Even A Knife-Wielding Maniac Can Illustrate Growth

Yesterday, I went to an event held by Open Minds, and came home expecting everybody to be out. After I turned around and locked the door, without even having a cursory look around the room, I turned back to discover a "knife-wielding maniac" standing right in front of me.

Confronted with a similar situation a week ago, the 18yo daughter stood still and screamed. And darn near wet herself. I would have expected that to be my reaction as well. Instead I stood stock still with quite a surprised look on my face and just froze. Completely and utterly. And then my eyes adjusted, I saw who it was... and I laughed.

Since the "knife wielding maniac" was, in both instances, Bumface, I posted about the prank on Facebook as I internally processed all the positive things I had learned from it. Unfortunately, some of my friends seemed to feel that because they didn't find it amusing, I couldn't (or shouldn't?) have, either and I now have a lot to process around that.

But.. between the prank and the Facebook fall-out, I've learned and cemented a few new/emerging thoughts and truths for myself.


1. My eyes might be getting worse and I should probably have them tested. To be perfectly honest, I didn't even *see* the knife until after I recognised Bumface. :p

2. I have grown so much, emotionally, over the last year. I knew that, but this prank really illustrated to me just HOW much, and I'm so proud of that in myself.

3. Despite this growth, in an emergency situation, my instinct is still to freeze. This is probably not the best plan in most situations, so I need to practice forms of self defense (or at least fleeing!) enough that they become second nature as much as freezing.

4. Some of my actions when I believe I'm alone put me at risk. It is a good practice to be aware of my surroundings when I enter a room, to at least make a quick check that everything is in order. I don't mean a paranoid examination of every corner of the house, but a cursory check that there isn't a crazy man less than two feet from me is probably a smart move. ;)

5. I have a great deal of deep trust for Bumface. Not many people could stand in front of me, holding a knife, and still make me feel safe once I recognise them.

6. I don't believe in "if you can't say something nice, then don't say anything at all" - but I believe in something that (I feel) fits that grey a little better. "If you can't say something constructive, then you shouldn't say anything at all" because, let's face it, sometimes it's necessary to say something that isn't nice. If your best friend is dating an abusive jerk, you should probably tell her you can see that he's abusing her and you're there for her. Now, that's probably not the nicest thing to say -- but better to say it than let her think what he's doing is okay because everybody's seeing it and nobody's speaking up!

7. I don't need other peoples' approval as strongly as I used to. I am still deeply hurt by the disapproval and rejection I felt/feel about reactions I received to my post, but there is not so strong a sense of "well, maybe I did something wrong" - now it's a sense that I'm sad that people can't just be glad that I'm in a relationship that makes me happy, is good for me, and has allowed me to grow so much. Still, out of pond muck, lillies grow.


Most of all, I cemented that this relationship really HAS been very good for me over the past year. I didn't doubt it, but it is still nice to have solid confirmation of the ways in which he has helped me to grow. I only hope I've been as good for him as he has for me.

(And that I can come up with a damn good retaliation prank...)

Children & Self Harm/Scars

I know that some people feel that self harm needs to be hidden, that those who don't hide their scars merely harm for attention; and I know others that believe self harm should be hidden from children even if there's no shame attached to it. I don't believe that. I think it's important to protect children but I don't think that hiding the dirty parts of reality is the best way to do that.

My family are halfway between those. I know they're ashamed of my scars, and they don't believe I should wear clothing that makes them visible. I know also that my family cares deeply about my nieces and my nephew, that we all want to protect them and give them the best start we can. Unfortunately, those two things together mean that I don't have permission to be honest with my nieces and nephew.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not at all proposing that it would be appropriate or acceptable to tell a toddler that "aunty cuts herself to feel better" or anything of the sort. These things need to be explained in an age appropriate manner, and there are a lot of considerations involved. However, at some point, you have to recognise that a child isn't going to be satisfied with "it was an accident" or an outright lie, and at 10 and 7, the miracle was that my nieces hadn't yet been unsatisified with the answers they were receiving.

I worried, I researched. I told my brother he needed to talk to his (now ex) wife and tell me how much they were comfortable with me sharing. I'm still waiting for the okay, my nieces are still being fobbed off with "I got hurt", and they want more.

