Challenges, Challenges

[Guest guest]

Having asked you all to identify your biggest challenges, I found I had more

than I realized. Some will echo ones that you shared here.

I appreciate how your thoughts triggered my own reflections. And the following

essay seems to be the first fruit:

In the Wake of BPD

There is one challenge so rich and broad it's carried me from birth to where I

am now-- the challenge of being my mother’s daughter. I have told so many

stories about my mom over the years, you’d think that I’d be over her by now.

Just as Leonardo Di Vinci did his meticulous study of horses, each time learning

from his mistakes, living with a mother with borderline personality disorder,

requires its own careful study. I continue telling my stories in order that I

may never forget the special power of a bad example.

I guess I am testimony that a daughter might never really “get over” her mom,

especially when the mother has a personality disorder. It is possible to have

the pain safely contained, all healed, but with some parents, the pain can be

activated in seconds, with just certain words, the right look.

I only ever wanted us to share our hard-won wisdoms, but this was not to be. To

mom, my life was no struggle compared to hers. She could not stop comparing us

and finding me falling continually short of her dreams.

Now I know I was simply used as a mirror, by a person who did not dare look

closely at themselves. Especially confusing to me because I look just like her.

For many years I was perfectly willing to be in this role. I was developing the

imagination of the writer who incubated huge ideas that took years to grow into.

It was fascinating to know her story, and imagine where my place was in it. But

staying connected with my mom required stubborness and constant work to heal

scars from being picked at. Finally, a few years ago, I stopped praising her

inwardly for surviving her own war-told childhood, when I realized she had made

me a permanent part of her battle, instead. I finally gave up trying to take my

mom on my healing journey, stopped trying to share my victories, help rest her

troubled spirit.

It took me years to get to this point. I was conscious of this journey as a very

young woman, and even as a small child.

My first challenge as a child was to have a self. I incubated that self out of

the view of my mom, where it could not be criticized, teased or endlessly fixed.

In her eyes, I would forever be clumsy, lazy, selfish. Stubborn, And lucky. Luck

was the word most often used to describe my successes. I knew better. I knew my

luck came from came from that quiet preparation and rehearsal of my dreams. And

then the wild leap made towards hope—towards coming out of my many shells.

My second challenge was to love myself even as I was told that there was

something the matter with me. What sticks out most prominently in my memory are

those times I was made to wear pink dresses and could never stay clean in them.

It was when I saw this truth, that I realized those pink dresses did not honor

who I was.

So I find it ironic that I was constantly compared to other children, who grew

up in homes where excellence was lived and shared, not demanded.

Fortunately, unlike many children of borderline parents, my closest friends

always believed me when I tried to end my suffering by sharing what life was

like behind the upper middle class façade of our two-story balconied house,

where I often felt myself to be a prisoner. Emotionally.

In my environment of comparison and criticism, I learned to keep my opinions to

myself , incubate them in private until I was ready to voice them and fight for

my right to be who I was.

My third challenge was to keep questioning, even when questioning resulted in

punishment. I took a stance for the absolute necessity of questions. I shared

the questions with my kid brother, so that he would find his own answers after I

left him on his own when I left home at eighteen.

Leaving home would be the biggest challenge of my life. Not only did this

action mean leaving my kid brother to fend for himself, it meant believing in

myself even though I had been told for forever that I would become a stranger

once I grew up, and that I would be nobody without my mother.

Fortunately I had friends who told me other truths about myself. Of course it

was a risk to believe them at a time when I did not know my full self-worth. My

mother tried to separate me even from those friends, because of her fears. When

I left home, and went to college to challenge all of my demons and all of my

fears of failure and success.

I married my life partner before my thirtieth birthday. Within short years, I

was transported thousands of miles away and began a family of my own, without

help of extended family.

Creating a safe home and emotional security for my own child, out of the

less-than-adequate skills learned in childhood was my next big challenge.

When Barack Obama won the election, I would I learn that the raw material of my

childhood likely contained the seeds of borderline personality disorder. That

is when I would look in the mirror and pray that each of my small victories had

prevented the seeds from bearing fruit in my own home.

