BPDFamily.com

I don't know if this is the right board for this.  But I have felt the urge to share this and I will go see my uncle and thank him soon.

My dBPD mom will tell you I hated her when I was three days old. She had to love my little brother more because everyone else doted on me (she never said loved). I was the responsible one. It was her pregnancy with me that caused a marriage. It was me that caused the divorce. It was me that hurt my brothers. It was me that was responsible for everything running right in the house after the divorce. It was my fault. All of it. I was selfish, bratty, irresponsible, needy. My mom's family living right next door never knew the hell I went through. I really thought I wasn't worth anything and that I was the one with the problem; if I was the daughter that lived up to expectations my mother would be happy then everyone else would be happy.

When I was about 15, I was at my paternal grandmother's house. I was sitting down talking to her and my uncle. I said something about my mom and me. They passed a look. When I pressed them about the look, they resisted at first. Then they told me my mom had been jealous of me, I took all my dad's attention when I was born. Yes, I was a brat, but I was a normal teenage girl. They told me stories that I didn't remember or barely remembered of how my mom treated my brothers and me. I could finally see that it wasn't me. I knew they hated my mother, but I also knew they had never lied to me. I could see true concern for me.

When people ask me "How did you turn out so well?" I have to be thankful for that early intervention. My grandmother passed away 9 years ago last month. Her birthday would've been this week. I think she knows how much she meant to me. But I will go see my uncle and let him know how important he is in my life.

When did you realize you weren't the crazy one?

I didn't have any inkling until I was 25, sitting across from my T in the first session and he quickly dismissed the diagnoses I'd had of bipolar.  Then in the second or third session, he said of my parents' behavior, "That sounds abusive."  And, ding!  :light:  Took me a few years to actually, really get it that I wasn't responsible, but it started then.

That's awesome that you had support back then.  My grandparents, aunt and uncle lived across the street from me until I was in first grade, and even when I kept going out to visit them in another state, nobody said a darn thing and my NenDad *still* generally holds me responsible for my uBPD mother's rages.  Arrggh.

    Demeter.  This is exactly what this message board is for; it's amazing how much we internalize this sense of not being welcome or appropriate or in the right place, isn't it?     's from childhood, I daresay.

With me it was a process; one day I'd know she was nuts, the next I'd blame myself, sort of a waffling ambiguity that allowed me to acknowledge there were problems, but not enough surety to actually act on them or do anything about it.  Also I was having problems with my memory, so I'd leave myself little momentos and notes to make sure that I didn't start trusting someone who'd hurt me as soon as I buried the memory of being hurt.  Just as an example, I'd find a seashell in my jewelry box, turn it over, and see that I'd written "I hate @#$%!" in white-out on the back.  I wouldn't remember writing it, or what had happened to make me feel that way, but I'd know it was my handwriting and guard myself anyway.  

So for me, acknowledging that they were crazy didn't automatically make me feel sane, if that makes sense.  Yes, they were nuts, but then, so was I to my own thinking, so it really took moving out and living with other people for me to finally get it that I was (relatively, anyway) stable and easy to live with.  Anything else I could rationalize away.  I mean, I remember being in high school and knowing that my teachers and my friend's parents liked me, but I still would hear my mother's voice in my head telling me things like "Well, they don't really know what you're like," and "That's just because they've never had to live with you," stuff like that.  It wasn't until I was living in a college co-op with 80+ people for more than a year that it really sunk in, and even then I was really perplexed at first when I was elected to represent my house, and then become social manager.  Ironically, growing up in a perpetual crisis situation actually taught me a lot of skills for de-escalating emotionally fraught situations and mediating conflicts, and instead of being the problem-causer, I found myself being treated with growing respect and affection.  It turned out the more people got to know me, the better they treated me, not the other way around.  That's when I really started questioning things I'd always accepted as "true" about myself, and really inviting my friends, especially from high school, to comment on what they'd seen and felt and how it differed (or sometimes not) from their own families.  I want to say it was a healing time, but it was quite miserable, actually.  I felt pretty overwhelmed by the magnitude of my own capacity for denial and avoidance, and I was getting sick, nightmares, it was like once I said it out loud, there was no going back and I didn't yet have the coping skills to manage everything coming at me.  