I wear an arm sleeve, a leg sleeve, a pair of bike pants and a stomach patch (when I can find it) -- if I want to go, for example swimming, I can't wear any of these. If I want to wash the dishes, I have to take my arm sleeve off... and this is the situation I found myself facing a week ago at my brother's house.

My niece asked a few questions, I answered as best I can given the limitation of sticking to what my brother and his (ex) wife have decreed is acceptable, and my beautiful girl wasn't satisfied. She asked more and more and instead of accepting that his daughter is showing a healthy level of curiosity, my brother sent her to her room because he and I had run out of lies to fob her off with.

I have a response that I am far more comfortable with, I just need permission to use it. In a world where I could get my family to accept that my scars aren't going to disappear, that I don't do this because I like the attention or that I'm out to show the world what a terrible home life I have because I'm a vindictive bitch, I would tell my niece something much closer to the truth. In a world where I have permission to be honest, this is what I would tell my nieces (and maybe my nephew as well):

Remember last time you got sick, and the doctor looked at your throat and listened to your heart to see what was wrong? Sometimes people get sick inside their brain and you can't see it on their bodies. Aunty is sick like that and I have been for a long time. Sometimes it's like I'm not sick at all but sometimes I get very sick and I do things that mean my body gets hurt.

It's age appropriate. It's easy to understand. They can ask questions that I can actually answer in age appropriate ways. Instead of shame and blame, they learn understanding. It opens the door for me to reassure them, and it opens the door for the future when they may deal with mental illness themselves. And above all, it's honest. It means I'm not lying to a child who's going to one day realise and wonder why and what else everyone's lied to her about.

What about you? What are your thoughts on children and SI scars/injuries? What will or have you said to the children in your life about your self harm/scars - or what have you said about someone else's? Does it (or would it) change if you were having to explain new injuries or old scars?

Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Conquering The Need To Please

Anybody who knows me at all, knows that I am, possibly above all other things, a people-pleaser. As a child, it was a necessary part of my survival - as an adult, it was, I believed, the only way I would ever be liked, let alone loved. So for a long time all of my value came from having others like me, from doing and being everything everyone else wanted me to be. I was a chameleon and I wore whatever skin I thought the other person wanted to see.

If (I thought) you wanted someone to listen, that's what I'd do. If (I thought) you wanted comfort, that's what I'd give. If (I thought) you wanted advice, I'd offer it. If (I thought) you wanted to hear you were wonderful, that's what I'd say. Everything came second to that need to please - everything. I would stay up all night to support an acquaintance; give money away to anybody who asked, if they said they needed it; drop everything for everyone.

And it worked. I had a knack for it. I was good at being what everyone else wanted me to be - too good. Somewhere in all of that, I lost who I was. I lost who I wanted me to be. I lost my substance, and all that was left was the need to please everybody else. And I was fine with that because, you see, most people did like me... to a point.

People loved that I would do anything for them. They valued that I would value them so much... but they, for the most part, didn't have a lot of respect for me. Why should they, when I so clearly had no respect for myself?

2008 was the beginning of a turning point. In 2008 I came face to face with the concept that although most (real life) people "liked" me, nobody actually particularly cared about or for me. I was everybody's friend, but nobody counted me as theirs; as far as they were concerned, I was a hanger-on, an amiable and pleasant caricature, but I was not and had never been, any more than that.

Even after I recognised that, though, I didn't connect the dots. I couldn't understand how everybody could like me so much and not actually like me. (If you're confused, perhaps thinking of it as the difference between an acquaintance and a friend may help.)

And even when I did connect the dots, when I finally made the link, I was too afraid to do anything about it. My entire worth as a person hung on whether others liked me; if I started trying to worry about how I felt about things, everyone would see that there was nothing worth liking in me. So I didn't change much. By this stage I'd agreed to do DBT because that was (I thought) what my case manager had wanted for me. I stayed because (I thought) that was what the group coordinator had wanted.

