Hard today

It's a holiday and I'm at loose ends. I can do anything I want to do -- I've given myself permission to do what I want. But I don't want to do anything. I want to go to bed, but can't do that all day. Don't seem to have the patience to read or watch TV, can't muster the energy to go to the movies.

It's a luxury I don't always have -- time to do what I want to do and the means to do it. I wish I could appreciate it more.

What are you doing?

Are you depressed, too? Suffer from borderline personality disorder?

How are you working to make yourself feel better?

What kinds of strategies work? What doesn't work?

I need all the help I can get!

Somehow they know

We were at the elementary school, an open house night where parents were invited to come to the classrooms. My kids were so excited to show me their desks and art work and teachers. Their dad showed up, too, and I was so torn between wanting to be joyful to see him and being heartbroken that he was there.

I opted for somewhere in the middle, a little neutrality, though inside my heart was churning and my head was spinning and I was so sad.

As it was time to go, he hugged the kids -- and I could have had a hug too if I'd asked but I didn't want to ask though god knows I wanted a hug, oh how I wanted a hug. He told them he'd see them soon and didn't say anything to me and my eyes betrayed me and started watering. I turned and started walking away and then my daughter came around me and peered right in my eyes. Seconds later, my son did the same thing. By then I had squeezed the tears from my eyes and turned to them smiling.

But they knew -- they always know -- that my heart is still broken.

Getting moving

I'm still concentrating on simply moving forward in the world. No, not moving forward, simply moving. Not standing still. Not vegetating.

I am loathe to admit it but it seems to be true: If I will simply do something, I feel better. I should be happy to admit it, happy to know it. But the truth is that depression is insidious in that way. It sucks the desire out of me, it sucks the marrow out of life. It leaves me an empty shell that doesn't want to do anything but sit and stare.

There is something in me that makes this impossible. If I simply sit and stare, I gradually grow more and more anxious, like I should be doing something, anything. So I run through the list of things I could be doing, ticking each off like beads on a rosary. But nothing seems to spark me, nothing sounds fabulous, nothing sounds the least bit fun.

So in the past few days, I have forced myself to do something anyway. Something. Go to the coffee shop. Walk the dog. Read my email. Write a post in this blog. It doesn't matter that it's a small accomplishment, having a shower every day is at least better than not having one. Putting my contact lenses in is a sign I want to be alive instead of in the hazy, fuzzy world of myopia. Buying a book and reading a few pages every hour or so is better than not reading it.

So I will keep moving. Forward, laterally, zig zag. Just keep moving.

Slogging along

The theory here is that by doing something -- again, anything -- I can make myself feel better. The chemical explanation is that when I do something and am successful at it (even getting up and showered and dressed), my brain rewards me with a wash of dopamine. Dopamine is the natural "feel good" chemical that our brains long for.

By hanging out in bed, by being afraid and nervous and edgy, I am denying myself the natural good feelings from dopamine. By going for a walk or reading the newspaper (or posting in my blog), my body should recognize that I've accomplished something and be happy about that.

The hard part is that the microscopic bits of dopamine generated by each individual act aren't enough themselves to get me past whatever this is that has me frozen in time. I am anxious and have a sick feeling that I'm failing at something, even when I'm not. I'm trying to ignore it and slog past. I went out yesterday evening and did manage to stay "in the world" for five or six hours without melting down or giving in to the overwhelming feeling that I needed to go home, I needed to go to bed.

It was late when I got home, and my dog was happy to see me. She was also antsy and had been cooped up most of the day so I did something highly unusual and went for a walk with her. Not a long walk -- I couldn't force myself into that -- but for 10 to 15 minutes. She was so delighted her tail wagged right up to her head. I was happy to make her happy.

I hope my brain earned a little dopamine for that.

Just do it

Just do it. That's the solution my therapist has come up with for me. Continue with life, act as if it is OK, and hopefully it will be.

Don't stay in bed. Do something. Do anything.

Tonight I'm going to go out and work on a hobby I like. I am not supposed to leave for over an hour and I've been dreading it -- seriously dreading it -- all day. I don't know how I'll get through an evening of "fun" without being exhausted. I feel like I could go to bed now -- before 5 p.m. -- and sleep through until morning. In fact, I know I could. But instead I'll be out in the world. Sweating every second of it, but being there.

Wish me luck.

No help, no hope?

I can't seem to get out of this feeling that I'm slogging through life. I can't force myself to do anything, even things I theoretically love to do. It feels like I'm underwater most of the time and I don't know what to do.

I don't know where to turn for help -- I'm seeing a psychiatrist about medication, but it seems this is a long, slow process that doesn't have any real relief. I'm struggling most with the depression, not borderline personality disorder, but the anxiety overlay of all of this makes it really hard on a day to day basis. I'm on disability leave from work but don't think I have the wherewithal to go back, to do a good job, to even want to work at all. I have to work, of course, and am suffering financially from being off. I just don't know how to be better. I desperately want to feel better, but every single thing I do is a struggle -- every task is like a mountain I need to climb and the thought of it is just exhausting. Even the thought of getting through a day.

Living edgy

I feel so edgy.

Like I'm late for something, only I'm not. Like I owe someone money, but I don't. Like I forgot to take something out of the oven, or that there's something I should be doing but I don't know what it is and don't have the energy to actually do it anyway.

I feel a big knot in my stomach, and it's just there, present, not causing me pain or anything but just present.

I feel lost and alone and not sure where to go today or what to do with myself. I have plenty I should be doing, could be doing, wish I was doing. But instead I'm just sitting here contemplating my knot and worrying about it.

How can I find relief?

You don't know what it's like

There's a light.
A certain kind of light
That never shone on me.

You don't know what it's like.
Baby you don't know what it's like.
To love somebody. To love somebody
The way I love you.

I cried as I rolled up the sweater

It was one I gave him, a nice sweater in colors he likes and ones I love. I smiled every time I saw it on him.

Today, I rolled it up and squished it inside the Goodwill bag along with clothes too small for the kids, a black-and-pink party dress I probably won't fit into again (and who needs silk polka dots these days?), plus t-shirts I never wore anyway but always seemed to find their way into the wash again and again anyway.

He doesn't need the sweater, and if he did he would have taken it. Taken it on that day last summer when he walked out, thanks-but-no-thanks-for-12-years. Yeah, it was a "mutual" decision, but one I revoked almost immediately but can't seem to take back, even now.

I want him to come home.

I've been hoarding his clothes as they come up. A pair of pants, a favorite t-shirt, a funny one and a sentimental favorite. I keep them in a dresser drawer for when he comes home.

Today, as I fondled the sweater and sniffed it for a nonexistent whiff of him, I realize I can't keep his things holding indefinitely. Sure, I could give them to him on one of those many days when we pass the kids back and forth. But I wanted there to be a reason to come home, and the thought of seeing him in the t-shirt, clad in the sweater, just seem too much.

So I sort through the tangle of our bedroom, I mean my bedroom. I haven't really gotten to the bottom of the layers for months, and as I excavate, he comes up again and again. Today, I got a big bag and started packing his things up to give away. He has replaced what clothes he left, he obviously doesn't want me, I mean these clothes.

Every time I come across one of his shirts, a pair of his pants, I ritualistically bring it to my nose, then put it in the bag.

One of the things in the corner of the bedroom, sitting there since Christmas, is a box full of our ornaments. The lid came off and things are spilling out. I pick up his Christmas stocking, the one that matches mine and the kids, the one that didn't hang on the hearth this year.

I bring it to my face, then put it back in the box. I draw the line right here.

My Head Exploded

So I've been up and down -- roller coaster city -- for the past month. Not sure if I'm much better. I have been suffering major depression for so damn long -- I wish there was something that could instantly fix it.

Here are the highlights of the past few weeks.


Saw my psychiatrist on 3/2. I had run out of some of my meds and had tapered off taking them. (For the interested, they were Topomax, Lamictal, Trazadone and Adderall --yeah, I was taking them all for this bone crushing chronic depression I have suffered for SO LONG. I figured it out and I've been on an SSRI since Granger was 2 -- so nearly 15 years ...) I was still taking Cymbalta (too) but had tapered it down because I was running out. I was still also taking Wellbutrin every day.

I stopped taking them because I ran out and didn't make/take time to go get an appointment. But nothing had really been working to stop my depression anyway so I was not feeling much different when I was down to 1/2 dose of Cymbalta + regular dose of Wellbutrin.

He said this was a golden opportunity to try a relatively new drug, Emsam. It is an MAO inhibitor (a type of anti depressant used for a very long time). It isn't used much because dietary restrictions go with it -- nothing aged (cheese, wine, salami, etc.) and many overthecounter drugs interact with it badly. But Emsam had a new transdermal delivery system and so it doesn't come with the dietary restrictions (but is still sensitive with OTC drugs).

I went on Emsam and off everything else cold turkey. WHAT A MISTAKE. By 3/8 I was a gigantic puddle of slobber on the floor. Couldn't stop crying couldn't stop SCREAMING at my kids, couldn't concentrate at work ... cried cried cried. The best therapist in the world (he IS) told me to go back to the psychiatrist so I saw him again that night and he said it was just the withdrawal effects and give it another week. The next day it was so much worse that I went to the psychiatrist again and insisted on getting off the Emsam and back on the other stuff. He convinced me not to, and added Xanax (sweet xanax) to help me sleep/reduce anxiety.

I worked that Friday, then slept until 9 a.m. Monday (sweet xanax). (That's an exaggeration but not much -- I slept as much as possible because I couldn't bear to be awake). However, Saturday night I had a GIGANTIC fight with my kids' dad and got into a conversation with my therapist by phone from 10 p.m. to 2 a.m. (Told you he was the best therapist in the world.) He convinced me to go home finally and sleep. I did. Sunday I slept and on Monday I called in sick to work.

By Sunday late afternoon I knew the jig was up and I went to the ER. They admitted me with blood pressure 194/125 (OH MY GOD!) and blood sugar near 800 (Double OH MY GOD but I hadn't taken any insulin since Friday because I was sleeping, not eating ...).

