I saw my psychiatrist last week and asked her about support groups. I feel like I need an outlet to let go some of my agitations. People who know and understand, even if they don’t know Ashleigh. I asked my psychiatrist and she says – there are a lot of groups on facebook. I explained to her WHY I was not on facebook relating directly to my BPD daughter. She asks if I could make up a name. And eventually, after thinking long and hard, that’s what I did. I created a real sounding name and signed up without adding anyone as friends. I figure this way, if I do – Ashleigh will find me. The more commonalities we have, she’ll suss me out. I don’t even have any pictures posted on my profile. And I certainly don’t live where I say my profile is. I’ve made sure my privacy information is very little open to the public. Most is just me. And I need to keep it that way. No offense to anyone, but this is how it has to be. I hate the drama on facebook anyway. So just being involved in limited groups – no friends is best.
I found this facebook group for BPD and loved ones, and it’s fabulous. I love the fact that there are so many people that REALLY get it. Whether they are married, friends, or have children with the disorder. All the way around, there are so many people that are frustrated and tired of all the crud that goes with BPD. And obviously it’s not like the people don’t love those with BPD, otherwise they wouldn’t have bothered to even sign up for the group in the first place. Everyone who joins a support group (generally) wants help. Validation. To feel not so alone on this rock we call Planet Earth. When I talk about Ashleigh (though, I don’t mention her specific name), people don’t judge me. They thank me for sharing. They empathize. And they know that it’s not just them.
I’ve always wanted to help people. Less myself, but more other people. I guess that stems from my childhood. I kind of took on a light duty caretaker mode. Less the financial, and more the home part. My dad was handling the working part, the bills, and trying to maintain his sanity with all the bat crap crazy going on. I did dishes, tried to maintain my laundry – usually my dad did his own. He cleaned his own room, and I cleaned my own. Though, I wasn’t spectacular at this. I tried to maintain me. And that was not easy. Being a kid who doesn’t understand being a kid. Having to grow up because you don’t know where you fit in to anyone’s world. My siblings were doing their own things, college, establishing their extended families, and not even being in the same town I lived in. When I was hospitalized twice for psychiatric issues – no one came to visit me. I was alone. When I needed help, I was alone. And when I was offered help through a therapist, I got angry because I hated my mom’s therapist. Granted, not the same one she had.
I’ve tried to understand why I feel abandoned. Why I feel like I just don’t belong to the people that claim to love me. Why I invalidate their claims of how worthy I am to them, and not even really trying. It’s almost default. And then I heard of attachment disorder or attachment styles. Not the same as reactive attachment disorder, like Ashleigh had. I believe I have an attachment style called anxious avoidant. I didn’t get a lot of validation about my self worth, I wasn’t modeled how to have good relationships, I wasn’t even really taught about checking accounts, managing money, and cooking. Everything was processed foods and eating out. My adulting is limited. And granted, in between now and then, I could have asked for help. I admit my fault there. I just felt embarrassed that I’m now in my 40’s and I still feel like I’m that 15 year old kid inside. Insecure and screaming out for someone to take me in their arms and help me feel emotionally secure. I want that more than anything.
I know money doesn’t fix everything. Nothing really fixes stupid. Not saying I identify with stupid. I’m just relating that separately. Now, to my point. I think my purpose in this life is to whether the storm. The puzzles that the New York Times put out are pale in comparison to the puzzle I have to figure out about the emotional strengths and lack there of, of my life. How I need to sort through and make myself a “normal” human being.
I realized a number of years ago that I would not keep a song on that I knew Eric didn’t like. Or for that matter, other people that I associated with didn’t. I would secretly jam to it in my own head, but not out loud. I would generally agree with other people on what kind of music they liked to what I liked. It was easier to do that than to have something additionally to argue about. I make exceptions to Black Sabbath/Ozzy, AC/DC, and a few others. I just don’t like their sound. It’s just not me. I attribute that to the fact that I was picked on for liking the New Kids on the Block, so hard core. Not only my peers, my eldest brother, and my orchestra teacher. I know my eldest brother was picking on me and I know that he felt he didn’t hurt me. Though he did. I know it wasn’t meant that way, but I was a sensitive kid. Why? I don’t know. However, what my brother thought about me meant the world to me. I was reaching for identifying as someone important. Not someone who liked crappy music. I felt like people wanted me to change very early on. It wasn’t the normal growing up crap. I had to create an identity that was pleasing for everyone else. And when I deviated, my attachments were GONE. And even when I didn’t deviate, I lost people to whom I loved dearly. Dianne, my mother, now my youngest daughter. And people in between. I feel like there is this part of me that is missing. Someone who truly is lost in the ether… except here. On this big rock called Earth.
I’ve heard through the paranormal podcasts that I’ve listened to, that people who pass on go through and see how they impacted other people. The hurt they caused other people. And truly they feel what other people felt when they did this. I don’t know if that is what happens, though I hope my father was spared this. He hurt so much on the inside and couldn’t let us kids see it. I don’t want his afterlife, even for a second to think about how I was feeling when certain things were happening. I know I don’t have control over that though.
I know I dwell on myself a lot and what I’m going through. It’s hard for me to relate to people because I still feel like I need validation, or like I need people to see what they may or may not acknowledge is there. It may be exhausting for other people, but imagine what it’s like for me? I’m constantly in this state of adulthood, which I feel ill prepared for. I don’t know where I stand with other people and if they tell me, I don’t feel like I can accept it. I used the analogy with my therapist: It’s as if my skull is open, and all the positivity goes into my head. But my head is a sieve and everything drains out of that positivity. I want to feel it. I do. Over 40 years of conditioning make it very difficult(albeit not impossible)
In therapy, I reminded my therapist about that I am NOT suicidal. I began with that because of this. I said in the paranormal shows that I’ve listened to, they say that people who have had near death experiences have absolutely loving and accepting experiences on the other side. That there is a drive for them to want to stay. The feeling they have on Earth is NOTHING in comparison. Anything that you want to feel is right there. And that is something that I want more than anything on this rock called Earth. I feel comforted by the idea that Darrian is there, absorbing all the love from the people she needs there. There is still that immense loss in my heart knowing that I couldn’t deliver that to her.
In the interim, I did something different. I got a library card in Kewaunee. I am now a card carrying, library book renter. I asked about community activities and took down some information about CBD for Eric. I’m trying to maintain life and I’ll be finally getting my teeth fixed. And this time, for good. Apparently the initial dentist that did the work, fucked it up. So now I have to go about getting it redone. I’m not loving it, but it’ll last for the rest of my life and I can feel like I have a reason to smile again. And I haven’t been able to say that since the late 90’s.
My therapist ended our last session saying she was proud of me for my hard work in the session and letting go like I did. I’m not sure if she did it because of my expression of feeling the need to get validation, or if she would have said it otherwise. However, I appreciated it nevertheless. It was hard work, and I cried. I cried a lot. I felt a lot. And I still do. And I will continue to. The work is no where near over.
psychosisrus 