Before I start this entry, I'd like to give the defintion of a vent, taken from an online dictionary:
vent
v. vent·ed, vent·ing, vents
v.tr.
1. To express (one's thoughts or feelings, for example), especially forcefully.
2. To release or discharge (steam, for example) through an opening.
3. To provide with a vent.
v.intr.
1. To vent one's feelings or opinions.
2. To be released or discharged through an opening.
Children of Borderline parents are not allowed to express any emotion the parent deems unacceptable. Expressing anger or embarassment about a parents behavior is strictly verboten. Attemtpting to talk to the non-parent is often a fruitless endeavor. The non-parent is often so consumed by the Borderline parent that little is left in the way of parenting.
Effective communication, getting along with others, etc. are all skills children learn through a parents example. When you are parented by a Borderline, you learn-
* Might makes right
* Whoever yells the loudest wins
* It's more important to "win" than to resolve a conflict
* Hurting, insulting, or generally cutting a person down is OK
* No other point of view is to be accepted over one's own. All other points of
view are to be ridiculed
Vents from an Unchosen are usually the result of our feeling stifled, ignored, etc by our Borderline parent. In contrast, and in my own experience, my Borderline Mother's vents always stemmed from 2 things-1)her huge sense of entitlement (she'd "vent" that people weren't listening when in fact they were listening just not giving her whatever it was she wanted), or 2)she'd use it as a tool when she felt someone had abandoned her (usually a friend who got wise to mom's ways). Honestly, I have never seen my mom "vent" for any other reason.
When you are exposed to and taught the above behavior, it's no wonder Unchosens tend to engage in what I call "epic vents." I will give the definition of an epic vent in a later post but for a quick defintion an epic vent is when you keep going...and going...and going, not realizing your friend on the other line of the phone has fallen asleep!
So, if these vents aren't helpful in the grand scheme of things why do Unchosens do them? First, it's what we know. That is not an excuse for poor behavior, it is a reason. And yes, I know the reason still doesn't make it right. Secondly, by the time we have had enough and have started to vent, we typically have lost all control over our emotions.
We wind up behaving like the parent who hurt us.
A HUGE difference exists between an Unchosen's vent and a vent from someone who has Borderline Personality Disorder. Unchosen's feel remorse and regret for the people they hurt. Borderlines are remorseful and regretful only that someone caught on to them and stopped the con. Unchosen's don't feel justified in hurting someone, whereas the Borderline operates almost solely within the "get them before they get me" mentality.
For a lost of us, myself included, the feelings of embarassment are the catalyst for deciding to change. Eventually we realize, with a sickening clarity, that our behavior matches that of our sick parent. We start to lose friends, jobs, and spouses. It's an awful feeling to realize that you are hurting others in the same way your parent so annihilated you.
Learning how to undo the Borderline parent's influence is difficult but can be done. What I and other unchosen must learn is to communicate as we live and as things happen, not to store things up until the pressure is too great. This just starts the whole circle again.
The 1st step is realizing what our venting style is. I will post more on the styles of venting on Friday the 13th. It should be interesting!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Vent Factor, 1 of 1 "Spinning Our Wheels"
Lots of people like to talk about needing to vent. Let's be honest, "venting" is a nice term for whining, bitching, and complaining. Venting, IMO, is a tool used for unrecognized anger.It has it's place, don't get me wrong. But I see SO MANY unchosen using the term "I need to vent" as a way to spin their collective wheels. The cycle of venting when you have a parent with a personality disorder is never ending. Seriously, the verbal attacks and phsychological assaults will never stop with an unrecovered parent.
So we turn to this thing called venting. We blow off our steam and clean out our filled to bursting psyches. We feel refreshed, lighter somehow. It's a heady feeling to get all that junk out in the open. Venting is almost always done with some sort of audience, be it a friend, a blog or a forum. Somehow this thing called venting just doesn't work as a single activity.
