The Trap

I never take my father's word at face value.  His mind is going, but he still has the presence of mind to play games.  He likes to use the bait and trap method.

So, when I see that he tried to call me, and I can't decipher his message, I feel sucked back into the dark adolescent cave of my childhood, where I can be hurt, and no one can really save me.  Even my sisters can't fully understand my fear of my dad, because they two have their own unique experiences with him.  He knew how to fuck with each of the three of us in a specific attentive way.  So, I can't say that I was ignored as a child.  No matter how hard I tried to disappear into my bed, the closet, the backyard...

So, this couple who are cousins on my dad's side go to visit my dad once a month when possible.  They live in Ocala, so it's not a hop, skip or a jump to Lakeland.  And, they are not the springiest of chickens, so, it's quite a tiring day for them.  They went to visit him today.  They got there around noon.  They knocked on the door, and no answer.  They waited.  And waited.  no answer.

My dad is deaf.  He had a cochlear implant many years ago, and his transmitter doesn't work anymore. When my mom's friend told him she would schedule an appointment with the place that makes adjustments, he told her he was going to work on it himself.  Not a good idea.

So, my dad, who lives alone, didn't answer the door at 12 o'clock in the afternoon.  After a while, they called my mom's friend and asked her if she had a key.  She doesn't.  So, they called my dad's attorney and asked advice, and they called a locksmith.  I guess my dad woke up before they had to bust in with the locksmith.

Only someone paranoid and in a declining state of dementia like my dad would  a) live alone at his age and state of mind, when he can afford to pay someone  b) not give anyone a spare key in case of emergency   c) not pay the one person who regularly checks on him about once a week and helps him run errands.

But the only way to change this is with deceptive measures, or force.  Someone or some situation needs to lure him into having a psychiatric evaluation.  Or someone needs to file a court order to declare him incompetent or incapable of taking care of himself.  But who is going to pull the trigger?  And what happens if he somehow squeezes by and is allowed to continue on his own?  It seems impossible, but he can play the game.

If any one of us, me and my sisters, were to file a guardianship proceeding, that would be an unforgivable act.  Not that he doesn't already have grudges against each of us that he holds, or imaginary or twisted grudges against some way we have each wronged him.  But, this, trying to help him, would be viewed as the ultimate act of betrayal, a money grab.  His biggest fear is having someone take it all away.  His biggest fear may become reality if he won't let anyone help him.

I don't even think about this money as my rightful inheritance.  This is in a sense, blood money.  This was accumulated through the emotional degradation of my mom.  Anyway, who sits around waiting for their lone surviving parent to die so they can reap rewards?  That's not how it works.  If my dad doesn't somehow let someone manage his finances, or he isn't ordered to do so, there may not be any inheritance left anyway.

So, my dad asked his cousin to call me.  He wanted her to tell me to come see him, so he could tell me about his properties in the Philippines.  He has told me this before.  He has told me how he needs to tell us about his entire estate.  But he never tells us.  So, I don't know if this is the real reason behind his wanting me to visit, or if there is more to it.  There's always more to it.

Mystery Phone Call

It's so difficult to hear my phone ring and see it say "Mom".  Because for one, it's not my mom calling.  She's dead.  She can only speak to me in dreams now.  And for two, it's my dad.  Maybe I'm an awful daughter.  I haven't contacted him since this summer.

So, he left an unintelligible message.  I couldn't understand it at all.  He was yelling too close to the mouthpiece of the phone.  Maybe he wasn't yelling, maybe it was his regular phone voice.  But it was spooky.

I didn't call back.  I just couldn't.  I'm such a hypocrite.  I watch people in movies and TV shows - in fictional scenarios - and I think, just do it - just call him back and get it over with and feel relief.  But, I just can't.  I want my mommy.  I want someone to hold my hand and lead me through it, to protect me. But there is no one.  And my mom tried to shield me for way too long.  That definitely wore on her health - protecting others from the wrath of my father.

You know, I've read those two books about dealing with a person with BPD.  They helped a lot.  They were a revelation.  But, does my knowledge make it any easier to deal with this man who... terrorized me as a child, kept me from coming home too often or for too long in college, and didn't motivate me to save money or take time off from work to go home for the holidays.

I know that in essence he can't physically hurt me.  He can't financially hurt me either.  I mean, if he were to exclude me from his will, it wouldn't really be that big of a deal - I always figured as a kid that he would disown me one day.  Maybe because that was always his big threat - disowning us.  But, did he ever really "own" us?  I mean, you don't own your kids.  You don't even truly own pets.  Sure, my dad payed for me, gave me a roof over my head (even though it fell on me at a young age), fed me, clothed me, sent me to school, and helped me out later when I needed money.  But, so did my mom, moreso than my dad.

It's gotta be a bad feeling to think one has ungrateful children.  I'm not ungrateful, I just am emotionally vulnerable.  The longer the gap between communication with my dad, the harder it is to make that connection.

You may notice, that I haven't written on this blog much in the past several months.  I just haven't had anything useful, soul baring, or even meaningful to write on the topic.

But now, here I sit, writing this blog, instead of returning the phone call.  I know I need to, but I don't know if there's enough alcohol in the world to make this phone call easier.

Lies

When I was in high school, college and after, I had secrets.  I had to lie to my parents.  I had this other part of my life that I couldn't let them in on, that they would not want to know, and that they would just get mad over if they found out.

Here I am again - midlife, with secrets again.  I don't communicate with my dad, so I haven't lied to him yet.  Although when I do see him next, I most likely will have to lie.  Luckily, or unfortunately, my mom taught me how to bend the truth if that was all that was needed, and to lie when necessary.

I get anxious just thinking about the fact that I need to at some point communicate with my dad after all these months of silence.  Every time I think about it.  I can't not communicate with him at all.  But I feel nervous, when I think about seeing him again.  I feel sad, scared, angry, helpless, self doubting, ungrateful, just terrible, really.

But, I can't avoid him forever.  What kind of daughter would I be?

Secrets

So, I grew up in an environment of unlocked doors and no privacy allowed.  Letters were not to be kept from my parents, and even if they were, my mom would probably go through our rooms at some point and find them.

Yet, at the same time, there were a lot of secrets.

My dad - I don't know if he kept secrets since he was generally very uncommunicative until he got angry.  He did seem to have to go to the auto parts stores a lot, and he would be gone for hours some times.  And he did take a lot of night classes.  Surely, he had some kind of life outside of the family?

My mom was full of secrets.  I don't know how calculated this was, but she would sometimes tell me something, but not tell one of my sisters.  Or vice versa.  Maybe it was just hard to keep track of who she told what, but at the same time, she was the kind of person who would make sure to tell everyone the same story if it was a good one.  I mean, who doesn't?

My mom would have to ask my dad for money for groceries.  Then she would try not to spend all the money and pocket the rest.  She would build up her own personal savings stash in her prayer book.  Then when one of us needed money, she would use this money to give us.  That way, she wouldn't have to tell my dad.  Or if that was not enough, she would ask my middle sister to borrow the money.  Because usually it was for me or my oldest sister.  My middle sister is very thrifty.  Something that I guess I rebelled against as soon as I got to college.  Now I am still trying to get my financial life in order.

If we went clothes shopping, we would try to hide our purchases from my dad.  He usually could tell when we went shopping and he would make a point to ask what we got.

When my sister secretly got married before her official ceremony, my mom found out.  She kept that secret from my dad.

When my mom found out that my boyfriend (who I ended up marrying) and I were living together, she didn't tell my dad.  And she didn't tell me.  She did act weird though.  Years later when our parents came to New Orleans to meet before our wedding, I had to tell my mom the truth.  I mean, my whole family was going to stay at our apartment.  So, even though my fiance stayed with his family in the hotel, my parents would have figured it out.  My mom acted like this was news to her.  When she asked how long, I replied, "A while."  So, my mom had to tell my dad, but we were getting married, so he didn't really get mad.  After all, this was my only boyfriend that they had ever met.

