I can't believe what I used to believe--living both sides of the split

[Guest guest]

Tonight, prompted by an old post I found, I made a list of things my mother did

that made me think she has BPD. I paused after 30 items and sat wondering, how

could I ever think this was normal? Seriously, when I was a young child and

even a young adult, I was proud of my family and how close we were, I bragged

about them all constantly. In fact, I idolized my mom and would tell my friends

how she had overcome her abusive childhood. Sure, mom got really mad, and

sometimes she hit us, swore at us, threatened us, etc., but then she got nice

again. [Paraphrasing my father here:] We just had to remember to do the things

we were supposed to do and be understanding because grandma had been so mean to

mom--we couldn't understand how mean, because we had such a nice mother who

loved us dearly.

I've kept a journal off and on since I was 8 and not once during my childhood

did I mention one of mom's episodes in any detail. The most I mention are a few

isolated sentences like " mom got mad at us today. " There are some pretty

traumatic events that I clearly remember (like being disowned and thrown out of

the house during a snow storm when I was 13), that don't show up at all!

When I went to therapy in my late 20s and started talking about things that

happened to me, I would tell my therapist how unfair I was being to my parents

and try to explain there actions with good, or at least reasonable, motives.

" They just care for me a lot. " " She's just having trouble letting go now that

I'm an adult. " " I was being really bratty that day. " I would look at my journal

exercises and the memories I was recording and wonder--could it have really been

this bad? If it was, why didn't I think so at the time?

I think I figured out tonight. My mother blew up at me as a small child

frequently, but after being disowned at 13, I toed the line like you wouldn't

believe. I decided my life would be easier if I just did what she said all the

time. When dad told me it was my job to help mom feel good and set the example

for my siblings, I did it. I retold the fictions I was given to myself and my

siblings so often they were my reality. I was a miniature flying

monkey--telling my little Bros not to do anything to make mom mad (as if they

really had control) or giving instructions for things to do to make her happy

again before dad came home from work/school/business trip. I was also a

straight-A, never-miss-curfew-oldest child who probably spent more than my fair

portion of the time on the " sunshine split " , and must have been the source

material for many " why can't you be more like your sister? " lectures.

So what changed? I used to think that my mom just was a lot better raising

little kids than she was with adults. While there is truth to that, I think

the bigger issue is that I spent most of my early childhood being split

negatively (0-13), most of my adolescence being split positively (13-20), and

most of my adulthood being split negatively again (20-present).

Writing down instances of BPD behavior helped me recognize patterns, to see some

episodes of BPD tirades directed exclusively at me, a few directed exclusively

at various siblings (who I am sure remember the outbursts directed at themselves

with much greater detail), those that seem directed at the world at large, as

well as those BPD behaviors that are more, I don't know . . .chronic?

As an adult, things began to turn south for me the year I planned to claim

myself as an independent on my tax forms for the first time (formalizing my lack

of dependence struck a nerve). Things got worse when I took a non-prestigious

job as a teacher and failed to get married and produce grandchildren in my early

twenties(nothing for mom to brag about anymore).

After spending a few confused years in a negative split, I ended up depressed

and in therapy. I moved across the country for graduate school and began to get

better even as the BPD behavior grew in intensity (though distance mitigated the

quantity of interactions greatly). The months before my wedding (leaving her

for good) and the time of my ectopic pregnancy (she lost a grandchild after all)

currently compete for the worst BPD outbursts I've experienced as an adult.

I haven't experienced any tirades lately, but I'm the target of frequent,

regular distortion campaigns. At least now I can recognize them for what they

are. Should I ever make it to the sunshine side of the split again (which is

unlikely), hopefully I'll be able to recognize it for what is. At the same

time, remembering my time in the sun should help me be a little more

compassionate when any of my siblings choose to enjoy their turn. After all,

it's (unfortunately) the closest thing to a mother's love their ever going to

get.