I have seen this again and again in real life-an unchosen vents over and over. It feels so good we just keep going....and going... and going. We beat the proverbial horse to death with ultimately the same topics. Sooner rather than later we realize that the same people who encouraged us to vent no longer return our calls or e mails. But hell, we don't care. In a way that almost mirrors our PD parent we just look for new people to listen to us.
What happens more often than not is that we end up chasing our tails. It's a vicious cycle, this venting. It's addicting, really. We get a high off of the release of our words.
But we get stuck. A lot of unchosen's can't seem to get out of "vent" mode and into talk mode. By talk mode, I mean having a "venting" session where we can hear the feedback of the person we talk to. So often, any feedback at all is considered to be worthless because the person we vent to has no idea what we are going thru (or so we seem to think). Because of the anger associated with venting, many unchosen (including myself at times) get extremely defensive when the person we vent to expresses anything but complete agreement with our thoughts.
I so wish I could just show my life as a movie. I want to alternately shake and hug the unchosens I see who spin their wheels with this venting. I want to scream "all it does is keep the cycle of crap going." I wish people could see how many people I have lost because of my need to "vent."
It doesn't have to be that way, and I promise that by Sunday I will have part 2 of venting.
So we turn to this thing called venting. We blow off our steam and clean out our filled to bursting psyches. We feel refreshed, lighter somehow. It's a heady feeling to get all that junk out in the open. Venting is almost always done with some sort of audience, be it a friend, a blog or a forum. Somehow this thing called venting just doesn't work as a single activity.
I have seen this again and again in real life-an unchosen vents over and over. It feels so good we just keep going....and going... and going. We beat the proverbial horse to death with ultimately the same topics. Sooner rather than later we realize that the same people who encouraged us to vent no longer return our calls or e mails. But hell, we don't care. In a way that almost mirrors our PD parent we just look for new people to listen to us.
What happens more often than not is that we end up chasing our tails. It's a vicious cycle, this venting. It's addicting, really. We get a high off of the release of our words.
But we get stuck. A lot of unchosen's can't seem to get out of "vent" mode and into talk mode. By talk mode, I mean having a "venting" session where we can hear the feedback of the person we talk to. So often, any feedback at all is considered to be worthless because the person we vent to has no idea what we are going thru (or so we seem to think). Because of the anger associated with venting, many unchosen (including myself at times) get extremely defensive when the person we vent to expresses anything but complete agreement with our thoughts.
I so wish I could just show my life as a movie. I want to alternately shake and hug the unchosens I see who spin their wheels with this venting. I want to scream "all it does is keep the cycle of crap going." I wish people could see how many people I have lost because of my need to "vent."
It doesn't have to be that way, and I promise that by Sunday I will have part 2 of venting.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Sarah Palin Has a Point
I recently attached my first name to my blog. Sorry, you aren't getting the last name. It's distinctive enough that I can be easily found, and that creeps me out. Call me a chicken or whatever you like, I don't need some of the more unhinged posters that resond to this blog showing up at my door.
That being said, I do owe it to a lot of people to put at least my first name out there. Sarah Palin recently spoke about anonymous bloggers hiding behind their blogs to verbally attack her. This isn't a political opinion peice, however; I'd like to point out that she is right. Anonymity gives a person greater freedom. Anonymity also has its place, such as forums and the like. When you're sharing your most private thoughts on a message board, hoping to find help for yourself, that anonymity is necessary.
Anonymity, hiding behind an avatar or screen name, has a responsibility with it. I am embarassed to say there was a time that I used that responsibility in ways to hurt other people. Not on this blog but on a forum I treasure to this day. I needed that anonymity in order to separate myself from the RL life me and the me that was hurting and searching for answers. That anonymity offered me the chance to share in ways that I wouldn't have if I had to use my real info.
That was then and this is now. Now, my goal is not so much to heal and put the pieces together so much as it is to help others heal and to raise awareness of what children of Borderlines go through. I can't do that hiding behind a screen name. It's disingenuous. I can't ask for someone to take me seriously if I can't take myself and my activism seriously enough to expose myself.