So, can you blame my mom?  The problem was, that she was the buffer, the interpreter, the shock absorber, the punching bag.  If she had to be the one to deliver bad news to my dad, which she usually was, you better believe that the messenger's life was in danger.  So, she filtered news to my dad.  Everything was on a need to tell you basis.

I had the same dilemma my mom had, time and time again.  So, if I did something wrong - broke something or you know, fucked up the way kids do, I would have the worst anxiety.  I would be scared shitless to tell my dad.  So, I would wait until a "good time".  When the hell is there ever a good time to tell your apeshit tempermental dad bad news?  So, I would put it off, and put it off.  And then he would find out.  And then he would be doubly pissed.  He would be pissed for whatever it was that I did - broke a piano key, or spilled food on the new couch or watched TV and watched the color go haywire and not work properly.  Then he would be pissed for me not telling him sooner.  I think he even tried to pull that bullshit that "if you come to me and you are honest, I will not get mad.  When you hide things from me, I will get mad."  Always wanting to do what was right, the next time I told him right away of my offense.  He got mad.  Was he less mad that I told him right away.  Not in the least.

With BPD, from what I've read and witnessed, anger is a surge, a rush of adrenaline, like a shot of whiskey injected into a vein.  And, yeah, I've felt that myself.  But I've realized how irrational it can be to be in a blind rage over things that are innocent accidents or unavoidable.  Shit happens.  And it sucks.  And we can be pissed.  But usually, our anger doesn't resolve anything in a positive outcome.

So, living with my dad, I learned to hold things in.  If I had a secret I needed to keep from him, I had better be very vigilant.

Now, the funny thing is, I am known to be horrible at keeping secrets.  If it's a secret of no consequence, or it's juicy gossip, then yeah, I probably will spill it.  However, if it's something extremely important, I can keep it.  If I have to.

So, I have a secret I've been keeping from my dad.  Well, he might know, but I haven't told him.

We are moving to south Florida.  So, we will be several hours south of him.  It won't be a situation where we can go up there every week.  Maybe once every six weeks?

We don't have a place to stay yet, and we don't have jobs.  If I told him that, he would have many questions and probably tell us we are stupid.  Is it stupid to move like this?  To some people.  But this is how we have always moved.  Just find an apartment when we get there, find jobs after that, find our life.  Sure, as one gets older, it seems riskier and riskier to move like this.  But what the hell.

So, I did tell my one cousin.  He and his partner bought a house in Pompano Beach last year.  They live here in California, but they want to move their business to Florida.  He told me not to tell anyone about his house.  I told him not to tell anyone we are moving.  So, I kept his secret.  I haven't really talked to any other relatives lately, so that's easy.  I don't know if he kept my secret.  If he told just one person though, one wrong person, then the whole family would know.  Just like that.

Oh, I am facebook friends with some of my relatives, but they don't really go on facebook much.  If they have gone on my facebook page in the last month though, they would know.  And the whole family would know.

But I really don't want to tell my dad until I can at least tell him where we are living.  And even then, I feel like I should wait until we have jobs.  That way he can't tell us we're idiots for moving across the country without leads when the economy is in the dumps.

So, if you see my dad, please don't tell him.

Cleaning

So, I've been going through old papers.  The best thing I could do is douse them in gasoline and burn it all.  But, you never know when you will need old papers.  My dad is a pack rat, and he would save every single sheet of paper if he could, I think.

So, when Katrina hit in 2005, we lived in New Orleans.  Everything was fucked up.  My boss didn't know if she was going to reopen the restaurant.  My husband was working harder than ever to keep up with the prep and the demand that was created by the fact that most of the restaurants were closed.  My parents urged me not to stay in New Orleans.  They dangled the allegorical carrot in front of me; if we stayed in New Orleans they would not help us buy a house or open a restaurant, and they would not support if we did either without them.  So, they so much as told us that if we started a new life somewhere else, they would help us financially when the time came.

So, we picked San Diego.  A day or two before we were supposed to drive across the country, I got sideswiped at a 4 way stop.  My husband had to leave without me, and I waited around to straighten out the business with the insurance and the car repairs.

After a couple weeks the other insurance company finally acknowledged fault and directed me to find a repair shop.  I relayed the information to my parents.  They did not want me to get the car fixed and drive it across the country, so they told me that they would help me buy a new car.  Originally, I was told that they were going to have the car towed back to Lakeland to be fixed, and then I was told to go ahead and get put it in the garage, and they would drive to New Orleans to pick it up when it was done.

Months later, I called my mom and asked for the financial assistance that they had offered me to buy a car in San Diego.  As usual, she told me to write a letter, since my dad was hard of hearing and could not communicate on the phone.  So, this is the opening of the response that I received from my dad.

(no formal greeting)

"I can recall when we give you advice you do not even give an answer just ignore it.  After all I am thinking you are the captain of your destiny the master of your soul.

I have emphasized that estimate is needed before work can be done so that the plan of work is accetable, but you give the a go head to d the work it without giving any estimate?

Now they produce an invoice based on estimate which do not include a new door date Nov 10 which do not include a new door just rebuilt the old one, probably they just put some bondo to mold to the original shape. and it ends up to the same amount.  I find it hard to communicate with people specially when the know better.

You have given the names of diferent people who can check the car for us, I felt they do not even have any knowledge about the nomenclature of an automotive system."



Then it goes on about how I am spoiled for asking for another car.  It's basically the "walking 20 miles in the snow to school" story.  Which is all well and good.  Maybe I am a spoiled brat compared to my older sisters.  But, how much of being a spoiled brat is the brat's fault?  Certainly not 100%.  A brat cannot spoil herself all on her own.  My mom's advice was to take the criticisms and insults without arguing, because he would give me the money.  He did give me the money.  Little did I know, that my silence, my "taking of the criticisms" would be perceived by my dad as me not even giving an answer, just ignoring it because I am the master of my destiny, the captain of my soul.  Why shouldn't I be though.  Why does my dad want to be the master of my destiny, and more creepily, the captain of my soul.  What does he know about my soul?  What does he know of his own soul?  I don't want anyone else but me to be the master of my destiny or the captain of my soul.

Years later, so much has happened.  But my dad still thinks the same about me.  I'm spoiled, uneducated, I don't know how to take care of a car, don't know how to communicate, and I don't take his valuable advice.

Meanwhile he has two cars that should still be perfectly drivable, sitting in the backyard, rusting and overgrown with weeds and wasp nests.

Old Poem

Here's some old poetry I found in my files


Childhood Breakfast

Childhood breakfast was a spread
on the kitchen table rescued
from the doctor's lounge
by my mother the day before.
Apple danish, cheese danish, raisin bagel
sealed in plastic with microwave
instructions printed at the bottom.
To the side, a note from my mother
scrawled on one of her prescription pads
said, "Don't miss the bus.  Love, Mom."

Self packed lunches consisted
of peanut butter sandwiches,
Oreo cookies, crushed chips
and a warm can of soda
packed in a too big grocery bag.
No note from Mom,
no special surprises included.

Dinner was never at six or seven,
My mother called at eight to say
she would be home in half an hour.
Nine o'clock she tumbled
in the front door, white lab coat
still on, pager in pocket beeping,
glasses halfway down her shiny nose.
One hand dropping patients' files,
the other clutching a bag
of fast food, trying not to drop it.
A rush to the kitchen,
bag tossed on the table,
my mother grabbing
the phone off the wall.
Ravenous, I open the bag
dumping half wrapped burger,
large fries mixed with ketchup packets.
Picking through the pile,
I felt the rubber coldness
of the hamburger bun.
I searched the crinkled paper
for microwave directions
that weren't there.