I dropped everything when (I thought) somebody wanted me to or believed they needed me to. Even as I recognised the re-emergence of my self, my needs, my wants... I put them aside for others. And generally not selectively, either; there was a level of hierarchy, but for the most part, anyone who (I thought) wanted something, got it.

And then... something changed. I don't know if it was gradual, sneaking up on me, or if it was fairly sudden, but I do know that something has changed.

I've started to speak out. I don't just tell people what (I think) they want to hear, these days. I tell the truth as I see it - I try to be compassionate and diplomatic about it, but I'm still learning how to balance that with being true to myself. I'm still learning what it means to have a self to be true to.

I'm interested in helping people, in offering more than a virtual snuggle; I want to challenge people because we cannot grow without challenge. I'm not interested in walking on eggshells for the rest of my life. I'm not interested anymore in putting aside everything I need, everything I want, everything I am, to please somebody else.

Unsurprisingly, I'm less liked now.

Surprisingly, I don't mind nearly as much as I thought I would. It still hurts a lot, and it's very hard, still, to say no to my desire to please someone else. I don't always choose to do it, even when I know I 'should'. It's a learning curve, and this is just the beginning of another journey.

I used to think the world would end if I upset others, if I put myself first, if I failed to please someone...

Let me tell you, the world hasn't ended.

Yes, I'm less 'popular' now, but I feel, in some ways, like I am much more loved. People I truly admire -- people who are imperfect but never give up; who are good, kind, thoughtful people who have learned or are learning to respect themselves and put themselves first sometimes; who understand the value of change and challenge; who aren't afraid to give and take -- have noticed the change in me, in a good way. I feel like I have earned something much more valuable to me than mass outward approval - I feel that I have earned, dare I say it?, the respect of people I look up to. And I have earned something else, somehow, too, because I discovered something when I realised how much I have changed.

Not only would I would much rather have the respect and love of five* of those people than be universally liked; I'd rather respect myself than be universally liked, too.

*(I just wanted to put a number here and since I prefer numbers to be in multiples of 5...)



Cheer-leading / Challenge Statements:
It's okay to be proud of myself.
I don't have to be perfect.
I'm an okay person, and choosing to look after myself and my needs first doesn't change that.
I'm not responsible for other peoples' emotions.



Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Trusting My Intuition

Intuition. Going with your gut. I wonder if that's a concept that others with Borderline Personality Disorder commonly struggle with, as well. I can see how it could be tied into various aspects of living with BPD; the lack of belief and trust in yourself, the lack of (knowledge of) a self to trust in... I can see that.

If you'll forgive my segue into something that may (at this point) seem completely unrelated, I remember once reading that people who have Borderline Personality Disorder are particularly sensitive to the moods of others. By that, I hasten to add, I don't mean in terms of the well known Borderline hypersensitivity to rejection; rather, in terms of recognising general emotions in others, and being able to identify when others are being false about their emotions. I wish I could find that article again because it was fairly interesting, even if, at the time, I disagreed with a lot of what was said. I mention it now because a recent situation in my life has given me cause to really ponder some of the ideas behind that.

You see, when I came back from Canberra, I sensed that things in my circle of friends weren't 'right'. Something felt off. I told myself that I was just being paranoid; that I was misinterpreting the situation and that I was being silly.

My friends started doing more and more things without me; things we had previously done together. I felt excluded, but I told myself that it was just that they had made the plans when I wasn't there, and just hadn't thought to let me know/invite me; or that they were preparing for my intended move; or that they were giving me time and space to prepare for the move.

When we did hang out, I felt waves of dislike coming from my friends, and especially from one friend in particular. I told myself over and over again that I was just projecting my own dislike for myself onto my friends. I told myself that they wouldn't invite me to hang out with them if they didn't like me, if they didn't want me there. I tried to talk over the top of the little voice in my head that suggested that maybe I was right, maybe something really was wrong in these friendships.

I spent three months in this daily fight with myself, trying to drown out that "unhelpful voice" that was telling me that something wasn't right. I wasted three months. Eventually, something happened and a conversation occurred between one of my friends and I. I told her how I had been feeling, she told me what had been going on. It turns out, you see, that I wasn't just paranoid. My initial thought, my recognition that something wasn't right, turned out to be spot on. Something really had been going on in my friendships, and I had wasted three months telling myself that my recognition of that was wrong, that it was the unhealthy and unhelpful voice of paranoia.