On a very basic level, I always knew that what was happening was wrong and beyond my control.  I mean I knew, even when I was four years old, that something inside my mother was broken.  Back then I thought of it as not being able to stop the tantrum; it was hard for me, too, but I could do it if I thought about something more important, and I knew that my mother didn't work that way.  In that sense, I kinda knew that stuff wasn't my fault per se, but I also knew that I was the only one there that could or would see beyond the tantrum to what would happen next, so even if it wasn't my fault, the fact that there was nobody else made it my responsibility, or so my child-brain interpreted it.  For example, my mother might get dumped by a man, come home, and rage at us, and 9 year old Lava would calmly look at her and tell her "You aren't mad at us, you're mad at him and he's not here, so you're projecting.  Since you're going to hit me anyway, clean the darn kitchen yourself."  Sure enough, I'd get slapped across the face, or picked up by my hair, or something like that, but even as it was happening I'd know both that it wasn't about me, and that I'd deliberately provoked it, and that gave me a feeling of agency or choice even when I knew my options were severely limited.  :)oes that make sense?  It was like I'd rather pretend I was in control, or it was my fault, than admit how utterly helpless I was.  There was also a feeling of pride in thinking that by provoking her, I was sparing my sister, and finally, if I was rejecting HER, then I didn't have to admit that no matter what I did or didn't do, my mother just didn't love me, or even like anything about me.  

    :)emeter.  This stuff is so fraught.  I too was a "terrible infant".  Honestly, anyone that believes an infant is capable of embodying evil is de facto nuts.  Have you ever seen such a powerful toddler?  I almost WISH I had that capacity, but alas, the bad seed only seems to occur in fiction.  Now the bad tree... .tons of those around, but those are made, not born.  I'm glad you've got your uncle.

Funny the power they assign us one minute, then rip away the next - if we're really the very reason everything went to hell and have that type of control flowing from our fingertips, the gov't needs to check us out - we are the best kept secret weaponry of all time!   

I had two occasions to "get" that she was bonkers.  The first time I took her back.  The second was it, over, done.

She's a classic BPD'd nutter when she says something and then instantly denies saying it. I'd bought into that for years, all my life.  Even if my mind was saying, "Heyyyyyyy, wait a darned minute... ." my mouth was busy letting her off the hook.

She pulled one freaky thing on me, I did the whole, "Well, if I"m Christian and love her and want to be a decent human being, I have to forgive her," but I also told her ONE MORE TIME like that and she was toast.

That lasted... .about nine months.

Then she was toast.

The difference the second time was inside of me, not her. I'd reached a limit and finally woke up to the fact that she was as insane as any raging lunatic you see in a horror film, she just acted out in a different way.

When I realized I wasn't the crazy one, that I was a good human being with a whackjob for a mother who had to DO something to save myself - that was it.

It crystallized in one instant that I still remember having my mouth literally drop open, this big gasp of air like when you come up out of the pool, and my life took a new direction.

I wasn't the crazy one, she was.

Crazy, totally whacked.

Those chains fell off and they've never encircled me since.     There was no outside validation at all. In fact, if my "eureka" moment hadn't been so strong, the enmeshed family members might've swayed me all over again that it was me.  They sure as hell tried to.

I'm 23, and I only realised this week! although actually it has been dawning on me gradually for years, I think, but it took an argument with my mum (i was going back for a visit) and her screaming "why are you trying to destroy me?" that made me realise how utterly INSANE that was and how she must be emotionally ill in some way. i had a talk with my dad last night (he split up with my mum when i was very young) and that gave me the idea of googling "personality disorder" and... .well i found out about BPD just today!

the Poster who found out aged 15 - sounds pretty lucky to me (although it's not exactly lucky to have a mum who's verging on the abusive and who suffers from self-inflicted unhappiness)

i am wondering why none of my family ever talked to me about any of this openly and explained that my mum has problems and it ISN'T all my fault! seriously, to this day she will say things like "grandma didn't like it when you did that... ."

i honestly think it's only thanks to distance (i haven't lived full-time at home for years now) and a healthy love relationship that i've been able to work it out.

i wish to god i hadnt had such a turbulent darn adolescence though!

sometimes i feel angry with my mum for making life hard for me, for driving my dad away, for not being able to see what she does... .does anyone else have these feelings? how do you deal with them?

It SOO makes sense. It was a turning point. I def did NOT feel sane. Not until last month when she had a diagnosis and I learned it was not hereditary (mostly).  That is when I felt the chains fell off. George, I am hoping they stayed were I dropped them. Yes, it was def like coming up for a gasp of air!

emmajs, welcome to the site! I don't regret my turbulent adolescence, it is strange to say. But I wouldn't be the person I am without it. And right now, I like who I am.  My family was hesitant to talk about my mom. God forbid, they induce her rage or upset the poor thing. There are many reasons you will find. God luck on your journey!

Regarding feeling sane, I still sometimes don't feel entirely sane. I feel like a    circus!

But I do know that all those years when she was blaming me for stuff, and it didn't make any sense to me but I had no way to prove otherwise, really got to me.

