dialogue with nada, the wig

[Guest guest]

I would appreciate hearing HOW others perceive this conversation and whether it

shows BPD in action. As I said, I have lost perspective. I'd like to be able to

use one or two of my stories as " teaching tools " for others, in a (possibly)

humorous anthology about surviving dysfunctional families.

~

[Guest guest]

I am not great at perspective it took me a long time to recognize my mom has

been dictating my emotions forever...

however this is funny to me because my mom is weird about her hair (and mine)

too. My mom spends lots of time at the hairdresser. she recently spent a couple

years in Ukraine, and unable to dye she went white. when she got home I met her

on a layover where I live, and she tells this absurd story about how I did not

recognize her because of her hair. (did not happen) she is embracing her new

look with a defiant vengeance. I am not into being fussy about appearance. my

mom used to get me (sometimes hideous) haircuts,and perms, and highlights. I

tried to smile and pretend that I loved it, but it really is not my thing. I

have now learned to say no (she still offers)

I think the terrible job of backtracking your mom did is very BP. it shows that

she sees that it may be insulting, but has no idea how. the fact that she did

not burst out laughing too is hilarious in it's own way.

thanks for the laugh.

>

> I would appreciate hearing HOW others perceive this conversation and whether

it shows BPD in action. As I said, I have lost perspective. I'd like to be able

to use one or two of my stories as " teaching tools " for others, in a (possibly)

humorous anthology about surviving dysfunctional families.

>

> ~

>

>

[Guest guest]

OMG! Your nada is priceless! I needed that laugh today.

>

> Perhaps others have nadas who wear wigs.

>

> I love how one of you is planning to use a Galapagos vacation to capture

family in action. Here was a dialogue that showed up almost immediately after my

husband told me it might be a good exercise for me, to use my conversations with

nada as a writing practice! I sense this one is destined for publication, once

it reaches the right editor. I'd appreciate HOW this kooky conversation shows

BPD in action. After working with this story in different versions for nearly

two years, I have simply lost perspective.

>

> Here goes:

>

> Having Words about Hair

> We take our family photo in November that year, outdoors to the music of

crickets. My husband, son and I, dressed for Christmas in red and green, squint

into sun, posed against the backdrop of naturalized azaleas.

>

> Contemplating our photo as I slip it into an envelope addressed to my mom, I

reflect on the differences between my hair and hers.

>

> I had not worn a hat in my picture; I wear my hair unadorned, silver-gray.

>

> Mom's always showed an altered self to the camera. In her early thirties, she

enlisted beauty schools to help her remain a youthful blonde.

>

> A natural blonde too, I'd started graying in my late-20's, beginning from the

temples. I chose to stay the course with untouched hair. When I paid a

cross-country visit in my 30's, Mom was shocked to see how far my gray had come.

She couldn't help touching it.

>

> " Oh Vicki, " she said, grasping for the right words. " Is that really your hair?

" (Swallowing uneasy laughter, I could not help saying, " No mom, my hair is

purple. I died it gray especially for you! " ) Today I feel compassion, perhaps I

reminded mom of what she might have looked like two decades before, without

color.

>

> Mom is still uneasy about gray. However, now she's found peace in covering

her tresses with one of the many wigs she keeps in a special closet. Her heads

of hair are varying lengths, in shades ranging from platinum blonde to light

brown.

>

> Since we have such different perspectives on how to present ourselves to the

world, I have learned to rely on friends as my mirrors.

>

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

>

> My friend Kathy and I area talking at my house, not long after I've mailed our

Christmas photo. " Doll, " she says, looking straight at me. " Your hair looks

gorgeous. If I had hair like yours I would not color, either. "

>

> Surprised, I confess how I uneasy I had been with most " beauty " decisions.

Even as a young woman, most choices had had not worked for me. Make-up gave me

raccoon-eyes. High heels had created bunions.

>

> I tell Kathy how, as I saw my hair slowly change in the mirror, I would ask,

was it time to color my hair? Or not? My mom nearly destroyed her hair in those

parlors. So, I eventually made my own choice—to simply let it be.

>

> I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I both

our own quiet glory.

>

> But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

>

> Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

>

> She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo. "

>

> She pauses. " Thank you, " she says. " That was a nice picture of all of you. "

>

> I'm happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have been

thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

>

> I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. " A wig? " I

croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each wig

perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade of

blonde.

