For all my friends and family i know you are all feeling
frustrated, helpless, and ready
to give up. It’s not your fault. You are not the cause of our suffering.

You may find that difficult to believe, since we may lash out at you, switch from being loving and kind to non-trusting and cruel on a dime, and we may even straight up blame you. But it’s not your fault. You deserve to understand more about this condition and what we wish we could say but may not be ready.

It is possible that something that you said or did “triggered” us. A trigger is something that sets off in our minds a past traumatic event or causes us to have distressing thoughts. While you can attempt to be sensitive with the things you say and do, that’s not always possible, and it’s not always clear why something sets off a trigger.

The mind is very complex. A certain song, sound, smell, or words can quickly fire off neurological connections that bring us back to a place where we didn’t feel safe
, and we might respond in the now with a similar reaction (think of military persons who fight in combat — a simple backfiring of a car can send them into flashbacks. This is known as PTSD, and it happens to a lot of us, too.)

But please know that at the very same time that we are pushing you away with our words or behavior, we also desperately hope that you will not leave us or abandon us in our time of despair and desperation.

This extreme, black or white thinking and experience of totally opposite desires is known as a dialectic. Early on in our diagnosis and before really digging in deep with DBT (Dialectical Behavior Therapy), we don’t have the proper tools to tell you this or ask for your support in healthy ways.

We may do very dramatic things, such as harming ourselves in some way (or threatening to do so), going to the hospital, or something similar. While these cries for help should be taken seriously, we understand that you may experience “burn out” from worrying about us and the repeated behavior.

Please trust that, with professional help, and despite what you may have heard or come to believe, we CAN and DO get better.

These episodes can get farther and fewer between, and we can experience long periods of stability and regulation of our emotions. Sometimes the best thing to do, if you can muster up the strength in all of your frustration and hurt, is to grab us, hug us, and tell us that you love us, care, and are not leaving.

One of the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder is an intense fear of being abandoned, and we therefore (often unconsciously) sometimes behave in extreme, frantic ways to avoid this from happening. Even our perception that abandonment is imminent can cause us to become frantic.

Another thing that you may find confusing is our apparent inability to maintain relationships. We may jump from one friend to another, going from loving and idolizing them to despising them – deleting them from our cell phones and unfriending them on Facebook. We may avoid you, not answer calls, and decline invitations to be around you — and other times, all we want to do is be around you.

This is called splitting, and it’s part of the disorder. Sometimes we take a preemptive strike by disowning people before they can reject or abandon us. We’re not saying it’s “right.” We can work through this destructive pattern and learn how to be healthier in the context of relationships. It just doesn’t come naturally to us. It will take time and a lot of effort.

It’s difficult, after all, to relate to others properly when you don’t have a solid understanding of yourself and who you are, apart from everyone else around you.

In Borderline Personality Disorder, many of us experience identity disturbance issues. We may take on the attributes of those around us, never really knowing who WE are.  You remember in high school those kids who went from liking rock music to pop to goth, all to fit in with a group – dressing like them, styling their hair like them, using the same mannerisms? It’s as if we haven’t outgrown that.

Sometimes we even take on the mannerisms of other people (we are one way at work, another at home, another at church), which is part of how we’ve gotten our nickname of “chameleons.” Sure, people act differently at home and at work, but you might not recognize us by the way we behave at work versus at home. It’s that extreme.

For some of us, we had childhoods during which, unfortunately, we had parents or caregivers who could quickly switch from loving and normal to abusive. We had to behave in ways that would please the caregiver at any given moment in order to stay safe and survive. We haven’t outgrown this.

Because of all of this pain, we often experience feelings of emptiness. We can’t imagine how helpless you must feel to witness this. Perhaps you have tried so many things to ease the pain, but nothing has worked. Again – this is NOT your fault.

The best thing we can do during these times is remind ourselves that “this too shall pass” and practice DBT skills – especially self-soothing – things that helps us to feel a little better despite the numbness. Boredom is often dangerous for us, as it can lead to the feelings of emptiness.  It’s smart for us to stay busy and distract ourselves when boredom starts to come on.

On the other side of the coin, we may have outburst of anger that can be scary. It’s important that we stay safe and not hurt you or ourselves. This is just another manifestation of BPD.

We are highly emotionally sensitive and have extreme difficulty regulating/modulating our emotions. Dr. Marsha Linehan, founder of DBT, likens us to 3rd degree emotional burn victims.

Through Dialectical Behavior Therapy, we can learn how to regulate our emotions so that we do not become out of control.  We can learn how to stop sabotaging our lives and circumstances…and we can learn to behave in ways that are less hurtful and frightening to you.

