I'm back

[gloveman]

     I'm back. Or really I never left, I just got too busy. I am retired and took on too many responsibilities, so this website fell by the wayside for a while.

     I will never stop accessing this website because I have come to the conclusion that we are all like addicts. Addicts go to AA meetings. We go to BPD family.

     Why do I consider us addicts? Because one example is that my dad passed away in Jan. 2012 and I still yell at him. I haven't vented and let go of all my anger yet. You are not crazy if you know you are yelling at someone who isn't there. You are not crazy if you are aware of what you are doing.You are not crazy if you know your anger has taken temporary control of you.

     Nor have I let go of all the negative introjects, a fancy way of saying negative thoughts and emotions pounded into my head by my BPD family. This is where I work out my problems, so this is the place I will go to regularly.

     One of my lifelong dreams is to write. I have joined what is called a peer critique group. It is basically about 11 writer's who critique each others works. Even with that genuine support, I find it difficult to finish anything. Why?

     It is difficult because my first thought is always I will be interrupted, yelled at, made fun of, told what I am writing is stupid, all I want to do is sit on my dead ass and write, etc. Enough examples I have made my point.

     I have decided that like an addict, this is the place to go to first, then read and write. This is the place I do my real work, thinking through my hangups, so I can then function in the real world.

[lucyhoneychurch]

Gloveman, it's good to see you here again. Your first post sort of captivated me, it was so linear, and knowing that you are a good 12 years older than I yet still working at this. 

One of the most crystalline images in your posts was when your father turned the rear view mirror in the car so that he could visually as well as verbally batter you. We had a huge old green Plymouth when I was a very little girl and that rear view with us in the back seat was my uBPD'd mother's spyglass. You put four little kids across a huge back seat (the car was like a tank) and they slide around, they fuss, they fume in the heat of summer - and you could see those venomous eyes fixed on you and you knew that the arm was going to come over the back of that seat and get you - head face legs didn't matter.

Your description sort of caught my breath in my throat. Your father was a master at coming at a topic totally off the cuff and annihilating it. And you along with it. 

I hope you'll keep bringing your thoughts here and I think it was so cool that you are in this writing group. For all of us, amazing things are waiting on the other side of our fears.  Kudos to you and your wife and family. I wasn't so lucky on the marriage front - divorced now, living alone. And that's really getting to me. Like... . alot.  Your story is a courageous one. Thank you. 

[livednlearned]

One of my lifelong dreams is to write. I have joined what is called a peer critique group. It is basically about 11 writer's who critique each others works. Even with that genuine support, I find it difficult to finish anything. Why?

It is difficult because my first thought is always I will be interrupted, yelled at, made fun of, told what I am writing is stupid, all I want to do is sit on my dead ass and write, etc. Enough examples I have made my point.

What would happen if you had two documents going at once? One is where you write for yourself, the work you've always dreamed of writing down, the brilliant and thoughtful, insightful work that is yours to share with the world, that comes from the unique and individual whole self that is you.

The other is where you write down the voices that come from your father, the badgering, the insults, the negativity, as well as the adult you responding, however you wish. The words you wanted to say then but didn't. Get it out and put those negative voices in their place.

Have you read Canada by Richard Ford? Especially in Part Two -- I felt like I was reading the exact emotional and psychological landscape of my own childhood, even though the plot was obviously different. It made me wonder if the author took one of the characters out of his own childhood and dressed him up as someone else and dropped him into this book as an antagonist, then in the most devastating way, reduced this man to nothing.

I hope you can overcome the negative voice in your head, gloveman. Find a way to make your father a character that you can resolve so you can write with your own voice.

[Ziggiddy]

gloveman,

I have to agree with lucy - your writing style is wonderfully easy to read - and if two people (at least) who don't know you and have nothing to lose by telling you that can say ":)ude! Write! And write some more we'd love to see it" then maybe you can turn the volume up a little on us and hopefully drown out your dad. I never met him but he sounds like ... . someone not worth listening to. Easier said than done, I know.

 

    my dad passed away in Jan. 2012 and I still yell at him. I haven't vented and let go of all my anger yet. You are not crazy if you know you are yelling at someone who isn't there. 

Define 'crazy'? He IS still there. Alive and well in your head. Still banging you about. Is there some kind of familiarity there for you? Some kind of perverse safety? Does his presence and your anger somehow keep you in touch with the boy-that-was? It works like that for me somehow. I'm used to the voice. I don't like it but I know it. It keeps me attached to a part of me that feels ... . well, alive.

And that's ok. I'll get where I need to go as the light gets brighter and my thoughts change.

I have to ask a personal question - is any of your anger grief?

   

    Even with that genuine support, I find it difficult to finish anything. Why?

     It is difficult because my first thought is always I will be interrupted, yelled at, made fun of, told what I am writing is stupid, all I want to do is sit on my dead ass and write, etc.

Is it possible it's even more than that? Did your dad expect perfection in other areas? Do you take that on as part of your ID?