I was there hoping to get relief from the withdrawal, but they treated the BP and diabetes aggressively as if the was my main complaint. I was in the ER from 9 p.m. to 6 a.m. and then around 10 a.m. this resident (I swear she was14 years old) came in to see how I was. I was no better -- hadn't even had a xanax by then for so long! She said they were going to put me back on the Emsam and keep the xanax going. Something in me snapped and I was pissed -- I said "I didn't need to come HERE to do that, why don't you re-examine the whole case and see what is really best in the big picture vs. the immediate situation." I didn't say it that nicely.

She said she'd take it back to 'the team' and talk about it. She then asked if I wanted to hurt myself (I didn't). Then she asked if I wanted to hurt anyone else. And I said "Only you. I want you to go put your highly educated brain to work and figure out how to help me. And give me something to sleep."

She said they were going to "hold off" on any medication, and then I stupidly said "Well that's stupid and it makes me want to hurt someone -- you. If you don't get out of here now I'll kick your ass." And then I decided I'd leave because at least my own psychiatrist would give me sleeping pills!!!!!!

She was back in 10 minutes with a form that put me on involuntary admission for 72 hours and I was PROMPTLY escorted to the locked ward. There are crazy people in there. OH MY GOD. The 72 hours passed v.e.r.y. s.l.o.w.l.y . and with no decision by 'the team' on what to do. First they decided on more MAO, but then changed t heir mind because they didn't think I'd comply with the dietary restrictions because of my track record with diabetes and failure to monitor the diet (true enough, but really -- I don't like gefeltefish and tofu and fava beans and rotted meat -- that was ACTUALLY on the restricted list -- so didn't think that would have been a big deal)

By the time my hold wore off I was better in general and was taking Abilify, an antianxiety drug (comfortingly called an "antipsychotic" though they assure me I am not psychotic ... who knows). It has made me somewhat manic and at the time in the hospital I couldn't sleep.

Did I mention the toothache? A back molar had an abscess, so they put me on antibiotics and said I couldn't go to the dentist because, well, I was locked up. I made a huge stink on Thursday about it and a dentist came to examine me that night said "I need to see her in my office tomorrow to drain that abscess." Friday? No appointment. A merry mixup I guess, no one coordinated a visit, guards to escort me, etc. I literally asked about it ever 15 minutes and kept track of what they said (Mostly "we're checking on it.")

That meant no appt Friday, and of course not Saturday and Sunday. When the 72 hour hold was up I was still SO PISSED about it all and then my tooth was KILLING ME. So guess what? A new hold! 14 days this time.

I asked for a hearing (my right) and contacted an attorney. The hearing was at 3 p.m. on Monday but at 11 a.m. they said t hey thought it was safe for me to go home. No new anti-depressants, I should see my psychiatrist. OH MY GOD. What I spent in the hospital for a week could have taken me to Hawaii for a week or two ... that may have been better in the long run. Who knows.

Oh, unless I want to do electroshock therapy. They offered to keep me and do that ... sheesh. No thanks, thanks very much but no thanks. I was in the hospital a total of 7 days.

Out on Monday, to the dentist immediately, he extracted the tooth (now I need a $2500 implant ...) and I instantly felt much better. Had to go buy a refrigerator since mine had been out for two weeks by then, so Granger and I went to the Great Mall and did that and I got home around 9 p.m. EXHAUSTED but had only xanax to sleep. Bad night.

Tuesday I was up at FIVE A.M. and cleaning out my kitchen s helves (the last thing I need to do -- the pile on the table is six feet high and I decide to clean INSIDE the cupboards?). Got it started, then took the kids to school, then to the coffee shop to check email. I cannot sit still, so decide to blow off the Abilify. My blood sugar and blood pressure are under control now that I am checking both and taking Lisinopril (however you spell it) for my BP. I hate being old.

Saw my psychiatrist Tuesday and he was happy to prescribe Ambien (sweet Ambien). He is a drug pusher. Really. Anyway, at least I can sleep. Still so jumpy when I saw my therapist on Wednesday he insisted I go BACK and ask for something to counter the effects of the Abilify or go off the Abilify. SO back to the psych and yeah, sure, there's a good drug (Cogentin?) that counters Abilify's manic side effects. So nice of him to offer it 24 hours earlier, eh?)

It's been no better from the jumpiness/can't sit still perspective since then, not sure what to do .... I have been up and down 15 times since starting this email. Today we had T-ball opening ceremonies, was there from 10 a.m. to 1:30, then my kiddo's sixth bday party from 2-4. What a day. Slept a little when I got home but just can't seem to get the napping science back down -- I used to be a champion napper. Can't say I feel BETTER or less depressed but at least I am functioning somewhat.

Did I mention I'm coach of the T-ball team? At a parent meeting Tuesday they said we can't have a team unless we have a coach. No one raised their hand so I stupidly did. I bought a book "How to Coach T-Ball," so we'll see how that goes. The first practice was good, I was up most of last night making the team flag for today's opening day and we had opening day activities in the hot hot sun today.

I've decided to take a month's leave of absence at work. I will get 66% of my salary, not bad and I think it will be OK. I need to get my chemicals in balance. I am so not optimistic about this, but have two new mantras: One moment at a time -- I can always count to five to get through something, even if I count my breath to five five million times.

And "One thing at a time." I can't drive and talk on the cell phone and drink a diet coke and supervise kids. I can't do this email plus a bath for Walter plus making zucchini bread and trying to do 1,000,000 loads of laundry. One thing at a time. Right?

*See the sculpture's page. Isn't it great?

Sweet Xanax

On my second emergency trip to the psychiatrist this week he finally gave me something that he SAYS will make my life feel less like I'm riding spread eagle on a moving train that is fast approaching a tunnel. I had a whole Xanax before bed and I think it helped me sleep. Took a half of one when I got to work this morning and have felt like a zombie all day.

The doctor offered to put me on disability leave. A sweep of relief washed over me when he said that until I realized that I would undoubtedly lose my job if I do that. Not that they will fire me, but that they will marginalize me (even more than now) and I will come back to find something so different and frightening I don't know if I can face it.

My ego won't let me be on mental disability leave though my head says "OH YEAH BABY THAT IS WHAT I WANT TO DO."

So instead I screamed for 90 minutes, straight, on the phone with someone I thought I loved. For 90 minutes. And he kept hanging up and I kept calling back and screaming some more. I truly don't know why he didn't just turn off his phone. (Not that I'm trying to make it his responsibility to get me to stop screaming, but because I'm actually incredibly curious as to why he'd listen that long ...)

Yeah, it's that bad

It must be trying to come off one antidepressant while going on the other. As the levels of the old ones drop, I find myself crying. Screaming. Wanting to climb the walls.

As the levels of the new one rise, I feel hope creeping up my throat, too, but only for an instant. Hope is a waste of an emotion. It won't make things good happen and it won't prevent the bad. It only causes pain, the pain of failure, the pain of having something good followed by something so bad.

Hopeless and depressed. Atypically depressed, I guess. That's how it is. Depressed.

Hello, EmSam

I've been depressed as long as I can remember. It's not just like "Oh this is so depressing" kind of depressed. It's the insidious kind, the kind that steals moments of my life and never gives them back. It's the kind that makes me want to close my eyes and sleep, all the time. The kind that makes it hard to give a damn about anything.

They call it "major depression," and in my case it's chronic -- which means it is there, always. My particular type is treatment resistant, which means that even if I'm lucky enough to find a drug or combination of drugs that help me for a time, they eventually poop out.

I visualize it as a cloudy figure, surrounding me with silvery fog. It's deceptively soothing, but really is much more like numbing. I care about things and people, but not about life. I'd rather just have a nap, thanks.

I don't realize how depressed I am until I get a flash of it lifting, when I see a color I haven't seen in a while or have an inspiration to actually pursue a hobby again. I take it as a good sign when I wander around inside a craft store, for example, and imagine all the things I'd like to make. If only. If only I had the energy, or the desire for more than a flash or two.

I have tried all the SSRIs, one by one, for the past 15 years. It started with Prozac, which was described after an especially acute episode of public rage. I was scared into taking a drug I knew would alter my brain chemistry in the bizarre and somewhat frightening ways that anti depressants do.

I've been on a rollercoaster ride of various drugs since then -- when a new SSRI comes out I was switched from Prozac to Paxil to Effexor to Zoloft to Cymbalta. Probably a few others in there, too. I tried Wellbutrin and had one notably frightening experience with lithium.

Nothing lifts my moods. I am somewhat resigned to living a life that is not worth living (considering the alternative is too costly). I have researched vagal nerve stimulation and transcranial magnets. I read Kitty Dukakis' book about electric shock therapy and have seriously considered it. Am seriously considering it. Would do it if given the chance without the red tape involved.

Instead, today, I'm on Emasam. It's a new antidepressant, named for the daughter Emily and son Sam of a marketing person somewhere. Well, hello there.

Some people out there say it works wonders. Others aren't so sure.

Right now I'm in the second category. I'm experiencing withdrawal from the Cymbalta and Wellbutrin (yeah, was taking both) and am off sleeping pills and anti-anxiety drugs as well. From being on all of it a few weeks ago to being on only this.

This morning I thought it was going to be the end of me. I was so light headed, so frightened, so frazzled. It's minuscule improvement in the past few hours, but probably because I succumbed to taking a Cymbalta I found rolling around in the bottom of my purse. I felt like someone had given me a gift or a sign so I popped it and I think that's relieving some of the pain of the withdrawal. Or I'm imagining it. Or something.

Anyone else taking Emsam? How does it work for you?

Don't call me a borderline

I have borderline personality disorder. I am a person who has a personality disorder.

However, I am not a personality disorder. I am a person.

I've always balked at the use of the term "she's a borderline." It feels wrong grammatically, but it also feels very invalidating. When therapists write they write about their "borderline clients." Would they also say "my depression clients"? Probably not -- they'd say "my depressed clients," which is a description.


