Security Blanket

As I'm in bed writing this, I have my newish security blanket draped over the computer so the bright computer screen doesn't disturb my sleeping husband or big puppy.  It's a fluffy blue blanket that started as a couch cover.  When I was under the weather, I brought it into the bed to cover my face at night, so I wasn't breathing in more cold air or contaminants and making myself sick.  Also, my husband sometimes wraps the blanket around his feet and twists it off me.  With the two blankets, I stay more covered through the night.

I haven't written in this blog too often, but when I do, it is in ways, my security blanket.  I can try to articulate my anxieties and feel relieved and protected.

But I know that security blankets are a myth.  When I was a child, I thought that being in bed asleep, buried in the pillows and stuffed animals under the blankets assured that I wouldn't get awakened and abused by my father.

I was wrong.  I can remember a couple times when he dragged me out of bed to yell at me for whatever horrible crime I had committed.

Anger, especially in one who displays the signs of BPD, is unstoppable.  It's a wave of fury.  It's like a tsunami washing over the land - not just once,  but maybe several times, and each time severe, leaving deep lasting scars.

My dad could have defined the term "road rage".  If he were a gun person, he could have been the first to "go postal".  Although, I don't even know if he's ever hit anyone beside my sisters and me.  Maybe he just saved all that hatred, insecurity, feelings of inadequacy, feelings of injustice in the world, paranoid delusions, and he channeled it all into our "upbringing" and punishment.

Today I was stressed.  I had left home to go to work a few minutes later than I had wanted to.  And it took way too long to turn onto the main road.  And then the interstate was closed.  There had been an accident.  I knew it was pretty bad if they blocked off the ramp completely.  So, someone in the middle lane cut me off.  And I was pissed.  Especially after seeing that there obviously had been a bad accident.  And then the car that cut me off slowed down as the light turned yellow.  That car just made it through the light.  I did not.  It turned red before I got to the intersection.  We have red light cameras all over.  So, I couldn't run the light.  Plus, I always anticipate a car waiting to turn left from the other direction at the last second, as I am often the car doing this.

So, I was pissed.  I was raging.  I screamed in my car.  And then I realized that I was screaming in my car.  And for some reason, I thought of my dad.  And how I didn't want to morph into him.  I was still stressed and angry.  But I realized, at least I wasn't involved in that accident that had closed the interstate.  Maybe if I had left when I had wanted to, I would have been involved in that accident.  Maybe I would have been dead.  That is way worse that missing a yellow light, even though sometimes, it might not feel that way.

And then tonight, I just got some long email from my father's guardian about how his caretaker doesn't ignore his abusive ways enough.  I've never been a caretaker for old people.  But maybe that's their job.  To take old people's abuse, just because they are old?  Sounds like a shitty job.  I don't think I could be paid enough to do that job.

As it is, I've paid enough of my life's blood for my dad's abuse.  Sure, I'm older, that was in the past.  The scars are there, and they have their own topography, and they are ugly and beautiful in their own way.  But they are my scars.  They are my security blanket.  Like when I get a burn, cut or bruise, and I keep touching it to feel the pain and the progress of the healing.  Or like how right now, I'm picking at the scab from the zit on my chin.  Stewing on the fact that I still gets zits at the age of 38 will not make them go away.  And picking at the scab definitely won't make it heal faster.  But it's comforting...

On A Bit Of A Different Topic

My father in law.  Who also displays signs of Borderline Personality Disorder.  I might have discussed him previously, but this is fresh on my mind, and I need to vent.

I have chronic insomnia.  If I have anything stressful going on in my life, then I will probably have trouble sleeping at least a couple nights of the week.  I also have always been prone to staying up late, so some nights I sleep 5 hours.  Which isn't enough for me.  Even if I'm jobless.

Last night, my husband was already soundly snoring on the couch at 10 pm.  I was flipping channels, and I stopped at MSNBC.  There were back to back documentaries about sex slaves.  Now, I knew that this was not the kind of programming I should be watching late at night.  But unfortunately, most of the interesting shows that are on late at night are the kind of shows I shouldn't watch before bedtime.

