Mystery Phone Call

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Old Poem

Here's some old poetry I found in my files


Childhood Breakfast

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

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

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



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

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

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 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.    

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.