A better term I read recently described people like me as PBB. I had to scope around and see if he meant "peanut butter babies," or "pure bullshit barometers" or "pushes buttons battalion," but what he was abbreviating is People with Borderline Behaviors, or as I like to think of it People with BPD behaviors, because we're actually people with behaviors that fit the definition of the diagnosis, but we are not the diagnosis.

I know a person who believes that everything -- life -- is "just a conversation." He says that our feelings are conversations with ourselves. It's all about the language we use to describe things, internally and externally. In my conversations about BPD, I think I will try to use the term PBB. It is the only descriptor that remembers that I'm a person.

It's about to happen

I have a chance this Saturday to either see or create my future. I'm not sure I'm willing to see it if it is not the direction I want to go, and I'm also not sure I have the ability to direct my life myself.

Last summer, on a hot day in July, I got angry at him for what still feels like a real, valid reason to me. Valid or not, though, I was furious and told him in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of my life and "my" house. (We had moved into it together, the third house we'd rented together, about five years earlier. It was not "my" house, but that's how I referred to it when I was mad.)

I was serious. I wanted him out of my house and out of my life. My therapist and I had discussed this situation in incredible detail for four years. FOUR YEARS and the conclusion we had both drawn was that I needed to extricate myself from the situation.

I had tried to leave before. I had been staying home with our three kids, so didn't have a lot (any!) financial stability or way to move out. I went back to work soon thereafter and am completely financially independent now -- I make as much as he does. I got that financial independence and had my switch flipped when he made me so angry that hot, sticky July day. So I told him to leave.

Which he did. He went out of town on a three week business trip, and when he came home he packed up and moved into his own apartment.

The day he came home from the trip, I begged him not to move out. I had taken the previous 30 days to work through a lot of it, and I realized almost instantly what a remarkable mistake it had been to ask him to leave. I was also terrified, lonely and not at all convinced I wanted to live without him.

He would not budge. He said I had thrown him out a number of times before (true) and that he wasn't going to be a ping pong ball for me. He came clean about his feelings about me -- he was afraid of me and my anger, he hadn't really liked me for a very long time, he was only staying for the children, he had warned me not to say "get out" one more time or he would go (also true).

Look. I know how miserable it must be to live with me. I know my borderline personality disorder makes me into a total ball of fury in a matter of seconds, and that when I'm furious I take no prisoners. I know.

I can't really imagine he'd want to come home, but god I want him to come home. For me, for the kids, for him (ha!). I think there is a chance we could make a good life together. At least a chance.

A couple of months ago I stumbled across the website of a dialectical behavioral therapist who also does couples counseling. In my area!

I sent the URL to him and asked him if he'd be willing to go. He responded with "It depends. You paying? And what do you want out of it?"

I had no answer for that. The answer? I WANT YOU TO COME HOME. That's the honest answer, that's the motivation, that's why I'm very willing to pay the $250 session fee.

But I didn't answer immediately. I waited and spoke with my therapist who told me I had some choices:

-- Tell him the Real Deal and let the chips fall where they may. Maybe that would make him decide he doesn't want to go.
-- Be dishonest and say it is for some other semi-true reason -- like I want to improve our relationship for the times we have to be together, like around the kids.
-- Put my desire to get back together on the shelf -- lock it firmly away -- and go to improve the relationship in general. He caveatted this option with his opinion that he doesn't think I can do this.

It was nearly a month before I answered, and I chose option #1 -- I told him the real reason. I asked him if it's a possibility. He said he doesn't think so. He doesn't think so but he'll go anyway.

I grilled the poor man about it -- I wanted one straw of hope. One tiny little strand of hope, one sentence from him that he'd even CONSIDER coming home. Dear god let him come home. I need him home.

So the appointment is Saturday morning: 90 minutes about this. I have prepared myself the best I can. My goal will be to remain in a listening mode as much as possible, to express remorse for my hurtful behaviors and to over-repair the damage if possible. I am sure this is going to be so emotional for me that I will need a full box of Kleenex, but I don't want my tears to be the centerpiece of the discussion.

I want to know what he thinks. He as in my husband, and he as in the therapist.

I am ON FIRE. I can't sit still, I can't stop thinking about it, I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying now -- 45 hours or so before the appointment -- but I believe I can not cry during it. Yeah, right.

I don't want to manipulate. I don't want to guilt him into coming home. I want him to choose to come home. But I can't make him love me. As the song says, "I can't make your heart do what it won't."

I just so much want his heart to want to come home.

I need help. Tips, ideas, thoughts, prayers, hugs. How will I get through this? How will I convince him to come home? We were together nearly 13 years until I told him to get out. Until I threw away a chance at being together with our grandchildren, finally buying that house we can afford now. Please forgive me for throwing that away, I acted in anger and fear and I am so, so sorry. And I love you.

The bully writes back

A little history:

I was bullied by a group of people -- mostly girls -- on the school bus I rode from seventh to 12th grade. I very carefully never let them see me cry. But inside, that hazing and isolation burned a hole in my soul. I've never been willing to attribute much to it, but my therapist is now suggesting I suffer PTSD. Since I'm so desperately unhappy, and since nothing else is working, I agreed to start a course of PTSD treatment, which primarily involves desensitizing my very sensitive emotions to the effects of what happened to me.

So instead of blowing up when I feel rejected, I can conceivably say "oh, yeah, I feel like blowing up because this triggered some of the same feelings I had as a kid." Or that they simply won't trigger. Wouldn't that be lovely?

Anyway, one of the components of PTSD treatment is to re-live the situation.

About a month ago, coincidentally (it is eerie, really), one of the people who bullied me wrote me an email out of the blue, APOLOGIZING for what she did. I couldn't believe it.

After much thought and deliberation, I wrote her an email and asked her to tell me as much as she can remember about the situation, so I could use the information in my therapy sessions.

Here's what she wrote back:

Hmmm. I only remember one specific incident in particular. I don't even know particularly why I remember it. Probably because it was something I did all by myself just to be a bitch. You were sitting in the front seat. I sat behind you and I kept hitting the back of your seat the whole distance to school, just to be annoying.

I remember a lot of name calling on that bus. But it was directed at a lot of different people, not just you. The funny thing is that I dreaded that bus everyday for the same reasons you did. I think a lot of people did.

I can't speak for anyone else of course, but I always felt bad that I did to you what someone else did to me. Instead of standing up to MY bullies, I just became someone else's bully. I look back on it now and realize how chicken shit that was.

I think she's full of crap and told her so. This was my response to her:

You know, that isn't enough. You sought me out nearly 30 years later to offer a sincere apology. I doubt you wanted to apologize for one incident of kicking the back of my seat all the way to town.

You characterized me as a tough little girl to survive the hell you put me through. What do you mean by that? What made you say that? And why now -- so long afterward? My only conclusion is that it was pretty significant to you, too.

You said you hoped my life was great because I deserve that. Funny, but that's not how it is. My life is far from great.

If that's all you've got, so be it. But I sincerely doubt that or you would not have written to me in the first place.

I know just how you feel, Britney

Do you think Britney Spears has borderline personality disorder?

While, on one level, I am extremely annoyed at the woman's actions and the way she seems to be self destructing, another part of me says "Wow, that poor woman seems to be self destructing, I wish I knew how to help."

I don't follow the whole saga, but the act of going into a hair salon and grabbing the clippers to shave her head indicates to me a woman out of control, and someone very angry, full of self-hatred, someone who loathes the way things are and wants to shock herself out of it.

Do you remember her on David Letterman last fall? All sweetness and light. Such a polite, funny, fun person, so happy and clear-eyed. Contrast that with the tabloid images of her today.

I am usually really hesitant to talk about BPD and celebrity, movies, whatever. It seems that the portrayal of the disorder in popular media is one of deep ignorance. What I know about Britney is that the look in her eyes on that video, the way she looks at herself in the mirror, struck something in me. I saw something that clicked and I said "Oh my god, she's BPD." I think the difference in the way I mean it versus the way the popular media portrays such things (i.e. the way they called the astronaut who flipped out "borderline") is that they mean it pejoratively while I mean it as a recognition of something wrong that CAN BE FIXED.

Dear Bully, Take 4, the one I just sent

I am not sure how to respond to your note. It came out of the blue and raised some things I haven't wanted to think about for a very long time.

It also, coincidentally, came at a time when I am examining those things to see how they have affected my life. It's strange but true that a therapist and I have been working through my teenage years and that school bus for about six months now. We've actually talked about it off and on for the past four years but I have just been able to get around to wanting to work hard on it. He believes I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of years of being bullied. He believes it accounts for a lot of unhappiness in my life, including issues that are still very relevant today.

One of the things I need to get past this is to desensitize to it. I have not been able to go on field trips with any of my kids because I can't step on a school bus. I'm 45 years old and I'm afraid of yellow buses.

The sight of them has brought me to tears hundreds of times in my life, but it hasn't been until the past five years that I have been able to accept that the traumatic experiences of being bullied and -- worse -- being purposely pushed out of a group are at least in part to blame for the trouble I have relating to people.

I have not had a close friend my entire life, I guess I never felt worthy of it. I have a hard time being in groups of people for fear they will hate me, so I avoid going very many places. I have a terrible temper and though I do my best to stuff all the anger I feel deep inside, it comes out at many inopportune times and has terrorized my family, made me lose jobs and has in general just given me the reputation of being someone to fear. I have been a bully for much of my adult life, punishing anyone who disagrees with me or threatens me. I am not someone to fuck with. Which is probably the worst effect it has had on me -- making me a bully is truly the worst thing I can imagine happening, and yet in many circumstances I can see how I use that as a defense mechanism.

I am not telling you this to ask for sympathy or more apology. I really don't even want that. And I can't offer forgiveness, either. I just don't have that in me. You obviously know how you treated me was so far out of line that it has stayed with you your whole life, too.