>

> I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned to

camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity with a

wig, too.

>

> It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she

says, too late.

>

> " Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why you

think I need a wig. "

>

> " Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just like your

hair. "

>

> I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if she

wants to give me a duplicate.

>

> But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that looks

just like the hair I already have? "

>

> She's fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly! Isn't it

cold there in winter? "

>

> " In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

>

> Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the climate

argument is worth pursuing.

>

> " People out here in Washington wear wigs, " she offers. " They are nice and

warm. "

>

> I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

>

> " People wear them like hats, " she insists.

>

> Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing so

hard. Where are we going with this?

>

> " Really mom, " I say, " You have created the weirdest fashion picture--everyone

in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

>

> We're both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not easy to

stop.

>

> Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a hat? "

I say. Surely she'll agree with that.

>

> " Oh my God, I can't believe you're so unaware, " she says. " A good hat costs

money! "

>

> My laughter won't let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us to

give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

>

> (If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to sport

my gray hair. Until then, I'll have to be comfortable for us both.)

>

>

[Guest guest]

My nada does not wear wigs (she colors!), but this conversation reads a lot like

one I had with her over air freshener!

I spent the 90's highly sensitive to perfumes, dyes and cleaning products. So I

threw out everything but bleach, ammonia and unscented soap. Although I can

tolerate more products now, why bother?

Nada must have had to take a crap after dinner at my house, because she FREAKED

out when she found out I did not have any Fabreeze. A few days later she made a

big deal about bringing me a can. I argued I did not want/need it, the normal

smell following a BM dissipates quickly and i did not want to expose myself of

my family to unnecessary chemicals.

She became increasingly agitated with me, stating she was worrying about my

house! She further inferred that my *son's* bathroom habits were ruining my

home.

All this because she was worried about her own BM smells. How embarrassing!

>

> Perhaps others have nadas who wear wigs.

>

> I love how one of you is planning to use a Galapagos vacation to capture

family in action. Here was a dialogue that showed up almost immediately after my

husband told me it might be a good exercise for me, to use my conversations with

nada as a writing practice! I sense this one is destined for publication, once

it reaches the right editor. I'd appreciate HOW this kooky conversation shows

BPD in action. After working with this story in different versions for nearly

two years, I have simply lost perspective.

>

> Here goes:

>

> Having Words about Hair

> We take our family photo in November that year, outdoors to the music of

crickets. My husband, son and I, dressed for Christmas in red and green, squint

into sun, posed against the backdrop of naturalized azaleas.

>

> Contemplating our photo as I slip it into an envelope addressed to my mom, I

reflect on the differences between my hair and hers.

>

> I had not worn a hat in my picture; I wear my hair unadorned, silver-gray.

>

> Mom's always showed an altered self to the camera. In her early thirties, she

enlisted beauty schools to help her remain a youthful blonde.

>

> A natural blonde too, I'd started graying in my late-20's, beginning from the

temples. I chose to stay the course with untouched hair. When I paid a

cross-country visit in my 30's, Mom was shocked to see how far my gray had come.

She couldn't help touching it.

>

> " Oh Vicki, " she said, grasping for the right words. " Is that really your hair?

" (Swallowing uneasy laughter, I could not help saying, " No mom, my hair is

purple. I died it gray especially for you! " ) Today I feel compassion, perhaps I

reminded mom of what she might have looked like two decades before, without

color.

>

> Mom is still uneasy about gray. However, now she's found peace in covering

her tresses with one of the many wigs she keeps in a special closet. Her heads

of hair are varying lengths, in shades ranging from platinum blonde to light

brown.

>

> Since we have such different perspectives on how to present ourselves to the

world, I have learned to rely on friends as my mirrors.

>

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

>

> My friend Kathy and I area talking at my house, not long after I've mailed our

Christmas photo. " Doll, " she says, looking straight at me. " Your hair looks

gorgeous. If I had hair like yours I would not color, either. "

>

> Surprised, I confess how I uneasy I had been with most " beauty " decisions.

Even as a young woman, most choices had had not worked for me. Make-up gave me

raccoon-eyes. High heels had created bunions.