It's interesting that my dad is void in this picture.  It's as if my mom were a single parent and I were an only child.  While my dad worked in the office with my mom every day, my mom also spent lots of time going to the hospital and nursing homes to "make her rounds".  I don't doubt my mom's dedication to her job - helping people was natural to her.  I do believe that getting away from my dad and getting to chat with patients who appreciated my mom dearly must have been a respite.

As far as the time that I was "the only child" in the house goes, I spent a lot of time alone.  My dad spent a lot of time after hours at the office.  I'm sure he was doing work that could have been done faster by an employee, or on a computer, or if he weren't so OCD with paperwork, going over the details over and over.  Sure, when it comes to business being correct and in order is important, but then there's overkill.  I didn't complain about my dad not being around.  Often, when he would come home early, without my mom, I wonder if my disappointment showed.

Following in those footsteps

One of our worst fears is becoming our parents.  This is really a nightmare when the parent has BPD.  My mom was worried about this, and she would tell my husband to "watch out for me."  She seriously thought I might emotionally and physically abuse him the way my dad abused us.

To my mom's credit, there are often things I find myself doing that remind me of my dad.

Indecision - mulling over a decision for hours, and then seconding guessing oneself after making a decision.  I wrote a blog about this previously.

Intense emotional reaction - I hate surprises.  I hate being thrown for a loop in any negative way.  So does my dad.  When he rages, it's like a tornado or a tsunami.  I have learned that I can do this too, so while I don't know how to control my immediate feelings, I can control what I do with these emotions.  I know that I need time to stop and think before going into a frenzy.

Paranoia -  My dad has always been paranoid, but I think with age and the onset of dementia, he is experiencing more paranoia.  Anytime he can't find anything, he thinks someone took it.  Seriously.  When he was "supervising" the moving of his furniture back into his house, he accused the movers of stealing the dirty old couch cushions before they had even finished unloading.  When my sisters and I went to visit, he said people had taken photos.  He also said his whole photo album of a trip to Europe was gone.  When I showed him one, he said it was another, when I showed him the other, he said that wasn't it either.

I too, find myself having paranoid thoughts.  I had been at work thinking I was going to be fired.  Well, that wasn't too far from the truth, but I don't believe there were intentions quite as evil as I imagined.  I felt that every move my bosses made was a calculated move with ulterior motives.  Sometimes that was probably the case.  Other times, probably not.  I know they couldn't have spent that much energy focused on me.

I feel like spending too much time obsessing over something, and too much time alone can feed paranoia.  My dad spends 95% of his time alone in his house.  Plenty of time to think paranoid thoughts.

Not working, and consequently, not earning income, I too have been keeping to myself in our apartment.  I do have my husband most of the day, and the cats, so I have more company than my dad, but still less companionship than a normal human being craves.

Splitting -  this is viewing someone as either perfect and moral, or defective and evil.  Once someone would do something to shatter my dad's image of them, that would be it.  He would no longer trust them, ask them to help him or even acknowledge them.  On the other hand, if someone else would surface to do something for him, then they would be the one virtuous and intelligent person.  When my mom was in the hospital, my childhood friend came to visit.  She is a few years older than me, and she is a physician.  She has experience speaking with patients who are hard of hearing, so she was able to speak to my dad, and he could understand her.

No one, NO ONE had ever told me up until that point, not to yell at him when trying to communicate.  All I had ever heard was, I can't hear you.  I didn't know that the pitch of my voice, coincidentally, is out of my dad's range of hearing.  If I want to be able to talk to him, I have to learn to lower the register of my voice.  I have a very shrill voice, so this is no easy task.

So getting back to my childhood friend - my dad could not say enough positive things about her, as an insult to me.  By extolling her virtues,  her ease with which she could communicate with him, he was also pointing out my lack of communication skills.  By saying she was a successful doctor, that was showing how I was a disappointing failure of a daughter who would never fulfill the potential he thought I had.  I'm not jealous of my friend.  I'm happy for her, and she has a great family.  I don't think I could have ever had the stability of mind to become a physician when I was younger.  I wouldn't have been ready for it.  I could have done things different with my life along the way, but I wouldn't have ever taken the path my friend took.  And for that, my dad hates me.  My "failure" is his failure.

When I was working at my last job, I felt like I was playing wack a mole.  If one person wasn't calling off work, coming in late, or fucking up in some other way, then someone else was.  So the cook who fucked up last week might become my favorite this week.  Because I knew this about myself, I tried to not work too closely with any one cook for too long.  They would play this game with me, talking shit about each other and trying to be the favorite.  Boy, did we function like a family.

Abandonment - I always felt so alone as a child, and really even still now.  When I started having boyfriends, which was before I started officially dating, since I wasn't allowed to date before I turned 18, the relationship was always so intense.  I had a long distance letter writing relationship with my band camp boyfriend.   We wrote each other at least two thick letters a week.  We poured our hearts out to one another, we explained the details of our daily lives to each other (except for when he started dating girls in his town).  I needed those letters and the trinkets he sent me as constant reminders of him.

In college, when I met my now husband, we took it fairly slow the first six months.  We went on dates a couple times a week, and we met with our friends at clubs.  We made a point not to call each other boyfriend and girlfriend for six months.  And during those six months we never fought.  Then, one night, something happened.  Our first fight ensued.  And that might have been when we became official.  We started spending more and more time together.  We invaded each other's apartments, and our roommates felt like they had another roommate against their will.

It was difficult being a quiet, socially awkward, non jock, non drinking girlfriend of a hot jock.  Whenever he went out with friends, girls were always hitting on him.  And college girls can be so forward.  I was jealous and had no self esteem, and clingy.  I would start fights.  If he was pissed off at me at a club, it was easy for him to find a girl eager to talk to him.  I was always sure we would get in one fight too many over my abandonment issues and he would get fed up and leave me.  For whatever reason he didn't.  As I grew out of my sheltered childhood issues, I grew out of the jealousy and clingyness to a certain extent.  Well, we both grew together.




I really don't know if I would be diagnosed with BPD, or if having grown up with someone who suffers from it made me react or mirror the disorder.  I do know, that I see the ugliness in myself, and when I catch myself in a moment, I try to correct my actions or thinking.  It is difficult to correct one's feelings, but it is possible to rationalize through them to feel a different way.

I still go to back out of a parking space and find myself leaning my elbow against the back of the passenger side chair, turning my whole body back to make sure the path is clear.  This really pisses me off, because my dad always did this.  It was such an obnoxious way of over driving.  When I find myself with my elbow all propped up, I stop, I lower it, and I calmly back out of the space.

Afterschool Activities

If you haven't guessed, or have not read this blog yet, my parents were very strict.  With my dad, I feel like it was a control issue.  With my mom, I think she was just overprotective.  If I wanted to do anything, I would have to ask my mom.  Then she would tell me to ask my dad.  He would tell me to ask my mom, at which point I would tell him that I did, and she told me to ask him.  If it was something that they didn't want me to do, there would be the inflection in the voice, the "I don't know, but ask Papa."

There were certain things I could do on the weekends, usually without a hassle; invite friends over, walk around the lake, go to certain friends' houses to watch VHS movies, and, that was about it.

One thing that my mom in particular had a problem with was going to the movies.  Once I was in junior high and started taking more of an interest in boys, my mom did not want me to go to the movies.  Her belief was, if adolescents go to the movies unchaperoned, they are going to pair up and make out in the dark.  Maybe she watched Happy Days too much or something.  Between not being allowed to have a boyfriend until I turned 18 and having low self esteem from my dad's constant criticism and being suspected of liking girls, I was far from being the girl that all the boys were after - that was usually one of my friends.  I think her other objection was the subject matter of the movie itself.  Was it sexual, profane, violent?  For whatever reason, movies watched in the movie theather unchaperoned were more dangerous to the adolescent mind than movies watched in the home under parental supervision.

