Please Help Me God

I can hardley see to type, I cant see through the tears. I have no where else to go today other than this pathetic blog. Criticize me if you must, but its either this or have a grand anxiety attack. If you dont want to hear my pissing and moaning, Im warning you now, dont read this, because Im about to have a big pity party. Im going to ramble, so dont criticize content or grammer. This is for me, and you can watch if you want to. Why do difficult things always come clumped together. Im already bummed on my yearly bum date of fathers day. I didnt have a father and I have absolutely nothing to celebrate or appreciate. That biological mass of skin walking around in Wisconsin is my sperm doner. He molested me when I was a baby. He did nothing for me. He gave me no money, no food, no home, no mother, no attention, and no love. As a young adult, he quickly developed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, than paranoia, and then all sorts of disorders too numerous to keep track off. (Just to make a note, the maybe buyers just walked in my front door, the other bad thing happening) Mr sperm bag stole from me, lied to me, and used me as income. I also inherited his lovely genes for mental illness. Right now Im so livid, I dont care what Im putting down. DONT CARE!!!!!!! I grew up not being able to celebrate father or mothers day. She died when I was 9, from a years long painful illness. And when she wasnt busy being sick, she was beating me. I really dont know why I miss her, but I do. Now Im losing the only home, the only stability I have ever had. No one realizes what a catastrophic event this is for me. You cant say something better is coming, because nothing ever did. This house was my good thing. And now my home will be gone AGAIN!!!! Im 56, I dont have much time left to "get happy". This was pretty much it. I am really starting to get mad at people telling me to get over it. They have not lived in my shoes. There is even so much more that I could say about my life that would shock you. But today Im concerned about my home. You just dont realize that this is literally all I have. Im not close to family, I cant work because I have BPD. I feel like a fly in a tornado. I have developed such a complex about "home" that this is a death to me. My security and my love is going again. It makes me feel like I dont deserve anything good, or to be loved and nurtured. I feel like such a scum bag. A total failure that doesnt even have the intelligence to stop trying to make things better. I feel like a FOOL. Why dont I give up. What is it gonna take to kill me. Im like the energizer bunny. Why doesnt that dam stinkin thing die? That thing in me that keeps me getting back up like a punching clown bag is an enigma. I totally dont understand it. Do I like pain? Why cant I give up? Im so totally awash in emotion, I dont know where to turn. My anxiety attacks started when I was 10. All I wanted was Grandma, and I was always being kept from her. When I didnt have Grandma, I couldnt breathe, my heart would explode with adrenaline, and I felt like I would catch on fire, I was so hot. I lived much of my adolesence and teenage years that way. Really wishing I could kill myself and make this world stop. Just stop. But because I had developed a morbid fear and phobia of death, I had to stay and struggle. I AM NOT EXAGERATING!!!! To live was painful! In my 20's, I was starting to get a handle on it a little bit, or maybe I was just getting used to it, I dont know. All I know was life became barely bearable. The feeling I have for my home is the same feeling I had for Grandma. My survival depended upon it. Its all being brought up again. This house is Grandma. I named my business after her home. I named my dog after her. She was the only person who loved me deeply. I really credit her singularly for saving my life. I would have just died from what they call "failure to thrive". Babies will die if they dont get love. I never had it from the very beginning. I really wanted to keep this blog business related, but I am my business. My life has made me who I am. This is my identity, just as my home was. All tied in to Grandma, Gardener Park, home, Lily, artist, me. I stated in the beginning of this blog, that it would be about me being an artist with BPD living in Gardener Park. So how could I not include this? Its my reality.