>

> I tell Kathy how, as I saw my hair slowly change in the mirror, I would ask,

was it time to color my hair? Or not? My mom nearly destroyed her hair in those

parlors. So, I eventually made my own choice—to simply let it be.

>

> I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I both

our own quiet glory.

>

> But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

>

> Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

>

> She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo. "

>

> She pauses. " Thank you, " she says. " That was a nice picture of all of you. "

>

> I'm happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have been

thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

>

> I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. " A wig? " I

croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each wig

perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade of

blonde.

>

> I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned to

camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity with a

wig, too.

>

> It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she

says, too late.

>

> " Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why you

think I need a wig. "

>

> " Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just like your

hair. "

>

> I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if she

wants to give me a duplicate.

>

> But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that looks

just like the hair I already have? "

>

> She's fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly! Isn't it

cold there in winter? "

>

> " In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

>

> Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the climate

argument is worth pursuing.

>

> " People out here in Washington wear wigs, " she offers. " They are nice and

warm. "

>

> I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

>

> " People wear them like hats, " she insists.

>

> Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing so

hard. Where are we going with this?

>

> " Really mom, " I say, " You have created the weirdest fashion picture--everyone

in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

>

> We're both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not easy to

stop.

>

> Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a hat? "

I say. Surely she'll agree with that.

>

> " Oh my God, I can't believe you're so unaware, " she says. " A good hat costs

money! "

>

> My laughter won't let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us to

give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

>

> (If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to sport

my gray hair. Until then, I'll have to be comfortable for us both.)

>

>

[Guest guest]

Awesome, and so BPD-like, yet of the fairly benign variety. I'm not downplaying

the impact of BPD, but this is one of those stories that I think people who

aren't KO's would just chalk up to a quirky mom thing as opposed to a mentally

ill mom thing. I mean, it's one thing for a mom to insist that her daughter

should wear a wig that looks exactly like her real hair over her real hair (I

can't even type that without snorting), but another thing for a mom to insist

that her daughter should wear a wig/dress/assless chaps or the entire world is

going to think she's old/male/a forgetful cowboy and therefore she will burn in

hell for all eternity.

By the way, this is *exactly* the sort of thing my nada would do.

>

> Perhaps others have nadas who wear wigs.

>

> I love how one of you is planning to use a Galapagos vacation to capture

family in action. Here was a dialogue that showed up almost immediately after my

husband told me it might be a good exercise for me, to use my conversations with

nada as a writing practice! I sense this one is destined for publication, once

it reaches the right editor. I'd appreciate HOW this kooky conversation shows

BPD in action. After working with this story in different versions for nearly

two years, I have simply lost perspective.

>

> Here goes:

>

> Having Words about Hair

> We take our family photo in November that year, outdoors to the music of

crickets. My husband, son and I, dressed for Christmas in red and green, squint

into sun, posed against the backdrop of naturalized azaleas.

>

> Contemplating our photo as I slip it into an envelope addressed to my mom, I

reflect on the differences between my hair and hers.

>

> I had not worn a hat in my picture; I wear my hair unadorned, silver-gray.

>

> Mom's always showed an altered self to the camera. In her early thirties, she

enlisted beauty schools to help her remain a youthful blonde.

>

> A natural blonde too, I'd started graying in my late-20's, beginning from the

temples. I chose to stay the course with untouched hair. When I paid a

cross-country visit in my 30's, Mom was shocked to see how far my gray had come.

She couldn't help touching it.

>

> " Oh Vicki, " she said, grasping for the right words. " Is that really your hair?

" (Swallowing uneasy laughter, I could not help saying, " No mom, my hair is

purple. I died it gray especially for you! " ) Today I feel compassion, perhaps I

reminded mom of what she might have looked like two decades before, without

color.

>

> Mom is still uneasy about gray. However, now she's found peace in covering

her tresses with one of the many wigs she keeps in a special closet. Her heads

of hair are varying lengths, in shades ranging from platinum blonde to light

brown.

>

> Since we have such different perspectives on how to present ourselves to the

world, I have learned to rely on friends as my mirrors.

>

> ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

>

> My friend Kathy and I area talking at my house, not long after I've mailed our

Christmas photo. " Doll, " she says, looking straight at me. " Your hair looks

gorgeous. If I had hair like yours I would not color, either. "

>

> Surprised, I confess how I uneasy I had been with most " beauty " decisions.