What you can do to help, if you're at all inclined, is to help me put this to rest by simply getting past it. I have not been able to come up with many solid examples of things that happened to me. I remember a lot of gum in my hair and being thwacked on the head and being taunted in many ways. I think I remember the loneliness the most, just sitting there and trying to figure out what the hell I had done to deserve this. Then, at some point, I stopped asking why or what I had done and simply accepted the fact that I deserved the treatment, that I really was a piece of shit that no one could ever like and that it was so obvious that I never had to question why any more. That is how I see myself -- deserving to be disliked, something disgusting, something useless and smelly.

So why don't you tell me what you remember of it. Give me some specific examples, as many as you can. I need them for my PTSD therapy -- we'll use them to evoke the emotions I felt then as a way of desensitizing myself to them. I can get very very sad about it all, but I have put details out of my mind, I guess. I do know that on the few occasions I have to return to Beryl, I am afraid to drive by Lynn Hartling's house or where Suzy Pedersen used to live.

It's not really relevant to me why it happened. I don't really care. I just want to put it behind me and hope the next 25 years are nothing like the past.

Dear Bully, Take 3

Dear Bully:

I was so pleased to get your note. It is obvious to me that you have some regrets about the way you treated me when we were kids. I hope you are not in too much pain over this and that it hasn't had a negative impact on your life. That school bus ride was one of the highlights of every day of my life from seventh to 12th grade. I think you know just how much fun it could be!

To put your mind at ease, I hardly even remember the things you did to
me. You were standoffish and never wanted to be my friend.
Ironically, we could probably have been friends since we lived near
each other.

I am so sorry you have been suffering about this. Don't you worry
about me. I am gloriously happy and wildly successful in everything I
do. If there were effects of my being bullied, they were good ones! In
fact, I am glad it happened.

Dear Bully, Take 2

Dear Bully:

You write to me more than 25 years after you tortured me for years and apologize?

You want my life to be successful -- why? To assuage your guilt? So you can think it didn't matter.

Well stick it up your fat ass. I don't remember much about you -- just have a vision of a twisted ugly face, lots of ratty dark hair and a big fat girl. How you must have hated yourself to feel the need to bully me. I never did a thing to any of you -- I never did anything except try to get along, get through it, and yet you made sport of tormenting me.

You don't deserve to know how my life has gone. You don't deserve to know whether you fucked me up or not. Go to hell.

Dear Bully ...

I was stunned to get your email on classmates.com. The one where you apologized for the years of bullying you handed out when we were in junior high and high school.

It's been decades since I've even thought of your name, and here you pop up in my mailbox, unannounced and unwelcome.

You want to know if I'm well, if I'm happy. You say I deserve to be after all the shit you handed out. You want me know know you think I was one tough kid.

Let me fill you in:

Scarcely a day has gone by when I haven't suffered the effects of poor self esteem. It turned my high school experience into a tightwire act, where I willed myself to present a solid front so no one would know what I failure I really was. I didn't question the fact that I had no friends -- you told me every day that I was not worthy of friends, that I stunk and that I looked and acted bizarre.

It made college tough. Tormented for years on the school bus, I guess I had come to believe no one would like me, so it didn't surprise me to feel left out at college, either. I remember one of the most pleasant feelings was of being hidden, alone, in the carrels at the back of the university library. I remember thinking, "No one in the world knows or cares where I am." It was an awesome realization -- no one would miss me if I didn't come home, but no one could find me to harass me, either.

I bristle like a porcupine every time I'm forced into a human interaction. Oh, I'm facile enough with strangers, I like to chitchat in the grocery store line, people think I'm outgoing and extroverted. What they don't know is that I'm fine when I'm on my own ground -- when I start the conversation or am sought out. It's when I'm alone in a crowd that I feel naked, without skin. I imagine everyone is laughing at what I am wearing, at how I look. I worry that I stink though I know my personal hygiene is better than most. I am conscious of where my hands are at all times -- I don't want people to think I pick my nose or touch my private parts, all things you whispered and yelled at me while we were on the bus. If I had my coat over me to protect me from the brutal cold, you insisted I was playing with myself under there. If I hid it over my head to cry, you said I must be digging for boogers.

I'm 45 years old right now and it still makes me cry.

My career has been both brilliant and disappointing. I am never confident of my work, or I'm overconfident and become a bully myself. I force people to see things my way, and when they don't I get devastated and disappointed. I've often been told that I can dish it out but I can't take it, and it's true. I like to tease other people -- tease, not taunt or torment -- and yet I can't bear it when I'm the brunt of the teasing.

I am successful by material measures, but feel no joy in what I do. For I know I'm a fake. I know you know the real me, the one who lives in near poverty out on a farm, the one who doesn't have new clothes, whose hair won't lie flat, whose shoes are old and who is constantly disorganized as she rushes for the bus, half hoping every day that she'll miss it. Knowing the consequence for missing the bus would be missing a day of school, the one place she felt competent. I had to force myself to take a deep breath and climb those bus steps, but I couldn't force myself not to do it, either.

I think you could say my relationship history is one that's a failure as well. I've been married, twice, and neither man really loved me. Or maybe they did and I didn't know it, because I have a very hard time accepting love. Every word of criticism or sideways look was like a cruel lash to me. They tried to be careful, but no one can be careful enough around a person who doesn't have skin. I walk around every day feeling like I have no skin. Even a drop of rain can sear me, because I have no protection.

So regardless of how sincere your apology is, or the reason you wrote it, I can't forgive you. I want to beat the living daylights out of you. I want to throw all those thousands of punches I held every time you put gum in my hair or flicked me hard on the head with a knuckle or taunted me or told someone who mistakenly sat near me that they'd get cooties if they didn't move.

I realize now that it wasn't that they didn't like me nearly as much as that they were thankful to me for being the brunt of your teasing. They were guilty on some level for not standing up for me, for not standing up to you, but they were also quite relieved that it was me -- not them -- that was your target.

As I got older, I came to see this as my role. I was the target for abuse, and this helped protect others from the same thing. I wouldn't tolerate you beating on anyone else -- I remember pulling you off someone. I couldn't protect myself, but I could protect the others. Bring it on, bitch, bring it on. I can take it.

And you will Never. See. Me. Cry. You will never see the rivers of tears and the canyons full of sobs you caused in my life. Your teasing, your constant and brutal bullying caused something to change in my brain. Being told enough times that I sucked made it true. I believed it, I knew it, but I had to hide that I knew from you. I became arrogant, pretended I was better than you, but ... we both knew the truth. I was a fake.

And I'm still a fake in much of my life. I wonder sometimes who I really am. Who was I before I started riding that bus? Who was I before I endured an hour or more every day of name calling and abuse? Who was I before I got sick at the idea that you MIGHT torment me, so sick that my stomach was in knots whether you did or not. Sometimes when you did hurt me it was a relief, because I didn't have to wait for you to do it.

You get nothing from me. No answer, no forgiveness, no understanding. You were old enough to know better. You were old enough to know better.

An ill wind

An ill wind blew into my email box. It was in the form of an apology from someone I haven't thought about for 30 years.

Subject: Yes, this is from your former bully

This is the apology I have owed you for many, many years. And it is sincere. I have thought of you more than any single person I went to school with. Mostly, because of my horrible behaviour towards you. I hope you are absolutely sucessful and happy. You were one very tough little girl who put up with a whole lot of bullshit from me and others on that godforsaken bus from hell. I hope you are doing well and are happy. You deserve a life of happiness for just surviving my attitude and abuse alone.
Good luck to you and your family.

She can kiss my ass.

It came 27 days ago, and not one day has gone by since then that I haven't wept about this. It validates my worst nightmare, it embarrasses me. And it frightens me. I am afraid of this.

It started in seventh grade. We lived 30 miles from town, and that meant a 45 minute bus ride every day, each way. From frigid early mornings to blizzards, we rode that bus. For me, each minute was torture. I was never comfortable. I could sleep or do homework, but I could never relax. I was hyper vigilant. I was ready to be tormented, and I vowed that no one would Ever. See. Me. Cry.

I have a hard time remembering what I went through. I know it was traumatic because I start shaking when I think about it. Tears well up in my eyes, all those tears I never shed as I sat on that bus, day after day, alone and lonely, listening to them make up taunts to toss my way.

No one ever sat by me. No one talked to me. No one dared like me. By some combination of factors, I became the pariah on that bus, and the target of all the bullying. Like the magnet or the scapegoat, I was the one who took it. I ignored it, I blocked it out, I pretended I didn't hear.

I heard every word.

Smarter than average, a better student than any of them, I thought myself above them and below them at the same time. Better than them? Certainly. I had much more going for me in every way -- opportunity, initiative, brains, intuition, drive. Abilities. Dreams. If asked, I would have told you I felt sorry for the rest of them, primarily the offspring of dirt poor desert dwellers who lived way out in nowhere for various reasons, all of which boiled down to: Couldn't make it in real society. Couldn't survive in town. Needed to be isolated on farms with the closest neighbors five miles away. Liked it that way. Survivalists and white trash. No one lived there by choice, it was usually a result of fate or a mistake or a disaster.

My family was there because of fate. A disaster. A gigantic mistake, in my young girl's opinion. I hated it there from the day we arrived and fled in the days after high school ended. I like to visit now, but only when I'm driving my own reliable car or if I have an airplane ticket out of there. I don't think I could survive there; I know I wouldn't make my children live there.

I haven't answered my former bully. I'm not sure what she wants. Forgiveness? Absolution? I imagine she's in a 12-step program or has found religion. I don't know why she searched Classmates.com to track me down. I am not sure I care.

I'm consumed with curiosity. I want to ask her to detail the bullying for me. I want her to describe what it is she's talking about. To be honest, I can't remember what she looked like except that I have this vision of lots of dark hair and a big, bulky girl. A sneer.

I think of two others as my primary bullies, and have a visceral reaction when I go near where they grew up. I drive miles out of my way to avoid their parents' homes, even though one girls' parents are dead and the others have long moved away.

But this one. This one, a little younger than the others. They were a few years ahead of me in school and so graduated and left me alone for a few blessed years. This one is a year older than me, which means she was with me until my senior year of high school.

And yet I can't see her face, I can't remember a single thing she did to me. I can't remember why she thinks she owes me a "sincere" apology.

