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.