Another activity that was NEVER permitted was sleepovers.  Except if it were at our family friends' house in Winter Park.  So, I spent as much of my youth in Winter Park as I could.  Even if my parents also stayed the weekend, it was better than being trapped in our house where I would inevitably do something wrong.

So, I "studied" a lot.  Okay, I did study.  You know the stereotype of Philippine parents being very demanding of their kids so they will accelerate in academics....So, I did strive to keep up with my grades.  Well, sometimes.  I always tried to get Bs at least, so I wouldn't get in trouble.

Anyway, when I was in junior high school, I went to the library a lot.  If I didn't have band practice or lessons, then I went to the library.  I did study.  It was really more of a social hour though.  I would meet my friends and we would camp out in the young adult section.  We would do our homework, pass notes, get in trouble with the library security guy who we lovingly nicknamed Titwacker.  There, was a convience store across the street from the library, so if we got thirsty or hungry we would take a study break and buy cokes and candy.  Lots of candy.

There was also a lake across the other side of the library.  There were ducks, geese and swans there, and we would bring stale bread or splurge and buy some bread at the store and feed the ducks.  The study sessions were gruelling, but, we had to make those good grades.

Starting in eighth grade I went to band camp in the summer.  The first two years were at FSU and only for a week or so, but it was...the time of my life.  The first time I had been away from my parents or my friends' parents.  I loved it, so when I found out there was a camp in Boone, NC for three weeks, I was in.

Some of my friends went to another better camp for 6 weeks, but it was that much more expensive, so I went to Cannon Music Camp.  This was even better.  We were on campus in the mountains.  During the first summer, I met so many friends.  I wrote lots of letters to my band camp friends when I got back home.  Some people wrote me back.  Some wrote more than others.  One friend, a boy with whom I shared a common musical taste, wrote a lot.  And I wrote back.  We were averaging a letter a week.  Thick letters that sometimes needed two stamps.  My mom worried.  My dad didn't like it, although he didn't really say anything.

So, when I asked to go back to band camp the next year, my dad said no.  I'm sure my mom probably didn't want me to go either, but it was my dad who was the most vocal.  I begged and begged, and I pleaded that I wanted to go to learn music.  I don't know how, but finally I got my parents to agree to let me go.  I think they were in fear of my virginity.  Which is funny, because I was not ready for that step.  Not with a three week band camp.  For me, holding hands in public and making out whenever we felt like it was a big deal.

During the school year, band was still my main escape.  For some reason, before I marched in band, my mom was scared to let me go to football games in junior high.  Every once in a while, a big game with rival teams would get rowdy, but it wasn't like going to a scottish "footy" match.

Band took up more time in high school, and once my friends got their drivers licenses, band allowed more freedom.  Whenever I left the house, I had to say who was driving, who was in the car, where we were going and what time I would be back (which was always whenever my curfew was).  With Friday night football games came later nights.  The game would end fairly late, and sometimes I was allowed to go to Pizza Hut afterwards, which is where all us band geeks hung out.  This was the life.  I could go to games, no questions asked, and I could stay out later!  I could almost feel like a regular teen.

When I was in high school and gas was still cheap and cars that my friends drove got good mileage, we used to just drive around on the weekends.  I would tell my mom we were "going around the lake", which would technically not be a lie.  We would drive around the lake a lot.  We would also go to the Ames lot where the cute skater boys skated.  We also went to two of the older skater boys' houses.  They were older and so their pads became hangouts.

I didn't really do too many things that were particularly bad before I graduated high school.  The first time I got drunk was my senior year of high school, and it's not like I started getting drunk every weekend after that.  I did lie a lot, or not tell the whole truth.  I didn't want to be trapped in the house with my dad, so I left as much as I could.  I think it sometimes hurt my mom, but she didn't quite understand the trepidation I lived with 24/7.  If I was in the house with my dad, I had to premeditate every move.  I stayed in my room a lot, even though I knew it was no safe haven, but the less he saw me, the less chance of me enraging him.

So, it's no wonder I wanted to go to college far away.  I applied to Boston University and was accepted, but my dad said it didn't matter where I did my first two years of college and I should stay in state because the tuition was cheaper.  So, I went as far north as I could, to FSU.  Then I went to Emerson College in Boston for grad school.  Now I live in San Diego.  I can try to move as far away from my dad as I want, but I know that my unresolved issues with him, and his problems that he faces won't go away just because I am not nearby.

A different perspective

When I was a kid, I loved Madonna.  She was so... different.  And I loved that song, Borderline.  I never thought much about the meaning of the lyrics in the chorus, but now, it takes on a whole new perspective.....


Here are the lyrics from the Madonna song, Borderline, written by Reggie Lucas






Something in the way you love me won't let me be
I don't want to be your prisoner so baby won't you set me free
Stop playin' with my heart
Finish what you start
When you make my love come down
If you want me let me know
Baby, let it show
Honey, don't you fool around

Just try to understand
I've given all I can 'cause you got the best of me.

CHORUS:
Borderline … feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline
Borderline … feels like I'm goin' to lose my mind
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline (borderline)
Keep on pushin' me, baby
Don't you know you drive me crazy
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline.

Something in your eyes is makin' such a fool of me
When you hold me in your arms you love me till I just can't see
But then you let me down, when I look around, baby you just can't be found
Stop driving me away, I just wanna stay,
There's something I just got to say

Just try to understand
I've given all I can 'cause you got the best of me.

REPEAT CHORUS

Look what your love has done to me
Come on, baby, set me free
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline (borderline)
You cause me so much pain, I think I'm goin' insane
What does it take to make you see?
You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline.

Keep pushin' me, keep pushin' me, keep pushin' my love
(You just keep on pushin' my love over the borderline, borderline)
Come on, baby, come on, darlin', Yeah
Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da

Celebrity BPD

So, this video is of an NFL player who admitted that he was diagnosed with BPD after some crazy shit went down with him this spring.    He is filming a documentary now, so it will be interesting to see if it brings his BPD personality to light or it's just a PR thing.  The most disturbing thing about this video, though is the viewer comments.  People are very harsh.  Comments like those are part of the reason I was hesitant to "advertise" this blog.  I didn't want to be judged or corrected in a nasty hateful way.  I mean, this guy was just trying to admit his vunerability to the public and people slam him on youtube?

I really don't know much about what really happened in the spring with the stabbing and all, but I don't think he was trying to absolve himself of his actions.  To anyone who mocks this disorder, however the terminology and classification came about, I suggest that you go to my dad's house and live with him for a month, and then we'll see how sane you feel dealing with a BPD.

The Garbage Disposal

Our garbage disposal was slowly dying, and when it got to the point where the motor would barely hum but not really turn, I finally put a note about it in with the rent.  So, I knew that misuse, or overuse was a part of it, beside the fact that it was pretty old.  We had had a problem with it a year or more ago, and it had been fixed, but this time it seemed dead.

So, the maintenance man came today and replaced it.  He told us that we needed to use the disposal only "for emergency", not as a garbage.  He found scrubber sponges in it and other whatnot.  We didn't purposely put them in there.

My dad, on the other hand, has never owned a garbage disposal.  This is not for lack of money.  Also, with the building of the new house, I'm sure the contractor asked twice or three times if my parents were sure that they didn't want a garbage disposal.  There are some old Philippine ways that my dad will never shake.  This is one reason that I'm sure it would be difficult to get him to a psychiatrist and diagnosis his borderline personality disorder.  So many of his behaviors and actions are chalked up to being the old Philippine way, or how he took after his traditional old Filipino parents.  As if, that was all the explanation that was needed.  Oh, when he beat us, he was just being a traditional Philippine parent, nothing to worry about.  Although, when people start to see more of the picture, they realize that it's beyond normal Philippine tradition, and that maybe it isn't okay.