If my words are words that I would never say to another person, yet they are words that I want others to take to heart and learn from, then I owe it to whoever reads this to at least give you my first name. I admit to being afraid of being found by some of the more nasty elements out there, but what I really fear is my mom.
So you'll get my first name but not much else. At least not right now. I saw mom the other day at a store, and my first reaction (which was completely involuntary, btw) was to have tears spring to my eyes and look for the closest exit. The woman still scares the hell out of me. If she ever knew I wrote this and had exposed the topics that I have, she would make me pay. I have successfully extricated myself from her merry go round of anger once, but frankly I don't know how I could survive another round right now. My freedom, my wellness, is still too fragile 3 years into to No Contact to risk it. I hope everyone understands that and respects it.
I am going to start posting some new topics in the next few days. I'll be doing it in a serialization format. I have decided to try that because the sheer volume of some things wouldn't work well for a blog. They are simply too long. So I decided to serialize. It also has the benefit of allowing me to get things posted in a more in depth, concrete way and I can also post things on a more regular basis. I tend to be a perfectionist about this and stress myself out to the point that I don't post at all. Yes, I am working on that flea.
Thanks for understanding everyone, and I will post to you soon.
That being said, I do owe it to a lot of people to put at least my first name out there. Sarah Palin recently spoke about anonymous bloggers hiding behind their blogs to verbally attack her. This isn't a political opinion peice, however; I'd like to point out that she is right. Anonymity gives a person greater freedom. Anonymity also has its place, such as forums and the like. When you're sharing your most private thoughts on a message board, hoping to find help for yourself, that anonymity is necessary.
Anonymity, hiding behind an avatar or screen name, has a responsibility with it. I am embarassed to say there was a time that I used that responsibility in ways to hurt other people. Not on this blog but on a forum I treasure to this day. I needed that anonymity in order to separate myself from the RL life me and the me that was hurting and searching for answers. That anonymity offered me the chance to share in ways that I wouldn't have if I had to use my real info.
That was then and this is now. Now, my goal is not so much to heal and put the pieces together so much as it is to help others heal and to raise awareness of what children of Borderlines go through. I can't do that hiding behind a screen name. It's disingenuous. I can't ask for someone to take me seriously if I can't take myself and my activism seriously enough to expose myself.
If my words are words that I would never say to another person, yet they are words that I want others to take to heart and learn from, then I owe it to whoever reads this to at least give you my first name. I admit to being afraid of being found by some of the more nasty elements out there, but what I really fear is my mom.
So you'll get my first name but not much else. At least not right now. I saw mom the other day at a store, and my first reaction (which was completely involuntary, btw) was to have tears spring to my eyes and look for the closest exit. The woman still scares the hell out of me. If she ever knew I wrote this and had exposed the topics that I have, she would make me pay. I have successfully extricated myself from her merry go round of anger once, but frankly I don't know how I could survive another round right now. My freedom, my wellness, is still too fragile 3 years into to No Contact to risk it. I hope everyone understands that and respects it.
I am going to start posting some new topics in the next few days. I'll be doing it in a serialization format. I have decided to try that because the sheer volume of some things wouldn't work well for a blog. They are simply too long. So I decided to serialize. It also has the benefit of allowing me to get things posted in a more in depth, concrete way and I can also post things on a more regular basis. I tend to be a perfectionist about this and stress myself out to the point that I don't post at all. Yes, I am working on that flea.
Thanks for understanding everyone, and I will post to you soon.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
Thank you, Bill Gates
I recently attended the NEA BPD conference in MN. I was excited to meet some of the experts in the field and put a face to names I have read about for so long. A lot of the focus of the conference was on scientific research regarding the ins and out of BPD. How was it caused, what's the best treatment, etc.
