Story #42

I was adopted. I always knew that. It was a part of who I was. The urban folklore in the wealthy suburb in which I was raised tells that I was left on a doorstep when I was 9 mos old and wasn't adopted until I was 3 yrs old. I don't know about the rest of the world, but I actually remember being 3 yrs old. That first Christmas with "the new family" just weeks after being adopted, feeling alone, unwanted, unloved, listening to everyone else having a good time because they all knew each other, being the outsider, not fitting in. Most folks I know can't seem to remember before age 10 or so.

I've read some of the stories here and I sit here wondering how I ended up with BPD. I wasn't sexually abused. I don't think I suffered any traumatic stressors. Perhaps my therapist is right - maybe BPD *is* genetic. Either way, I did manage to find a few commonalities.

As I said, I was raised in a wealthy suburb where everything was perfect - the lawn, the car, the house, the decor, the family, the child. I grew up with "children should be seen, not heard" and "don't ask for what you want, wait for it to be offered to you." I grew up with an absent father who was constantly working to keep up with the Jonses. I grew up at the hands of a mother who was extremely jealous of me because she had five miscarriages and resented the hell out of my father bringing home an adorable little girl, personality formed, to make Insta-Family. I was renamed Joy because I was "the joy of (my dad's) life" and boy did I suffer for it.

If I played with the dog the wrong way, at age six, I was made to write out "I will not tease the dog" one hundred times. If I dared complain I was bored or there was nothing to do, I was given a comb and made to comb out the fringe on ALL of the oriental rugs in the house. If she determined I was getting underfoot, I had the thrill of alphabetizing the canned goods at age 11.

Look out when I rebelled against my teacher mother (but not mine nor at my school) by not turning in 18 homework assignments in fourth grade. I got the wooden, spiked meat tenderizer applied to my butt - 18 times on each side. Boy, was I howling but that only got me "If you don't knock it off, young lady, I'll REALLY give you something to cry about!"

Many years later, she and I had a lengthy discussion on neutral turf when I was about 19 wherein she admitted her jealousy, admitted she was a horrible mother & never should have been a mother and that I was taken from a home that had more love than the one I was brought into. It meant a lot to hear those words but it didn't stop who or how I was.

Even though most of the physical and emotional damage came at my mother's hands, my dad absolutely adored me and because of that and the town environment, I tried SO hard to be perfect so I could get his love - not his gifts. When I was a sophomore, he was headed to Parent-Teacher conferences at the private, Catholic, all-girls high school I attended and he asked me what grades should he expect. Trying to hedge my bets, I underestimated on purpose so that, just in case, hopefully, when he saw higher grades, he'd be really proud of me. Boy, did THAT backfire! He started screaming at me about all the money I was wasting at the school that he didn't really have but he busted his butt to make sure that I didn't lack for anything, yadda, yadda, yadda.

He stormed out and I lost it. I agonized, sobbed, wailed, moaned for an hour before I took the bottle of (whatever headache pills were in the cabinet.) And then I got scared, called a friend, had her mom take me to the hospital, swallowed whatever that brown goop was & spent the rest of the night barfing.

That wasn't my first bout with suicidal feelings. I, like someone else mentioned in their story, was double promoted. I started kindergarten early & skipped second grade because ... ready for this ... my mom had done the same thing. I was being drilled on multiplication flash cards at age 5 and punished when I got them wrong. Because of the acceleration, I was always the youngest in class, the freak, the oddball. It's painful to walk into the third grade classroom and have everyone stare at you because they just KNOW you're a freak and you're seriously intimidated by all the older kids and don't know any of them.

It's hard to start high school at age 12 and still be the tallest one in your grade. It's even more idiotic to think that someone would be ready to go away to college at 16 - which I, of course, screwed up royally, flunked out in three semesters and wasted $10,000 of dad's money - which, as I was reminded, he didn't have but he busted his butt to make sure I was never wanting for anything. Talk about growing up with guilt complexes on top of perfection expectations - no damn wonder I'm a neurotic mess!