Have I blocked her from my memory? There are other holes in my memories that make me nervous -- like the fact that I can't name my second grade teacher and can't get a minds-eye view of the classroom I was in. I have every other year of grade school firmly in my mind, including kindergarten, first grade and third. But second is missing somewhere.

I haven't examined any of this too deeply, and it's time. My therapist thinks I suffer post-traumatic stress disorder as a result of the bullying I endured on that school bus. I minimize the events when I talk about them to him -- which is rarely -- and yet he still thinks it is of major significance. I have asked him to help me work through it, and we started last week.

One of my assignments is to figure out what I'd like to say to this bully. Do I blast her with my intellect and crush her insignificance? Do I lay out for her the struggles I've had with self-esteem, with trust, with a deep and overwhelming sense that I simply don't belong -- anywhere. Do I tell her to kiss my ass? Give her what she wants? Tell her I hope none of her children ever has to endure anything like I endured at her hands?

There's a spectrum of responses. Do I ask her what made her torment me? What was wrong with her life that made her such a bully? Do I give a shit? Does it matter? Does it change my response? Is there anything she could say that would make me feel differently?

She can kiss my ass.

It's all good

Sometimes I forget that I don't care about some things. That I can survive without being passionate about a simple issue at work. That I don't have to go to the wall with a co-worker over wording of something.

Sometimes I forget to let go of my ego.

It always gets me in trouble.

I am struggling now to find my place, my purpose, what I can contribute. If I can contribute. I wonder if I'll be fired. I can't be fired -- I need my job, my health insurance, the work. I need to be here and it doesn't matter if I'm a big wig or a little one. Right? Who cares, beyond me?

It's not like this is my career, it's just a job.

Oh, wait. This is my career. I always thought this was where I'd be climbing the rungs of the ladder about now in my life. I've steadily climbed higher in salary and title. I've worked hard and had my work praised. And then I got here, to this plateau, and I don't seem to be able to perform to the level one person (who happens to be important) sees as my obligation. I thought I could work harder -- I could work harder, OK? -- but I also think the quality of my work is such that it is still head and shoulders above the pack.

He came in my office today and asked if I need help with a project or two. Sure, I say, my ego floating away on a cloud of dust. Sure, take the heart of my job away and give it to someone else. Let that person do it, let them gossip about me, let him move me out of my office into a cube, let him cut my salary.

Or maybe I can float through this by letting go of my ego. Sure, I need help. Sure, I'd love it if you'd take that off my plate. Sure, I need more time to surf around the Web, can you please get someone to do my job for me?

Sure, I'm useless. Get me some help.

Distract yourself

Simple advice, and what I tell many people suffering varying levels of emotional distress.

Just don't think about it.

There is nothing to worry about.

You're making it worse by worrying about it.

Somehow, none of those 'truths' can get through to me when I need to hear them most. I suspect it is because I know there is something to worry about, dammit, I'm worried, aren't I?


How I think about something doesn't change its outcome 99% of the time. If I worry that he isn't home yet, that he's been in a wreck, that doesn't make it more or less likely to be true, does it?

Here are the two sides: I am having emotions about a subject. The emotions are unpleasant.

There is no basis for the emotion -- say fear -- that is evident. So why be afraid?

Both can be true but I find holding both to be difficult. Yes, there is no monster under the bed. Yes, I am terrified anyway.

Yes, I am terrified anyway, and feel weary of living in fear.

He pulled me close and said goodnight

He kissed me and called me by a sweet name. He helped me in the car and told me to drive safely, then checked to see if I made it home.

He emailed 30 minutes later to say he'd had a good time.

Laying there, with him for hours, he stroked my arm absently, mussed my hair and traced the shape of my ear. He warmed baby oil in his hands and rubbed my back, gently but with enough pressure so that I relaxed into the bed.

He cupped my ass in his hands as he pulled me toward him for a cuddle, kissed my cheek and then my mouth. He took my hand when we walked to the restaurant and pulled out my chair when we sat.

We talked and he paid attention to my opinions; we shared tales of our work and our favorite books. I teased him about things and he got to know about things I like and why I do the things I do. He looked into my eyes when we were making love.

I left him last night wrapped in a warm embrace; I took home the memory of being with him like a shawl and pulled it around my neck as I slipped into sleep. I woke with a smile on my lips.

--------

Why, then, just 18 hours later do I despise him? How could I wonder what I saw in him, think of all the things that I didn't like: the hair on his upper arms, the coolness of his sweat, the way I felt when I fumbled for a kiss, the comment he didn't explain. I've mined every single second for the explanation, for what I did wrong, for the reason he hates me. I've cried and I've been ready to throw things and I've trolled online for someone to replace him.

Why? You ask why?

Because he hasn't called. He didn't write a single message to me, not a word on a text note or a voicemail. "Hey how are you this morning?" "Missing you this morning." "Hi."

Afraid of being the aggressor, I refrained from sending anything myself until early afternoon when I realized that was dumb. I sent a light note, a hi.

Still nothing.

-----------
This is called splitting.

I can be completely taken by this man, go out to dinner with him last night and gaze into his eyes in a series of embraces. He is a prince.

Then he can ignore me for one minute too long -- even if there's a Very Good Reason like a work meeting or a sick kid. One minute more than my system can tolerate and, well, it's over. He is a toad.

Feeling better today

It's at night when I get morose. It's when I let myself think about what I don't have, and when I let myself get tired, hungry, stressed or cold. It's when there's too much noise, or I've had a hard day.

After a good night's sleep, I'm up and at work, feeling productive. It may surprise you to know that I've come a long way in my career. I was the golden girl when I was young, rose to the top of my peers at job after job. I never applied for a job, they were offered to me in a steady succession of upward mobility. I'm making ten times what I made in my first job out of college, four times as much as I was in the early 1990s, twice as much as I made at my last job. I've never actually asked for a raise.

And I think my work is adequate at best. I wonder how well I'd do if I actually tried. I know I'm smart, I come off as extremely competent and my reasoning and writing skills have taken me far. People pay me just to think (which is a good thing, because I can do that). It's when I have to actually do things that I fall into procrastination, have to do the old trick of forcing myself to work for two or three minutes diligently before moving on to another subject (more fun) for a few minutes, then back to forcing myself to work. I think 10 minutes is about my limit for actually working on one specific thing, though I can go for hours if I'm really engaged.

I think my skill set and way of working is commonly called "multi-tasking." Boy am I glad I work in this generation instead of one that requires attention to one task long term. I could never be a surgeon, I guess, or a heavy machine operator. I could probably enjoy being a 411 operator, though, getting to talk to different people all the time. (Though I'd grow bored after a week or two and would want to find ways to change the entire process just because it looked like a challenge.)

I'm a walking dichotomy, a split personality (but not in the psychological sense). It's like I play one character at work, then leave the office and leave that persona behind and become "Incompetent Woman." "Sad Woman." "Lost Woman." "Unloved."

The truth is that all those women live behind the mask of Competent Woman, too, and they peek out all the time. I fight constantly to deal with criticism of my work, and grow defensive on the inside though my goal is to Never Let Them See Me Sweat. Never.

I'm afraid if I start sweating I will start leaking from other body parts, like my eyes and my nose. And once I start crying, I will cry a puddle in this office, and salty water will seep under my door and stain the carpet, run down the hall seeking exit, flood the entry way and lead people to nod their heads and say "I knew she wasn't for real."

Tonight, I just want everything

It's a refrain I hear myself repeating: I wish he/she understood.

Most often I blame any failure to connect on some inability I have to articulate what I mean, or on my needs being too out of whack.

Tonight, I am lonely and sad. I want something I can't have, and I get that. But I still want it and still grieve its loss. What is it? Nothing less than happiness.

Out of whack. But I still wish someone could get it.

Do you think I'm scary?

I always kind of laugh nervously when I find out someone thinks I'm scary.

I mean when I'm not acting scary. Like when I'm just being who I am. Or when I'm not conscientiously trying to be someone who I'm not. Something like that.

Not when I'm shrieking.

I asked a trusted friend about this yesterday -- am I bizarre? I get these looks from people sometimes, as if I'm over the top. Oh, I know what it reminds me of ... that song, "Something To Talk About" by Bonnie Raitt.

The part where it says "Laugh just a little too loud, stand just a little too close." I feel like maybe I'm doing that now and again. I wonder if people want to, oh, back off a little.

My friend said absolutely not. I'm not bizarre. I talk normally. I am smart, quick, have a great vocabulary and love to use it. I love to talk and love the repartee. Oh yeah, and I'm powerful. I know what he means by that, but am uncomfortable about it. I am just powerful. In person, in email, on the phone. In my blog? You'll have to tell me. I know about this, and I can use it to my advantage in business. I can run right over people who get in my way.

I try not to do this in my personal life. You would see me roll over and hide my eyes at a PTA meeting, for example, if someone criticized me -- I wouldn't be fighting back. (Unless it was about one of my kids -- I stand up VERY WELL for anyone else in the world, especially those who can't ...)

I don't want to be scary. Bizarre. Would I trade powerful for powerlessness if it took away these effects, too? Probably not.

What my friend told me -- which is absolutely true -- is that I need to find more people like him, people who like me as I am, scariness, intelligence, powerfulness, silliness, sadness and all.

Boy is he right.

The Impostor Syndrome

I'm a fake. They made a mistake hiring me, and they'll fire me when they figure it out.

It's called "the impostor syndrome," and it's all about low self-esteem and not being able to internalize -- believe -- our successes while being all too willing to accept our failures.

This syndrome is common among bright women, especially gifted women who find themselves pushed to the head of the class, admitted to the best schools, hired to important positions. A feeling of panic can well up, a sense of dread, a paralyzing fear of "Oh my god, what have they done?" It's often possible to "fake it" for years. The dread never leaves, the fear of not being good enough is always there, but the work is usually done anyway. (And, ironically, it's usually brilliant work, but that's because we're lucky, or it's a fluke.)

It's time to get over it. A woman named Dr. Valerie Young has these tips to overcoming the syndrome on her site The Impostor Syndrome. There is a lot of information there on what the syndrome is, too.