What I didn't hear a lot of was separate children of Borderline's stories. It's something I am starting to notice a lot. I don't know-are people afraid of us or something? So much emphasis is put on the family aspect that too many professionals, IMO, arent' able to see the big picture. Children of the mentally ill are treated as if we are software, the Access application just standing by to run a query or form a report about our parent (thanks, Bill Gates). It offends me. We are more than that. We are more than collateral patients or collateral caregivers.
Yes, we are the ones who see what happens when meds aren't taken. We see our parent wishing to die, telling us how they want to die, and then 5 mins later telling us that no, they never said that. I know that my mom can't be trusted to give accurate info. I know that. I also know that in order to help her, the docs have to have the most accurate info they can get.
So here is what I propose-
1.Ask us if we are OK giving info, don't demand it because frankly, we don't owe you a thing.
2. Beyond emergency situations where drug allergies need to be known or something like that, give us the option of letting us either give the info to you then and there or maybe let us bring back a summary the next day because you know what? If we brought them in, chances are we've been dealing with their latest crisis for quite a while and would welcome a break.
3. If we refuse to give info you must respect that. So many of use have been interrogated by doctors and/or other mental health professionals who infer that somehow the latest crisis was our fault. An exmaple is a doc I once dealt with who was livid that I didn't monitor my mothers meds. I couldn't tell him when she had taken her last dose of Seroquel and he just lost it, sneering me and saying "how can I help her if you won't help me?" See what mean? From then on I couldn't do it anymore. I am not going to be put on the hook for my mom's own reckless actions.
4. When you find out mom has 12 different scripts from 7 different docs, plz don't take it out on me. I am as much in the dark as you are about her doctor shopping. I can't control her and if I could don't you think I would have by now?
5. Don't punish us for our parents behaviors. My mom may not always know what she is doing but that doesn't give anyone the right to blame me or my sibs. She may feel suicidal because the 3 of us chose NC, but she can also choose to call a crisis line or any other on call psych service she knows. If she doesn't call or ask for help then that is her choice and responsibility (or lack of it). When so called professionals take the options of getting better out of her hands, which means facing the reality she helped create rather than allowing her to blame others, and put them into mine; it keeps her ill.
What I am asking in a nutshell is this-don't assume I have the answers because if I did I would have fixed my parent a long time ago.
What I didn't hear a lot of was separate children of Borderline's stories. It's something I am starting to notice a lot. I don't know-are people afraid of us or something? So much emphasis is put on the family aspect that too many professionals, IMO, arent' able to see the big picture. Children of the mentally ill are treated as if we are software, the Access application just standing by to run a query or form a report about our parent (thanks, Bill Gates). It offends me. We are more than that. We are more than collateral patients or collateral caregivers.
Yes, we are the ones who see what happens when meds aren't taken. We see our parent wishing to die, telling us how they want to die, and then 5 mins later telling us that no, they never said that. I know that my mom can't be trusted to give accurate info. I know that. I also know that in order to help her, the docs have to have the most accurate info they can get.
So here is what I propose-
1.Ask us if we are OK giving info, don't demand it because frankly, we don't owe you a thing.
2. Beyond emergency situations where drug allergies need to be known or something like that, give us the option of letting us either give the info to you then and there or maybe let us bring back a summary the next day because you know what? If we brought them in, chances are we've been dealing with their latest crisis for quite a while and would welcome a break.
3. If we refuse to give info you must respect that. So many of use have been interrogated by doctors and/or other mental health professionals who infer that somehow the latest crisis was our fault. An exmaple is a doc I once dealt with who was livid that I didn't monitor my mothers meds. I couldn't tell him when she had taken her last dose of Seroquel and he just lost it, sneering me and saying "how can I help her if you won't help me?" See what mean? From then on I couldn't do it anymore. I am not going to be put on the hook for my mom's own reckless actions.
4. When you find out mom has 12 different scripts from 7 different docs, plz don't take it out on me. I am as much in the dark as you are about her doctor shopping. I can't control her and if I could don't you think I would have by now?
