I'm a Dirty Dirty Girl

Ok, so what do you do when your blog is too filthy to blog about?

One of the joys of a healthy, happy marriage (at least for us) is the sex. Oh yeah, the sex. But is it right to blog it?

Oh, I don't know! But the past four days, starting with Thanksgiving, which was also our Anniversary, have been simply marvellous, in a truly depraved and messy way.

I'm blessed with a sex drive that most men dream their wives will have, plus I have a husband with boundless enthusiasm and creativity. Consequently, when we get the house empty, things get rolling~so all we had to do was get rid of one relentlessly couch-bound teenager, and the stage was set, so to speak.

"So, any plans for the weekend?"

"Ya, probably go out."

"When?"

"Dunno, Friday or Saturday."

This is when I feel the need to pummel him with something in order to relieve my frustration. Mostly, I feel like yelling, "WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU! CAN'T YOU TELL I WANT YOU OUT OF THE HOUSE FOR A FEW HOURS?" But if I do that, he'll ask why, and I have to tell him, then he'll be scarred and need therapy and we'll have to put someone on retainer.

So I play it cool.

"You should really get out more." You see, his girlfriend goes to college out of town, so his social life has been curtailed.

"Ya, I'll go out sometime."

"It's important to have time out with groups of friends...makes you more well-rounded."

"Un huh."

Now of course by this time, my husband is asking, "What are his plans? Is he going out? When is he going out? Can we just dart him? Drug the boy!"

Well, eventually, he goes out, we lock the door and take off up the stairs like two teenagers whose parents have gone out for the night. The dogs are locked up and we're holed up in our room and LET THE GAMES BEGIN.

Quick showers, some lights off, fancy lacy things on, lots of giggling, windows getting steamy; then we both freeze: what's that sound?

Dog.

The sick one. Whining. He's come home from the hospital today~~has been pretty much baked the entire day and NOW he decides to wake up and ask to go out for a pee. It's at this point you reconsider whether or not you should have had him put down. Ok, husband whips pants on, runs down, lets dog out, comes back up, door locked, pants off, grinning. Try again.

And we made pigs out of ourselves. You know how every once in a while you just manage to do everything you ever thought of, and you know that if someone was watching through a window, they'd be flashing ratings at you (high ones, I might add)? I mean one of those times when nothing is off limits and you have to stop in the middle to re-hydrate? Man, we'd have made a porn star proud. Inside out, upside down, backwards, forwards, and ever-so-noisily, giggling, grunting, panting.....Oooo, it was grand.

Couple hours later, we go back downstairs for cake. Yup, cake. Why not? My mother in law, who is a wonderful woman and shouldn't really be mentioned in a post that's filthy like this, made us a gorgeous cake for our anniversary. So at "half-time", we went down and ate cake, drank water and juice, and let the dogs out again. Of course we sat and discussed just how fabulous we think the other is.....and that's when the hammer fell....I should have known I couldn't get one entire evening of JUST GOOD STUFF.

My son phones; he's come out of the theatre to find his car surrounded by a couple of plaza security officers and witnesses, who've seen two young men (and I use the term loosely) smash his passenger-side window, grab his sound system and rip it out, and take off. Blah. When he talks to us, he's already talked to the police and filed a report. So now we have to decide whether or not to claim it through insurance, or just suck it up and pay for it. Depends on how much our insurance will go up.

In my mind, and my husband's, random acts of violence like this just suck hugely. So we did the only thing we could do. We went upstairs, put in a dirty movie, and did it all again!

Does this make us bad people?

What Were You Doing.....

This was stolen from Christine, at http://timesfunwhenyourehavingflies.blogspot.com/.

What were you doing ten years ago?

Finalizing the separation from my first husband and getting custody of my kids. Man, I had one broke ass.

What was I doing one year ago?

I was packing up a storm, fixing up the other house, and getting ready to move into this one.

What are five snacks I enjoy?