Things with some of that group of friends are back on track, now. They're not back where they used to be, but I'm more okay with how things are. That first friend I talked to, she apologised. I apologised. There were a lot of miscommunications; a lot of misunderstandings and, yes, plenty of mistakes... on both sides of the coin. And the day we started to talk about it, we both began to heal those wounds. It was not an easy day for either of us; but (and I speak here for myself, only, I cannot say whether these words ring true for any other people) I think it was certainly a worthwhile one.

I wouldn't wish for it to happen again, but there was value in that experience. I learned some very important things that I would not otherwise have learned yet.

Not only did I re-learn the importance of honesty and clear communication in my friendships, but I learned that my "unhealthy voice of paranoia" is my own intuition; insistent but unpracticed and generally unrecognised. I learned the importance of trusting that intuition and of acting on that in responsible ways.

I also learned that maybe there is something to the idea that, as someone with BPD, I might be more sensitive to mood changes in others. It makes sense, after all. As a child, my survival depended on being able to judge a situation or a person's mood, it makes sense that as an adult, I am still able to tap into that skill; however unintentionally or subconsciously I do it.

The trick, then, in understanding how such a concept might work, came in recognising for the first time that being able to detect changes in another person's mood, means just that. It doesn't mean I'll get it right every time; it doesn't mean there won't be misunderstandings. In fact, it is probably this sensitivity that leads to those misunderstandings, such as in the following scenario:

We are walking together and as we walk, we chatter. Suddenly, you see a car go past that reminds you of your ex-husband's car. Your mood drops.

I notice that your mood has changed, but I might decide that it's because I've said the wrong thing, or that you are wondering why you hang out with a loser like me. My intuition has recognised that change ... but my disordered thinking has misinterpreted the facts.

I can trust my intuition! It's necessary to remember not to blindly act on the specifics of it, but if I sense something change, if it's important, it's okay to trust my intuition and check in with the other person! In fact, it's more than important, it's downright essential.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Learning Experiences: Lies and Omissions

Lately, life seems to be throwing a whole bunch of pretty big learning experiences my way. They're not always pleasant; in truth, most of them have been very unpleasant; but viewing them as learning experiences makes it easier to bear the uncomfortableness.

I've had the opportunity to learn about life, people, and most of all, to learn about myself. Today I'd like to explore something I started to write yesterday...

Is it ever acceptable and okay to lie? Certainly a large part of me doesn't think so, but my instinctive reaction isn't always in accordance with that. Case in point, this morning. I got up and got myself ready at the dawn of stupid o'clock, ready for my morning appointment. As I was leaving, my mother saw me. Once I had confirmed to her that I was headed to the hospital, my mother followed it up with, "done it again then, I take it?"

I won't go into all of the thoughts and feelings a comment like that brings up for me (that would be a post all on its own, I think); but I will say that before I'd even properly taken in the question, before I'd even properly understood what she was asking, the word "no" was already on my lips.

I ask myself again, "is it ever acceptable and okay to lie?", and this time I begin to speculate about abusive situations. What do I really believe? Is it okay to lie if you're going to be abused if you don't? Is it okay to lie if telling the truth endangers your life? I'm still not sure.

I read The Kite Runner not so long ago, and one particular paragraph from that has truly stuck with me:
"There is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft....When you kill a man, you steal a life. You steal his wife's right to a husband, rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone's right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness."

I don't feel okay about lying to my mother. Technically I told her the truth; I had my appointment when I did because that was when the OTs would be working. I also omitted a large portion of the truth - I had "done it again", (although it was three weeks ago). I didn't lie for gain; I lied for my emotional well-being and her protection... but that doesn't make it right. Is stealing someone's right to the truth really any better than stealing someone's right to be safe? I still don't know.

So now I ask you, is it ever acceptable or okay to lie? How much (if any) omission makes something a lie?

When The "Good Parent" Isn't

This has been rattling around in my brain for several weeks now. I'm not sure whether there's any value in it or not, but I'll leave it in hopes that writing it is another way of working towards acceptance of the truth.