Even as a young woman, most choices had had not worked for me. Make-up gave me

raccoon-eyes. High heels had created bunions.

>

> I tell Kathy how, as I saw my hair slowly change in the mirror, I would ask,

was it time to color my hair? Or not? My mom nearly destroyed her hair in those

parlors. So, I eventually made my own choice—to simply let it be.

>

> I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I both

our own quiet glory.

>

> But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

>

> Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

>

> She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo. "

>

> She pauses. " Thank you, " she says. " That was a nice picture of all of you. "

>

> I'm happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have been

thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

>

> I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. " A wig? " I

croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each wig

perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade of

blonde.

>

> I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned to

camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity with a

wig, too.

>

> It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she

says, too late.

>

> " Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why you

think I need a wig. "

>

> " Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just like your

hair. "

>

> I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if she

wants to give me a duplicate.

>

> But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that looks

just like the hair I already have? "

>

> She's fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly! Isn't it

cold there in winter? "

>

> " In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

>

> Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the climate

argument is worth pursuing.

>

> " People out here in Washington wear wigs, " she offers. " They are nice and

warm. "

>

> I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

>

> " People wear them like hats, " she insists.

>

> Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing so

hard. Where are we going with this?

>

> " Really mom, " I say, " You have created the weirdest fashion picture--everyone

in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

>

> We're both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not easy to

stop.

>

> Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a hat? "

I say. Surely she'll agree with that.

>

> " Oh my God, I can't believe you're so unaware, " she says. " A good hat costs

money! "

>

> My laughter won't let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us to

give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

>

> (If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to sport

my gray hair. Until then, I'll have to be comfortable for us both.)

>

>

[Guest guest]

!!! So funny! So true! My nada is a hick and wouldn't know a wig if

it bit her on the bum. BUT, she is very into her hair, and wears it spiked

out all over her head, red and streaked with pink. She thinks it looks

great - I haven't seen her in at least 5 years, but I assume she still

looks the same.

My nada would NOT have tried not to hurt my feelings, but she does say

totally ridiculous things. She used to nag me because I have soft, fine

hair. i was never allowed to wear it long, ever (guess how i have it now?)

and according to her it was the worst hair ever, while hers had body, wave,

and was just too thick etc . Then one day she said, " my hair is just so

fine and soft, I don't know what to do with it. "

I said " Oh, that's a new one, " and went back to what I was doing.

I could write novels about waif boss and hair. She has big helmet hair, she

thinks it is totally in style and it seems to be her crowning glory. She

colors it every 4 weeks the color of worther's toffee candy. She expects me

to notice and praise here every single time she has it done, and to notice

that the peanut brittle color is ever so slightly more russet or whatever

this time around. . . She went through periods when my hair was the bane of

her existence, and touching it, taming it, coralling it were her biggest

concerns during a work day. I'd been through this before with my own nada,

so I found it kind of funny and I did experiments. For example, if I wore

it down, straight and soft, I would watch to see how long it took before

she told me to brush it (my work hair brush was in fact a gift from her).

other days, i would wear it up and watch her to see what she would do and

how long it would take. She usually let out a HUGE sigh of relief and said

within 25 min of arriving at work " Oh goodness, a pony tail is such a

classy business look. I just love it. " To me a pony tail means I rolled out

of bed and came straight to work, no preparation - funny that she likes

that look on me.

I refuse to use hair spray unless it is a special occasion - like Zombie

Prom - for instance, and I hate the way it looks and feels. In my opinion,

a woman's hair should be touchably soft. I want people to want to reach out

and touch it. I know sometimes they do want to. Waif boss always does ha ha.

Anyway, weird what a hot button hair is. Hillarious story about putting a

wig over your hair. I have several transvestite friends who love wigs. . .

but that's a WHOLE different ball of wax.