Here are her ideas, in a nutshell. Read the full descriptions on her site:

1. Break the silence. We don't need to be ashamed of feeling this way. Many of us do.
   
2. Separate feelings from fact. Sometimes we all feel stupid, but just because we feel that way doesn't mean we are.
   
3. Recognize when you might tend to feel fraudulent. If you're one of the first or few women in your field it would be natural to feel like you don't fit in. Take your self-doubt for what it is: A normal response to being an outsider.
   
4. Accentuate the positive. We excel, in part, because we seek perfection. The trick is to stop obsessing. Do a good job when it matters most; forgive yourself when mistakes happen -- they will happen.
   
5. Develop a new response to failure and mistake making. Instead of beating yourself up for making a perfectly human mistake, see if you can learn from it and move on.
   
6. Right the rules. If you’ve been operating under misguided rules like, “I should always know the answer,” or “Never ask for help,” start asserting your rights. You have just as much right as the next person to be wrong, have an off-day, or ask for assistance.
   
7. Develop a new script. When you start something new, instead of automatically telling yourself, “Wait till they find out I have no idea what I’m doing,” try thinking, “Everyone who starts something new feels off-base in the beginning. I may not know all the answers but I’m smart enough to find them out.”
   
8. Visualize success. Do what professional athletes do. Spend time beforehand picturing yourself making a successful presentation or calmly posing your question in class. It sure beats picturing impending disaster and will help with performance-related stress.
   
9. Reward yourself. Break the cycle of continually seeking ­ and then dismissing ­ validation outside of yourself by learning to pat yourself on the back.
   
10. Fake it ‘til you make it. Now and then we all have to fly by the seat of our pants. Instead of considering “winging it” as proof of your ineptness learn to do what many high achievers do and view it as a skill. Courage comes from taking risks. Change your behavior first and allow your confidence to build.

I like that last one the best. It's one of my greatest weaknesses, err, skills.

Being nice when I least deserve it

One skill I am struggling with is "not making it worse."

There are a couple of ways I can make things worse. I can take a bad situation and make it significantly worse by yelling louder, throwing things, making threats, refusing to give up, oh I could describe some doozies.

Alternately, I can make things worse by taking a bad situation, or a mistake, and beating myself up about it. If I'm already upset, telling myself I'm an idiot really doesn't help anything. I can hear the dry voice of my therapist saying "Well, it really doesn't help anything to say that, you know," when I tell him so.

It doesn't help to deny myself access to friends, or to things that make me feel better. No, you can't go out to that movie, you made a fool of yourself at work today. Not only does it not help prevent me from making a fool of myself at work (if that even really happened vs. just being a huge fear of mine or a misrepresentation in my mind), but it makes me sadder and angrier and hate myself more.

In the first case, my goal is to walk away. Hang up the phone. Give up the fight. Don't have to win. Don't make things worse.

In the second case, my goal is to be realistic about how bad my screwup was, and to attempt to fix it. If it is something that can be fixed, apologized for or somehow changed, I should do that. If it is not (i.e. spilling food down my shirt), then I should not fixate on it, I should not make it bigger, I should not theorize that everyone in the office saw it or is giggling behind my back. I should be realistic.

I need to not make things worse.

Training 'that voice'

The voice in my head tells me "You don't belong."

I hear it all the time. I hear it along with a clanging noise, a false note, a claxon sound. It tells me "danger danger danger," and suggests I step aside, step aside.

So I do. I so want to belong that I try. I show up, I raise my hand, I speak well, I get compliments on what I say and how I say it. I get it, and I usually get it well.

But I never really feel like I belong. I see a sidelong glance down the table, or a subtle note being taken. I feel a fakey smile or sense that someone feels threatened. Am I imagining this? Yeah, sure. Probably. Much of it is because I am set up to expect them not to want me. It feels like the lunchroom in junior high, and even high school. Like the school bus and having nowhere set to sit.

But some of it is not made up. Some of it is my keen sense of people, my ability to read through some of the things people are saying to actually hear what they want to say. I'm quick to take offense, sure. But that doesn't mean there isn't offense offered.

I don't always act on the instinct to run. I stay, sometimes. I usually regret it, but not always. Sometimes it's OK. When I manage to stay, it's because I am telling myself "It's only a story, you are hearing rejection where there is none, they have no reason to outright reject you, you are OK."

And then I doodle on my scratch pad, drawing broad swirls, and count my breath. In, out, in, out, in, out, up to five and back down to one. It's only a story.

If I do this 5,000 more times -- about the number of times I have believed the story -- it might help.

This is why

This is why I hurt the person I love.

I love him. I want him to love me, too, but it never feels like he does. He can tell me he does, but I discount that -- I hear a tone in his voice, or he doesn't look at me when he says it or he only says it when I ask.

He says I am insatiable. A well that can't be filled. He says that he could say he loves me a million times a day and it still wouldn't be enough. I would still feel empty. I think this is true, because I don't think he really does love me.

It reaches a point, my despair, my pain, my loneliness, when I want to make him FEEL about me. I want him to EXPRESS EMOTION about me. I want to have a connection. An angry one somehow seems to my sad and mixed up -- dysregulated -- mind is better than none. So I pick. And he takes it and I pick harder, and then I'm furious at him taking it and then it gets worse, and worse, and worse and it's a huge fight and I'm screaming get the fuck out, get out get out I never want to see you again.

And this happened for years.

And one day? He got the fuck out.

And now I'm alone, and lonely and can't believe it. I guess he never did love me.

This woman understands

I was delighted this morning to find a post by a young woman who has taken the time to think through her relationship with someone with borderline personality disorder. She then took the time to write about it in a non-threatening, non-judgmental way. It is one of the most validating, straightforward explanations of this I've ever read. It feels like a dialog with the other side instead of a fight. Here's part of it. Go read the whole thing. And yeah, I have a comment there you can read too.

So now you're left in a relationship with two options; you could let them drive you up the freaking wall OR you could learn techniques to better deal with them.

...

Patience will help you in relationships where you are exposed to Borderline Personality Disorder, and it will also help the other person face their condition and work on it.

Bless you LoRetta. How did you get so wise at such a young age?


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There I go again

Today I'm angry again. Again, and really angry.

OK, it's anger, all right, but mostly just searing, jarring pain. All it took was one word out of his mouth and I was gone, spinning into that place where my emotions well around me and Fear becomes King and Jealousy Queen and Reason just a prince.

This anger is not directed at children, and it's not directed at me. I'm not yelling in the workplace, which is good, nor in a place of business. I am happy about that.

This anger, this roiling, black anger. It feels like toads coming out of my mouth. It tastes like nasty cigarette breath, it has the consistency of boiling tar. It is visceral, it starts at the tip of my toes with a buzz and works its way up, churning in my stomach and gripping my lungs and heart. It beats its way up through my skull, pounding and pounding and pounding as it escapes my mouth, singing all in its path and creating a swath of damage so wide I doubt I can ever recover.

Tomorrow I will try again

I yelled at my little children. I made my daughter cry and sent her to school upset at me and I feel so guilty. I thought about going to get her out of class to tell her I am sorry, but I know that would just disrupt things again -- she is in a place she is happy and normal and accepted and I want her to be able to be in that place today.

My little boy's face crumpled when I told him how angry I am at him. I didn't do it in an appropriate way, but in a furious way and I am guilty about that. I was able to talk to him before his class and tried to repair the damage, a little.

I will see them both tonight when I pick them up. I will try to be there before the usual 6 p.m. pickup time and maybe we'll have time to play a little on the playground before it gets dark. I will draw them close and tell them how sorry I am for the loud yelling. I will tell them what I will try to do tonight to get us more ready for the morning so we won't be so rushed and prone to being late (which is what got me so angry, I just can't seem to make them get out the door). I will tell them we are playing outside extra as part of my apology.

They will hug me around the neck and my daughter will stroke my face and tell me thank you and say "You are the world's best mom and I know you're doing the best you can," and my little boy will say "Does this mean I get chocolate, too?" and they will run off laughing. Their hearts will be scarred, a little, again, and I will feel guilty but maybe not quite so much.

I am trying to talk to the person inside me who yelled at them, who totally lost control and indulged herself in a tantrum. Wait, indulged is a judgmental word and I'd rather not go there. I didn't totally lose control because I did manage to drive them to school and get myself to work.

I got way too angry this morning and scared my children. Which is not the kind of parent I want to be. They do know I love them, and I know they are forgiving. I will not forget this, but I will try to put it in the past, for now. I will apologize, I will try to repair the damage with the apology and over-repair with the extra time for play. I have made a plan to make the chances of it happening again less likely. That is what I can do about this. That is how I can get past this without beating myself silly. Beating myself up about this will send me to bed with the covers over my head. My kids will be out in the living room, alone, watching TV and wondering why mom isn't cooking dinner. I can be the kind of mom who cries to herself under the covers about why she's such a bad mom, or I can be the kind of mom who makes mistakes, then tries to fix them and move on.

Tomorrow morning I will try again.

Forgive myself small transgressions

As I have written before, I beat myself up when I make mistakes. My model of "self improvement" is to punish myself in hopes I'll learn a lesson and never do that again. In yesterday's post I promote self forgiveness, starting with small transgressions. A commenter agreed, but asked rhetorically, "Why is it so hard?"

I wish I knew. I wish I knew why I feel I need to be yanked into line all the time. For example:

• I ate too much last night. You fat pig! You felt so sick after all that food, you know you need to lose weight to be healthy, what in the world makes you think you needed dessert on top of all that food? You can't ever have a cookie again.
  
  
• I was late for work, again. You lazy slob. You are going to get fired. Why can't you get your ass out of bed earlier? Everyone else seems to be able to get here on time, what are you, stupid? You idiot.
  
  
• I let down a friend. You don't deserve to HAVE friends. No wonder everyone in your life leaves you -- you always let them down. I'd hate you, too, if you did that and didn't even call. What is WRONG with you?
  
