*, and left the family home. Outside, I sought connection and safety, but instead, I found myself mixing with older teens and men in their early 20s. These were people who should have known better, but they took advantage of my vulnerability. There were two separate incidents of sexual abuse during this time. One, I describe as consensual, though looking back, I can see how blurred the lines were, given my age and the power dynamics at play. The other incident is harder to recall—I’ve blocked out much of what happened, but I remember running away afterward, my body and mind screaming at me to escape. These experiences left deep scars, even if some of the details remain hidden.
My teenage years were marked by chaos and pain. I would smash my face with objects to make it look like I’d been beaten up, perhaps as a cry for attention or a way to make my internal pain visible. I also cut my arms and legs, a physical release for the emotional turmoil I carried. These actions weren’t just about the physical pain; they were a desperate attempt to feel something, anything, other than the weight of what I was enduring.
During this time, I also became my mother’s “right-hand man,” stepping into a role that no child should have to take on. My mother was trying to protect both me and my sister, but she was navigating her own trauma and doing the best she could with what she knew at the time. I don’t think she was a bad person—just very naive, perhaps overwhelmed by the circumstances. It’s clear that I love her deeply, even though I’ve carried the weight of blaming her for not being able to shield me from the pain. My compassion for her shines through, even as I acknowledge the impact her choices had on my life.
TBC
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