On Wed, Nov 30, 2011 at 12:37 PM, writermanque wrote:

> **

>

>

> Awesome, and so BPD-like, yet of the fairly benign variety. I'm not

> downplaying the impact of BPD, but this is one of those stories that I

> think people who aren't KO's would just chalk up to a quirky mom thing as

> opposed to a mentally ill mom thing. I mean, it's one thing for a mom to

> insist that her daughter should wear a wig that looks exactly like her real

> hair over her real hair (I can't even type that without snorting), but

> another thing for a mom to insist that her daughter should wear a

> wig/dress/assless chaps or the entire world is going to think she's

> old/male/a forgetful cowboy and therefore she will burn in hell for all

> eternity.

>

> By the way, this is *exactly* the sort of thing my nada would do.

>

>

>

> >

> > Perhaps others have nadas who wear wigs.

> >

> > I love how one of you is planning to use a Galapagos vacation to capture

> family in action. Here was a dialogue that showed up almost immediately

> after my husband told me it might be a good exercise for me, to use my

> conversations with nada as a writing practice! I sense this one is destined

> for publication, once it reaches the right editor. I'd appreciate HOW this

> kooky conversation shows BPD in action. After working with this story in

> different versions for nearly two years, I have simply lost perspective.

> >

> > Here goes:

> >

> > Having Words about Hair

> > We take our family photo in November that year, outdoors to the music of

> crickets. My husband, son and I, dressed for Christmas in red and green,

> squint into sun, posed against the backdrop of naturalized azaleas.

> >

> > Contemplating our photo as I slip it into an envelope addressed to my

> mom, I reflect on the differences between my hair and hers.

> >

> > I had not worn a hat in my picture; I wear my hair unadorned,

> silver-gray.

> >

> > Mom's always showed an altered self to the camera. In her early

> thirties, she enlisted beauty schools to help her remain a youthful blonde.

> >

> > A natural blonde too, I'd started graying in my late-20's, beginning

> from the temples. I chose to stay the course with untouched hair. When I

> paid a cross-country visit in my 30's, Mom was shocked to see how far my

> gray had come. She couldn't help touching it.

> >

> > " Oh Vicki, " she said, grasping for the right words. " Is that really your

> hair? " (Swallowing uneasy laughter, I could not help saying, " No mom, my

> hair is purple. I died it gray especially for you! " ) Today I feel

> compassion, perhaps I reminded mom of what she might have looked like two

> decades before, without color.

> >

> > Mom is still uneasy about gray. However, now she's found peace in

> covering her tresses with one of the many wigs she keeps in a special

> closet. Her heads of hair are varying lengths, in shades ranging from

> platinum blonde to light brown.

> >

> > Since we have such different perspectives on how to present ourselves to

> the world, I have learned to rely on friends as my mirrors.

> >

> > ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

> >

> > My friend Kathy and I area talking at my house, not long after I've

> mailed our Christmas photo. " Doll, " she says, looking straight at me.

> " Your hair looks gorgeous. If I had hair like yours I would not color,

> either. "

> >

> > Surprised, I confess how I uneasy I had been with most " beauty "

> decisions. Even as a young woman, most choices had had not worked for me.

> Make-up gave me raccoon-eyes. High heels had created bunions.

> >

> > I tell Kathy how, as I saw my hair slowly change in the mirror, I would

> ask, was it time to color my hair? Or not? My mom nearly destroyed her hair

> in those parlors. So, I eventually made my own choice—to simply let it be.

> >

> > I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I

> both our own quiet glory.

> >

> > But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

> >

> > Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

> >

> > She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo. "

> >

> > She pauses. " Thank you, " she says. " That was a nice picture of all of

> you. "

> >

> > I'm happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have

> been thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

> >

> > I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. " A wig? "

> I croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each

> wig perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade

> of blonde.

> >

> > I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned

> to camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity

> with a wig, too.

> >

> > It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she

> says, too late.

> >

> > " Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why

> you think I need a wig. "

> >

> > " Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just

> like your hair. "

> >

> > I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if

> she wants to give me a duplicate.

> >

> > But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that

> looks just like the hair I already have? "

> >

> > She's fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly!

> Isn't it cold there in winter? "

> >

> > " In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

> >

> > Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the

> climate argument is worth pursuing.

> >

> > " People out here in Washington wear wigs, " she offers. " They are nice

> and warm. "

> >

> > I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

> >

> > " People wear them like hats, " she insists.

> >

> > Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing

> so hard. Where are we going with this?