~crackers and cheese
~jelly beans
~ice cream
~fruit, particularly strawberries
~really good pastry

Five songs I know all the lyrics to:

Paradise by the Dashboard Light
Every song in the album, "Sound of Music"

Five things I'd do if you were a millionaire:

Travel
Buy two houses in different places, one in Santa Barbara, one in Canada
Buy fabulous sports vehicles
Make sure my kids had educations paid for and homes taken care of
Invest in my retirement

Five bad habits:

Procrastination
Driving too fast
Self Injury
Overspending
Spending too much time on the computer

Five things I like doing:

Spending time with my husband
Spending time on the computer
Reading
Shopping
Decorating

Five things I would never wear again:

Shorts
Mini skirts
Headbands
Hotpants
Anything torn

Five Favorite Toys:

Computer
Car
Self-Help Books or books in general
Camcorder
Razor telephone

POO Patrol???

So I get a reprieve today from Scat Watch. It's rather a relief, although the dog I'm supposed to be watching is back in the doggie hospital. Please please please let them find out what's wrong with my little doggie!

I started cooking today! Don't we all do that? Tomorrow is Thanksgiving so today we start cooking. I have a lovely chicken pasta salad that I make; everyone in the family will eat it til they vomit it back up. Then they eat it again. The first time it goes down it consists of chunks of boneless chicken breast, pasta, green onion, peas, celery, tiny bits of carrot and coarsely chopped iceberg lettuce. Sounds mundane, huh? Ohhh, it's all in the dressing, trust me. A luscious melange of real mayonnaise, vinegar, dry mustard and assorted herbs and spices that I cannot mention to you because it has become a secret family recipe. But my family eats it in such huge quantities that you have to witness it to believe it! It's enough to make one believe I can actually COOK. :D

So we shall take our salad and a nice table center and go to our in-laws for dinner tomorrow; my mother in law will cook HUGE amounts of food for us. We're celebrating Thanksgiving, my husband's and my wedding anniversary and my stepson's 21st birthday. BIG WEEKEND.

There will be many cakes. Cakes are good. Cakes at my mother-in-law's are ALWAYS good. By the way, I belong to that small but significant group of people who LOVE LOVE LOVE my in-laws. They're truly wonderful people. But their dogs sniff my crotch which is a bit off-putting.

What am I thankful for? Well, this week, it's tough because I'm having a really hard time with the BPD.

I'm thankful for my husband who is unfailingly loving, kind, faithful and supportive.
I'm thankful for my children, and their health.
I'm thankful that my dog is still fighting for his life.
I'm thankful that I'm still fighting for mine.
I'm thankful that God is helping me find my way back to him.

There's probably more but I'm still grumpy. Plus I have to go to the store on the day before Thanksgiving. BLAH.

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone.

My Safe Place Isn't

So where do you go when your safe place isn't safe anymore?

It's left me in a quandry.

I always had a place to go that seemed as if the people there had some inkling of what sort of freakishness was going on in my head, even if they couldn't always help me. Now it seems to be gone (hopefully it's temporary). I'm pretty lost.

There's a website I visit that offers great support for beepers. I scan it daily and read the posts/answers of the moderators and administrators that I admire. They've successfully found their way back through a combination of drug and psychiatric therapy, as well as using the tools brought to us by such venerable professionals as Marsha Linehan et al. But suddenly it's turned into a seething pit of viperous danger and I'm no longer sheltered and secure. And unfortunately for me, it's happened during a time when I'm going ga-ga anyway. What the hell?

Now what? See, I've made a pact with myself not to take it out on my husband. He's a singularly bright man, so he knows something's up as he recognizes signs of emotional storms such as blankly staring off into the distance, isolation, and the utter desolation in one's face when you simply don't know how to get rid of the swirling maelstrom within one's skull. Yup, he's seen it. And yet I keep trying to make things 'normal'....unfortunately, doing entire loads of laundry made up just of hankies is a bit of an indicator that things are NOT all they seem.

Last night he came down and found me with my hands knotted up in my hair, knees pulled up to my chest, sitting in front of the computer, reading from that site. "Come to bed," he says.
"Why?"
"You need rest."
"There's no point in going to bed just to lie there and dwell on not sleeping."
"No, but you'll be with me."