Love is consistent. It does not see a person as wonderful one day and black and

threatening the next. Love is kind. I had never really known kind of love that

did not have a sharp edge hidden in the soft pillow.

As for my loving my mom, that will have to develop new roots. First, I've had

to let go of the dream that I could ever earn my mother’s love; if it were

really love it would not need to be earned.

Just as Obama was encouraging us to believe, Yes We Can, I was realizing that I

could never be the daughter that spoke of an unqualified and reciprocal love for

her mother.

The challenge of facing the diagnosis and prognosis for my mom’s untreated

borderline personality disorder was a bit like doing a 180 degree turn in open

waters, steering a big ship, when the captain suddenly puts you at the wheel

The biggest relief is realizing there is a name for the disorder and others like

you have grown up with it. And that we each can and do learn to steer where we

really need to go.

My dream—its golden challenge that takes me beyond any vision I have yet had, is

to see myself at last for who I am, unfettered by the need to please anyone but

myself, my dearest fellow travelers, and a loving Higher Power.

[Guest guest]

Wonderful writing ! I can relate to so much of what you wrote this part

" Love is consistent. It does not see a person as wonderful one day and black and

threatening the next. Love is kind. I had never really known kind of love that

did not have a sharp edge hidden in the soft pillow. "

speaks of the sad truth of my experience of mother love.

>

> Having asked you all to identify your biggest challenges, I found I had more

than I realized. Some will echo ones that you shared here.

>

> I appreciate how your thoughts triggered my own reflections. And the following

essay seems to be the first fruit:

>

> In the Wake of BPD

>

> There is one challenge so rich and broad it's carried me from birth to where I

am now-- the challenge of being my mother's daughter. I have told so many

stories about my mom over the years, you'd think that I'd be over her by now.

>

> Just as Leonardo Di Vinci did his meticulous study of horses, each time

learning from his mistakes, living with a mother with borderline personality

disorder, requires its own careful study. I continue telling my stories in order

that I may never forget the special power of a bad example.

>

> I guess I am testimony that a daughter might never really " get over " her mom,

especially when the mother has a personality disorder. It is possible to have

the pain safely contained, all healed, but with some parents, the pain can be

activated in seconds, with just certain words, the right look.

>

> I only ever wanted us to share our hard-won wisdoms, but this was not to be.

To mom, my life was no struggle compared to hers. She could not stop comparing

us and finding me falling continually short of her dreams.

>

> Now I know I was simply used as a mirror, by a person who did not dare look

closely at themselves. Especially confusing to me because I look just like her.

>

> For many years I was perfectly willing to be in this role. I was developing

the imagination of the writer who incubated huge ideas that took years to grow

into. It was fascinating to know her story, and imagine where my place was in

it. But staying connected with my mom required stubborness and constant work to

heal scars from being picked at. Finally, a few years ago, I stopped praising

her inwardly for surviving her own war-told childhood, when I realized she had

made me a permanent part of her battle, instead. I finally gave up trying to

take my mom on my healing journey, stopped trying to share my victories, help

rest her troubled spirit.

>

> It took me years to get to this point. I was conscious of this journey as a

very young woman, and even as a small child.

>

> My first challenge as a child was to have a self. I incubated that self out of

the view of my mom, where it could not be criticized, teased or endlessly fixed.

In her eyes, I would forever be clumsy, lazy, selfish. Stubborn, And lucky. Luck

was the word most often used to describe my successes. I knew better. I knew my

luck came from came from that quiet preparation and rehearsal of my dreams. And

then the wild leap made towards hope—towards coming out of my many shells.

>

> My second challenge was to love myself even as I was told that there was

something the matter with me. What sticks out most prominently in my memory are

those times I was made to wear pink dresses and could never stay clean in them.

It was when I saw this truth, that I realized those pink dresses did not honor

who I was.

>

> So I find it ironic that I was constantly compared to other children, who grew

up in homes where excellence was lived and shared, not demanded.