> >

> > " Really mom, " I say, " You have created the weirdest fashion

> picture--everyone in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

> >

> > We're both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not

> easy to stop.

> >

> > Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a

> hat? " I say. Surely she'll agree with that.

> >

> > " Oh my God, I can't believe you're so unaware, " she says. " A good hat

> costs money! "

> >

> > My laughter won't let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us

> to give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

> >

> > (If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to

> sport my gray hair. Until then, I'll have to be comfortable for us both.)

> >

> >

[Guest guest]

V.S.! This is beautiful story telling. I really enjoyed reading it. This is

QUINTESSENTIAL nada behavior. I have an interpretation, take it for what it's

worth.

Whew! This is some very complicated bpd behavior that your nada is engaging in

here--but basically, she's failing to differentiate you from her, yet at the

same time splitting you black and trying to project her terrors about her

appearance onto you, and she is also trying to 'mask' the abuse she commits, and

then in the end she gets so terrified of splitting *herself black for what she

has said to you, that she just starts getting crazy-argumentative and

delusional.

Almost every conversation I ever had with my nada that involved the subject of

my appearance, went exactly like this one. She would try to tell me I had

yellow teeth, fungus toenails, I was fat, I had bad makeup, I had 'clown'

shoes--whatever she was insecure about, a mixture of merging and/or splitting me

black (sometimes in the same conversation). So I am naueseatingly familiar with

this dynamic.

The central statement in this conversation, and the only one that nada *really

means, is that she wants to buy you a wig. You have to translate that, though,

because it's in nada-language: in non-bpd language, it means, you look

terrifyingly unattractive in that hairstyle because I think *I would look

terrifyingly, disgustingly ugly with it, and so you must be cured of this

'deformity'.

There are alternate interpretations though in which your nada is not attempting

to merge with you, but simply to project everything that she fears is

unattractive about herself onto you. In that case, she does not want to merge

with you by offering the wig and connecting the two of you, but to *harm you by

making you take the discomfort she herself feels about her own hair, which the

picture might have somehow prompted her to do. (I apologize if I'm not being

very articulate tonight.) It's complicated, so complicated because in one

breath nadas can be trying to merge with, be one with and worship a child, yet

in the same action or a split second later, also be trying to split black or

abuse the child by compulsively insulting them, either to project their own

insecurities and fears, or also sometimes because they have some narcissist in

them and just enjoy making the kid hurt.

So whatever the nada-version of the REASON, my point is that she was trying to

do something by offering the wig that she KNEW was wrong--whether it was too

much merging, projection, or compulsive harm. She knew it was wrong. That's

why she tried to back track. She needed to try and mask it and claim she hadn't

said anything reprehensible to you, said anything to you that anyone could

perceive as being intentionally harmful. (That's exactly what it was. She

either intended to be you instead of you, or make you take her pain and hurt, or

make you hurt just to give her a rush--ALL of which are wrong, which she sould

sense on some subconscious level.)

So, right away, she said your hair looked pretty to try and mask what she'd just

done--see, she didn't say you were unattractive, no no, she just said, your hair

looks pretty! That was a lie. The part about wanting to get you a wig was the

true part.

All the rest of the ridiculous, humorous stuff is just her grasping at some

elements of reality trying to deny that what she's just said to you was actually

bad or harmful. That it's cold and people wear wigs as hats? This shows she

didn't mean you need a wig to cover your hair. (It's a lie--that's exactly what

she meant, and she knew it was wrong, so she is trying to fog both of you over

so she can prevent from splitting herself black. Nada's can't do anything

wrong, they would burst into flames.)

Oh yes. So MANY conversations! I remember the back-peddling well. Epic poems

could be written about this. Unfortunately for me it's not humorous though--my

nada was obsessed with attempting to make me feel disgustingly unattractive, and

the backpedaling was always done after terrible zingers indicating I was truly

gros and hideous, and after those, no amount of back-pedaling would make me feel

like laughing.

--Charlie

>

>

> I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I both

our own quiet glory.

>

> But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

>

> Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

>

> She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo. "

>

> She pauses. " Thank you, " she says. " That was a nice picture of all of you. "

>

> I'm happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have been

thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

>

> I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. " A wig? " I

croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each wig

perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade of

blonde.

>

> I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned to

camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity with a

wig, too.