Point taken.

Actually, there was a bit more in there, but I went. And I slept; I have to tell you, this illness really sucks HUGE CHEESEY DONKEY BALLS. I wish I had a link to a picture for that. Oh Absent Minded Housewife, can you find me a link for Huge Cheesey Donkey Balls?

Still working tho. Next week things will get better. How do I know? I just do. Because I'll read more of my books and I'll find something else that refers to me and I'll put it into practice. Maybe even tonight things will get better, who knows?

Did I tell you that I saw a dog get hit by a car on Sunday night? That really capped a bad fuckin' day.

It's All Relative

So I've been away for quite some time; it's been a hell of a time since my last post. Obviously we got past the renovations relatively unscathed and now we have a lovely new bathroom that's temporarily clean and neat! I say temporarily because it's currently under the ownership of a 17-year-old boy. How long can it last?

We have a cleaning lady who comes in once every two weeks; Broomhilda is a private cleaner and charges me $80 to clean. The first time she came in, we went through the house and discussed what she would do, and how long it would take. I, being the silly dumb fuck I am, imagined it would remain that way! As weeks went on, I noticed things were being left out here and there, but even though I can rage out of control at the slightest provocation from within, when it comes to confrontation, I back down. So I said nothing. And it got worse. So here I am with a woman I'm paying $80 to, every other week, and she's ......

--not sweeping under tables
--not vacuuming under furniture
--not dusting the fireplace mantle
--not using any wood cleaning product on the fine wood furniture
--not MOVING ANYTHING on any surface to dust
--not rinsing her mop when she damp mops the entire main floor, which is stone tile
--not wiping ANY doors or cupboards, under any circumstances

We'd notice that if there was something on the floor that needed wiping up, even if it was right after she'd been there, the rag we'd used would come up filthy. Uh....Broomhilda, darling, just what are you doing?

Thing is, I was never here when she was cleaning; her days always coincided with appointments I had. Finally, I left one Tuesday morning at 10 am, knowing she was coming to clean. I arrived back at 11:15. She had been and gone, with the house apparently "clean". Now it's important to realize that the house is 2000 sq feet, with three bathrooms, four bedrooms, with the main floor entirely stone tile, and the upper floor entirely carpeted. It's impossible for one person to clean this house in an hour, and yet....she apparently did it! I was pissed beyond belief. But I guess I only have myself to blame, as I knew that things like this were going on for quite some time.

When my husband and I started renovating the bathroom, I used TSP to clean the walls and cabinets before painting. It was pretty disgusting, considering it was the DAY AFTER she had been there to clean.

Broomhilda, FIND YOURSELF ANOTHER SUCKER, YOU WRETCHED WENCH! YER FIRED! I'm now using a professional service and I'm already happier! :D

Immediately after we finished the bathroom, company arrived! My niece was here for an eight-day visit and we were busy doing the "California thang", showing her all the touristy stuff like beaches and trendy shops and bakeries and missions, etc. Eating ranked up at the top of our favourite things to do. Ugh. We shopped at the beginning of the following week and I was pleased to see that things were still fitting at the same size. I was seriously worried for a minute-anyone who's familiar with the Inland Empire will be familiar with the Mission Inn Brunch and all it has to offer. One needs to train for days in order to do it justice......a gentle stretching of the stomach, if you will....

Anyway, it was lovely to have family here but what I've discovered as I've gotten "old" is that I like having my house to myself after a certain point. You know how you stumble downstairs in the morning and you haven't combed your teeth or brushed your hair--you don't want to speak because you haven't put in the IV line of coffee yet and there's someone all perky and happy wanting to visit, busy being a MORNING PERSON. Morning people should be shot on sight, no offense, anyone.

