BPDFamily.com

One of the hallmarks of BPD (as I understand it) is the tendency of the BPD person to live in the past, not the present.

My dBPD mom died last November. My youngest sister and I have a middle sister.  Our middle has end-stage kidney disease (dialysis 3x week), lupus, diabetes, CHF, and (as if that wasn't enough) is bipolar. My mom was our middle sister's source of help and support.  Since our mother's sudden passing late last year, my sister and I have spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours taking care of our 45 year old sister while my father has been sitting on the sidelines doing nothing.

We have been trying to get my uBPD father to take responsibility.  So far no luck. I sent him an email several weeks ago challenging him to step up and do the right thing. He will not open his wallet despite his ability to do so.  Instead, he responds with recriminations about the past.  

I emailed him this morning that I had ordered a book for him on Amazon that had been suggested to me by a friend of his called "Love is Letting Go of Fear" https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/158761118X/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o01_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1 (https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/158761118X/ref=oh_aui_detailpage_o01_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1).  The book is all about how to live in the present.  It's a wonderful book.  I highly recommend it.

Of course, my father derided the book.  He responded "as far as the book recommended by Mitch, I would think that if you got anything out of it there would be something to show for it. Sadly, it appears that you need me as a parent only when there is a dollar sign involved."

Classic BPD.  My younger sister and I do not need his financial assistance. Our middle sister does.  

And the point of the book is to let go of the past and live in the present which he refuses to do.

I read the following poem at my mother's funeral.  It's called "To Live out the Gift" and it is by Mark Nepo www.marknepo.com/ (http://www.marknepo.com/).  My dad was there but he obviously was not listening.

Some are born to yes,

and some to no.

Still, each has a spot

without trace or print

from which the rest

blossoms like a storm.

And if you feel almost in love,

if you wait for some kiss

to put the future in your eyes,

if you relive your cuts

like an iron to a crease,

tell me, please:

how come the cost of love

lingers, a smoke that films the mind?

I fear, if not used up, our hearts

will dry in our bodies, like oceanless fish

breaded in the sand.