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.