  
• I couldn't stop crying. You are such a baby. Grow up. Sure, he hurt your feelings, but other people don't bawl like that when their little feelings get hurt. Get over it. Who cares what he thinks, anyway. You are such a drama queen.

Wow, even as I was typing those things, my stomach started hurting. I really do talk to myself that way. I would never talk to anyone else that way -- I try so hard to be supportive and validating. I have, on occasion, started talking to my children that way and I know instantly it is so inappropriate, so hurtful, so wrong. The look on the face of a little person hearing that kind of stuff about themselves is so, so sad that I have to know it's wrong.

I wish I could see the look on my little self's face.

Just Grow Up

Over in the LiveJournal borderline community, a thoughtful post asked:

What is up with that "pull yourself up by your psychological bootstraps" mentality that is so everywhere? I keep encountering this attitude that if I'm depressed, well, then,I just need to do somethng about it! If I don't like my life, I need to change it! I need to snap out of it! Stuff like that.When I was a kid and anyone was upset about anything, they were told to "Grow up."

Here's my comment to her.

Suck it up. Snap out of it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.

That's the rhythm of what I tell myself now: Stop feeling that way. Stop crying. Stop letting it hurt.

Then, when I do things I don't like, like yelling at my kids, I say: Stop doing that. Don't ever do that again. You are the worst mother on the planet. I will never do that again. Stop it. Snap out of it, you stupid woman.

I feel as if I should beat the crap out of myself for every wrong. I should punish myself for making mistakes or bad choices. I should suffer for causing anyone else pain. I should Stop.

The problem with that, of course, is that it hasn't worked. It's a strategy I have been trying for decades of my life with no effect. I still make mistakes and stupid choices. I still yell at my kids. I still scream into my pillow. I still do.

The strategy I'd rather employ, and one I'm edging up to, is to forgive myself small transgressions. To allow myself to feel what I feel. To be what I am. If I feel like crying, cry. If I feel hurt, hurt. I tell myself to stop sucking it up. Stop it. Be what you feel. I give myself permission to feel.

I can't do it all the time, but I'm trying. I'm trying to be one percent less black and white than I was yesterday. One percent less hateful toward myself. One percent. One incident. One hateful word less.

That poor dreamy girl

I think Effie had huge abandonment issues, and I think she was very, very hurt. I'm not sure she had all the other symptoms that would make her have a borderline personality disorder, but can you imagine her hurt? She was betrayed by a man she thought loved her. Her talents were shunted aside, a woman she loved like a sister pushed ahead of her. Again and again.

When she sang that song ... "And I'm Telling You I'm Not Going" ... my heart broke. There is someone I want to love me. Someone I absolutely positively cannot live without, someone who can easily live without me after our nearly 15 year relationship and three kids. I am stunned by that still, though I know in one place that I need to accept his decision that he is not coming home. I still want him home. That song says it all for me.

It hurts too much.

Here is a small part of the song:

And I am telling you
I'm not going,
Even though the rough times are showing.
There's just no way,
There's no way.
We're part of the same place.
We're part of the same time.
We both share the same blood.
We both have the same mind.
And time and time we have so much to share,
No, no, no,
No, no, no,
I'm not wakin' up tomorrow mornin'
And findin' that there's nobody there.

Unusual insight

I read a post about diagnosing borderline personality today, and its introductory paragraph was full of a bit of unusual insight:

The term "Borderline Personality Disorder" is often bandied about by the media and laymen alike. Many of the behaviors that constitute the disorder are common to other disorders and indeed, normal human behavior.

I wish more practitioners were like this piece's author, Beth McHugh.

All I wanted was an apology

Well, it seems Manderine really didn't have the power of her conviction. Less than a day after I criticized her for trash talking a patient with borderline personality disorder (see my earlier posts), her blog is gone. Not just the offensive post, but the whole blog.

I have to say, from reading through her blog earlier, it wasn't hard to figure out that she was in training at a major hospital in the midwest. It wasn't hard to figure out which school, but that's not relevant here.

It brought up some interesting things for me. I was furious that she thought it was OK to violate a person's privacy like that (her defense: it was an amalgam of patients' histories, not just one). She, or someone wiser than her, agreed with me that it was ethically and/or legally wrong, which is why she removed it.

I was also hurt at her description of a person with borderline personality disorder and the lengths to which that person (supposedly) went to get attention and caring. And the tone in which that description was made was so ... cold. So cold. And this from one of the people who will be a future psychiatrist/therapist/doctor. (Wasn't completely clear to me.) This is why our mental health system is in such crisis.

What do you think about all this?

Where do you think a therapist should discuss her feelings about her clients?

In defense of her offensive post in which she says disparaging things about a patient, Maderine commented on my post of earlier today that:

a) She had (or could have) changed identifying characteristics of the patient so it's perfectly OK, and
b) Gee, she was just expressing her own emotions at the experience of having this patient (oh no!) be difficult to deal with.

What you missed in my original comment, Mandarine, was that in crying out for attention about this, you are exhibiting the very behavior in which you criticize Patient X.

You certainly could have said:

"I have a patient with a difficult diagnosis that requires significant time and attention. He/she has consistently cried out for attention to the degree of feigning illness and making a false claim against me.

"This has caused me great distress, ..."

Is there any reason to identify the patient any further? This is not a scholarly article you are writing for a medical journal in which "removing identifying characteristics" is appropriate and (more importantly) agreed to by the study participants who sign a release allowing this. Do your patients sign a release allowing you to describe them in ANY way in an online blog that is personal, not professional? Doubtful. I doubt any legal privacy policy would even allow that.

If you are absolutely sure of your ethical position, let's take the post to a discussion group of therapists and ask them. Better yet, let's take it to an ethical review board in your state or let your hospital administrator review it.

Even better, you could suck it up like a moral human being and say "My feelings are hurt by this person and I'm angry and a little embarrassed by it all. I tried my best and am frustrated by the experience of treating a person who is not responding. I feel helpless. I cried out in my blog because of these feelings, and maybe I went too far. I will think about this and consider my clients' privacy more thoroughly in the future."

Maderine, the place for you to discuss your feelings about your patients is with your own therapist, a colleague or your boss. Not the Web at large. Even if you really, really want to. Just like your patient, you are desperately seeking attention. I only hope you won't sacrifice the dignity of another human being to get it.

P.S. I laughed out loud when I read on your profile that the first "interest" you list is "fiction." Maybe you ARE your patient.

I suppose if she's crazy, it's all right to make fun

A woman who calls herself Maderine wrote an offensive post yesterday in which she claims to be a therapist of some kind, then goes on to vilify a client with borderline personality disorder, violating that client's privacy and showing evidence of a fundamental misunderstanding of the need for acceptance in providing treatment for this disorder.

Since her comments are moderated, I'm not sure mine will make it on her blog, so I'll post it here:

I'm not sure you'll post this comment, but I hope you read it.

1) If you are, in fact, a person who "treats" clients, you have violated a tenet of your profession by describing -- and in this case vilifying -- at least one of them.

2) Your description of someone with borderline personality disorder is grossly unprofessional and exhibits a lack of understanding of what it means to have this disorder. You are surprised that a patient with this disorder is manipulative? Clearly, her attempts at gaining acceptance at any cost -- including wishing she had cancer so she could be part of a support group -- indicates she is not feeling accepted on a very basic level. It is one of the basic truths of treating a borderline personality disorder that the relationship between a client and a therapist be one of enormous trust and ACCEPTANCE.

It is condescending of you to say you have tried your best (don't you try that way with all clients?) to help this poor, dumb woman. You don't "truly care" for her on one hand and then ridicule her in public.

3) Your own stated need to cry out "Love me, everyone! Love me despite my many failings!" is an interesting statement. Examine that one in light of your client's needs. Isn't she saying the same thing?

4) You probably weren't racist, but you protest very loudly. Wouldn't a professional therapist be able to address this in a manner that seems pretty obvious -- that the poor woman is seeking attention in yet another manner? Is no one seeing that? Did you drop her like a hot potato? I'm betting you did; imagine how that affected her.

You are welcome to blog about anything you want, but your credibility as a therapist is now shot. What state are you in? What license do you have? Would you like me to forward this blog entry to your licensing agency? Your hospital administration?

Perhaps one of your "real life" friends would do it for me.

P.S. Here's the original post, just in case it disappears when Maderine realizes how she's exposed herself legally and ethically:

I Am NOT a Shrimp, I'm a King Prawn, OK?

Strangeness surrounds me, or maybe I'm generating it all, and it's trickling down and forming this weird miasma that just keeps rising. How would I go about finding the source of this strangeness? Consult a psychic? Throw the Tarot? Read my tea leaves (a challenge, since I use teabags)? At any rate, I know not the source but balk at the rising tide of Strange. It makes me feel small and segmented, invertebrate.

After more than a year of blogging, I told some real people (meaning people I've actually seen breathing) about my blog. Now I am reluctant to write. That wasn't my intent. I thought it would be a nice connection; that these, my real-life friends, could read what's on my mind at any given moment, comment if they wish, ignore things if they wish. It made sense at the time. Now I need some verbal Viagra or something.

My heart cries, "Love me, everyone! Love me despite my many failings!" But my fingers are still, my mind blank. Sorry, folks (and You Know Who You Are)--maybe you should just go somewhere else. Leave me with my imaginary friends here. Seriously, I'll be fine. Call ya next week.

And the sudden cessation of my waterfall of words is only the first thing that's playing my nerves like a lutist. The second is that one of my vast collection of patients with borderline personality disorder has decided that I'm racist. She has a limited IQ but an amazing capacity for manipulation. She has a number of illness that are not based on physiology, for example: pseudoseizures, a congenital anomaly that she insists is a tumor, a biopsy-proven benign breast mass for which she has attended a number of breast cancer support groups (and, might I add, she has been politely evicted from these groups across the city). Despite the challenging nature of our relationship, I truly cared for and took care of her. And she has informed the hospital risk-management (read "legal") team that I'm a racist and she's taking her case straight to the governor.

What? WHAT??!?