So we went to Santa Barbara for a couple days which is my favourite place in the whole world; if we could retire today and move, that's where we'd go. Peaceful and lovely. We'll need about $20 million to buy the house we want in the location we want. Anyone willing to seed the pot a bit? I'll set up a paypal account. So we went up and down the coastline, and wandered the beach and had breakfast in a little restaurant right on the waterfront, and lunch and dinner overlooking the harbour; we took tours through Hope Ranch and the Santa Barbara Mission, and walked up and down State Street buying chachkies and keeping the shops in business. The pastries from the bakeries were to DIE for. But as we left the city, I got the distinct feeling that she was somewhat ... unimpressed... but we spent four hours in Laguna, and she LOVED that; her mother has been there, and my mother used to spend time there when she was alive, so it holds a special place for all of us, but I still felt as if we'd somehow let her down by trying to show something different.

Sadly, when we arrived home from SB, we discovered one of my doggies is sick; we took him in immediately, as each time he moves or tries to lay down or stand up, he screams in pain. After an X-ray, it was revealed that the little beggar was constipated from his rectum all the way to his pyloric valve with hard-packed stool. Thing is, this is NOT normal for a dog. He was kept in and it took not one, not two, but THREE enemas to flush him out. Unfortunately for us, there appears to be an underlying cause because even though he's cleaned out, and softeners are keeping him moving a little bit, he's in obvious pain and distress and stands for hours just staring, not moving...and then screams in agony if he tries to lay down, or if he's bumped. Mostly, he and I cry together. Don't know what to do besides make him as comfortable as possible, and keep taking him for walks to keep him moving. I'll wait one more day then take him back to the vet, and make a decision on whether or not to let them keep trying to find out what's going on. I can't bear to see him suffer. Our days are filled with walking behind him and watching to see what, if anything comes out...poop watch.

All of these things combined have left me wound up tighter than a drum. Mostly, I need a break from my mind, but that's sorta hard to get, ya know? I'm tired and my head is spinning and I feel like I'm going to skyrocket into space. Yesterday, I tried to explain it to my husband: I said I felt the need to be strapped down--or tied up; I mean like head to toe. Not in a fetish way, but in a safety way, because it seemed as if I was in danger of just jetting off like a balloon filled with helium; weird, huh? So I went to a website I use for emotional support...and had my ass ripped off instead. Oops. Guess I caught someone on a bad day. If it seems like I'm rambling, it's cuz I am! You see...I am working on skills to get me through the rough times of life, and today, I just don't have any.

I'm in my bedroom, which I love. I've left the dog downstairs for now because I need a break from looking at him. I sort of miss my family, but they don't know I'm sick and they'd never understand. It would take years to try to explain it and I haven't got the strength to do it. I'm just tired. If I could just get my head to go someplace else...somewhere peaceful and happy for a little while, maybe it would get better, or at least I'd get some rest.

It's been a LONNNNNGGG ten days.

Bathroom Meant For One

Well, we renovated a bathroom this weekend. You know, they say that renovating is a surefire way to end up divorced, but for the most part, we did pretty well. I did discover that I can, if I try, irritate my husband. There's quite a long list of things he doesn't like:

~~don't tell him that men can't paint without taping (but they can't)

~~don't tell him you really want EVERYTHING re-caulked, although I don't know how to get around this one when you really do want everything recaulked

~~don't tell him he hasn't cleaned the brushes, rollers and trays enough (they're surprisingly sensitive)

~~don't paint earrings on him

~~don't paint the back of his neck

~~don't paint his arms

~~don't fake falling off the chair/tub/ladder with a tub of paint or a knife in your hand. Again, surprisingly sensitive.

Now I, on the other hand, have just ONE rule for the men:

If you're stuck in a small space, where the other person cannot escape and has no warning and no method of being saved......DO NOT FART. I don't care if it's a damned bathroom, just DO NOT FART. Leave the room. Go elsewhere. Tape it closed, put a cork in it, scream and run, I don't care what you do, just DON'T FART.

What is it about a man that makes his digestive tract produce a gas so heinous that one's eyes water and you wretch uncontrollably? Women are not typically like this. Women give dainty little poots, giggle behind their hands and blush charmingly. But men....ugh, the smell simply rolls over the entire room like chemical warfare--flowers and small animals wilt in it's wake.

