Hope

"Maybe I've never really loved/I guess that is the truth/I've spent my whole life in clouds of icy altitude."
- Joni Mitchell "Amelia"

Today was a good day. I met with my husband's aunt to discuss her book. I highly encourage everyone to view her website about borderline personality disorder. It was so nice for me to share my life as the child of a person with BPD with someone else who understood. Part of me feels guilty for harboring such anger towards my mother. She was not an entirely bad person. Like I said in my previous post, there were a lot of fun times. I remember taking long night rides with her just so we could relax in an air conditioned car and escape the intense heat of our house which did not have air conditioning. I remember taking the heels of our loaves of bread to Chestnut Hill Cemetery so we could feed the ducks; then afterwards we would go to an ice cream stand and get frozen chocolate bananas. I remember her picking me up from kindergarten in her gold Trans-Am with the t-tops taken off and the Beach Boys playing on the radio. She would take us to the Burger King by Chapel Hill Mall in Akron for french fries and a paper crown. My aunt told me that she has begun to forgive her mother for her behavior and it helps her to know that she could not really help it. She gave me some perspective on my mother's behavior that I found comforting - BPD is like diabetes, it is an illness; however, if you know you have BPD and continue to act the same way and to not seek help, then that is a problem. My mother would never in a million years accept the fact that she has BPD. If she cannot even accept the fact that she is a drug addict, what makes me think her attitude about her mental illness would be different? This will be another family issue that will never be acknowledged, let alone addressed. This will be another ugly family secret swept under the rug. Another pink elephant walks into the room.

It was also wonderful to learn more about my husband's family. My husband is not necessarily the most talkative person in the world and his memory can be fuzzy. I feel that some of it just was not a concern to him. I, on the other hand, sometimes cannot shut up so he knows all of the intimate details about my family. It is cathartic to share my memories with someone who is not enmeshed with my family. I feel it helps him understand me more. You may wonder, why am I pouring my heart out on this blog? There are a few reasons 1. I have lost many journals from moving many times throughout the years. This helps me to be able to access my journal on line wherever I go and the likelihood of me losing it diminishes. 2. it has been very helpful for me to write down my thoughts and the pain that I have experienced in my life. I hope that by writing down my thoughts I can finally find some peace.

I wonder if it is normal for people who have loved ones with BPD to feel cheated? I remember that when I was really young I asked my mother why she did not cook dinner and take care of us like a real mother. She became very upset and her reason was that we did not appreciate it. She would make dinner, and we kids would not like it and my dad would not be hungry. What kind of reasoning is that? Little kids are finicky to begin with. I remember she sometimes made cream of mushroom soup which I thought was the most disgusting thing ever, and I remember refusing to eat it. I used to claim I was allergic to mushrooms. Now I love them. Should that be a reason to stop making dinner? It is like saying, 'I won't wash your clothes, because you'll just make them dirty again.' I always thought my mother's sadness and bitterness was her own fault. She could have gone out and had fun with her friends. She could have continued with her hobbies of making stained glass, embroidery, and needlepoint. She could have had date nights with our dad. She did not have to create her own prison and blame us for it. Children should be considered a blessing; not a punishment. My aunt has given me hope that things will get better. I will eventually be able to not only understand my mother but begin to forgive her. It will take a long time, but I know it will eventually happen. I hope it is sooner rather than later.