I guess I digress.  I'm not saying that not having a garbage disposal is unrealistic.  But having to wipe out every single crumb, morsel, grain of food from the sink every time one wants to run water is a pain in the ass.  Surely, some of it can go down the drain.  But my dad scrapes every last piece out of the sink and the strainer.  And the rice is another thing.  I think my parents would soak the rice cooker bowl.  Then they would strain the old rice and incorporate it back into the new batch of rice.  When we were staying with my dad last year my husband did most of the cooking.  We would clean the kitchen as quickly and gently and thoroughly as possible, but it was never the correct way for my BPD father, of course.  One time, my husband left the rice cooker bowl in the sink to soak, with soapy water.  A few hours later, we saw the rice from the cooker laid out on a paper towel next to the sink.  I really don't know if my dad intended to eat it, but I'm sure if we had told him it had soap on in, he would call us wasteful.

My dad is proud of the fact that he has amassed his fortune from unnecessary self-denial which of course affected the whole family.  We weren't allowed to run the air conditioner at a bearable temperature - always a few degrees too warm.  When the air conditioner broke, it was never fixed, and my parents would sit in the hot Florida house in summer sweating in front of fans.  My mom would still have to stand over the stove to prepare every meal for my dad, or be accused of neglecting him.

Don't get me started with road trips and family vacations.  Shift driving, napping at shady rest areas, occasionally checking into cheap seedy roach infested hotel rooms when my parents couldn't keep their eyes open for more longer than 8 seconds at a time.  There would be one room for all five of us.  We would still be eating poorly refrigerated corn on the cobb and corned beef sandwiches for several days in a row until they were all consumed.  Even if we had reached our destiny, usually a relative's house, we would still eat our leftovers with whatever meal was cooked for us.  That didn't differ from meals at home either.  We barely ever threw food away.  If my mom cooked a big pot roast or stew, we would primarily eat that for the first three or four days, then she would cook other things and integrate them into the meal, until the last day of the pot roast or stew - it would smell or taste tangy, but we would eat it.  I think that sometimes my mom (who was a general practitioner) would fear for our health and discreetly dispose of something two weeks old, hoping my dad wouldn't find it in the trash.

So, after the maintenance man replaced the disposal, I was washing a pot that my husband had used for macaroni and cheese.  It was a soaker.  Maybe not a three day soaker like we let it go, but at least a two hour soaker at any rate.  So, I scrubbed the pot out with the scrubber sponge since all the stainless steel scrubbers had apparently gone down the old disposal.  The cheese sauce and macaroni came off easily and slid down the drain.  I rinsed the pot, scrubbed the sink basin, and with the water still running, I turned on the disposal.  As I listened to the sweet crunch of the new motor grinding up mac and cheese, I thought of my dad's spindly shakey fingers combing the drain of his new kitchen sink for debris.

The Beamer

So, when I was in college, my parents decided to get me my first car when I got an internship at a local literary publication.  I had only had one job up until that point - cleaning my mom's office when I was in junior high and high school.  Other than that, I wasn't encouraged to work a real job.  The theory was that I would get used to the money and want to work instead of focus on school.  My oldest sister had worked a little in high school, and she had jobs during her undergrad - I don't know if she was encouraged, pressured or discouraged to have these jobs, and how much her having a job influenced me being advised not to work.  Maybe in high school they didn't want to drive me around more than they had too?

Anyway, the point is that, my parents never let me drive their cars without one of them being in the car, and all of a sudden, they were buying me a car.  I was excited, but this was also a huge responsibility, almost a burden.  If I got one scratch on the car, my dad would notice.

When my dad, who shows symptoms of BPD, started looking at cars, he did a lot of research.  That's his thing - research.  So, my two older sisters had been given Honda Accords, so that is what I expected.  My parents gave me a list of cars which included Honda Accord, Nissan Altima, maybe a Toyota, and BMW 318i.  So, I told them that I preferred a grey car, or black, and that since they were buying, I would take whatever they preferred - except, I didn't like the shape of the Altima and I didn't want the responsibility of keep up with a BMW.  My parents had test driven an Altima and they weren't impressed with it either.  They test drove the BMW, and they really liked it.  They liked the grey color, the handling, the styling, that's the car they wanted.  They thought it was the perfect car.

It was bittersweet to finally get a car, and to get a BMW.  My parents drove it up to college on June 1st - my sister's birthday.  My sister was visiting, so she got to be present for the handing over of the keys.  She didn't seem visibly jealous, but wouldn't she be?  Who wouldn't be jealous?  I know it wasn't my fault, but I felt guilty.  I didn't want this car.  Did my dad buy it for me to test me and to purposely make my sisters jealous, I wondered.  Or, was that simply the car that my parents liked best, and would they have bought it for themselves if they had needed a car at the time.  In fact, why didn't they just give me their old car and take the new one?  The excuse was that the old car was pretty old - an 85 Toyota minivan, and that they needed the minivan to move stuff.  They were always moving stuff.

So, I had a brand new BMW.  I had to be mindful of where I parked, and how close I parked to other cars.  I had to get up in the morning and check to see if anyone had stolen it.  I cleaned it all the time.  About six months after I had the car, I was driving in the airport parking lot, dropping off my best friend.  We were chatting and laughing.  I had to back up to get into a space, and I hit a big white Lincoln or Chevrolet or Cadillac or something.  She had not been there a few seconds before.  It made a sickening thud.   No one was hurt.  I got out of the car.  There was a clean circular dent in my bumper.  This lady didn't have a scratch.  We exchanged information, and when through the procedure.  She kept saying that just in case her mechanic found something wrong, she would call me.  She had a tank.  There was no damage to her car.  But I was devastated.  It was a horrible day.  I cried and cried.  I even smoked in the car.

I went home and immediately looked up body repair shops in the yellow pages.  I made some calls, and I got a couple estimates.  I had a Discover card that I had gotten from one of those awful tables that are set up all over campus.  I probably signed up for a Discover card to get a pen or something lame.  So, my dilemma was, did I get the car fixed and put it on my Discover card, my parents being none the wiser?  But, what if the lady who I hit called my insurance company and my parents found out?  I couldn't decide, I didn't even want the stupid car!  So, after much thought, I called my mom.  I did the "right" thing.  She talked to my dad and they decided I would bring the car home when I had a chance so they could see the damage.

So, I took the car home during a break or long weekend.  My parents definitely did not want to call the insurance.  They said they would pay for it.  So in the meantime, they would keep the BMW, and I would take the 85 Toyota Minivan.  The one that they needed to transport large items, or a large quantity of small items.  So, I drove this big rolling "eggmobile", as my bf called it, back to school.  It didn't have the kick that the BMW had, and the ignition was stripped.  Eventually, the radio went haywire and would make a loud low buzz that could wake up the whole neighborhood, and I had to disconnect the fuse.  But, I didn't have to feel as anal about this car.  I wasn't worried where I parked it, as it had lots of little dents and dings.  I didn't really wash it too often.  It was a ridiculous car to drive, but I wasn't scared of taking it out onto the road.

After undergrad, I moved to Boston for grad school, so I didn't need a car.  I gave my parents the eggmobile back.  After Boston, I moved to New Orleans, so I needed a car again.  This time I got the BMW.  The dent was still there.   My husband and I drove it for years, yet my dad never turned the title or insurance over to me.  Every time my dad saw the car, he would inspect every inch of it.  There were lots of flaws.  The driver's seat was all worn out from years of my husband sliding in and out of the seat - normal wear and tear.  This aberration was the most disturbing to my dad.  It made the car look like it was in way worse shape than it was.  I was always getting lectures about taking care of the car.