Another thing you may have noticed is that spaced out look on our faces. This is called dissociation. Our brains literally disconnect, and our thoughts go somewhere else, as our brains are trying to protect us from additional emotional trauma. We can learn grounding exercises and apply our skills to help during these episodes, and they may become less frequent as we get better.

But, what about you?

If you have decided to tap into your strength and stand by your loved one with BPD, you probably need support too.  Here are some ideas:

Remind yourself that the person’s behavior isn’t your fault

Tap into your compassion for the person’s suffering while understanding that their behavior is probably an intense reaction to that suffering

Do things to take care of YOU. On the resources page of this blog, there is a wealth of information on books, workbooks, CDs, movies, etc. for you to understand this disorder and take care of yourself. Be sure to check it out!

In addition to learning more about BPD and how to self-care around it, be sure to do things that you enjoy and that soothe you, such as getting out for a walk, seeing a funny movie, eating a good meal, taking a warm bath — whatever you like to do to care for yourself and feel comforted.

Ask questions. There is a lot of misconception out there about BPD.

Remember that your words, love, and support go a long way in helping your loved one to heal, even if the results are not immediately evident

Not all of the situations I described apply to all people with Borderline Personality Disorder. One must only have 5 symptoms out of 9 to qualify for a diagnosis, and the combinations of those 5-9 are seemingly endless.  This post is just to give you an idea of the typical suffering and thoughts those of us with BPD have.

This is my second year in DBT. A year ago, I could not have written this letter, but it represents much of what was in my heart but could not yet be realized or expressed.

My hope is that you will gain new insight into your loved one’s condition and grow in compassion and understand for both your loved one AND yourself, as this is not an easy road.

I can tell you, from personal experience, that working on this illness through DBT is worth the fight. Hope can be returned. A normal life can be had. You can see glimpses and more and more of who that person really is over time, if you don’t give up.  I wish you peace.

A little known secret of actors:
you can force yourself to cry by
simply thinking about how badly
you want to.

Here's how it's done.

Start with fertilizer. Remember how
you felt that first year you
did so excellently at school, all-year
struggling and so devoted, woke up
Christmas to your mother's purchase,
eager for sugar plums and hedonist
things, ripped merrily into math workbooks.
The seed comes next, budding in the
open tunnels of self-worth - when
he told you that the thing you were
best used for could be done by anyone, really,
the oldest profession, and how you
liberated your oils on canvas long exiled
to make a scene of Rahab and Joshua,
and cried yourself away on alien bedding.

Water it all in whatever leaves the garden hose.

When they whistled without a name.
When your first time hosting supper was a catastrophe.
When you failed to keep certain things alive.
When the housecat burrowed in your warm
motor, and you just wanted to leave so badly.

Funerals of people you never knew, and
bugspray in your eyes.

One neglected message stays: anyone can cry.

Let me tell you about being raised Catholic. When you're raised Catholic, you go to church because that's what your parents tell you to do. That's what they did, thats what you will do, and thats what your kids will be expected to do. If you volunteer as an alter-server, good for you that's mad brownie points and you will probably get the bigger gift at Christmas time. You make jokes out of Sunday school, and mostly just go because they always had Oreos and punch. You memorize prayers that mean absolutely nothing to you as you recite them. You have your First Communion in 2nd grade, and are expected to believe that the bread and the wine are not just a symbol, but actually Jesus Christ's body and blood (because they put it into a magical box the night before and it gets turned into flesh). You go to confession as often as your mom makes you, I've actually been dragged there several times. You are 8-years-old and expected to confess "your sins" which end up being "I fought with my brother" or in my case "I threw a pair of safety scissors at my brother." Or you just end up actually sinning because you are making up lies to tell the priest so it looks like you actually sinned and he can give you penance and then you can go pray a set of prayers and, wah-lah, your 8-year-old, mobster self is brand new and free to go home and play. Then you are in 9th grade, I was actually in 8th grade because I was a year ahead which gave me even less power in decision making..(just kidding, you don't really have a choice) to become a legitimate member of the Catholic Church. You get a sponsor and a Saint name and thats about as exciting as it gets. They don't hold you underneath the crucifix and brand your skin, surprisingly enough. They just swing a aspergillum thing at you and make you recite some stuff. Then you go home and eat cake with your sponsor and they tell you how proud they are of you and give you a dainty cross necklace.
Somewhere in the midst of the whole Parish School Religion process you are filling out workbooks on top of all your other homework with apostle names and words like "mercy" and "forgiven." There is also a week before confirmation where you spend 48-hours in the church basement and they try to convince you that you are there to make a commitment to God, even though you are in 9th grade and all you are worried about is standing at the cool spot on the hill at the football games and not saying anything stupid. I pretty much just slammed all of what being raised Catholic is, but here is the one good thing I took from it.