5. Don't punish us for our parents behaviors. My mom may not always know what she is doing but that doesn't give anyone the right to blame me or my sibs. She may feel suicidal because the 3 of us chose NC, but she can also choose to call a crisis line or any other on call psych service she knows. If she doesn't call or ask for help then that is her choice and responsibility (or lack of it). When so called professionals take the options of getting better out of her hands, which means facing the reality she helped create rather than allowing her to blame others, and put them into mine; it keeps her ill.
What I am asking in a nutshell is this-don't assume I have the answers because if I did I would have fixed my parent a long time ago.
Monday, January 5, 2009
I'm sure you all missed me
I haven't posted here for a few months. Had a nasty case of DeQuervain's Tenosynovitis and it was hard to type. But I'm back! Oh happy day. I am sure the whole 5 people who read this are rolling their eyes about now and that's OK. I'm used to it.
This first post for a new year will be short as it's midnight and I really need to start going to work on mondays. I hate mondays. Well, not really; what I really hate is my job; justlike everyone else in the world I want to be doing something else. But, I still have one and for that I am grateful. Kind of. No, really I am........*sigh*
So here are some things for everyone to ponder; things that keep me up late at night. As if I needed a reason.....
1. Do pharmaceutical reps train with real drug dealers or vice versa? I seriously ponder this. Think about it! Reps have their own territories just like dealers have their own corners. They all promise this drug will make you "feel real good" and have little to no side effects. All things dealers have said to me. And hey, when you buy in bulk both give a discount. Ah, capitalism!
2. How can countries in Europe get their drugs and/or treatments for so much cheaper than us average Joe's here in the USA? You really want to know? It's called Universal Health Care and price controls. The big pharma companies will tell you that price controls lower quality and stifle development which in turn stifles available treatments, which leaves people who really need these drugs with no alternatives for their mental health care. Speaking from my LIFE as a child of a mentally ill mother who had rows upon rows of these wonderful free market anitdepressants, I can tell you that zombifying someone with a mental illness is not a treatment. It is, however, a money maker. They make money while children such as my siblings and I worry about basic necessities such as how dad would pay the mortgage when mom's prescriptions ate up a huge portion of the family budget.
These are a few of my thoughts that have been knocking around my head for the last few months. Feel free to comment-keep it clean, keep it in topic, and if you feel a compelling urge to give a poor student money I won't turn it down. :)
This first post for a new year will be short as it's midnight and I really need to start going to work on mondays. I hate mondays. Well, not really; what I really hate is my job; justlike everyone else in the world I want to be doing something else. But, I still have one and for that I am grateful. Kind of. No, really I am........*sigh*
So here are some things for everyone to ponder; things that keep me up late at night. As if I needed a reason.....
1. Do pharmaceutical reps train with real drug dealers or vice versa? I seriously ponder this. Think about it! Reps have their own territories just like dealers have their own corners. They all promise this drug will make you "feel real good" and have little to no side effects. All things dealers have said to me. And hey, when you buy in bulk both give a discount. Ah, capitalism!
2. How can countries in Europe get their drugs and/or treatments for so much cheaper than us average Joe's here in the USA? You really want to know? It's called Universal Health Care and price controls. The big pharma companies will tell you that price controls lower quality and stifle development which in turn stifles available treatments, which leaves people who really need these drugs with no alternatives for their mental health care. Speaking from my LIFE as a child of a mentally ill mother who had rows upon rows of these wonderful free market anitdepressants, I can tell you that zombifying someone with a mental illness is not a treatment. It is, however, a money maker. They make money while children such as my siblings and I worry about basic necessities such as how dad would pay the mortgage when mom's prescriptions ate up a huge portion of the family budget.