>

> Fortunately, unlike many children of borderline parents, my closest friends

always believed me when I tried to end my suffering by sharing what life was

like behind the upper middle class façade of our two-story balconied house,

where I often felt myself to be a prisoner. Emotionally.

>

> In my environment of comparison and criticism, I learned to keep my opinions

to myself , incubate them in private until I was ready to voice them and fight

for my right to be who I was.

>

> My third challenge was to keep questioning, even when questioning resulted in

punishment. I took a stance for the absolute necessity of questions. I shared

the questions with my kid brother, so that he would find his own answers after I

left him on his own when I left home at eighteen.

>

> Leaving home would be the biggest challenge of my life. Not only did this

action mean leaving my kid brother to fend for himself, it meant believing in

myself even though I had been told for forever that I would become a stranger

once I grew up, and that I would be nobody without my mother.

>

> Fortunately I had friends who told me other truths about myself. Of course it

was a risk to believe them at a time when I did not know my full self-worth. My

mother tried to separate me even from those friends, because of her fears. When

I left home, and went to college to challenge all of my demons and all of my

fears of failure and success.

>

> I married my life partner before my thirtieth birthday. Within short years, I

was transported thousands of miles away and began a family of my own, without

help of extended family.

>

> Creating a safe home and emotional security for my own child, out of the

less-than-adequate skills learned in childhood was my next big challenge.

>

> When Barack Obama won the election, I would I learn that the raw material of

my childhood likely contained the seeds of borderline personality disorder.

That is when I would look in the mirror and pray that each of my small victories

had prevented the seeds from bearing fruit in my own home.

>

> Love is consistent. It does not see a person as wonderful one day and black

and threatening the next. Love is kind. I had never really known kind of love

that did not have a sharp edge hidden in the soft pillow.

>

> As for my loving my mom, that will have to develop new roots. First, I've had

to let go of the dream that I could ever earn my mother's love; if it were

really love it would not need to be earned.

>

> Just as Obama was encouraging us to believe, Yes We Can, I was realizing that

I could never be the daughter that spoke of an unqualified and reciprocal love

for her mother.

>

> The challenge of facing the diagnosis and prognosis for my mom's untreated

borderline personality disorder was a bit like doing a 180 degree turn in open

waters, steering a big ship, when the captain suddenly puts you at the wheel

The biggest relief is realizing there is a name for the disorder and others like

you have grown up with it. And that we each can and do learn to steer where we

really need to go.

>

> My dream—its golden challenge that takes me beyond any vision I have yet had,

is to see myself at last for who I am, unfettered by the need to please anyone

but myself, my dearest fellow travelers, and a loving Higher Power.

>

>

>

>

[Guest guest]

I agree, really well-written and considered, . Thanks for sharing it

with us.

-Annie

> >

> > Having asked you all to identify your biggest challenges, I found I had more

than I realized. Some will echo ones that you shared here.

> >

> > I appreciate how your thoughts triggered my own reflections. And the

following essay seems to be the first fruit:

> >

> > In the Wake of BPD

> >

> > There is one challenge so rich and broad it's carried me from birth to where

I am now-- the challenge of being my mother's daughter. I have told so many

stories about my mom over the years, you'd think that I'd be over her by now.

> >

> > Just as Leonardo Di Vinci did his meticulous study of horses, each time

learning from his mistakes, living with a mother with borderline personality

disorder, requires its own careful study. I continue telling my stories in order

that I may never forget the special power of a bad example.

> >

> > I guess I am testimony that a daughter might never really " get over " her

mom, especially when the mother has a personality disorder. It is possible to

have the pain safely contained, all healed, but with some parents, the pain can

be activated in seconds, with just certain words, the right look.

> >

> > I only ever wanted us to share our hard-won wisdoms, but this was not to be.

To mom, my life was no struggle compared to hers. She could not stop comparing

us and finding me falling continually short of her dreams.

> >

> > Now I know I was simply used as a mirror, by a person who did not dare look

closely at themselves. Especially confusing to me because I look just like her.

