My Mom, Borderline Personality Disorder, And Me
I’m twenty-two and my inbox is full of red hot, scalding hatred. “Go to hell,” reads the latest email. “I hate you. I hope I never have to speak to you again.” I cannot bring myself to reply.
I’m twenty-two and my inbox is full of red hot, scalding hatred. “Go to hell,” reads the latest email. “I hate you. I hope I never have to speak to you again.” I cannot bring myself to reply.