Now I adore my husband. He puts up with A LOT from me. I have a few (chokes) issues, and he deals with them with me and we carry on. As marriages go, ours is wonderful and loving and I think he's pretty much as great a husband as there is on the planet. But if the government could produce and bottle the noxiousness that came out of that dear man and use it as a weapon~~then terrorists would be turning themselves in in DROVES........

But the bathroom is done, and I have company coming on the weekend and now I can go buy fancy towels like women do and tell my son, "don't touch these", but he's used to that. Everything is all pretty and nice, with chrome and brass combined accents. I like decorating, and I like color. Next, I'm painting one wall in my formal living room red. Yup, red. It's the accent color used, and I want a red wall. Oh, don't be chickens! Ladies, get bold! Live it up with color. Be brave. If you don't like it, you just paint over it. So...on to the next project....but this time, in a bigger room, with the windows open; I can't take another weekend of a farting, painting, madman!

Empty Again

The balloon burst and, as always, it was spectacular. But typically, its left me exhausted. I'll try again tomorrow.

A Different Kind of Hurricane

Two weeks of relative peace should have been my first indication that things were going to change. The second indicator should have been the uncontrollable urge to shop my ass off yesterday (which I did); the third would have been the niggling irritations every time I got behind the wheel of the car and ventured out on the road: things are not going well and I'm headed for trouble.

Storms-emotional storms. Wicked, wild, up and down mood swings that leave me exhausted and frustrated, and my family as well. And if I recognize that it's happening, why can't I stop it? Ah, there's the $64,000 question. Why indeed?

As much as possible, I work to keep it away from the family, but it works only on a limited basis, and typically extends as far as the kids. My husband recognizes the warning/danger signs and offers as much help as he can.

I'm going to explode. I have this small, never-ending headache~~just enough to cause me constant irritation. I'm anxiety-ridden. My heart-rate is up around 120 bpm. I feel like I'm on fire. My body feels full...sort of like an over-inflated balloon. If you touch me, I'll erupt--messily, wildly, noisily. I have trouble forming coherent thoughts and the simplest task seems monumentous. And I'm so angry. Mostly at my husband. There's no real reason. It's been coming for days. I'll work hard not to take it out on him, and won't call him names or shriek, etc, but I feel sullen and uncommunicative. Mostly, I need to crawl into a shell and just close it up after me. I'm safe when I cut myself off. That way, I don't go off on anyone. The downside is that when I disappear inside myself, sometimes I don't come out for a long, long time...

It hurts. Not mentally. PHYSICALLY. It's an ache in my chest that won't go away. I want to scream and rage and tell SOMEONE to fix it, and no one seems to be able to.

I need help.

I sit with my head in my hands trying to figure out something, anything, that will change this. I can go look through the links I have listed on my own site, but the irony is that when it gets this bad, I don't want to look, I can't focus and I don't think I'm capable of doing the work required to get through this without some sort of violent crisis. Posting this is so hard.

It's dinnertime and my family is eating and I don't want it. Mostly what I want is someone to ask me something that I can use to pick a fight, but I'm old enough that I know I can't allow that to happen, because no matter how horrible I feel, no matter how awful the illness is, no matter how strong it's hold, I am still responsible for the choices I make. That doesn't make it better: that simply means that when it gets the better of me, I'll inevitably end up with boundless guilt when I start feeling more rational.

Sleep is elusive these days~late nights coupled with poor quality sleep mean that I'm nearly always tired. I have huge dark circles under my eyes, and my psychiatrist, who determines what medications I'll be on, cancelled my appt due to illness and it will be another month until I see her. My therapist is away (again) and it will be the end of the month before I see him. He's always away. The urge to hurt myself is strong. What stops me is the disappointment and sadness I see in my husband's face when he knows I've cut myself. It's been nearly four months and I don't want to ruin that now.

I want to vomit. I want to run. You see, I'm a runner-when things get this bad, I take off. I want to get in the car and go. My husband won't let me, though. He knows that I'm a danger to myself and others, so will take the keys to keep me safe. Tonight I don't want to be saved. Tonight I just want to go.

Are blogs supposed to be funny?

One in Every Color!