One documentary was just ending.  It was about a caucasian girl in the suburbs, who was being coerced into prostitution.  When she talked with an investigator, the men who were exploiting her kidnapped her dog.  So, she didn't talk about her painful secret for years.

The next one was about a Vietnamese girl named Minh.  Her family moved to the United States when she was young.  Her father raped her and prostituted her, while her mother watched and let it happen.   When Minh started going through puberty, her mother became jealous of her.  When Minh's father raped Minh, instead of having sex with his wife, Minh's mother became jealous, yet she did nothing to stop it.  Instead, she started selling her only daughter for sex, in order to save money and divorce her husband.  Minh was always an overachiever in school, so later, when she told her story, people who had known her as a child were shocked.

The purpose of the series is to inform the public that this can be happening everywhere.  Any brothel, massage parlor, acupuncture clinic, or escort service could be guilty of holding women against their will for prostitution.

What does this have to do with my father in law?  He is a frequent buyer of prostitutes.  Along with his addiction to prescription drugs, he also is addicted to sex.  It came out this summer that he had been spending a fortune on prostitutes for at least 40 years.  That's all of my husband's life.

You know, I know in some areas prostitution is legal.  I know some women enter into this profession willingly for their own reasons.  I know in some cases, it's a perfectly legal business transaction.

I don't know how many times my father-in-law has had sex for money, but it's a lot.  And out of all those prostitutes, the chances of one of them being underage has got to be pretty high.  Also, out of all those prostitutes, the chances of one of them being a sex slave is also pretty high.  If he had known either of these things, would he have still gone ahead with... fulfilling his... needs?  I think yes.

Of course, I do not know.  I can only guess based on what I know of his character.  I've never been fond of the man.  He is a chauvinist and a misogynist.  I have witnessed him treating female servers like ignorant lesser beings several times.  It makes more sense, knowing he thinks of young women and girls as wet holes to be bought and sold for his penile pleasure.

My sister-in-law and mother-in-law were going through his records after the beans were spilled.  He spent $15,000 in one month on three different prostitutes.  All the while, being late on bills, or simply not paying them at all.  Allegedly, his latest "girlfriend" was an acquisition.  The story is that he had to bid on her, like a geisha, for the exclusive relationship with her.  He bought her a 600 series BMW, and he put her in a posh NoHo apartment, along with whatever cash he gave her.  Maybe those were all consensual agreements by legal adults.

However, he works for a company based in South Korea.  Asia.  Part of the world known for prostitution of young children.  I'm sure he's hired a prostitute there.  If he has, the chances of him having engaged in sexual intercourse with an underage South Korean sex slave are almost certain.  I don't even know if there are "of age" prostitutes in South Korea.  Or for that matter, I don't know what the age of consent is.  Here is a disturbing blog about the age of consent in S Korea: http://thegrandnarrative.com/2010/01/11/south-korea-age-of-consent/ .

Regardless of what the legal age is, or if there really is one, the point still stands, there is a natural and moral legal age of consent.  If a girl is not fully developed, whether or not there are laws, it's not right for any man to have sexual relations with her.  If a girl is kidnapped or sold into sexual slavery, it's coercive sex.  And just because a girl does not literally say no does not mean that she is consenting.  Coercion is the same as forcible rape.  I don't really mean to get into technical terms.  My point is, paying to have sex with an underage minor against her will is a terrible crime, and what kind of person would do this?

How can I ever face this father-in-law of mine again?  I don't know if I can, because he's not my father, he's my husband's father.  He is not my father to accuse.

I have not been raped, I have never been sold for sex, I have never been coerced into sexual favors.  But this still hits home because of the emotional abuse factor.  Emotional abuse is the worst kind to me.    I've seen too many people suffer from this invisible form of abuse.  It's a scar that for some people never heals.  I've seen intelligent otherwise clear thinking individuals victimized and rendered helpless by emotional abuse.

I don't want to be a silent witness anymore.  I researched domestic abuse help organizations, and I found this local place: http://www.womenindistress.org/childrens.html  Women In Distress of Broward County.  I signed up for email notices.  Hopefully I can volunteer and do something meaningful with this organization.  Maybe this could be something to help fill the void my mom left.

Afterschool Activities

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.