>

> It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she

says, too late.

>

> " Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why you

think I need a wig. "

>

> " Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just like your

hair. "

>

> I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if she

wants to give me a duplicate.

>

> But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that looks

just like the hair I already have? "

>

> She's fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly! Isn't it

cold there in winter? "

>

> " In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

>

> Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the climate

argument is worth pursuing.

>

> " People out here in Washington wear wigs, " she offers. " They are nice and

warm. "

>

> I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

>

> " People wear them like hats, " she insists.

>

> Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing so

hard. Where are we going with this?

>

> " Really mom, " I say, " You have created the weirdest fashion picture--everyone

in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

>

> We're both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not easy to

stop.

>

> Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a hat? "

I say. Surely she'll agree with that.

>

> " Oh my God, I can't believe you're so unaware, " she says. " A good hat costs

money! "

>

> My laughter won't let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us to

give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

>

> (If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to sport

my gray hair. Until then, I'll have to be comfortable for us both.)

>

>

[Guest guest]

The thing is, if I was attractive, somehow it meant my nada was

unattractive. And if I was unattractive, some how that meant she WAS

attractive.

It's weird, because it seems pretty obvious we could both be totally butt

ugly at the same time. Or vice versa. But really, when she was in charge of

my grooming we were BOTH butt ugly.

On Wed, Nov 30, 2011 at 8:36 PM, charlottehoneychurch <

charlottehoneychurch@...> wrote:

> **

>

>

> V.S.! This is beautiful story telling. I really enjoyed reading it. This

> is QUINTESSENTIAL nada behavior. I have an interpretation, take it for what

> it's worth.

>

> Whew! This is some very complicated bpd behavior that your nada is

> engaging in here--but basically, she's failing to differentiate you from

> her, yet at the same time splitting you black and trying to project her

> terrors about her appearance onto you, and she is also trying to 'mask' the

> abuse she commits, and then in the end she gets so terrified of splitting

> *herself black for what she has said to you, that she just starts getting

> crazy-argumentative and delusional.

>

> Almost every conversation I ever had with my nada that involved the

> subject of my appearance, went exactly like this one. She would try to tell

> me I had yellow teeth, fungus toenails, I was fat, I had bad makeup, I had

> 'clown' shoes--whatever she was insecure about, a mixture of merging and/or

> splitting me black (sometimes in the same conversation). So I am

> naueseatingly familiar with this dynamic.

>

> The central statement in this conversation, and the only one that nada

> *really means, is that she wants to buy you a wig. You have to translate

> that, though, because it's in nada-language: in non-bpd language, it means,

> you look terrifyingly unattractive in that hairstyle because I think *I

> would look terrifyingly, disgustingly ugly with it, and so you must be

> cured of this 'deformity'.

>

> There are alternate interpretations though in which your nada is not

> attempting to merge with you, but simply to project everything that she

> fears is unattractive about herself onto you. In that case, she does not

> want to merge with you by offering the wig and connecting the two of you,

> but to *harm you by making you take the discomfort she herself feels about

> her own hair, which the picture might have somehow prompted her to do. (I

> apologize if I'm not being very articulate tonight.) It's complicated, so

> complicated because in one breath nadas can be trying to merge with, be one

> with and worship a child, yet in the same action or a split second later,

> also be trying to split black or abuse the child by compulsively insulting

> them, either to project their own insecurities and fears, or also sometimes

> because they have some narcissist in them and just enjoy making the kid

> hurt.

>

> So whatever the nada-version of the REASON, my point is that she was

> trying to do something by offering the wig that she KNEW was wrong--whether

> it was too much merging, projection, or compulsive harm. She knew it was

> wrong. That's why she tried to back track. She needed to try and mask it

> and claim she hadn't said anything reprehensible to you, said anything to

> you that anyone could perceive as being intentionally harmful. (That's

> exactly what it was. She either intended to be you instead of you, or make

> you take her pain and hurt, or make you hurt just to give her a rush--ALL

> of which are wrong, which she sould sense on some subconscious level.)

>

> So, right away, she said your hair looked pretty to try and mask what

> she'd just done--see, she didn't say you were unattractive, no no, she just

> said, your hair looks pretty! That was a lie. The part about wanting to get

> you a wig was the true part.