So today is Nordstrom's Semi-annual Sale. And I have to admit that I'm one of those who gets out of bed early to get the best selection on those items I simply cannot live without! Now it's important to keep in mind that I've lived without them all along but that changes as soon as the Nordstrom's sale occurs.

Why does this happen? Well, there are a ton of reasons. The simplest, and most obvious is...I'M A WOMAN. Gawd.

Aside from that, Nordstrom's has some seriously good stuff. Tons of it, and it fits nicely and the service is fabulous. They tell you their name and then treat you like you're SOMEBODY. Try getting THAT at Walfart or Target. The downside is that even on sale, it's gonna set you back a bit. Blah.

The shoe department is an entity unto itself. Hundreds and hundreds of shoes to choose from, and then you simply sit back in big comfy chairs and let lovely young men come to you and do your bidding, rushing around finding shoes and fitting them to you. Ahhhh....peel me a grape, would you? There's a good lad...

And if the shoes don't fit the next day, or week, or month, you simply take them back (receipt not required), and that lovely young man will just hand you money. It's an absolutely orgasmic experience. It's no wonder I have so many shoes. Did you know that if your feet are really two different sizes, they WILL sell you two different sized shoes?? How frickin' cool is that?

The down side of all this is that they open the store to everyone, not just me. Bastards.

I begin to recognize the folly of attending the sale as I enter the parking lot of the mall. Lines of cars headed towards the store. Crap. But I forge ahead towards the parking garage. As is typical, as soon as I get inside, I get to play 'dodge and weave' with the stupid fucknuts who drive 50 miles an hour through the crowded building as they whip around corners. Ok, I've been here 27 seconds and my stress level is rising. One level up, and I'm behind a woman who's waiting for a parking spot. She's stopped, and is waiting for someone to back out. And whoever is backing out is NOT in a hurry to move. Now I don't really have a problem with that. What I do have a problem with is that she's PARKED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AISLE. No one can get by, either direction. WTF??? And UP goes the stress level yet again. Breathe deeply Bo, and keep going....

I step inside the doors to my mecca and stop, inhaling...ahhhh, the smell of new fabric and magic markers on price tags! So I commence hardcore shopping; you know the sort: you hit every rack with a red/black sign on top advertising 30-50% off and race through it like a dog through a can of Alpo. But hells bells, at least I'm polite about it. I'm not tearing stuff out of other people's hands! So I pick up a couple things and set them aside on a neat little pile, sort of 'under' other things, so they're out of the way. And as fast as I do it, some bleached blonde with plastic tits and acrylic nails is pursing her heavily painted lips and pawing through MY STUFF. Now I have a fairly wicked stare, and it frightens smart people. These people don't glance up long enough to notice. THIS PISSES ME OFF. I like scaring people. You know what else pisses me off? The fact that the woman didn't BUY any of 'my stuff'. It was almost like she thought my taste stunk. Hmph. Screw her.

Anyway, I push on. So far, I've got two shirts (one shirt, two colors). And what I'm realizing is that nothing on sale interests me. I hate that. WHY is it always that way? As soon as I find something I like, I check the price tag and find that it's not marked down--at all. Not even a bloody 10%. Not only that, but I've wandered into the Ralph Lauren section by accident (ya, lets call it an accident), so it's all mortgage-threatening merchandise. DAMMIT. But as I wander through that section, I notice something else: there are wayyyyyyyy less people in that department. Why? No sale prices. So it's pretty quiet and I can enjoy my Nordy's shopping experience in relative peace. Except: each time 'my' sales person comes to talk to me and find things for me to try on, someone more important than me will absolutely have to interrupt with something that's vital to her life. And that's something I've noticed happens way too much. I'll be in the middle of a conversation with a salesperson somewhere and someone will simply step in and ask for help, thinking that because they have a SHORTER question, it's somehow LESS FUCKING RUDE. I have a news flash: IT'S NOT. I was there first. I waited my turn. I NOW OWN HER, for the duration of my shopping experience. GET LOST. When I'm done, when I've paid, when she's walked out from behind the counter and handed me my bag, or I've turned away, then hey, she's all yours, but until then, FIND YOUR OWN SALESPERSON.

