Up The Down Staircase

There is nothing quite so entertaining as watching someone fuck with the head of a borderline in crisis. Actually, to say it's entertaining is an understatement.

Remember wayyy back when, in the 1920's, the circus was in town and for a nickle you could go through the curtain and see the woman with a beard, or a two-headed man, or the midget who married the giant? That's what it's like for me these days: meet the woman with the beard~the beard being BPD.

I do believe, in all seriousness, that you CAN mess with someone's head and not do it intentionally. Such is the nature of Borderline Personality Disorder. What can be a normal struggle between two married adults turns into a tumultuous, tempestuous battle with no end when a borderline is involved. What's odd is that for me, I'm on the outside looking in, watching it all play out, and am powerless to stop it. At least right now.

There are stages in a borderline's life when he/she's not thinking as straight as at other times. It becomes a chicken/egg situation: did the inability to think straight come as a result of the circumstances, or did the circumstances come about as a result of the inability to think straight? Regardless, here I sit, contemplating the maelstrom in my mind as I fight for all I hold dear, and seeing it going straight down the toilet in a borderline mess. Why can't I stop it? Why can't I turn off the twisted thinking and fix things the way I need to, to turn things around and get back on track? I don't know. I DON'T KNOW!

I don't think I've ever been so frustrated for so long.

And so it goes, on and on, round and round. The other half of the equation doesn't understand why we can't progress past where we are, and I can't explain it in any way that makes any sense. Despite protests that none is intended, the hurt feels so terribly real. What do you do when that happens?

At some point, it's going to stop, I think. My mind will clear, like a lake when the wind stops blowing, and all the mud sinks and you can see through to the bottom. I'll be able to deal with this crisis in a more rational manner, and life will resume a more normal pace. The question then becomes: what will remain?

Parasuicidal Behaviour: Screw Off, Dr. Know

Here, in a nutshell, is a portion of my most recent session with Dr. Know. He's apparently irritated at my sudden love of the scotch bottle, and correction of it's effects with codeine. Well, that and the other meds I take. I did try to explain that I wasn't taking the same amount of meds that I normally take, to which he scathingly replied, (and I do mean SCATHINGLY) "They are in your SYSTEM". So here's my attempt to educate, since I have nothing else to give these days and song lyrics can only be done once before readers get bored and pissy.

The term parasuicide was first suggested by Kreitman, et al, (1969) when he and others grappled with the observation that the term attempted suicide was being used to refer to patients who injured themselves, but, in fact, were not attempting suicide. Kreitman thought of the term parasuicide as referring to self-injurious behavior that simulates or mimics attempted suicide, but is not suicidal in intent. His hope seemed to be that a variety of behaviors, sometimes referred to as suicidal gestures, manipulative suicide attempts, and/or self-mutilation, could be categorized as parasuicidal events and that this classification would help us to distinguish those behaviors that were more truly suicidal. The concept parasuicide, however, was never more clearly defined, and it became used by different investigators with different meanings and inclusive of different behaviors. Just as an example, Linehan (1993) used it to refer to actual suicide attempts as well as to self-injuries such as self-mutilation, while Diekstra and Garnefski (1995) excluded habitual self-injury (i.e., self-mutilation) from their definition.

Given these difficulties in attempting to know and understand suicidal and self-injurious behaviors, the Suicidal and Parasuicidal Aggregate Review Committee at VA Boston decided to forego an “a priori” category system and to launch a quality improvement-type investigation of the range of self-injurious behaviors that we see in our healthcare system. We have taken self-injurious behavior to mean any intentional, self-inflicted, physical harm to the individual. The behaviors that are included as self-injurious can range from the individual who inflicts a superficial scratch to relieve tension to the individual who takes a lethal amount of medication and is accidentally found unconscious. We also track any completed suicides in the system. Since instances of self-harm or self-injury are recorded in the morning reports and in medical center incident reports, it is possible to conduct a post self-injury debriefing interview within a few days of the particular event. We have developed a semi-structured debriefing interview that is based on the available evidence in the literature on characterizing and assessing the seriousness of suicidal and self-injurious behavior. Fundamental to the interview is that self-injurious behaviors are discriminated from each other by the intent of the individual. Thus, there is an effort in the interview to obtain a measure of intent to die and a measure of the perceived lethality of the act.

Ok, the long and the short of it is, they did this study and then asked each patient after an injurious act if they were suicidal, and if they were, to rate it on a scale of 0 - 6, 0 being not at all. Then they'd ask other questions about what was done, whether they were under the influence of drugs and alcohol at the time of the injury, and whether or not it was a "cluster" injury (more than one injury at a time).

SO, I portend that my shrink was WRONG.