After Katrina, we decided to move to San Diego.  My mom was worried about me taking the BMW all the way across the country, but it was the most practical choice.  Then, a day or two before we were supposed to leave, I got sideswiped in the intersection of Magazine and Napoleon.  The lady driving had not seen the 4 way stop sign.  The passenger side was pretty banged up.  I got a ticket for having an out of state license and plates.  After a couple of weeks of trying to get the lady to report my claim to her insurance company, she finally took care of it.  The repairs would be done in New Orleans, then my parents would drive up and pick it up.  I would fly to San Diego carless.  Before I left, I bought car seats  for the front seats.  They weren't BMW brand, but they matched the grey interior of the car.  They made it look that much better.  When my parents picked up the car, they said it looked good.  I don't know what they expected, maybe some hint of the accident?  But I know that the new seat covers made all the difference.  My dad kept saying he would take the car to the BMW shop in Lakeland, and he would make sure it was properly maintained and tuned up.

Sometime a few years later, it started to conk out.  Rather than take it to a garage, my parents left it in the backyard, since they only needed one car after retirement.  They left it uncovered, under the hot Florida sun.  So, when I went to Lakeland after my mom's stroke, I found the car, sad and out of commission, faded paint, interior fabric on the ceiling and sides falling down, in the backyard.  My dad said that he thought it just needed to be jumped.  Since my sister and I really needed a car, we kept asking my dad if we could jump the car.  He kept putting it off, until he couldn't get his other car to start, a 2000 Toyota Previa.  So we went to the BMW.  There were wasps nesting in the car, and one stung my nephew.  It was chaos.  The car started, but it would stall after a couple feet of driving.  We had to jump it 3 or 4 times to get it out of the driveway.  My dad said it just needed gas, so we made it to the gas station down the street, but it conked out right before I made it to the pump.

It started raining.  I was going to buy a gas can to put gas in and put it in the car.  My dad followed me into the store and yelled at me.  He said we would push the car to the pump.  He didn't care that it was pouring.  So, we pushed it.  We put gas in, but it wouldn't start.  My dad thought, and thought.  Finally, he told me to go to the garage behind the gas station and ask them if they would look at it.  So, I ran through the rain to the garage.  It was a small garage with only a few guys working there.  I told them about the car, and the owner said he would try to start it with a charger, and if not, they would have to push it to the shop.  So, he tried the charger and it didn't work.  So, three men pushed the car in the rain, the wrong way down the highway on the shoulder to the shop.  They replaced the alternator.  But the car hadn't been properly maintained all those years, so there were other issues with it, and after a month or so, it stopped working.  So, once again, it was banished to my dad's backyard.  And all those years, that dent is still in the bumper.    

Indecision

So, I've had trouble all my life making decisions.  When I go to the store, it takes me minutes to pick out a simple item like toothpaste.  We don't have a goto brand, so I pick something based on price and packaging.  But I have trouble deciding between the one that restores enamel, or the toothpaste that whitens, or the one that prevents gingivitis, or maybe the toothpaste that does it all but is more expensive.  Oftentimes, my husband will leave me to choose an item, and when he comes back I'm still in the same aisle trying to decide.

When it comes to purchasing a high price item, it takes me hours of internet research.  I will read reviews on similar sites, consumer sites.  Once I narrow it down, finding the right store to purchase from takes another day or two.  Often, there will be one aspect that I overlooked, and when I do finally buy the object of my choice, I realize that it is lacking in some way.  Sometimes, I buy defective products, that have to be returned or exchanged.  I don't feel that there is a necessary pattern to this - I don't go to sketchy bargain basements for higher priced items.

I learned this behavior from my dad.  If my dad were interested in purchasing a new car, he would research it at least a year ahead of time.  He would go to every dealership in a 200 mile radius scoping out the options and the prices, quizzing the salespeople, trying to haggle.  This would be frustrating, because he might spend hours looking at a car, talking to the salesperson, discussing financing and other logistics that probably lead the person to believe they were going to make a sale.  Then my dad would say something deflating, like, I can get this cheaper at the other dealership, and they are more knowledgeable about the specifications.

SPECIFICATIONS.  This is one of my dad's favorite words.  Do you have the specifications?  Do you know the specifications?  What are the specifications.  I need the specifications before I can decide.  Why don't you know the specifications.

What are specifications?  Really, they seem like a set of descriptions and numbers designed to help the consumer procrastinate.  I mean honestly, if my father had been researching something, like a car for months on end, then he would  know the specifications.  My dad can't purchase something from someone he doesn't view as knowledgeable and intelligent.

Indecision can be a killer.  Indecision can ruin a life, lose a job, lose a raise, lose a bargain, lose a lot of things.

One of the "by products" of my indecision is that I'm a gambler.  Not belly up to the blackjack table kind of gambler.  But, sometimes when I can't make a decision, I wildly make a choice.  I'm not an adept gambler, and sometimes I lose, sometimes I win.  It's liberating when this happens, because I relinquish responsibility of making the decision.  And if there are negative repercussions, at least I didn't waste a bunch of time making the wrong decision.

I figure, the indecision goes along with the quest for perfection.  Because, people with BPD may have an obsession with perfecting things.  So, if one were to say, agonize over which towel racks to buy for their new home, and then take home the "wrong" ones, well, then it would ruin that image of perfection.

Right now, I'm facing a few major decisions that affect not only myself, but those I'm closest to as well.  The weight of those decisions crushes on my chest, my head, my brain, and my spine.  Sometimes I can feel them like a physical weight.  It's like depression, I guess.  I feel paralyzed to make a move, and things that normally I would do to relieve stress or lighten my mood, or feed my soul feel are just artificial and unfulfilling.  I barely have health insurance, and it doesn't cover psychiatric therapy anyway.  After all this time feeling like I could deal with my life without professional help, I crave therapy, but I can't afford it.  So, I write this blog instead, even though I don't think anyone is reading it.

 

The Belt

I am a daughter of a man who has never been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, but who displays all the symptoms.  He was demanding.  He only wanted perfection.  He was obsessive.  He was relentless.  He couldn't abide any transgression, no matter how minor.  He was untrusting and always watching, waiting for something "wrong" to happen.  It was as if he was waiting for that adrenaline rush that immediate intense anger would bring, and once he became enraged, it was hard for him to calm down.  

When I was growing up, it didn't take me too long to realize that my dad's parenting style was not necessarily normal or even legal.  I think going to school and seeing other kids interact with their dads tipped me off.  Some of these kids displayed feelings of LOVE for their fathers!  Besides that, most of the kids I played with were Philippine, so some of them had strict demanding fathers, but no one had an angry dad on the level that my dad was.  

He went beyond strict and demanding.  If I didn't practice piano enough during the week before my piano lesson, I got the belt, and then I was told to practice for 2 hours.  

I got a bad grade on a first grade clock exercise, and I tried to dispose of the evidence at the bottom of the garbage.   I got pulled out of bed late at night and was confronted with the crumpled dirty test.  My dad brought me to the kitchen table and inquired as to why I hid the test.  

     "Because I didn't want you to get mad," I answered.

     "You must never hide anything from me, because that makes me mad.  If you are honest, I will not             get mad." was his logical reply.

     "Okay, I promise I won't anymore,"  I cried.  (And I would admit things to him when I knew I had done something wrong, before he found out.  But he still got mad and spanked me.) 

     

So, he went over the test with me.  He questioned me on each problem.  When I got an answer wrong, he would tell me to lay down on the family room floor, face down.  He pulled his belt off and spanked me.  Not just once.  Several times, maybe ten times, with such anger and hatred behind each swing of the leather.

Then he would direct me back to the kitchen table.  He would ask me the question again.  

     I would say, "I don't know." 

     "Why don't you know?"  He would ask.

     "Because I don't understand."