Unfortunately for me, I've found "the perfect jeans". And I'm paying through the nose, and trying to figure out some sort of deal I can make with my husband when I get home. Something that will make it seem ok to spend as much on a pair of jeans as I did-but damn, they do look good! So I end up using two different accounts, hoping that having ME pay for the shirts and HIM pay for the jeans will somehow make it seem less uh, outrageous. The shirts are low-cut, cleavage-showing shirts. That will help.

Exiting the parking garage is EXACTLY the same as going in. But somehow, I simply don't care as much. Such is the joy of the Nordy's Semi-annual sale. But why?

One of the symptoms of BPD is self-harm or self-destructive behaviour. This symptom covers a LOT of ground, including abusing alcohol, drugs, sexual promiscuity, self-injury, dangerous driving, eating disorders, and over-spending. Now this doesn't mean that everyone who loves to shop has BPD. But it does mean that for me. The shopping has two effects. First, if I'm having a rough time, and emotional storms are brewing, it soothes me. It takes my mind away from the illness and whatever symptoms are plaguing me, and focuses it on the shopping. Secondly, when I actually buy things, especially when they're fine things like they were today, it gives me a rush like you get when you're really excited about something (sort of like really good sex). The unfortunate part is that the rush is extremely short-lived, and leaves you feeling empty both in spirit, and in pocket. Then you have to deal with both THOSE problems. The problem obviously gets magnified...again and again and again. If you look up at the other examples I listed under self-destructive behaviour, you can see that each of those things lend themselves to the 'magnification' principle: when you engage in the destructive behaviour, you simply multiply the problem and have just that much more work to do in order to fix it.

So what do you do instead? You use the tools you're learning in therapy or books to identify what problems are bothering you at that immediate time, then decide what steps to take to work through them. Some of these tools can be found in the BPDRecovery forum; check out Five Steps, Ten Forms, Ten Ways.

I didn't have to do that today. I NEEDED the jeans, really!

Excitement!!!

Ok, so things are going more slowly than they should be. But that's how things go for me, because I'm not too swift when it comes to computers and I'm learning, learning, learning! I have a lovely friend with her own blog who's helping me out, and as I get things put up, I'll link you to her. She's a hoot! I think you might even get to see her boob. Sorta.

Anyway, I more or less had to start over once I realized that I'd hopelessly screwed up the template on here. TYPICAL. But things are back in action. As the days go on, I'll get more information posted, and with any luck, actually have something OF VALUE to give to people with PBD, and those who just want some info. I'll share some books I've read that have been of particular importance to me in this ride, and as time goes on, I'll get more comfortable with the whole blog mentality and even let you 'inside' and you can root around in my head and see what it's really like inside the mind of a "beeper" (person with BPD).

I think I'm the only person in North America who hates Hallowe'en. I have two small dogs. One of them thinks it's his God-given duty to bark for approximately 3 minutes each and EVERY time the doorbell rings. We had an estimated 80 children come to our home, in a total of about 20 groups. What this means for ME is, the doorbell rang around 20 times, and each time the dog barked for 3 minutes, I hollered for him to shut up which did exactly what it always does (nothing), then I pasted a fake smile on my face and looked at the cute little children who stuck out their bags and were turned away before I even got the goodies into the sacks....and all in all listened to the shrill barking of a guilty-looking beast for a solid 60 minutes, divided over two and a half hours.

SHOOT ME NOW

And by the way, if your child has to shave before he goes Trick or Treating, tell him not to come to my house.

If she's booking off work so she can go door-to-door, tell her not to come to my house.

If your kid is DRIVING from house to house.....dear gawd, just go to the store and buy a couple of chocolate bars.

If your kid wants a Miller Lite to wash it all down at the end of the night...and can actually purchase it...tell him not to come to my house.

If your child notices my eaves need work while he's ringing my bell, and hands me his card while I'm giving him a mini-snickers...tell him not to come to my house.

If your daughter is checking out my son, who's handing out candy at my door...oh gawd, don't come to my house....