I think the real turning point was when I was about 20 and I had gone over to my mom's house to get some things--I'd been living on my own for a couple years by then--and ended up bringing a cockroach home in a grocery bag.

The house was in a very clean, very upscale, residential West Coast neighborhood. Detached houses, relatively recent construction... .Having grown up there, I had never even seen a cockroach before. (A friend who was with me had to tell me what it was. Today I live in a big East Coast city, so my relationship to roaches is entirely different.)

For years my mother had been blaming me and my sisters for our messy house. It had gotten worse and worse over the years (both the mess and the blaming), and after I and my sisters moved out thing really fell apart. You literally couldn't walk across a room-it was more like climbing--and so scary filthy it's impossible to describe. I think unless you're a social case worker or had a house like that yourself you couldn't possibly imagine.

The day I brought the cockroach home something clicked. It really wasn't me. It was her. I didn't know anything at all about BPD then, that was years later, but I just finally knew that THAT wasn't my fault, and it was a huge deal. Talk about an epiphany. Major  :light: moment.

I wonder if there isn't something to this "crabby baby" thing.

Mom says I had colic as an infant and that I was terribly crabby.  I guess I cried all the time (who wouldn't, right?   ).  In hindsight, I now wonder if it was because I somehow knew my situation from the start.  There are pictures of me in matching dresses that my mom made for us (when I was about three or so).  I never smiled in those pictures.  I was not happy about this whole "be like mom" idea at all.   

My first true realization, however, that I wasn't the crazy one must have happened in high school.  My best friend, who was a great confidant, told me flat-out that my mother was nuts.  Her house and her mom (who knew some about my situation) was always my "safe place," a refuge if I needed to get out of the insanity in my own home.

It may sound farfetched but one day my hubby sat me down to draw me a diagram of how to make a proper sandwich.After 29 yrs of marriage,4 kids and over a million fine sandwiches served,he sat me down and explained it in detail. I sat there and thought,hmmmm,the porn,the putting all the money in your own account,the night rages and walking the floor,the rages over sex,the withdrawal from society and church,alienation of all our friends,no hugs or kisses for 2 yrs but it took a stupid chit chat and a picture of a sandwich that made the light bulb go off. :)... .I started the next day with my list of goals to get out.

I wish my friends in high school like that. They were going through the regular teen angst and thought I was too. Even though I still keep in touch, I still don't think they believe it.

thewife, I don't think that is far fetched. Good luck with your goals. Hmmm. Maybe I should start some.

thewife I loved your description of the situation.  It was so funny but also understandable. All the other stuff was easy to rationalize away, despite how awful it was, but a picture of a sandwich is so absurd--no way to rationalize it. Here he thought he was providing a visual aid for his monologue but it was a visual aid for the insanity.

I think I realized it early on.  By nine I knew my mom made me want to die.  By ten I knew my friends parents didn't act this way and the quest was on- search for normal-ville.  Well, I couldn't find it in my extended family.  I am an only child and both sides had issues, all cousins considered crazy by what was, looking back now, mostly all B.P.D. aunts and uncles.  But I knew most of all that something was sadly amiss when my mother broke my finger at sixteen and neither she nor my dad would take me to the hospital.  I begged.  I cried.  I pleaded.  They threatened me with "reform school and the cops."  Always, always, the finger was my fault.  It is still twisted today and when I bring it up mother says, "You deserved it!"  She was beating the hell out of me because I was running from her calling me whores, btches and the like as I vacuumed.  One must vacuum to the tune of whore and btch or one is a disobedient, ungrateful daughter.  I was shielding my face and she somehow broke my finger.  I knew then it was abuse, ran outside toward the neighbors.  My dad pulled me back inside where mother hit me again and then I was made to eat breakfast with dad angry because I wouldn't laugh at his jokes and pretend nothing was wrong.  My best friend, who was also abused, witnessed it all, sitting at the table with tears running down her cheeks.  Yes, it was then I knew it was hopeless.  They were hopeless.  It only got worse with both of them as somehow I knew it would.  Before I believed in maybe.  Maybe they would "see."  Maybe they would "care."  Maybe they would "change."  I knew then they never would.  Not see, not care, not change, not anything.  Mom would rage, he would partner that rage, they would deny and proclaim themselves parents of the year and me- the homebody with her nose in a Jane Austen book- the problem teen of all time.

