Orientation

So, the wheels have been in motion for a hearing in regards to guardianship for my father.  It's been a little over a month, so far.

I have mixed emotions about everything.  For one, my sisters and I have been communicating with the attorney and the guardian who are filing to claim guardianship over my father.  I have been waiting for this for a while, but I feel so disconnected.  I have not met either the attorney or the guardian.  This woman will be responsible for my father's care and well being, and it seems weird that I never met her.  Depending on what is determined in court, this woman will be possibly directing all aspects of my father's life.

The guardian has been visiting my dad, making sure he's eating, and explaining to him the guardianship process.  I don't know how much of this he is comprehending.  The guardian has already seized his finances and consolidated them to one financial advisor.  My father does not know this, and if he did, he would not handle it well at all.  He has been paranoid all his life about people trying to take his money, and now his biggest fear has been realized.  He doesn't know it yet, though.

He likes his privacy.  The guardian assigned home healthcare for him starting on Tuesday.  It all went well for a few hours until my father told the caregiver to leave because he didn't ask her to go there.  Then, I guess, she couldn't get in the house the next day either.  I don't know if he wouldn't let her in, or if he didn't hear her.  Anyway, this seems like a bit of information that I would like to know.

I know that my dad is better off dealing with strangers, because it will take them a while to get past the orientation stage.  At first, he will be nice, quiet and polite.  Then it will take a while for him to really show the ugly side.  With my sisters and I though, he really is familiar with us and comfortable.  He can turn on a dime and lash out at us very rapidly.  It difficult not to take it personally when it comes out of nowhere, and with such venom.

My dad has insisted a few times that I go there and help him sort out his bank accounts and help him with his taxes.  So he wants me to go there before taxes are due.  Which is only a few days after the hearing.  I can't go there and explain to him why we can't go to the banks to get statements of his accounts that have been moved.  And if we go to the banks and his accounts are gone, he will most likely cause a scene.  And maybe I should let him.  But if I don't show up, then he will take it as abandonment.  As he always does.  Lack of communication - abandonment.  Going to visit him, but not staying long - abandonment.   Not being able to help him with all his errands - idiocy, ignorance, ineptitude, disloyalty.

The guardian is pushing for us to be at the hearing.  If my father sees us at the hearing, he will think of us as being "in on it."  Which is part of what we have been trying to avoid by having the eldercare guardian file for guardianship, herself.

My life is such turmoil right now.  My father's life is about to be in major turmoil.  He thinks the hearing is a court case to "win".  After he plans on winning it, he wants to go to the Bahamas.  He has never wanted to go to the Bahamas in his life.  I'm not sure where he got that idea.  My guess is that going to the Philippines seems to far away or too difficult to travel to.  But maybe the Bahamas is more attainable.  I guess that is one of the places people go to to disappear.

Things are only going to get worse before they get better.  But how much worse, who knows?

I can't make everyone happy

Here I am.  Friday night 10:37pm, in bed writing a blog.  I've had a nasty cold (or flu) for a week now, and hopefully (fingers crossed) I will be functional by tomorrow.  I took a dose and a half of Nyquil, since I've developed a tolerance to the stuff.  Hopefully, it will kick in when I'm done with this though.

My husband is holed up in his studio (man cave).  He was seemingly angsty today, and after enough alcohol, he decided to take out the guitar amp and play guitar.  Sounds harmless enough.  Sure, it was quarter to ten, so not too too late.  But as soon as he fired it up and started playing, the dogs next door went haywire, and the cats ran and hid.  It was loud.  No way I could watch TV, although there was nothing on anyway.  I went out front to check how loud it was.  Pretty loud.  I went out back to check.  Even louder.

After a while, I had to go in and tell him to turn it down.  Which I dreaded.  As expected, here I come to lay down the law.  I never allow anyone to have fun.  So, I tried to explain that he just needed to turn it down.  I don't know how loud he had it.  It echoed all over the house, so there's no telling.  That amp is really loud, so even 2 is plenty loud for a club  He turned it down to 1 and a half, and it was still loud.  It was still pretty loud and clear on the neighbor's side.  I started shutting all the doors, to maybe lessen the echo effect.  And then I looked for the cats.  The Fuzz was under the bed, but Stinksy was nowhere to be found.  Not in the closet or on the couch.  So, then I had to go back into the studio to look for him in his favorite closet to hide in.  Not there. Of course, we got into an altercation.  I was telling my husband it was still loud, and of course he was saying how it didn't seem loud at all to him.  But at that point, I was worried about Stinksy.  Maybe in my going in and out of the house he had followed me out but not back in.  Then I found him.  In the utility room cowering next to the hot water heater.  Bad place to hide.  I got him out, anyway.

And my husband and I have not talked since.  He went outside to smoke, and I came in the bedroom.  When he came back in the house, straight to the man cave.  Hopefully, this won't be a ritual for us.

I feel like shit right now.  I'm literally sick.  And I'm tired of feeling guilty.  I dragged him here.  He didn't want to move, didn't want to leave his job, didn't want to leave his friends, didn't want to leave his band.  I couldn't live the way we were living though.  I couldn't.  So, now, he hates our life.  He can't stand being cooped up in the house.  I don't like it either, but I can't complain about it, because then he will ask me why I dragged him here.  Plus, I've been cooped up in an apartment so long previously, that this is way better  We just need jobs.  Then we can meet people and be a part of society and have money to go out.

But also, I have something way bigger, or actually smaller, weighing over my head.  My dad.  He has summoned me to Lakeland.  He tried to call me and left a voicemail and I could not understand anything he said, except for "okay"  when he paused to end the voicemail message.  So, a week later, a cousin and our family friend both called me to tell me that he wanted me to come see him.  His reason was that he wants me to know about the properties he owns in the Philippines.  The ulterior motive, I'm not sure of.

Regardless, I have to go.  I have to go check on him.  I have to see what kind of conditions he is living in.  I have to see what his mental state is.  I have to hear what he has to say, whether or not it makes sense, and I have to help him go all over town and run errands and embarrass me.

Obviously, at this point in time, I don't think I can drag my husband there.  He's so miserable, I can't share this burden with him.  It's not his burden to deal with anyway.  He has his own family problems that he needs to deal with, anyway.

I'm terrified.  I can't imagine facing this man again, and having to interact with him as if he's a totally sane person.  He's not.  I don't think he ever was.  He was at some point functioning, but I don't think he really is now.  He just stays in that house and reads his old papers.  He has no TV, no internet, he doesn't even get the paper.  I don't know where he gets any kind of new of the outside world from.

I think his primary objective is to somehow get to the Philippines.  Maybe he is devising a way to make me take him?  I really don't know.  I can't imagine him being capable of traveling there.  I can't imagine him managing his affairs there, if he can't even do it here.

I don't know if I can do it alone.  I may have to though.

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.

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.

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.