Since when does not kowtowing when a patient's demands are truly not in her best medical interest (with "best medical interest" as conscientiously defined by a group of her primary and consulting physicians--not just something I randomly made up) constitute RACISM?

There are two schools of thought about the role of race in medicine. One school says that every patient presentation should include race right up front: "This is a 40 year-old white male who is in today for follow-up of hypertension." "This is a 28 year-old Native American woman who is in for a routine OB visit." "This is a 19 year-old student from Vietnam who is in with concerns about abdominal pain." The thinking of that particular school is that there are certain conditions--both acquired and congenital--that are found in certain races with greater frequency than in other races. Therefore, the logic goes, you pave the way to a good diagnosis by presenting race up front.

The second school says that race is irrelevant in the initial part of a patient presentation. "This is a 40 year-old male who is in for follow-up of hypertension" and so on. Their logic is that, at the point at which race becomes important (IF that point is reached), the question can then be asked, "Is this patient at any increased risk for Condition X based on race?" If the answer is yes, it is explained. If the answer is no, it is left to lie. They believe that biases based on race are unconsciously or consciously evoked up front and premature conclusions may be drawn if race is one of the first things a physician hears about a patient.

I fall into this latter camp. If race becomes important beyond the category "Human Race," then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. I philosophize with residents about this. I rarely specify a patient's race when I am describing a patient. I try, honestly, not to see color at all (while at the same time being culturally sensitive). And now I feel like this person--this desperate, needy person--has just hurled a javelin into my heart. Does my exacting care not mean ANYTHING?

The hospital administration is on my side. They have reviewed the records extensively and concur that I have provided exemplary care. But somehow what they think doesn't matter nearly as much to me as what SHE thinks.

And almost as important as me suddenly becoming racist is this: I'm a Genus-ist, too. I'm all anti-Canine now because of a rather dreadful experience I had with a piece of fruit.

I was cleaning up after dinner this evening and saw half a piece of apple on baby boy's plate. I popped it in my mouth and noticed several odd things simultaneously: the apple piece seemed warm and softer than I would expect. It had a salty flavor that was unusual. It seemed almost moist. I was about to write this off to just being baby boy drool--to which I am no stranger--when big boy came in. "Oh, Mom, I'm glad you moved those plates. The dog was licking baby boy's!" Oh, URP. You have got to be kidding me...I just ate ABC apple from the DOG!!!!

Yes, I know that there are those of you who are doing something else right now and not reading this at all who are thinking, "Dog saliva is better for you than human saliva." All well and good, but go show me the primary research that proves this AND tell me if the research dogs drank out of the toilets and ate tampons for fun? I bet they didn't.

Shit, maybe THAT'S where the miasma is coming from!

...Oh, my Absence of Readers, what else? Plenty more, but I'll save the rest for another time. I feel low tonight, blue and empty. Invertebrate. And nauseated.

How to really help

Have you ever tried to soothe someone who is out of control? Someone, say, like I get when I'm dysregulated -- so hurt and so mad and so uncontrollably flipped out that you don't think you could say anything right no matter what you say?

Here is a list of the top 25 things NOT to do, along with a good list of great things you can do.

Thanks to Lisa Dietz for compiling it.

What I want

I know that I can't have some of the things I want in life. I still want them.

Is this a matter of stubbornness? Will? Is this a symptom of borderline personality disorder? I read about projection recently and came away with this nugget:

When I feel a certain way about something, I may project those feelings onto someone else. I love the holidays, and I may simply assume that those around me do, too. I may have big trouble even contemplating that someone around me doesn't really like the holidays and would be just as happy skipping them.

I keep thinking: "But if that person were to have the holidays with me, we would have fun. It would be a different way of experiencing things, and maybe it would be different." Or "No one can hate the holidays."

Yes, I understand projection. I wonder if I am unaware of the times I do it. I know that some issues have much greater saliency to me than they do to others, and I know it feels frustrating when I can't express that saliency well enough to make others feel it as strongly as I do.

This is a project for me.

I wonder, sometimes

I read something recently, don't know if it's true.

A narcissist is someone who has an inordinate fascination with himself or herself. Someone who thinks only about me, me, me.

Borderline personality disorder is the opposite. For those with this disorder, there is no me.

There's no me here. I wonder sometimes where I am. I am whoever I need to be to get through the moment. I adjust and adapt and carry expectations like mothers lug heavy diaper bags or business people hump through airports with a carry-on and a laptop.

I wonder, sometimes, where I am.

Thanks for all the work!

A woman named pep~172~fox over on MySpace has created a page with some carefully selected and compiled information about borderline personality disorder and dialectical behavior therapy. It's well done. Thanks for all the work.

If I could punish it out of me, I would

Update 1/8/07: I guess Layne didn't appreciate my comment, and has made her blog private. Best wishes to you.

I read a post today by someone named Layne who's pretty pissed off that she's been told she has borderline personality disorder. She's telling herself the answer to the problems she has is to Just Behave. Be Good. Problem Solved.

Being long-winded, I left her a monster of a comment. Here's what I said:

From the time I was small, the solution to every problem in our house was "grow up." Stop acting childish and accept the reality that things are tough in this world and that's the way it is.

One problem with that is that, well, I was a child for some of that time, and the direction to "grow up" was not really a solution but an insult. I understand that now, but at the time I couldn't help wondering what in the HELL was wrong with me that I couldn't suck it up, stop feeling badly and start acting "good." Why couldn't I behave like they wanted me to behave?

Look, no one wants you to have a diagnosis for the sake of you having one. The only reason we have diagnoses at all is to help us categorize problems and solutions. It sounds like you are fiercely independent (check, that sounds like me), like you are sorry for some of the ways you acted/behaved when you were younger (how old are you now?) (oh, yeah, and check, that sounds like me, too).

Here's what I do to myself, and from your writings it sounds as if maybe you do it too. Maybe not (and if you don't, I'm glad as heck because it sucks to do it). When I'm "bad," when I don't clean my house or finish my work, when I'm late paying bills or run out of gas or when my kids leave the house without their hair combed despite my best effort. When my boss is disappointed in me, when I can't get my act together. When I open Spaghetti-O's for dinner. When I burn the nice dinner I've struggled so hard to make. When my kids fight over Christmas toys I sacrificed to buy them. When I can't be understood no matter how fast I talk or how much I explain ...

When things go wrong, when I feel like I'm not behaving, when I feel like I'm acting bad, then I punish myself.

I beat the shit out of myself.

I deny myself small pleasures like perfume, I refuse to look people in the eye, I do things that harm my long-term health, I eat poorly and punish my poor dog by refusing to go for a walk. I huddle under the covers instead of going out to lunch with a friend. I go to work (I have a really GREAT job and make tons of money and I'm a total loser) and close the door and hide out and wonder when they're going to figure out what a sham I am. I act in ways that are risky ... sometimes downright dangerous. I don't cut myself like some people with borderline personality do, but I do take risks and it's stupid and I know it, but it is like I need to tell myself "YOU SCREW UP! SOMEONE NEEDS TO PUNISH YOU!"

And Layne, I've been doing this for several DECADES. And you know what? I still can't behave. I'm still not good. My problems are still not solved. God knows I want to be better, god knows I don't want to be a loser. My self esteem is in the toilet and my life looks as if it is. I am lost and alone and I feel like I deserve it to be that way.

Yes, we are good at manipulating. Yes, we are shitheads. Yes, we should stop crying and we shouldn't need therapists or pills. We should be strong and we should Just Grow Up.

Or maybe -- maybe -- we could try a different approach.

The one that works best for me is to think of myself as the child that was told to Grow Up. I think of myself saying that to my own kids, and realize how really ridiculous it would be to tell a six year old to grow up and stop sniffling about some disappointment. Or to tell a teenager to stop moaning and groaning about stuff when I know it's alot of hormones talking combined with sleep deprivation and a body that doesn't feel right.

So if I talk to myself the way I talk to my kids -- in a gentle and validating way -- I am able to have an effect. I am able to forgive myself for acting out or acting up. I am able to get myself to a different place.

My borderline personality disorder manifests itself in anger, but I know it is really predicated on hurt. Big hurt. Long hurt. Giant disappointment that the world doesn't operate the ways I wish it would. That I can't wish things true or act good enough to make them so.

And if I accept that my anger is born of hurt, then telling my angry self to shut up and grow up is really kinda silly -- right? What I should say is "I love you and want to help you."

I am in a much better place now than I was four years ago (!) when I started dialectical behavioral therapy -- a widely recognized therapy that is proven to CURE borderline personality disorder. Truth be told, I have been cured of many of the more insidious symptoms of the disorder and don't act like the screaming maniac I once did.

The truly cool thing about this therapy -- and therapy in general -- is that it's all about acceptance and understanding ourselves. It's not a weakness that we need this, it's a GIFT that we can give ourselves. If you are in a position to be able to partake of therapy, grab it with both hands. Embrace it and hold it close and love it with every ounce of your being. I'm not exaggerating when I say that my therapist (I call him the World's Best Therapist™) has saved my life. I keep asking him when he's going to cure me, and he keeps reminding me that I have to cure myself.

In the meantime, he's walking the journey with me! Right there, beside me. Someone who totally gets me, who accepts me.

Heck, Winona Ryder is a great actress, and the character she plays has a lot of the behaviors that a person with borderline personality disorder has. But she is by no means stereotypical (where is the screaming rage??!??!) If someone tells you that you have symptoms on this line, it means you exhibit some of a long list (I think it's 13?) of behaviors or patterns that make it up. By definition, then, there is no stereotypical person with the disorder -- it's like a Chinese restaurant menu where you can have any combination of symptoms.

I wish you the best, and I'll be thinking about you this evening. I wish for you that you could ease up on yourself instead of telling yourself to behave. Yes, accepting responsibility for past actions is good. Punishing yourself to prevent future behavior, well, it doesn't work for my kids and it damn sure doesn't work for me. It just punishes me and makes it worse.

One of the things I'm doing to help myself is this -- writing about borderline personality disorder. That's what this blog is about.