Sorry to run on.  Sorry to feel sorry for myself.  Sorry to digress.  Just wanted to share that as my lightbulb moment.  That's when I knew.  But looking back, in a strange way, that's when I think I started to heal.  I knew then that maybe, just maybe, I was not the crazy one.  And I began to love myself.  If only I could recapture that love.

 x  Greeneyed Girl.  I don't think you are running on, digressing, or feeling sorry for yourself.  Your history shares many parallels with mine (my mother sprained my middle finger once, hitting me with Shirley Temple's autobiography; I thought it was broken, but it still took her 2 days to take me in for x-rays, and at the hospital she worked at, by a Dr who flirted with her.  I was 13 and angry so when I was asked what happened - in front of her, of course - I told him.  She had a panic attack, whereupon I backpedaled and made it seem like an accident.)  It's a bittersweet sort of validation to know someone else went through these extremes - and came out the other side.  And really, who can endure that WITHOUT developing a taste for escapist feminine sarcasm?  It's strange but I still get this weird sense of satisfaction from remembering the way my mother's face looked every time I lifted that splinted bird at her.  Do the dishes?  Can't - and who's fault is that?  Lol... .

Hi Lava,

Thanks for the kind words.  It does me good also to see that I am not the only one!  Yes, Lord!  Me and my Jane Austen!  I loved my world of books.  I wanted to be a writer myself.  I think I will start a topic about what books we read, if any of us had them in common.  I liked the pitiful stories, too- "A Little Princess" for instance, when I was younger.  I was reading that book to my cousin's child not long ago and saw again how I saw myself in Sara, my mom in Miss Minchin.  I hope your finger is not as crooked as mine. 

I'm not sure that I've realised yet that I'm not the crazy one!  lol

I guess what I mean is I'm still working on it - every day. They are so convincing in their NPDness.

My BPDsis was more obvious - she was condemned as the black sheep of the family from the time she ran away at 17yrs. But I then had to be the 'supergood girl' to make up for BPDsis' bad behaviour. uNPD father-dear-father was determined that 'he wouldnt' make the same mistake with me' and that 'I wasn't going to turn out like your sister' so I got all that extra attention of the supervisory, dominating, brainwashing kind for years - I was the only child left at home.

I knew my father was controlling - but it wasn't really til about five years ago, and thanks to therapy, that I really realised just how nutty he was.

Since then I've had to fight my way out of the FOG, which keeps closing in around me without warning.

It's getting easier now that my parents are finally separated. I share a house with my darling non-mum and we help each other fight the FOG.

But two other sibs are still convinced that I'm the crazy one, the divider of the family, the sinner etc.

So I think I'll always have to fight that idea. There has never been one mad incident that allowed me hold it up and say, 'what, you think **this** is okay?' because uNPD father and uNPD brother are too darned clever.

I'm so glad for you, though, demeter, that you had some validation early on.     Thanks for sharing.

Thank you all for sharing! Sorry I didn't reply sooner!

I read all of the replies here, and all I can say is wow.

My moment of clarity happened just a few weeks ago after my uBPDmom visited for Easter. I always knew growing up that my life was not normal. It was turbulent and basically the opposite of consistent, I felt like I parented myself. Not to the degree that some people have described here—my mother cooked and cleaned (sort of), but when it came to school work, boundaries, rules, etc. There were none, and I received no help or support of any kind. In my teens, I did everything my mother wanted. She wanted me to be in marching band (because she had been when she was in high school) so I did, she wanted me to go to a particular college, so I did. The only reason she didn't rage at me when I was younger/a teen was because I did everything she wanted. I was her do-over. It was only when I started living for myself and making decisions contrary to what she would that she really set her targets on me. For the past 3-4 years I've been dealing with textbook episodes of BPD rage. After this Easter visit she physically assaulted me, she pulled my hair, which was so bizarre. I stood up for myself and I saw her eyes glaze over like others have described as shark eyes.

My MIL had casually mentioned personality disorders to me so I did some online research and bought a book to read. I started reading the book and was just flooded with emotions, I spent a week processing it all, grieving my childhood, thinking back to all the "clues" I had been given throughout the years. I put the puzzle pieces together and decided that I needed to seek therapy. It was probably the hardest week of my life. I've only been to two sessions thus far but it has been incredibly enlightening and validating to realize that I'm not a horrible daughter, I'm not crazy or bipolar like she has said I am, I'm not selfish, and I deserve to protect myself and be treated with respect. It seems like the route I'm going will probably lead to having no contact with my mom, as she doesn't see that the issues with our relationship are a direct result of her actions—it's easier for her to blame me. Honestly, I'm at my happiest when I'm not in contact with her and while it will be hard and very painful to grieve the mother I never had, I think it's what I'll have to do to lead a truly happy life.

Thanks to everyone for sharing their stories, it takes a tremendous amount of courage!