At the 48-hour thing they have some huge surprise at the end for you. They do the same thing every year, and all your older siblings and kids at the church know what it is but they aren't allowed to tell you. They give everyone a table and a box of tissues and "surprise" here are letters from everyone in your family telling you how proud they are. It's nice, but I'll always remember the letter my godmother wrote me. Let me just start off by saying my godmother is straight-up one of the coolest people I've ever met and if I could be like her one day, I wouldn't be able to complain. She lives in a tiny, brick cottage on a hillside in North Royalton with a beautiful garden and black dogs and a motorcycle. She has seen all 50 states and more, is single and does everything she loves and from what I can see, she is one of the happiest people I know. I've always envied her calm, cool independence and her knowledge about the world. Anyway, she wrote something along the lines of this,
"Lee, you know I'm proud of you. I know I am not the best influence when it comes to going to church, but my church is out in the woods and the whole world"
I've based my faith off of this simple letter ever since.
I go to mega-church sometimes now. I don't really like them that much. They're pretty cult-like too.  They keep the air conditioning too high, but always have free coffee. They always have a really pretty girl with a really pretty voice singing, accompanied by some hipster kids playing guitars. There is a whole section of young adults wearing snap backs and button-ups..I always wonder why they are there, and I bet they wonder why I'm there too because I almost always feel like someone judges me every time I walk into a mega-church; they do a really nice job of using diversionary tactics when it comes to the lgbt community...
This is the sad stereotypical Christianity I have more recently grown accustomed to though and I usually don't let it bother me because sadly I'm not at church for fellowship, sorry that's just honesty.
So why am I there? Why am I going to a mega-church?
I'm going to take a stab at what my motive is here, and I honestly don't know if it will be right.
Maybe I'm there because I like listening to pretty girls sing.. seriously though it always makes me bawl, but the good, happy kind. Surprisingly enough, the coffee is pretty good, even if they give you the smallest cups in the universe. I usually drink all my coffee (burn my mouth every time) in the first 5-minutes while they ask for your money and talk about what's going on in the community kinda *******. After that, a pastor gets up there and I hesitate to put my guard down most of the time he preaches. Usually I think about, "what if this was a badass lesbian pastor, that'd be so cool..I need to find one of those churches." Then I feel bad for letting my mind get off track and then I remind myself that it's okay, I'm human and that's why I'm here.
I've gone to a mega-church on and off for like a year and I still hate the throwing your hands up in the air, clapping kinda stuff. Maybe that's the raised Catholic thing still kind of embedded in me, my mom was always so strict on proper etiquette in "God's house."  I don't like all that ****, though... I can respect it, but it's not for me. So I sit there or stand there and listen to the music and hope the pastor doesn't underhandedly say something ****** about gay people because that would **** to have to find another church, even though it's about time I do. I wont lie, I'm reminded of my strengths usually and find a lot of bravery in myself; in my humility and vulnerability sometimes, in the fact that I play my weaknesses as much as I play my strengths but I don't let them define me, and my ability to pick my battles and save my breath. I usually feel pretty good when I come out, like I can stop fighting with the world about things and stop breaking my own soul for no reason. But things usually go back to the way they were, because that's most of the battle and that's faith. It's an extremely hard thing to come to terms with and accept all of yourself and that you were defended. It will be a lifelong battle of all types of acceptance, and I might never find a physical church I actually like and feel comfortable in, but I always have the woods and lakes and oceans and the world, and that makes me pretty happy.

We pray for children
who sneak popsicles before supper,
who erase holes in math workbooks,
who can never find their shoes.

And we pray, for those
who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,
who can't bound down the street in a new pair of sneakers,
who never "counted potatoes,"
who are born in places where we wouldn't be caught dead,
who never go to the circus,
who live in an ******* world.

We pray for children
who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish,
Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,
Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
Who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those
who never get dessert,
who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,
who watch their parents watch them die,
who can't find any bread to steal,
who don't have any rooms to clean up,
whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,
whose monsters are real.

We pray for children
who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
who like ghost stories,
who shove ***** clothes under the bed,
and never rinse out the tub,
who get visits from the tooth fairy,
who don't like to be kissed in front of the carpool,
who squirm in church or temple and scream in the phone,
whose tears we sometimes laugh at
and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those
whose nightmares come in the daytime,
who will eat anything,
who have never seen a dentist,
who aren't spoiled by anybody,
who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children
who want to be carried
and for those who must,
for those we never give up on
and for those who don't get a second chance.
For those we smother…
and for those who will grab the hand of anybody
kind enough to offer it.