>

> All the rest of the ridiculous, humorous stuff is just her grasping at

> some elements of reality trying to deny that what she's just said to you

> was actually bad or harmful. That it's cold and people wear wigs as hats?

> This shows she didn't mean you need a wig to cover your hair. (It's a

> lie--that's exactly what she meant, and she knew it was wrong, so she is

> trying to fog both of you over so she can prevent from splitting herself

> black. Nada's can't do anything wrong, they would burst into flames.)

>

> Oh yes. So MANY conversations! I remember the back-peddling well. Epic

> poems could be written about this. Unfortunately for me it's not humorous

> though--my nada was obsessed with attempting to make me feel disgustingly

> unattractive, and the backpedaling was always done after terrible zingers

> indicating I was truly gros and hideous, and after those, no amount of

> back-pedaling would make me feel like laughing.

>

> --Charlie

>

>

>

> >

>

> >

> > I like to think that, by now, self-acceptance has allowed my mom and I

> both our own quiet glory.

> >

> > But my photo not only spoke its thousand words: it prompted a response.

> >

> > Shortly after Kathy leaves, the phone rings. I pick it up. It is mom.

> >

> > She gets right to her point. " I received your Christmas photo. "

> >

> > She pauses. " Thank you, " she says. " That was a nice picture of all of

> you. "

> >

> > I'm happily surprised. Then she drops the bombshell. " You know I have

> been thinking, I'd like to buy you a wig. "

> >

> > I am at the kitchen sink and I almost drop a knife on my foot. " A wig? "

> I croak, already laughing in recognition. I imagine her closet, with each

> wig perched atop a white Styrofoam face. To mom, I should still be a shade

> of blonde.

> >

> > I can empathize. Her gray was such an issue of concern that she learned

> to camouflage it with wigs. So she wants to protect her daughter's dignity

> with a wig, too.

> >

> > It is awhile before mom speaks again. " Your hair looks really nice, " she

> says, too late.

> >

> > " Yeah right, mom, " I snort. I'm really laughing now. " That must be why

> you think I need a wig. "

> >

> > " Oh, Vicki, really, " she protests. " I saw some wigs that look just

> like your hair. "

> >

> > I know she is trying hard not to offend me. My hair MUST look nice if

> she wants to give me a duplicate.

> >

> > But, smart aleck that I am, I have to ask, " Why would I need a wig that

> looks just like the hair I already have? "

> >

> > She's fast with her retort. " Well, your head isn't covered properly!

> Isn't it cold there in winter? "

> >

> > " In New York state, yes. But Mom, I live in Georgia. "

> >

> > Maybe because we share the same Plant Hardiness Zone, she decides the

> climate argument is worth pursuing.

> >

> > " People out here in Washington wear wigs, " she offers. " They are nice

> and warm. "

> >

> > I protest. " But a wig isn't a hat. "

> >

> > " People wear them like hats, " she insists.

> >

> > Now, I have turned off the water and am holding my side, I am laughing

> so hard. Where are we going with this?

> >

> > " Really mom, " I say, " You have created the weirdest fashion

> picture--everyone in Seattle wearing a wig like a hat! "

> >

> > We're both speechless and my side hurts. The laughter at my end is not

> easy to stop.

> >

> > Finally I can speak again. " Isn't a wig a bit expensive to be used for a

> hat? " I say. Surely she'll agree with that.

> >

> > " Oh my God, I can't believe you're so unaware, " she says. " A good hat

> costs money! "

> >

> > My laughter won't let me even try to top that. It is time for both of us

> to give up our attempts to hold our own in this discussion of hair.

> >

> > (If only Mom could learn to laugh at her discomfort with my choice to

> sport my gray hair. Until then, I'll have to be comfortable for us both.)

> >

> >

[Guest guest]

Charlie , Writermanque and all who commented,

I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Not only did I get to laugh again and

again as I read your " takes " on the story, I now can use the story as a teaching

tool.

I am going to share with therapist next week, as I consider how to make my way

through the maze in my next conversation with nada.

I think nada has me shut out, not for this conversation (which actually happened

a few years ago), but because she has painted me black, again.

I'd have to backtrack to figure out what it could be about, THIS time. I

frankly don't have time to figure it out. It is too nice outside today!

Best,