These are a few of my thoughts that have been knocking around my head for the last few months. Feel free to comment-keep it clean, keep it in topic, and if you feel a compelling urge to give a poor student money I won't turn it down. :)
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
A Piece of Her
My mother’s recipe book sits on top of the frig. I don’t use it much; the pages are stained and the book is very close to falling apart. When I flip thru the pages I can see mom’s check mark next to a particularly good recipe. Mom was very picky so the checks are few and far between.
It’s difficult not to cry even as I write this because of the emotions that book holds. I knew I had to have it when dad was getting rid of it yet I only open it occasionally. My mother took such pride in her cooking. It wasn’t just the making of a meal to her. I understand now that it was one of the few tangible ways that she showed she cared. While I may not have cared if she made fancy food or not, to her a difficult recipe that she mastered then shared with us was an offering. It was a statement about her that she would put in the time for dishes most mothers would never touch. I truly believe at this point that to her that effort was meant to convey the effort she thought she had put into loving us.
I always cringed when she took me grocery shopping for a special occasion meal. It was not unusual to have a $400 grocery bill of things we would only use once. Certain Sherries or vinegars, a particular kind of Caesar dressing for her broccoli salad. It all came together when mom took charge. I admit I resented, and still do, the way I was made to be her scullery maid. I don’t have fond memories of cooking with her. In fact, I dreaded the whole miserable experience. While the smell of sauteing onion and celery can make my mouth water with thoughts of foods I will never have again, that same smell triggers noxious fumes of anxiety that have the power to transport me back to my childhood.
Mom’s perfectionism came from her need to control an internal self that was in chaos. I know that now. Back then I only knew that special occasion dinners meant tears, threats, mom and dad fighting (again) about the way mom spent money, and an utter exhaustion that took a few days for my psyche to work thru. I’ve never known anyone since that cooks with the concentration yet artistry that mom does. I know it’s normal for kids to love their parents cooking but…….take my word on this-the woman is an artist. Her food wasn’t just good; you could taste her talent and her soul with every bite you took. She put her all into food not realizing that while the gesture was innocent on the surface beneath it her children were starving for a kind of food we would never get.
Eventually I got to be ok cooking with mom. After so many years I was used to the tenseness of the house as the day approached. Perfect, it had to be perfect. I knew the bombs would go off at some point and trying to prepare for it was just stupid. They always came from nowhere. The best you could do was admit that yes, you never listened, yes, you realized this was important and that you were screwing it all up for EVERYONE, and no, I didn’t think the world revolved around me. Sharp words said in an even sharper tone. Honestly, many times I wished she would just hit me and get it over with. But no, she would never be abusive like her father.
The look on mom’s face when it all came together almost made the tears she produced thru my eyes worth it all. Her smile of contentment, of satisfaction, was seen so rarely we tried to capture it so it would stay a bit longer. It always slipped thru our net and returned infrequently, like a butterfly that only comes out just before the rain. You can stay outside in the rain and try to catch it while getting drenched in the process or make your best effort then hightail it inside to wait for another chance.
More and more family members are asking me for mom’s special way of doing things-the special ingredient, the little known technique and so forth. They ask me. Me. I resisted it at first, lying and saying I didn’t know. Gradually I realized that while mom terrorized me on those occasions she also gave me such a gift. I admit to one thing tho-the techniques I keep just for me. I will make rosettes or other things but I will not share the recipe or how I get them to turn out just so. That is my gift from her that I choose to keep for myself. These small things are a piece of her that I had thought didn’t exist. Yes, she was abusive. Yes, she was an emotional terrorist yet she taught me thru the only means she had to take a chance (she thrived on new recipes, the more difficult the better), to not skimp on important things (spend the extra $$ to get the good cheese), to put your best foot forward (making her tried and true dishes when having people over for the first time), and that anything can be salvaged if you are willing to try (like a fallen dessert soufflé served under ice cream-my own creation!).