Along the way, I managed to battle alcohol addiction, sex addiction and food addictions. The DUI at 19 helped me sober up. Waking up on my 21st birthday with some guy, that ordinarily would have repulsed me, helped me stop sleazing around - although at age 28, I've been with less men than my age but only because of two relationships lasting 6 yrs wherein I was with only one person. The food addiction was addressed during a rotten experience with an HMO that decided, after ten psychiatrist sessions, I was "cured" but they recommended ongoing group therapy in OA (Overeater's Anonymous.) That was a joke! I figured out at those meetings that there was WAY MORE to my problems than just substituting food for feelings.

As I was waiting to for my wedding ceremony to begin in 1994, I can still feeling that I should be nervous, reminding myself that there wasn't anything to be nervous about because I didn't really love or care about him. And yet, I married him anyway because it was what was expected. We were a GREAT co-dependent couple! I was the steamroller, he was the doormat. My wish was his command. We were both passive-aggressive to the Nth degree. It was doomed to fail. I joke about it now but it took us a year and $45,000 to get married - 60 days and $600 to get divorced.

Nope, no kids, thank god. Since I was 12, I've always known that I'd never have kids. I'm too messed up to do justice to an innocent child. And then there's the whole "I don't really LIKE children" thing. Seriously, this decision is probably the best thing I'll ever do in my life - save a life.

Oh, along the way, I've made just about the worst decision I could possibly make and still be alive. I've chosen to be with the wrong men as punishment to myself for being imperfect. I've quit jobs without having another lined up and almost ended up homeless. I've been fired from more than one job because of my temper and impulsivity - neither of which are good in Human Resources. I've made financial management decisions that led to bankruptcy. I've up and moved three times trying to chase down happiness in the hands of another - failing to realize that I could run away from the situation but never from myself.

There are days when the only reason I'm alive is because of my dog - he doesn't care for strangers and if I died, he'd be put to sleep because no shelter would be able to place him. I place my entire existence on that little guy's head and rarely do I decide to live because I WANT to.

I've never been a cutter. I don't get into the physical self-abuse. I'm more emotionally self-destructive. I test every single person in my life. I allow VERY few people into my inner circle. Lord help them once I do because I test the hell out of them. I have been manipulative, lied, cheated, stolen, snooped, spied, stalked ... you name it.

I've spent twenty-five years learning to be the perfect BPD. I just got diagnosed with what I call "BPD x 2" - bi-polar and borderline - about two months ago. It was a blessing to know what was/is wrong with me. It's been a saving grace to know that I'm not the only nut bar in the world. It's nice to know that "I have reason to be."

I still battle the black-and-white thinking. I still battle my abandonment & rejection demons. I still have mood swings, although not as severe thanks to the meds. I still am impulsive and temperamental. I still expect myself to be perfect and beat myself up beyond recognition when I fall short of the mark.

BUT, as my therapist equated it, one can't go from couch potato to Olympic-class athlete overnight. I can't wipe away 25 yrs of learning, practicing and perfecting in two months. I recognize my BPD traits more and more now that I know what they are. I am TRYING to re-train how I operate. I am TRYING very hard but at the same time, each time I stumble during my training, I hurt people I deeply care about tremendously. It gets discouraging and it helps to know that there is at least ONE person in my life that is there for me consistently - my therapist.

However, I recognize that the insurance may change, circumstances are fluid, life is filled with chance and change - I could lose that at a moment's notice. I need to get to the point where I can do this on my own.

As I'm writing this, my life is in a gray area right now. My relationship which is almost at the one year mark is in serious jeopardy. I love, respect, cherish, admire and enjoy this man tremendously but he's made it clear that my unpredictability and impulsivity is driving him nuts. He's taking time to figure out if he wants to invest any more of himself in this. Three months ago, I would have been climbing the walls, gotten drunker than a skunk & gone out driving, or been threatening suicide.

*I* am seeing improvements in myself insofar as I'm not doing ANY of those things. I'm calm and somewhat accepting of the situation. I've made my feelings and desires clear to him but have accepted that he may very well come back to me say "I've had it, no more." IF that happens, I'll deal with it then. I won't over-analyze this, as is common in BPD. I'm learning, but slowly. And it's the slowly part that's driving him nuts.

Oh well, that's my story "and I'm stickin' to it!" I DO believe there is hope. I DO believe we CAN overcome BPD. I DO believe that, given the right therapist, the right support system, the will, desire and determination to overcome BPD and become who we want to be, we CAN be better. We CAN be world-class hurdlers in our own right.

As I'm fond of saying of late ... "it ain't easy bein' green."