My getting drunk was NOT an episode of parasuicidal behaviour, but rather an exercise in self-destructive behaviour, which I believe to be quite different. I had no intention of offing myself. I didn't "self-injure" during the past week, but have hit the bottle. Why? Because my head's going to explode, and scotch seems to help. So sue me.

However, I DO believe I'm going to print out this study by the Boston Healthcare System and take it with me next week and show it to him.

Can there be anything more satisfying than showing a pompous, arrogant mental healthcare professional that he was wrong?

Oh, and yes, I recognize my head is screwed on backwards.

The World According To Avril

Today's post is brought to you by Avril, who says everything better than ... well, everyone! Say what you must, she's a pistol, ain't she?

Anything But Ordinary

Sometimes I get so weird
I even freak myself out
I laugh myself to sleep
It's my lullaby
Sometimes I drive so fast
Just to feel the danger
I wanna scream
It makes me feel alive

Is it enough to love?
Is it enough to breath?
Somebody rip my heart out
And leave me here to bleed
Is it enough to die?
Somebody save my life
I'd rather be anything but ordinary please

To walk within the lines
Would make my life so boring
I want to know that I
Have been to the extreme
So knock me off my feet
Come on now give it to me
Anything to make me feel alive

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm With You


I'm Standing on a bridge
I'm waitin in the dark
I thought that you'd be here by now
Theres nothing but the rain
No footsteps on the ground
I'm listening but theres no sound

Isn't anyone tryin to find me?
Won't somebody come take me home
It's a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Wont you take me by the hand
take me somewhere new
I dont know who you are
but I... I'm with you

im looking for a place
searching for a face
is anybody here i know
cause nothings going right
and everythigns a mess
and no one likes to be alone

Isn't anyone tryin to find me?
Won't somebody come take me home
It's a damn cold night
Trying to figure out this life
Wont you take me by the hand
take me somewhere new
I dont know who you are
but I... I'm with you

She Never Even Said Good Bye!

So, she's gone.

Got up this morning and packed up *nearly* all her shit, and away she went. I found a couple boxes in my garage and told my son he can take them to her tonight.

She never even said g'bye (sniffle). I feel so used, so hurt ... nahhh, I don't care! She's gone! No thank you, not so much as a wave on her way down the drive-way. Of course, I wasn't here. I was out drinking coffee, and imagining her packing. But she did have ample time last night to thank us and say good bye, and when we came home today to drop off the jeep. We got ... nada. Hands up: who's surprised???

I would break out into dance again if I wasn't depressed for other reasons. I might just do it anyway!!! Maybe I'll buy her something: a nice going away present, like ... cyanide capsules.

"Here's your echinacea, dear."

She's GONE!

My son came in and I heard his footsteps. ONE SET OF STEPS, and no one nattering at the cats, or dogs. ONE SET OF STEPS.

For the rest of my life, my happiness will be bound by the sound of just ONE SET OF STEPS at a time. Weird, huh?

Ok, my Musical Genius Friend, here's an easier one for ya:

Gone, gone, gone, she's been gone so long, she's been gone, gone, gone so long ....

My Happy Dance Sucks, But I Did It Anyway

Tomorrow is a "Red" letter day.

The LRHM is moving out.

She's moving out.
OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT, like the famed spot in Macbeth ... and nary a dagger was seen!

It's interesting to note that since we came back on Thursday, she's removed all pretence of common courtesy towards my husband and me; at first I was irritated. Now I find it amusing. Go ahead, bite the hand that fed you, bitch.

Now, back to my very quiet, but nonetheless satisfying Happy Dance!

Ooooo, You're A Holiday ....

I'm away!

There will be no blogging for a few more days; I'm on holiday in a beautiful place with beautiful people (family).

You should all behave til I get back and I'll tell you all about bad things in airports. As my friend said in an email: we could pick better times to fly!

Bonus points for anyone who understands the title ...

Up, Up, And Away ...

My husband and I decided yesterday that I should probably be medicating myself during the day.

I hate medicating myself during the day. The current med of choice slows my metabolism to a crawl, makes it difficult to sweat (and it's hotter than hell's basement here right now) and generates the ability to fall asleep while carrying on a conversation and driving. Consequently, I hate the drug and resist taking it unless I'm either heading to bed, or am in mood swings so wild that I'm in danger of physically attacking someone who might potentially shoot me.

I am wired. I've been wired for days. It doesn't really bother me for the most part, except when someone irritates me. Other than that, I'm quite happy. Having this much energy is uplifting to say the least, and I'm currently just taking a break from giving our bathroom a much-needed thorough cleaning. Of course I talk non-stop when ever anyone is in the same room, which is a bit tiring, and I'm horny as a seven-peckered billy goat, but that doesn't really bother the man I live with. So what's the down side?