WARNING:
This post may trigger, it contains references to various forms of abuse.


In the year my older brother was 3, my parents decided that they were ready for a second child; in January the following year they bought home their first (and only) daughter. Less than a year after I was born, my father forced himself upon my mother while she was too ill to get to the shop to buy contraception... I was 18 months old when my baby brother came into the world.

To hear my mother tell it, from the day they bought me home, my father doted on me. I was Daddy's little girl, his pride and joy; when he got home from work, he'd come straight in to check on me and ignore my brothers. She cites this as one of the primary reasons for their separation (before my third birthday) and divorce. What my mother doesn't know, or doesn't want to know, is that by the time they separated, my father was already molesting me.

As I grew up, I saw my father every second weekend and the abuse continued, escalating. Under his care, the three of us would be left in the car while he went into the shop; or if we were taken in, we younger two would be left in the care of our brother. He began to date, and eventually married, the woman we were to come to know as our stepmother (s). Briefly, I thought things would surely improve, but it turned out that she was just as bad as he was. (S) was living in a house that had an unfenced, in-ground pool at this time, and though only my older brother was able to swim, we would often be sent outside unsupervised; locked out or thrown into the pool. We would be regularly belittled and harassed for our appearance, personality, behaviour, abilities... anything and everything, basically. I can't speak for what abuses my brothers endured in private, but I was subjected to several kinds of violence on this weekends. I spent a lot of time honestly believing that I could very well die.

My mother, on the other hand, hit us only very occasionally, usually when we were acting like savages. She told us, as children, that we could be anything, do anything, that we wanted. She would tell us that our looks were fine; it was okay to have stuffed toys, to play with trucks, to play with dolls. She wasn't all roses - she'd favour my brothers over me; constantly lay the blame on me for things; call me names as I grew older; be overprotective to the point of controlling...

Small things.

I think it was for this reason that coming to terms with even the idea that my mother is abusive has been, in many ways, even more difficult than coming to terms with the idea that my father was.

In my head, my parents were divided into the 'good' parent and the 'bad' parent. My father, as the one who was more distant, who neglected my brothers, was clearly the bad parent; this left my mother in the 'good' parent role. And, in comparison to my father, she was certainly the better parent. I still believe that whatever damage she's done, she was doing the best job she knew how; she was trying to be a good mother. In truth, the knowledge that she did the best job she knew how to do has been one of the biggest blocks in accepting her behaviour as abusive.

Too, I am able to place more distance between myself and my father. While he is now a figure I see perhaps twice a year, my mother and I live together. I lived with my father full time for just under five years of my life (the first 3 and the two years between 12 & 14), so he remains vaguely a stranger. I lived with my mother for 16 years as a child/teenager, and another 3 or 4 as an adult -- I know her. I see her every day, and I have interactions with her that are positive, and I have interactions with her that aren't.

My mother's abuse is more subversive than my father's, in general. There is more distance. There is a "good parent" block. There are more positive interactions to draw on that hide the abuse. For whatever reason, it blends better; blurs the lines more on what is actually abuse.

It's still so easy to slip into denial. "Of course she's not abusive, I'm just twisting everything she's ever said. It's not abuse if she's right..."

Except that she's not right and it is abuse and it's not acceptable.


Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.

Mother's Day

Here in Australia, we celebrated Mother's Day today. I organised with my brothers to take our mother out to breakfast, at the end of which they brought out the mints. Two little cards with a chocolate heart on each. I reached for one and my brother said to me, "that's not for you. You aren't a mother."

Right up until that moment, we'd done okay; I'd put aside my anger, put aside all the things that hurt about the day and pretended we were like other families out celebrating mothers day, but my brother saying that pulled everything apart at the seams. I'm not a mother...

My brother is wrong. I have two children. I never had the chance to hold them, either of them, in my arms, but I will forever hold them in my heart. My family may not want to acknowledge them, for whatever reason, but their lack of acknowledgement doesn't change the facts. I am a mother.

So, call me crazy if you like, but instead of heading home after my day, I walked to the park. Maybe it was a nutty idea, but I thought if I could just pretend for a moment that I still had the family I fought for, if I could just fake it, I'd find solace there.