The book continues to sit on the frig, collecting dust. I continue on with a life of my own making, keeping in mind to make sure the gestures of love I extend are gestures that are understood and are appropriate for the person/occasion. For the most part I embrace the new recipes of life, although a few have not turned out. They have, however, forced me to creatively salvage them resulting in creations I never dreamed possible in my life.
It’s difficult not to cry even as I write this because of the emotions that book holds. I knew I had to have it when dad was getting rid of it yet I only open it occasionally. My mother took such pride in her cooking. It wasn’t just the making of a meal to her. I understand now that it was one of the few tangible ways that she showed she cared. While I may not have cared if she made fancy food or not, to her a difficult recipe that she mastered then shared with us was an offering. It was a statement about her that she would put in the time for dishes most mothers would never touch. I truly believe at this point that to her that effort was meant to convey the effort she thought she had put into loving us.
I always cringed when she took me grocery shopping for a special occasion meal. It was not unusual to have a $400 grocery bill of things we would only use once. Certain Sherries or vinegars, a particular kind of Caesar dressing for her broccoli salad. It all came together when mom took charge. I admit I resented, and still do, the way I was made to be her scullery maid. I don’t have fond memories of cooking with her. In fact, I dreaded the whole miserable experience. While the smell of sauteing onion and celery can make my mouth water with thoughts of foods I will never have again, that same smell triggers noxious fumes of anxiety that have the power to transport me back to my childhood.
Mom’s perfectionism came from her need to control an internal self that was in chaos. I know that now. Back then I only knew that special occasion dinners meant tears, threats, mom and dad fighting (again) about the way mom spent money, and an utter exhaustion that took a few days for my psyche to work thru. I’ve never known anyone since that cooks with the concentration yet artistry that mom does. I know it’s normal for kids to love their parents cooking but…….take my word on this-the woman is an artist. Her food wasn’t just good; you could taste her talent and her soul with every bite you took. She put her all into food not realizing that while the gesture was innocent on the surface beneath it her children were starving for a kind of food we would never get.
Eventually I got to be ok cooking with mom. After so many years I was used to the tenseness of the house as the day approached. Perfect, it had to be perfect. I knew the bombs would go off at some point and trying to prepare for it was just stupid. They always came from nowhere. The best you could do was admit that yes, you never listened, yes, you realized this was important and that you were screwing it all up for EVERYONE, and no, I didn’t think the world revolved around me. Sharp words said in an even sharper tone. Honestly, many times I wished she would just hit me and get it over with. But no, she would never be abusive like her father.
The look on mom’s face when it all came together almost made the tears she produced thru my eyes worth it all. Her smile of contentment, of satisfaction, was seen so rarely we tried to capture it so it would stay a bit longer. It always slipped thru our net and returned infrequently, like a butterfly that only comes out just before the rain. You can stay outside in the rain and try to catch it while getting drenched in the process or make your best effort then hightail it inside to wait for another chance.
More and more family members are asking me for mom’s special way of doing things-the special ingredient, the little known technique and so forth. They ask me. Me. I resisted it at first, lying and saying I didn’t know. Gradually I realized that while mom terrorized me on those occasions she also gave me such a gift. I admit to one thing tho-the techniques I keep just for me. I will make rosettes or other things but I will not share the recipe or how I get them to turn out just so. That is my gift from her that I choose to keep for myself. These small things are a piece of her that I had thought didn’t exist. Yes, she was abusive. Yes, she was an emotional terrorist yet she taught me thru the only means she had to take a chance (she thrived on new recipes, the more difficult the better), to not skimp on important things (spend the extra $$ to get the good cheese), to put your best foot forward (making her tried and true dishes when having people over for the first time), and that anything can be salvaged if you are willing to try (like a fallen dessert soufflé served under ice cream-my own creation!).