The down side is that as fast as I go UP, I go DOWN. The slightest irritant sets me off like a cruise missile. Someone passes us on the road and I immediately want to hit the gas, catch up and flip 'em off. I can rant and rave about it for twenty minutes. An idiot blocking an intersection is fodder for another 20-minute dissertation on the idiocy of California drivers. Go ahead and say 'no' to me about something and see how pleasant I am for the remainder of the day. Calming down is difficult, to say the least. Or, rather, it's difficult without the meds. All I have to do is pop that little brown pill.

But I hate that damned thing! I have to fight to keep my wits about me; being sleepy in the middle of the day is irritating. I LIKE wanting to clean and rush around. This is GREAT. Mania is my FRIEND, and it won't last. I also know that it will peak, and when it does it will be ugly as it tends to end in violence and rage. But for now, it's nice, and the brown pill will take the edge off and ruin it, dammit. I could run ... right now. I could just go run and run and run.

Even in rereading this post, I can tell the difference between my mindset here, and the mindset of a few days ago. I'm scattered and all over the place. But honestly, I just don't care.

Maybe I can wait one more day ... but I probably shouldn't drive.

Bo

Futility

As days and months go by, each of my posts is met with a rare couple of comments from dedicated readers. I know each time who they'll be, and I go back time and time again to see if those few have been by to check it out and give me their opinions or advice.

It's becoming increasingly difficult for me to wait.

For the most part, it goes back to why it is we DO this goofy blog thing. Who's it for? There are so many tens of thousands out there, and who do I think I am that others will want to read mine? What makes me think anyone will find mine any more interesting than the other 85 thousand and want to read it? I'll tell you what. Absolutely nothing.

So what's the point? I read others. I read Absentminded Housewife, Dooce, Hundred Reasons Why I Hate My Husband, File To Fit, Paint To Match, Razors Back, Waiterrant.net, sometimes Horsetail Snake and Mindless Dribbler. Occasionally I jump to other blogs through links and come back again. Three of those occasionally read mine. Two of them are commentors.

I GET something out of the others. Two of the blogs I read, Waiterrant.net, and Dooce are self-sufficient blogs. They actually pay for themselves, and are on their own servers. One of them, Waiter, has been offered a book deal. I'm not surprised. Dooce has been offered a regular spot on another blog. Again, not surprised. These people are GOOD.

I'm missing something.

There's a friend I talk to regularly in a different forum who tells me all the time that I'm a writer. I argue, she tells me again. My final argument, and the one she can't really dispute, is that it's simply too hard! My mother was a writer and I know just how much effort goes into it. So forget it, I am NOT a writer. She laughs. She sees a different side of me. But you know, if I truly WAS a writer, I'd have more than three or four people reading a blog that's been on the internet for nine months. For all she says, for all she might like reading what I put on HER site, she hasn't been able to pinpoint why it is there are only three or four readers who have come back here with any regularity to discover what havoc the LRHM has wreaked today, or how BPD or bipolar disorder has affected my family or day-to-day life this week.

Does it matter? Or maybe they're just bored. It's not funny anymore.

I guess it comes down to why I write, or for whom. It started out being an exercise for ME, and ended up being a test, of sorts. After watching others thrive, my competitive nature took over and I decided that I, too, must take off! Alas, it hasn't happened. Now, as is a natural part of my personality, I'd rather quit than keep seeing the 0 in the comments column that I equate to Failure.

All part and parcel of the Borderline personality that tells me I'm not good enough; that simply doing something for me will never be enough, because if it doesn't get validation from someone else, it doesn't MEAN anything. That's how I live my life, and the way my brain functions. Regular thought processes don't count. Average isn't a part of me. It's got to be the best or it's garbage. My shoes, my clothing, my writing, the way I treat my husband, the way I talk to my therapist, how I raise my kids, even the number of games I win on the internet. Living life this way gets tiring. And expensive. I have the shoes and purses to prove it. There's never been a sale I didn't like. Hey! there's a great name for a blog ...

The Dog Ate My Homework

Have you ever heard a statement so many times that it eventually left you nauseated? I have. And it has, ultimately, hit a point where it sickens me. Aside from that, I have the urge to scream each and every time I hear it:

"I think it's because I'm so much more ma_cher." (read: mature)

LIAR LIAR LIAR!

I have come to hate that phrase with a passion equalling satan! Wait, satan lives with me. Wait again, it still works! Oh, never mind, I suppose hate is too strong a word. I can't really hate another human being, can I? I'll just go all psychological on your butts and say I hate the behaviour! That's the ticket!

