I just finished reading The Buddha & The Borderline, a memoir by Kiera Van Gelder. I can’t recall ever relating so completely with an author.
Dialectical Behavior Therapy
Buddhism
Already practicing mindfulness and meditation, though admittedly more often is always helpful.
How could what I’ve been experiencing my whole life be told by someone else? Different specifics, same circumstances. Over and over. Deeply painful.
There’s a Buddhist temple here in town. I’ve been wanting to visit since we moved here over 5 years ago. There’s no reason I haven’t yet, except for just not doing it.
When I was a teenager I was certain my mother had bipolar disease. I’m wondering if she’s a borderline. I wonder if she has effects of fetal alcohol syndrome. I wonder what pain she’s suffered because of her mental illness. I know I’ll wonder this forever. She’s too afraid to talk about it, too defensive, certain of harsh judgement, consumed with shame.
So many times I needed her to have comforted me, provided me with guidance through loving kindness rather than fear of terrible consequences.
Try as I might, and oh my god do I try, I too revert to those negative parenting styles when I’m stressed and out of patience. I’m working so hard on trying to get better.
The challenge of being who you want, who you truly are, can be insurmountable without something or someone mirroring back the possibility in you.
I’ve lived in fear for so long. I decided to say Fuck Fear when I turned forty. And I ended up moving halfway across the country. This is where I’m meant to be.
Anything is possible. The unexpected can be incredible. Just gotta take those deep breaths and keep looking for the light.
I’ve always been the wrong person for the persons I’m around.
When I was seventeen, I was sitting next to my boyfriend. He got pissed at me about something and knocked me with his knuckles on top of my head. This same guy once asked me if I knew what kind of stuff he had to listen to from other guys at school about the kind of girl I was. Like he was some fucking hero for being with me despite my reputation. Yeah, this guy who fucked me everywhere and anywhere he could. Ok for him, not so ok for me. What a lucky girl I was to have him tolerate me.
I’m almost three decades older now and the man with whom I share my bed and life feels objectified whenever I touch him sexually. Still the wrong person for the persons I’m around. He loves me. He just doesn’t love me like that…
A failure every day at parenting a child who needs and deserves more than I’m capable of providing. Beyond those shortcomings, living with the awareness that my limitations and damage from personal trauma not only makes me a terrible candidate for motherhood, it practically guarantees I will keep fucking this up to a point that is irrecoverable.
Too loud. Too emotional. Too angry. Too raw. Too needy. Too crass. Too much. All my life. Rejected from those expected to love me.
And I’m told by others that I’m too hard on myself.
Really?? It’s me.
A lifetime of being trashed when I expose myself. And the idiotic optimist inside believing each day, each person, each time it will be different. It’s not.
Still too much. Always too much. Even for myself.
I’ll never be able to fully separate all the lies from truth. There were so many ways he belittled me while making himself appear to be without fault.
Looking back, I understand now, at least in part, why he was so cruel. He must have been mistreated terribly when he was young by those who should have loved him. He was also mean in spirit. That combination made being his child a living nightmare.
There’s one lie in particular that still makes me cry because of the magnitude of his brutality and the deeply personal aspect of it. If what he said were true, there was absolutely nothing in my power to change it.
I remember we were outside on that sunny day. Not sure if we were washing his yellow pickup truck, but I remember standing next to it when he looked down at me. I must have been 8 or 9 years old. I had always loved my daddy’s blue eyes. I wonder if he knew that. If so, it would make his next statement even more vile.
Without a hint of humor, he told me people with blue eyes were smarter than people with brown eyes. Then he watched me to see my reaction as I processed this information. Over the years, he would repeat this statement several times. I suppose it was his way of exerting dominance and superiority while making sure I viewed myself as inferior.
Parents hold all the power over their children. What they say, we believe to be true. And this ‘fact’ has had a devastating effect on me. Despite my knowing eye color doesn’t determine intelligence, it’s impossible to erase his words and intention. I can still hear his voice and see the smirk on his face.
We all say things we regret. We all can be unintentionally cruel. When that happens, our apologies help heal the wounds, but do not erase the scars. When there’s never an apology made because the words were deliberate, the hurt takes hold deep inside.
He told me so many lies. I didn’t deserve that. No one does. I have beautiful brown eyes. Although I struggle, I’m not stupid.
And I still love blue eyes the most…
I’m not strong enough yet to withstand the ridicule.
I’m getting stronger though. Some days I feel a lot stronger than before. Other days I’m a heaping pile of mess.
Today I decided to choose freedom. I put on my purple bob wig. Looked at myself in the mirror and had a heartfelt pep talk.
I told myself I was free to express all the feelings I have. I could be happy, snarky, fun, honest. With this purple flair I could let go of the role I feel I need to play every day. Let go of judgment. Be me. Safe in my home.
I sat down in my office to begin self-expression through words. You walked by and began laughing. Hysterically.
I appreciate your honesty. I’d rather have that than pretending to be accepted when I’m not. How my heart wishes you saw me differently. Wishes you truly embraced my realness the way you say you do.
You tolerate me because it’s “the right thing to do”. Sometimes I feel safe in that space. It’s a far better place than I’ve known.
But with the ugliness of ridicule comes shame. The only thing I could do was pull the wig from my head as the tears began to flow.
Not really safe after all.
Not strong enough to say fuck off, this is me. Take me or leave me. Doesn’t matter if you get me. Doesn’t matter.
Because it does. It still matters. I still need to be what other people want me to be or I will be mocked, laughed at, misunderstood.
I can’t remember a time in my life when I felt accepted.
And when someone is alone. Like no friends, no deep family connections, not even a casual acquaintance to talk with, how in the world is anyone supposed to be strong enough to not crumble?
I want to believe I’ll get there. Feels like I’m a long way away from it…..
just don't expect a fairly tale.