So I took myself to the park and I played their song (thank you, Gerrit Hofsink, for the most beautiful song I've ever heard). I knew she wasn't there, but I pretended I was watching her climb up on the swing and fumble with the seatbelt. I reached forward and I hooked the seatbelt up, and then I pushed the swing. Gently at first, and then higher. It wasn't long before my imagination took over. Soon, I had gone from pretending I could see her to actually 'seeing' and 'hearing' her. And yet... I knew it wasn't real.

Call me crazy, but I stood pushing that swing with tears pouring down my face for at least half an hour. I sang to the music, I imagined my daughter laughing and begging for me to push her higher, and I imagined my son on the swing beside us. I saw him as I imagine he would be today; 14 and all adolescent awkwardness and "mum, can we go home yet"s. I saw her as I have always imagined she'd be by now; almost four years old, blue eyes and blonde hair, all innocence and bossiness and "mummy, I want to touch the sky"s.

I wish I could say that doing it had brought me peace. I wish I could say that I took solace in this imagining, this pretence... but the truth is, it still hurts just as much as it did before. My son and daughter still aren't here with me, and I'm not sure anything will ever take that pain away.

Elyssami Faith and Mykelti Noah, this one's for you. Wherever you are, I miss you. I love you. I think of you every day.

Being a mother is more than having a child you can hold in your arms. Being a mother is one heart, two arms and all the love in the world, all for that little person in your life. So, to all of the mothers out there, whether or not you had the chance to hold your child in your arms, happy Mother's Day.

The Butterfly Does Not Make The Caterpillar A Lie

Today I made a discovery. In all my years in and out of therapy, in all my time spent working on "this, that or the other" issue, something went unseen, unrecognised and uncorrected. Let me back up a few steps with a story that is fairly vivid in my mind. It's not an especially distressing memory, nor is it particularly unusual for my life, but for some reason, it's something that has remained quite clear.

I am thirteen years old, it's just after school and I've missed my bus. I know my stepmother's going to be angry with me, but I haven't any other choice, so I walk to the office and I call her. That conversation is lost to the 27 year old I am now, but I do remember knowing she wasn't happy she'd have to fetch me. She doesn't ask why I have missed the bus and I don't volunteer. By the time we are home and she wants to know, I cannot for the life of me remember. This is nothing unusual as I often forget things or share things that don't "tally" with what someone else thinks has happened. I am used to it, as is my stepmother. Unfortunately, as much as she is used to it, she despises it. She fires questions at me, shoots accusations that are baseless and unlikely: I didn't forget, I had a detention and didn't want to admit to it. I was down the back kissing a boy. I was in a fist fight. I was redoing an exam. I was caught breaking school rules and having a chat to the principal. In the midst of these accusations, I suddenly remember what I had been doing, why I had missed the bus. A friend who had been having a hard time had asked me for support in doing something. We'd both expected I had plenty of time, but over or under estimated somewhere. Why I couldn't remember this earlier, I don't know. But I did remember it now, and as my stepmother threw her ideas of where I'd been at me, I tell her it wasn't any of those things. Her lip twists into a sneer and she tells me I wouldn't know, since I can't remember, and I tell her, "I do remember, now" and she doesn't believe me. She tells me that I can't 'not remember' before and remember now.

I learn that if the situation changes, the past is a lie.

That is not the first time I received that message, and it wasn't the last, and in 27 years, nobody's ever thought to tell me any different. I didn't challenge it because I didn't see it as anything but simple fact... until today.

Just as the butterfly who emerges from her cocoon does not make the caterpillar a lie in fact, nor does it do so in metaphor. If who I am changes, if I adjust my coping mechanisms; if I move beyond my past, that does not make the past a lie. Future change does not make now-me a lie or a liar!

I can use this on so many levels.



Today's cheer-leading statements:
I don't have to take on my family's judgements about me.
I am not a bad person.
Change does not make the past a lie!
Avoidance doesn't make the problem go away.
I have the tools and the strength to handle anything that comes my way.



Take care of yourselves until next time, and may we all find our own small fences along the way.