We pray for children. Amen


-Ina Hughs

(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 11, 2019)

In New Mexico I started with reddish mud in the backyard
and water, making pies in the rain or  driving Matchbox cars
through the soft dirt tunnels in the front-yard planter.
Moving the elastic earth. It felt like work. It was work.

Then we moved to Missouri and other imaginations came into it:
menus handwritten on shiny black cardboard for cafe tables.
Our customers were only conceivably truck drivers.

We were en plein air writers on the hill between our houses.
Math and grammar workbooks were re-purposed
for playing student and teacher.
The plays and newscasts we choreographed over a full day.
We were talent and the crew with scripts and backdrops.

Even when we played at motherhood, we left our babies
without babysitters and left for work.

When we were pirates we had to build our tree houses.
When we were scholars we need to assemble piles of books.
When we swam we were swimming to dry land.

Practicing work. I still do it. I think I’m doing it right now.

He spent more than six years avoiding it flawlessly, about the same time he had given up cigarettes.  For the most part, he did it for his son.  His father had been a good influence and he was determined to be the same.  Single, happy, just father and son.  They couldn't be any closer.  The mother left, to no fault of her own, because the guy that stole her away, her words, "he was just really good at talking... like a car sells men..."... Which was bs... he know she thought he was some big time **** on his way to big time money... It didn't work out that way, they both ended up at her grans' house.  That was 8 years ago, and she's on welfare with baby number four on the way from mystery daddy number four.  She was nothing more than a manipulater, she had sunk her claws into his broken heart, played him like the devil playing a fiddle, got what she wanted and tossed him aside.  Daddy number three had mysteriously killed himself... but that's all off track of this tale.
You see, he wanted his son to grow into and be a better person than he had.  To have better and more choices as he headed out into the world on his own.  He wanted him to be smart, he had to be smart.  When it was time for this dad to pass onto the great unknown, he knew his son would have to be able to stand up on his own.  His boy was not going to be able to lean on his mom, no, more than likely he would have to help her out when he was all grown up.  So he started to read to him before he could even crawl, started teaching him to read as soon as he could talk, taught him to count and add and subtract well before he was of school age.  And once in school kept at it, teaching him the next grade and two above his school level.  Piles of workbooks from bookstores and work sheets he made up himself.  Still doing it to this day, his son learning and soaking it all in.  Always up to the challenge of something new.  The dad always trying to do his best for his boy, not ever sure he was... but always trying.  
He wanted to make his son proud, he wanted to be that fatherly symbol of strength.  He wanted to raise his son beliving in equality, compassion, kindness, empathy, and mostly love.  Always reminding and telling his son, no matter how little we have, we always have enough to share.  And that sharing your time with someone was only second to sharing your love with someone.  They didn't have a lot, just enough to squeeze past... your basic pay check to pay check family of todays modern world.  Still, enough, he wouldn't work over-time when his son was with him.  He could make more money if he needed whenever his boy was with mom.  No amount of money was enough to pass up a day with his boy, telling his son, I can always make more money but once a day is gone we can never get it back.
Yea... he wanted so badly to be a good role model.
So he avoided dating... avoided anything and anyone that might make him even think or feel like he had any risk of falling in love.  He knew he didn't handle heartache well.... and he didn't want his son to see him walk around with a broken heart.  Didn't want his son to see him walk around depressed and wallowing around in self pity.  So he avoided it... quite well, for over six years.  
Then one day... never mind the circumstances and the how... he started talking to a stranger on the other end of the world.  Just harmless little messages sent back and forth, forth and back... It never should have led him to anything beyond a few friendly words on a screen... but somehow, someway... his heart was suddenly not his own  and his reason had taken leave of his senses.  He fell so fast for her, without even knowing until it was too late to stop it from happening.  He knew it couldn't end well but he couldn't stop smiling about her, or thinking about her... every message he fell deeeper into this abyss of madness and love.  All he could do was watch it unfold and pray when it came crashing down, pray for a quick death.  And that's where he is now... praying for love and a quick death.

An abstract Parallax anagram:
Belvedere Preserved,
Living Gingivitis,
Monochord workbooks,
Tumulus Fungus.

Fingertips leave smoky impressions
on a cold window
Frost and sunshine divide the land
Brown eyed Zoraetta has long since
become a widow
Only an occasional Cardinal will
cause her to think of him out loud today
The Lantern of God greets and warms her
A morning salvo of audible thanks and reserved laughter
Bible workbooks , coffee with a bookmark from a
granddaughter in her busy hands
Rocking in perfect time , courtesy for passersby
Planning for a 'beautiful Wednesday' once again* ...