Like you I am writing. I was writing something so perfect, so destined to be a masterpiece and a classic that I forgot to write a story I would enjoy reading. 

Two simultaneous events absolutely turned me around and freed me up.

The first - an incredibly intelligent and witty 'friend' I have never met said "Write a few pages every day till you're done." I tried. It was work. It wasn't fun. I decided my lovely friend had given me rotten advice. I said "I don't want to do that." He said "Ok, do something else. Do what ever you want!"  WHATEVER I WANT? Really?

Then I read a rock bio of a group I was enamoured with - actually written by their music producer and he said that when he was putting their tracks together, he would take this from here and that from there and put it together in a sonic painting. What a lovely phrase! Sonic painting! Some of the most famous songs in the world sounded completely different at their inception.

And then I realised - I wanted praise and recognition. I wanted everybody to read my book and acknowledge that I'm a terrifically wonderful writer - no doubt as they threw roses and bestseller adulation to me. Again - I wasn't writing for ME. I was writing for them - the whole world!

Being part of a critique group is an interesting thing. Useful in some ways but also can be detrimental if anyone is secretly threatened by your work. You really need a strong sense of self and an abiding belief in your work. You also need a skin as thick as a tyre in the face of subjective critique! If it's working for you, then I am pleased for you. If it's not, would you consider writing just for you? And give yourself the recognition you so richly deserved? That recognition that your father apparently enjoyed withholding from you?

I sincerely hope to see your article entitled "My Dead Ass Rocks the Planet" whenever you decide you are ready to produce!

<grabs popcorn and 3D glasses and settles into deckchair to await release  >

[ThrowAwayChild]

"One of the most crystalline images in your posts was when your father turned the rear view mirror in the car so that he could visually as well as verbally batter you."

Wow.  I remember reading that, too.  If he gets to heaven, maybe he will have to eat soup daily on a roller coaster.

[gloveman]

Let go

   Why can’t I let go?

   I am 67 years old and my dad passed away in January 2012.

   I still yell at him. I still express my anger out loud when I am alone. I drive in my car and yell at him. I take a shower and yell at him. I, silently, yell at him at night before I fall asleep. I can tell if I am going to have trouble falling asleep by how much anger at him boils up to the surface.

   Why?

lucyhoneychur. it is good to hear from you. During my lifetime I have met many people who have a problem and think that they are the only one to have that problem, as if there is nothing new under the sun. Your description of your mother using the car’s mirror as a way to spy on her children confirms that we are all the same, if you are religious, we are all g-d’s children, so we all have the same problems.

Your description sort of caught my breath in my throat. Your father was a master at coming at a topic totally off the cuff and annihilating it. And you along with it. 

Yes. he had a way of coming at a topic in a totally surprising way and catching you off guard so you are so shocked that you become speechless, literally, but that is the goal of a BPD person, to push you away so that there is no possibility of connecting, of bonding.

What would happen if you had two documents going at once? One is where you write for yourself, the work you've always dreamed of writing down, the brilliant and thoughtful, insightful work that is yours to share with the world, that comes from the unique and individual whole self that is you.

livenlearned, I write three documents at a time. One that is the novel or short story I have always dreamed of writing. The second is a handwritten journal were I put most of my thoughts. And, even though my wife respects my privacy, I have a online journal at Google Docs that, of course, is password protected. It is in that journal that I do all my real work. Real self-analysis, real venting, real repeating myself over and over like a ruminant.

Define 'crazy'? He IS still there. Alive and well in your head.

Ziggiddy, with 2g’s and 2d’s, you are right, he is alive in my head, but I hope to get over it. An acquaintance of mine told me it takes one month for every year. I have no idea if this is accurate or not, but since he passed away when I was 63, that’s 63 months or five years and three months. Or counting from jan 2012 when he died it means 22 months to go.

Does his presence and your anger somehow keep you in touch with the boy-that-was?

Yes, him still being in my head keeps me in touch with the boy that I was, but I don’t want it. It just takes time to let go, because letting go means change and change is done one small step at a time.

I wasn't writing for ME. I was writing for them - the whole world!

In my opinion you write for recognition from other people when you can’t give yourself recognition. When the ability to write or do anything for your own pleasure and sense of accomplishment has been suppressed by your upbringing.

I have to ask a personal question - is any of your anger grief?

No none of my anger is grief. If you look at my original post, my dad was nasty and abusive to the bitter end.

A critique group is great. Everyone is positive. You get thrown out if you aren’t, plus an important thing for me is that other people LISTEN TO ME. THEY HEAR AND APPRECIATE WHAT I SAY.  AND WHAT THEY SAY MAKES SENSE.

No my father did not expect perfection. He had such a severe case of BPD that whatever I did was wrong, including doing what he told me to do. It sounds unbelievable even impossible, but it can be explained by example. When I was a teenager I mowed the lawn. If I had the lawn mower set at the tallest setting, he would come home from work, and during dinner tell me the grass was too long. So I would set the mower to a shorter setting. He would tell me it was still to long… and on and on until the mower was at its shortest setting, then tell me it was too short… etc. Whatever setting I used was wrong.