> >

> > For many years I was perfectly willing to be in this role. I was developing

the imagination of the writer who incubated huge ideas that took years to grow

into. It was fascinating to know her story, and imagine where my place was in

it. But staying connected with my mom required stubborness and constant work to

heal scars from being picked at. Finally, a few years ago, I stopped praising

her inwardly for surviving her own war-told childhood, when I realized she had

made me a permanent part of her battle, instead. I finally gave up trying to

take my mom on my healing journey, stopped trying to share my victories, help

rest her troubled spirit.

> >

> > It took me years to get to this point. I was conscious of this journey as a

very young woman, and even as a small child.

> >

> > My first challenge as a child was to have a self. I incubated that self out

of the view of my mom, where it could not be criticized, teased or endlessly

fixed. In her eyes, I would forever be clumsy, lazy, selfish. Stubborn, And

lucky. Luck was the word most often used to describe my successes. I knew

better. I knew my luck came from came from that quiet preparation and rehearsal

of my dreams. And then the wild leap made towards hope—towards coming out of my

many shells.

> >

> > My second challenge was to love myself even as I was told that there was

something the matter with me. What sticks out most prominently in my memory are

those times I was made to wear pink dresses and could never stay clean in them.

It was when I saw this truth, that I realized those pink dresses did not honor

who I was.

> >

> > So I find it ironic that I was constantly compared to other children, who

grew up in homes where excellence was lived and shared, not demanded.

> >

> > Fortunately, unlike many children of borderline parents, my closest friends

always believed me when I tried to end my suffering by sharing what life was

like behind the upper middle class façade of our two-story balconied house,

where I often felt myself to be a prisoner. Emotionally.

> >

> > In my environment of comparison and criticism, I learned to keep my opinions

to myself , incubate them in private until I was ready to voice them and fight

for my right to be who I was.

> >

> > My third challenge was to keep questioning, even when questioning resulted

in punishment. I took a stance for the absolute necessity of questions. I

shared the questions with my kid brother, so that he would find his own answers

after I left him on his own when I left home at eighteen.

> >

> > Leaving home would be the biggest challenge of my life. Not only did this

action mean leaving my kid brother to fend for himself, it meant believing in

myself even though I had been told for forever that I would become a stranger

once I grew up, and that I would be nobody without my mother.

> >

> > Fortunately I had friends who told me other truths about myself. Of course

it was a risk to believe them at a time when I did not know my full self-worth.

My mother tried to separate me even from those friends, because of her fears.

When I left home, and went to college to challenge all of my demons and all of

my fears of failure and success.

> >

> > I married my life partner before my thirtieth birthday. Within short years,

I was transported thousands of miles away and began a family of my own, without

help of extended family.

> >

> > Creating a safe home and emotional security for my own child, out of the

less-than-adequate skills learned in childhood was my next big challenge.

> >

> > When Barack Obama won the election, I would I learn that the raw material of

my childhood likely contained the seeds of borderline personality disorder.

That is when I would look in the mirror and pray that each of my small victories

had prevented the seeds from bearing fruit in my own home.

> >

> > Love is consistent. It does not see a person as wonderful one day and black

and threatening the next. Love is kind. I had never really known kind of love

that did not have a sharp edge hidden in the soft pillow.

> >

> > As for my loving my mom, that will have to develop new roots. First, I've

had to let go of the dream that I could ever earn my mother's love; if it were

really love it would not need to be earned.

> >

> > Just as Obama was encouraging us to believe, Yes We Can, I was realizing

that I could never be the daughter that spoke of an unqualified and reciprocal

love for her mother.

> >

> > The challenge of facing the diagnosis and prognosis for my mom's untreated

borderline personality disorder was a bit like doing a 180 degree turn in open

waters, steering a big ship, when the captain suddenly puts you at the wheel

The biggest relief is realizing there is a name for the disorder and others like

you have grown up with it. And that we each can and do learn to steer where we

really need to go.

> >

> > My dream—its golden challenge that takes me beyond any vision I have yet

had, is to see myself at last for who I am, unfettered by the need to please

anyone but myself, my dearest fellow travelers, and a loving Higher Power.

> >

> >

> >

> >