So today I got a phone call from the LRHM while out running errands. For the most part, getting a phone call isn't out of the ordinary; but I strongly object to getting phone calls that start with, "I have bad news ... ". As is natural, I tense: my husband has been in an accident, my son is hurt, the cat died, the dogs ran away, someone in my family has taken ill, or the LRHM will not be going to college. You know, something of that nature. Something SIGNIFICANT, that makes one slightly panic-stricken! But not something so minor as, "The dogs tore one of their beds to pieces."

This is noteworthy for two reasons, the first being as mentioned above. The two of us don't speak. WHY would you phone someone you rarely speak to and begin a conversation with, "I have bad news" when the problem is that the dogs have eaten their bed? I'll tell you why. That way she can do it without having to do it face-to-face.

The second question is, "Why is this such a big deal? Why would she be concerned about telling me this to my face?" I'LL TELL YOU WHY AGAIN. This braindead daughter of Sideshow Bob has broken another house rule: don't leave the dogs running around downstairs if you're not down here to supervise. They're young, they're nuts, and they get in trouble. BUT, they're also crate-trained and will happily spend time in their "bedrooms" if they've got toys and chewwies. But time and time again, Twisted Sister will leave them down here alone while she disappears into her room for gawd-knows-how-long.

There are a couple of interesting facts about this phone call; the first is that she made it at all, and we've addressed it. This avoids the face-to-face confrontation. The second is that she informed me that she was upstairs on the phone with her college for "15 minutes" and during that time, all this damage was done.

I call ... well, you know what I call. Rubbish.

If she was down here with the beasties, they would be in their beds or lying in their crates: normal morning routine; both of our dogs like to lounge in their crates. It would take significantly longer than 15 minutes for them to get wound up to the point where they would completely destroy one of their beds (oh, and it's toast, believe me). Lie #1.

Now before I left this morning, I answered a call for the LRHM. Her phone upstairs wasn't charged. She used mine. So when she called to tell me about the dogs, she said, "I was on the phone in my bedroom ... " Since her phone isn't working and mine is back in my room, either she was NOT on the phone, or she was in my son's room. Either way, Lie #2.

And the final blow to my already reeling brain: "You might want to pick up another one." No offer to replace it. Where was my head??

Little things. Little things that make me absolutely DESPISE the phrase:

"I think it's because I'm so much more ma_cher."

The Dinner Party: Part Deux - And Other Ramblings

At one point in the previous post, I mentioned the utter uselessness of the LRHG at my dinner party, who shall be renamed the LRHM; for anyone not in the know, this is "Little Red-Headed Girl", now changing to "Little Red-Headed Menace". You'll find out why later.

In all seriousness, I'm considering changing the name of the blog to, "How My Life Is Impacted By The Red-Headed Menace My Son Is Boffing". Or, to shorten it up considerably, "Redheads: Just Shoot 'Em". I hope none of my dedicated readers are ... well, you know.

Aaannnyway, Saturday wasn't all that different than any other day. She doesn't typically do much. She arrived in the living room looking feminine and pretty in a peach sundress and perched herself in a prime viewing spot for the evening's festivities while I got dinner on the table. My mother-in-law, who has absolutely impeccable manners, attempted to engage her in conversation a couple of times with questions of her plans for fall. Our pristine prima donna answered in short sentences, her head in hand, looking despondent. My son attempted to pick up the slack, rather like a short-stop racing behind a second-rate third-baseman, over and over, fielding whatever she failed to pick up. I wonder how long it will be before he gets sick of this? Eventually even MIL gave up and moved on to other things.

During dinner, it got better (?). The poor besotted brat was separated from her beloved at dinner by an entire table full of people! The heart positively shatters with the unfairness of it all. Fortunately, she was seated right there next to me! I got to bear witness to the entire display of life-altering melancholia. The wretched child sat there like a stunned carp, shunning the majority of the food as she always does, eating meat and a bun and pushing the rest around her plate. As the meal progressed, her face appeared to be melting into her dish; I was truly concerned that I'd have to pry the little darling's nose out of the gaily-striped melamine (hey, it was a picnic!). At one point I questioned her about their plans for the evening; her very brief and sorrowful answer was, "We're staying home; I'm having a bad day".

I have to say, I did a great job on dinner. Between my husband and I, we can put together some wonderful food. After dinner, I started picking up plates, etc, so I could serve the tiramisu. I would SO love to tell you that our dear diminutive dotard got off her size 3 buttocks (that alone is reason enough to lynch her) to help. What do YOU think? You're correct. She sat there. To her credit, she DID hand me her plate....

After picking at her dessert, she moved her 'bad day' to the family room sofa by herself, then took off upstairs. After everyone was gone, she emerged to lounge with my son. By then her 'bad day' appeared to have disappeared with the dinner dishes. She was cheerful and happy again! Yay!