“I sincerely hope to see your article entitled "My Dead Ass Rocks the Planet" whenever you decide you are ready to produce!”   

   Oh my god, what a great title for a work! I love it!

[lucyhoneychurch]

G-man        

Ruminating. Yelling the pain in your heart. Still flinching and suffering from a s**ty situation like the grass - mine was not vacuuming as she stood over me and then slapping me in the back of the head as I tried to do it in this grotesquely weird way she demanded - not love taps either, not outright beatings, just harassing insane abusive mortifying campaigns that sucked the life out of me daily.

What I am working on this week of my life, this past month... . assessing present-day relationships that run along the same lines, mainly abusive and hurtful, but I'm an adult now - this is me talking about me for a minute, Gloveman, not anything aimed your way - realizing I got duped again, I got suckered into it again, even though I'm savvy about the BPD'd label.

Living kind of isolated, by choice at times... . so yesterday I got up, out the door at 5 and took this very invigorating walk with my iPod and watched the sky lighten.

That sunrise is our lives - long long long dark of night will slowly ever so slowly go from velvet black to the pinks and purples and oranges I love - if I make sure I am watching for it, like a sailor in the crow's nest watching for land.

Your yelling at your dad - and your believing this isn't grief that's oozing out as anger -

I had this Lab. We're talking love on four legs. I have never ever in my life known such loving sweetness, not even from my kids - she follows room to room, always within about a foot of me but not underfoot - bear with me here there's a point somewhere ahead - gazing at me with those Lab eyes, accomodating in every way -

I was her baby. I was her world. I have never been so treasured. Ever.

Medical stuff is re-surfacing. Like I said, I'm isolated. There is no one to look after her if I have to head out of here in ambulance like I have in the past. A really great rescue group helped me find my nana dog sweetheart a home. An email yesterday told me that she has been almost immediately placed, no foster home, with a couple up in Delaware looking for an older choc girl.

So what has this got to do with your yelling at this old hateful man? Since she left Thurs with the volunteer, I talk out loud to her, I have cried like I haven't cried in so long.

I agree - you're not grieving over this mean old nasty abusive to the bitter end "father" of yours.  But you're grieving buddy, with all due respect. You are grieving that you were cheated of someone saying, "Wow, hey, I like the way you came home from school and did the yard already, I was thinking maybe we can get some fishing in before mom gets supper ready, whatdya say?" You are in deep mourning for a son who worked so so hard all of his life and had this man sabotage every single accomplishment with vile cruel critical verbal manure.

We got robbed, blind, by people who were so f'd up in their own heads, they couldn't get that their flesh and blood wanted to be near them, wanted to hear love and praise. We got hijacked every single day.

Stockholm theory is you fall in love with your hijacker/abductor. I believe it in my own life - twice now in 3 yrs falling for men who are basically a spring roll of my parents via abuse/apathy.

Not saying you're in that situation, your wife has been a blessing.

But you are living in a state of grief, not for the old man, for the little boy. I swear you are. It's haunting your sleep, it's in your car with you, in the shower - that's just about 24/7.

I know that the little girl inside of me, with these 2 men for example, is still trying to "fix" the bulls**t that was forced on her - trying to supply the loving parent who will soothe instead of wound, embrace instead of embattle - you see what I'm saying?

That little boy in you, he is still crushed and hurt and crying and screaming for help and notice and affection. I know because both of these men I mention had fathers *exactly* like yours - spent so many hours hearing how their dads (they do not know each other) belittled and cursed and tore and repulsed every effort of theirs as boys to be seen and validated as worthy.

You are not like either of these men - I sense alot of creative outlets for your thoughts and pain - they are willing to find fresh bait victims for their pain to be manifested upon -

It's grief, Gloveman. Of the freshest deepest nature. He's been dead 2 1/2 years right... . you are 16 years old than I.  You're already committing yourself to another five years of yelling in the shower, the car, not sleeping -

The little boy inside of you will be heard. I am promising the little girl inside of me that I will get my head straight(er) before ever making another connection with a man.  The Lab leaving was sort of a final straw that life can be so goddamned unfair. The one creature on this planet that totally and profoundly accepted me and adored me - gotta work through that. She also listened to that little girl late into the night... . and just wagged her tail about it and said, "What else? is there anything else you need to tell me, Lucy?"

Shave some time off your self-imposed sentence and grieve for that little boy. i don't know how you'd go about doing that. One way I grieve is speaking up the minute I see familiar patterns where I am the scapegoat, I am the receptacle for someone's crap. Not happenin' again.

I have her back, that little girl, you see.

Yelling at a dead man is not nurturing the little boy inside of you. You've got him all muzzled up and bound - he's in there, he has a voice.

Big hugs to both of you, and I so mean that with all the love in my heart for a brother walking this path. Loathing for my late mother still surfaces, like HOW DARE YOU? how dare they... .

Injustices where children are concerned are the saddest on this earth. They have no voice. We do now though, don't we - in this safe place.

Love you and wish you calm and rest.