The book continues to sit on the frig, collecting dust. I continue on with a life of my own making, keeping in mind to make sure the gestures of love I extend are gestures that are understood and are appropriate for the person/occasion. For the most part I embrace the new recipes of life, although a few have not turned out. They have, however, forced me to creatively salvage them resulting in creations I never dreamed possible in my life.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Daddy's Girl
There are those who tell me that I idolize/idealize my father. To a certain extent that’s true. I acknowledge that my dad made some major mistakes, contributed to the abuse I and my sibs suffered, and was generally an ostrich-like doormat for many years.
The honest truth is that my dad is the thread I refuse to pull. Even for an emotional excavator like me that is one emotional gamble I can not and will not take. My dad, in all his peace making mess, was all I had for a long, long time. I could depend on dad to turn his back when my mom was at her worst. He would explain away her nastiness and encourage me to try to get along.
As much as he tuned out he subconsciously knew the score. I don’t know when I realized that he had given up and was just biding his time. Maybe it was when I was a little girl and would kiss him 4, 5, or 6 times before he left for work. I would hug him tight and try not to cry as he drove away. The thought that my dad might one day not come back terrified me. I could sense weariness in him that hadn’t been there before. His eyes were heavy lidded with stress and exhaustion in every form. If I as a child could dream of nothing more than leaving, then what about my dad, who had the real means to leave?
Or maybe it was when I was hospitalized as a child and he would minimize the harshness of my mother’s parenting. I was falling apart and he gave in again and again to her declarations of my inherent wrongness. I saw relief on his face when I stopped fighting the shrinks and social workers. I accepted the ruling of Judge Luna C and was adjudicated with no chance for appeal, no settlement, and made to pay damages in the form of accepting the mark of being the "bad child."
For all this, I love my dad far more than I can tell you. He screwed up, yes. People ask me why I cut my mom out of my life when my dad is also responsible for what I suffered. Believe me, we’ve had it out. Screaming, crying, and nasty words have all been said by me. He’s had some not so kind words for me, too. But you know what? He took that….he took the anger, the rage I had at being the scapegoat for so long. He started doing this when he and my mom divorced. It was almost like he came out of a fog. Things that he had previously not noticed he now questioned. Abuse my sister suffered. Physical altercations between mom and I. Things that we knew not to tell him because he would look the other way.
My mom can give you a very eloquent verbal apology. She can even act the part with tears at the right moment. She’ll spin you and weave you in a tapestry of all the words you want to hear. What she can’t do is follow through with actions. As sorry as mom might be at that exact moment, and she will tell she is, she can’t comprehend why you are angry with her when she turns around and does the exact same things hurtful things again and again, hurting you in the same manner she just apologized for. To her, an apology means a free pass. It never happened, the slate is clean. She can say the words; it’s the meaning that forever eludes her.
My dad sucks at words. He has a hard time just saying “I’m sorry.” He gives reasons for what he did; partially, I think, to make himself feel better for having screwed up and also to try and show that he understands why you are angry. More than the words though, my dad backs it up. He will go out of his way for his kids so we know that he hears us after burying his head for so long.
Someone reading this who hasn’t dealt with BPD may wonder I am so in awe of my dad making sure that I know he is sorry for what happened. It’s something you have to live thru to fully comprehend. The Land of Oz (where children of Borderlines reside) is the land of smoke and mirrors where illusion is reality and reality is illusion. A child such as myself and my siblings straddle the worlds of illusion and reality. We know we live in the illusion. We know we exist outside of reality, too. But what can a kid do except go with the flow and live the illusion, hoping to some day live in the land of reality?
My dad gives me that reality. Faults and all, he is a part of my reality. He gave me that reality when he took my calls in the middle of night when I wasn’t sure I could do this whole life thing any longer. He’s there for a ride when my car breaks down. He tells me to shut the hell up when my ego gets the best of me, and he puts me back on track I am scared that I won’t be able to handle the wonderful opportunities life is now throwing at me. He’s there for me in all the glory of his faults and the shadow of the abuse that hangs over our family. He’s the knot that held me together when I couldn’t see the yarn for the rug. I don’t like how he did it yet he did it when no one else would, and for that I will always be grateful.
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