And he would spank me again.  And again.  This time, longer and harder.  Then he would ask me the same question again.  And I would either throw out an answer, or I would say I didn't know.  So then he would explain it to me, again.  But how the fuck was I supposed to be absorbing this information?  So, he would spank me so much, that I knew, I had to learn the material, or I would never be allowed to go to bed.  So, I would finally answer correctly, and he would say, "That's it.  It is easy."  So, three hours later, I would be allowed to go back to the safety of my bed.  

I didn't know if my mom or my sisters, who were in their rooms on the other side of the house had heard and been awakened by my screams.  I didn't know their level of consciousness, but I had never felt so alone in the world as I did after I got punished by myself.  I felt anger, self-loathing, fear, despair, mistrust, and paranoia.   Yet, after I got punished with my sisters, I always felt guilty like it was my fault that they got the belt, whether or not it was my fault.

One time, I got in trouble, and my father took me into my parents' bedroom to punish me.  I don't remember what I did "wrong".  Maybe it was the time that my dad asked me if I wanted a bagel and I said no.  My big mistake was deciding an hour later that I wanted a bagel, and making myself one.  He told me to lay down on the floor.  As if I needed to be told what to do.  There were numerous sessions of spanking,  of his unleashing of fury, which lasted probably five or ten minutes at a time.  The whole punishment lasted at least an hour, maybe two.  It felt like a lifetime.  

He used the belt that my mom, my sisters and I got my dad for Christmas.  The belt buckle had his initials.  Did I know that he would be using this as a weapon against me when we bought it?  He used the strap part most of the time, but sometimes he used the buckle.   I remember, towards the end of my "punishment" he told me to pull my pants down.  He spanked my little bare ass with the buckle.  I couldn't have been older than ten.  And he used the buckle on my naked ass.  Oh sure, he lightened up on his swing a little, because, he couldn't have me go to the emergency room.  But, he used the buckle.

In my fifth grade class one day, my teacher, Mrs. Apfel, was talking about discipline.  I'm not sure why.  But she was talking about child abuse.  She said that a quick spanking was not abuse, but discipline.  However, if it was excessive, or hitting or punching, then that was abuse, and we should speak to her, or some other adult.  I knew then, that I couldn't speak of this to others.  Sure, some of our family friends had known, but we had the unspoken agreement not to tell.  I had been given the invitation, but I knew I couldn't accept it.    

Tug of War

When my mom ended up in the hospital due to a stroke, my sisters and I went home to see her.  But we really spent more time with my dad, who I recently have found to have symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder through internet research.  My parents had been building a house, and my dad needed to hurry up and get it done, supposedly so we could stay there.  So, during the day, when the doctors were checking in and my mom was having visitors, we were out running errands with my dad.  Errands like looking at hood systems and towel racks at every Home Depot and Lowe's in the area.  The house should have been done before then, but because of indecision on my dad's part, progress was stunted.

None of the three of us - my sisters and I - never had a great rapport with my dad, so we would go on errands with him together or take turns.  It was maddening though, watching him look at towel rack after towel rack.  I didn't know exactly what he was looking for, but he could never find the right style, color, length or price.  If it were me, I would have found several that I could have lived with - it's just something to hang a wet towel on!

So, by the time we were able to go visit my mom, in the afternoon or evening, right before the evening shift change, she would be tired and non-responsive.  My sister really took it personally.  I can't say if my mom really was tired, and/or didn't want to see us, but she had probably been missing us all day.  And I don't know how congnisant she was, but she probably sensed that he was dragging us around the city all day.  I do know, that in the earlier days, when she was hooked up machines, her blood pressure always went up when my dad would start talking loud, especially about "his side of the story".  I must have heard him tell it at least ten times, the whole month that I was in Florida.  And it was rehearsed, always the same.  It was his way, I think, of kind of voicing his guilt, yet absolving himself of blame for my mom's stroke.  Because honestly, if they had not been rebuilding this house, would she have had this stroke?  Most likely not.

But, I do know, that my mom was tired of taking care of my dad.  Really, catering to his needs and wants can be a full time job.  Nothing is ever right, no one ever carries out a task the way intended, no one can communicate but him, no one can reason but him, everyone is out to rip him off and why does everyone get mad at him?  My dad would get all worked up about one transgression or another, that maybe my sister made, or me, or a bank customer service personnel.  Then my dad would utter horrible ugly insults - idiot, stupid, doesn't know what she's talking about, she's just talking to hear herself talk, you destroyed it, didn't you ask this question, you didn't do what I told you to do, you just ignore what I tell you....and then, when we would finally get fed up and yell at him back, he would say, "Oh, why do you get angry with me?  Why are you yelling?"  Does this sound familiar to anyone?

My mom was very religious all her life.  I mean, her first calling was to be a nun!  Instead, she ended up taking care of a BPD (unbeknownst to anyone that it was BPD) hard of hearing man(who never bothered to learn sign language because that would mean he was deaf) and having three children with him.  My mom always had an ultimatum.  My dad had a cochlear implant operation, and my mom had hoped it would improve his disposition.  She had told me that if he didn't change after the operation, that she would "separate."

She used that word a lot, "separate", the way others use the words; vacation, Hawaii, spa, massage, beer, viacodin.  The golden answer to everything.  As they were in the process of building the house, my mom would talk on the phone about my dad's temper, and memory loss.  She would say, if he doesn't change, once the house is built, I will give him the house, and we will "separate."  And so she did.  My mom passed away the day the house was ready to inhabit.  It seemed fitting, like she knew what she was doing - separating.   Now, my aging dad lives in the house by himself.  My mom's friend had made a promise to her that she would help my dad, which she does.  But it seems to be getting time that he will require more help.  Of course, he doesn't want to pay for help, and he doesn't trust anyone, including my sisters and I.  Everyone has their own agenda, which always includes trying to take his money.

I know that I have to face these issues, and having a better understanding of what makes him behave the way he does will hopefully aid me.  I know that there is a lot of work to do, and I may never be able to have a "normal" relationship with my father, but knowing that he most likely has BPD makes it a little easier to deal with.

Building a house with BPD

My mom, as I wrote in the previous blog, was a physician.  She generally took care of herself physically, she altered her and my dad's diet as they got older to generally more healthy foods, and she never got sick - no cold or flu - rarely ever.  The one time I remember I was young, and she went away to a conference.  She had laryngitis, and when it was my turn to talk to her on the phone, I couldn't hear her.  I remember getting mad and putting the phone down.  I know I was really young, and slim chance I ever apologized for that, but I remember this incident and it is hurtful.

My mom was very caring and worked hard and was deeply religious to a fault.  I always blamed the catholic church for her never divorcing my dad.  Whenever they got into ugly fights I always prayed that they would get a divorce, but it never happened.  My mom stayed, and she stuck by my dad.  My dad is hard of hearing, and I think this plays a major role in his BPD, as paranoia can be a common trait among the hard of hearing.  My mom interpreted for my dad, and she covered up for him, and she smoothed over his outbursts in public.  She never would have suggested he see a psychiatrist - that just wasn't even an option.

When I got older, my visits to them became less frequent.  Besides having to buy the plane ticket and taking time off from work, I didn't relish the thought of being trapped in that old dusty allergy ridden house, with no working air conditioning in central Florida.  And of course, being trapped with my dad, who after a day or two of seeing me, would always start to get annoyed with me or lecture me for hours on end about stocks and other things I didn't care about.  My sister who lives in Florida would visit about once a month, and my other sister called my mom almost daily.  But not me.   My mom took the brunt of all my dad's rages.  And she intervened between my dad and me and my sisters.  Luckily, she had lots of friends and priests she could talk to, and she went to church every day and prayed.

The last year of my mom's life, my parents had finally decided to build a new house.  Their front facade of the house needed repairs, and the city was going to fine them thousands of dollars if they didn't fix it.  So, then, they decided to just rebuild.  Oh, they looked at other properties in the communities with the cookie cutter houses and the manicured lawns and community.  But, my dad, in his detective engineer role, discovered that one of the communities was built on an old phosphate mine site.  So, the story as goes, that my dad asked my mom, "Do you still want to buy one of these houses?"  And she answered with a resounding "No!"

So, they set about to build on their existing property.  They interviewed contractor after contractor.  They hired one, then fired him and hired another.  The property was actual two adjacent lots, so they were only permitted to build on one side of the property, leaving the other side empty.  My dad insisted that my parents buy a lot of the appliances and stuff, so he could get exactly what he wanted at the price he wanted.  Perfection.  He was always seeking perfection in a way that he thought it was attainable.  To the point, that he wouldn't be able to look at the project as a whole, because he couldn't find the right towel bars or hood for the stove.

When they wrecked the old house, my parents had to find somewhere to stay while the house was being built.  They asked one of their friends if they could stay in her old vacant house, but she said it needed too much work.  So, they ended up renting a spare room from one of my mom's church friends.  She was very particular, as anyone who lives alone for any period of time can get.  She had to watch her TV shows and she didn't like my mom's Philippine food, so my mom would cook American style food for all three of them.  Of course, my dad didn't like watching the "stories" and he prefers Philippine food to American food always.  So, this living situation was cause for tension and stress and anger.  And I'm sure, the fact that my mom was changing her cooking to appease someone else must have made my dad jealous or feel neglected.  What about his needs (preferences)?

Sometime during this displacement, my parents discovered the hot dogs at Sam's.  They would be at the building site all day, or running around looking for fixtures, so they probably decided to grab a bite at the snack bar.  Cheap hot dogs.  They could both eat a whole meal for under $5.  And those hot dogs were addicting to them.  So, I think many factors were making my mom's health decline.  I later learned that her physician had advised her to take Coumadin but she refused to because of the risks involved and the side effects.

So, the house was near complete.  It should have been done, but my dad was always stalling the progress by changing his mind and making them reinstall something, or by not deciding on something else, so they couldn't move forward with that phase.  My parents had just moved to another house.  They were staying with my mom's friend, whose deceased husband was my mom's patient.  My mom was cooking dinner, when suddenly, she felt dizzy, she fell back, and the last thing she said was, "Having stroke."  They called 911 and rushed her to the hospital.  I got a call later on, from my sister who lives in Florida.  It was unreal.  It was a shock.  Not my mom.

My other sister, upon hearing the news, said, "I want to kill him."  I didn't say it, but I thought the same thing - my dad did this to my mom.

It's been over a year since my mom's passing away.  She lost a lot of weight the several months leading to her stroke.  She was stressed out.  Undertaking a new building project is a strain at any age, but when one partner has to be involved in every single nail that goes into the house, every brush stroke, it can be taxing, especially at an older age.  This time was supposed to be my parents' golden years, the relaxing retirement.  I can't help but think there could have been a different situation to prevent my mom's premature demise.

My First Blog Entry

So, I have been blogging about food for a few years now.  It's not necessarily informative - more of a food porn/daily humor kind of blog.  But, I now feel like I need an additional outlet for my pain, anger, frustration, helplessness and confusion.  I really only talk to my husband and my sisters about my issues with my father, except for the rare occasions when I seemingly "corner" someone else and blab on and tell them too much about my dad, sometimes making them uncomfortable.

Thus, this blog is meant to be for people with similar experiences.  Hopefully you will find me if you need to.  Of course, this is very indulgent in that it's about me, but I'm hoping others will come forward and comment on this - and maybe I'll find likeminded bloggers who might want to cowrite this blog.

So, here's my background.  I am a first american born Filipina, youngest of three daughters.  My mom was an only child and wanted to be a nun when she was young, but her parents made her go to medical school so she could support them later in life, which she did.

My father was the youngest of seven in a matriarchal protestant family.  He always felt like he had to be the most responsible, even though he was the youngest.  The legend goes, that he lied about his age when he was a teenager, so he could start working earlier.  So, whatever age his legal documents claim him to be are supposedly several years older than his actual age.

My mom used to love to tell the story about how she and my dad got together.  Her friends wanted to set him up with one of their girlfriends.  So, as was tradition back in the day, several of them were present at the first meeting.  When my dad was asked what he thought of the girl who he was being set up with, he replied that she wore too much makeup and that he was more interested in my mom.

My mom also used to love to tell the story about how my dad "was not a handsome man".  He did however, behave like a gentleman, and she could tell that he would be less likely to cheat on her than her previous boyfriend - maybe the love of her life.  This other fellow was handsome and wealthy (or on the path to be wealthy) and also was to be a physician like my mom.

So, on my parents' wedding night, it was a shock to my mom when my dad yelled at her for the first time.  And throughout their lives, it seemed like he barely ever stopped at times.  She felt like she had made a mistake, but there was no divorce in the Philippines, annulments were hard to come by and embarrassing, and her upbringing compelled her to be a dutiful wife.

My mom passed away thirteen months ago at the age of 70, which was a major tragedy for our whole extended family.  She had a hard life, 90% of it caused by her life with my dad.  I am still grieving for her and her wasted time.

A couple months ago, I had the (mis)fortune of being pushed out of my job.  Partially due to cracked management by the owners, and partially due to my unwillingness to bend to their every whim and work myself to death for being what I perceived as being underpaid, I was forced to quit.  That story in itself could be another whole blog!  What positive that came out of it, (and believe me, I am a very negative Nelly) was that I had time to recover from burnout and nurse my grief and explore my family dynamics.

I have spent countless hours on the internet since being unemployed researching.  Researching anything.  A question comes to mind, and I jump on my superfast beloved Macbook Pro.  I'm not sure I've loved an inanimate object so much - but it's seemingly animate with how much it does for me!

So, I had been convinced that my dad was possibly schizophrenic.  The delusions and break with reality, strange disjointed language, kind of seemed to fit my dad.  I don't know how I came across a checklist for Borderline Personality Disorder in my online search, but unlike schizophrenia, it hit every nail on the head.  I found list after list that fit my father's description to a tee.  It was a revelation, a catharsis, a relief, and epiphany, a feeling of not being a crazy as I felt!  The door of enlightenment openned, and there stood in glowing block letters, the words BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER!!!!  


I'm not going to apologize for my feelings, and I'm not trivializing the disorder in any way.  After all, I can only assume that you found this blog because you either know someone with BPD or you have it, or you want to learn more about it.  If you personally have BPD or know someone who has it, then you understand this overwhelming feeling of enlightenment.

So, I've started reading books, Stop Walking On Eggshells: Taking Back Your Life When Someone You Care About Has Borderline Personality Disorder,  and Surviving a Borderline Parent.  And they've been immensely helpful.  To let you in on how helpful, I had trouble with the title of the first book, because I felt like it didn't apply to me because I felt uncomfortable with the part "someone you care about".  That's how strong my negative feelings towards my dad were, before reading this book.  In my sick way of alleviating my pain over my horrible childhood and my strained and estranged relationship with my dad, I had a joke with my husband.  He asked me if I hated my dad.  I would say "I don't hate him" with an inflection on hate.  It just has been difficult all my life to sort through my feelings for my dad as provider and authority and abuser - both physical and emotional.  Whenever I had told my dad that I loved him, he always replied, don't say it unless you mean it.  I don't ever recall him telling me, "I love you."  Now, I just feel sorry for him, for carrying the undiagnosed burden of this personal hell of a personality disorder.  Granted, I haven't seen him in over a year, but I will be seeing him in at the end of July.

I wanted to try to keep this first entry fairly brief, but look, I've gone on and on.  I honestly am not affiliated with the authors, publishers or editors of the two books that I've mentioned above.  I just have found them extremely helpful after years of wondering what was wrong with my dad, my mom and myself.

Thank you for reading.