A Post: In Two Acts

ACT I: I am having a hard time with my therapy. I like my therapist. He’s a nice guy and we’ve had some good conversations about things that are going on in my life. I usually leave the session with something to think about over the course of the next week. But I started going so that I could deal with my feelings about my childhood. I want to figure out how these feelings affect who I am today. I want to understand why I foster some relationships while running away from others be they friends or potential lovers. I want to understand why I always seem to reach for the ceiling when I have the potential to reach for the stars. I want to understand why I want I am so content with the short end of the stick while others fight like rabid dogs for the long end. The only problem with this is that I don’t remember much about my childhood. Anything relating to being at home is fuzzy with only brief glimpses of clarity. Most of these glimpses are not the kind of thing you want to re-play. And, in fact, when I do remember these things I see them as a movie and that girl standing there is not really me but is someone else…an actor on the set of some cheesy lifetime movie about “inner grit” where the lead character overcomes all odds to make something of herself. This is not to say that all of the memories I do have are bad. For example…I recall cooking dinner with my mother most nights. Or rather…she would cook while I rambled on about my day. These are good memories and may be why I feel most at peace when I am chopping vegetables, stirring sauce, or washing dishes. During my early teen years this was the only real opportunity I had to spend with my mother as one of my fathers stipulations for “taking us back” after their first separation was that she would eat dinner and spend the rest of the evening with him in their bedroom. Door locked and you better have severed a limb or something if you dared knock on that door. Not that every interruption was met with an outward display of anger but that would almost be preferable to being “dismissed”. Short of being beaten, there is maybe nothing worse than being rejected or made to feel selfish for simply wanting to interact with your parents…nothing worse than walking away from that door and sitting in your room knowing that you could be building a bomb, shooting heroin, or having an orgy and no one would notice.

No one would notice.

I guess this comes to mind as I just read a post at Untreatables blog that sparked a memory. In it he describes the feeling of “escaping prison” every time he left his house. I know that one well…only from a slightly different perspective. What I remember is the feeling that my house existed under a dome…a dark dome that upon entering would evoke feelings of emptiness, loneliness, and depression. No matter how happy or at peace I was just prior to setting foot on the driveway the moment I saw the house a feeling of dread would come over me. I didn’t want to go inside. Sometimes I would simply sit at the end of the driveway in order to put it off. It got so bad that eventually I simply stopped going home unless one of my pseudo-sisters was with me. Throughout high school we were like nomads that shuttled from one dysfunctional situation to the other…choosing the one that felt least threatening or opting for sitting on the corner between our houses smoking cigarettes when both were intolerable. This did little for my grades and I sometimes wonder if it was the report card in which I went from straight A’s to practically flunking out of high school that finally gave my mother the impetus to leave my father. She tried to ground me but it didn’t work. I simply left via my bedroom window and since she was back in the bedroom with dad she never really knew what the heck I was doing. And my grades didn’t improve.

I was 17 when we were finally free. We moved back into the home purchased during the first separation and I no longer felt like I didn’t want to go home. Home actually became a nice place to be. I could come home and be myself. I could read, or watch TV, bake a cake, or even *gasp* do my homework. Perhaps someday I’ll post on how significant that is…how actually enjoying the learning process was not tolerable in my fathers eyes, but that is for another day. The point is…I was finally in a place where I could have friends other than my sisters over without having to constantly watch my back wondering when my father would notice that I’d come home. I didn’t have to worry that he would notice me and decide to point out one of my many flaws (as being smart, pretty, and popular simply wasn’t good enough) or to remind me in some way of how deeply I was failing him as a daughter. To this day I am not sure what it was he wanted from me or where I failed him. During our last reconciliation when he was able to admit that he’d done and said some pretty terrible things he told me that the reason he acted the way he did toward me was because of something I said when I was seven that hurt his feelings. Yes…I said seven. I said something at the age of seven and was treated to 10 years of emotional torture. I don’t even remember being seven let alone something I said, and lets face it…whatever kind of child I was at the age of seven is a direct reflection of what I learned from my parents about how to interact with people. And that night…I told him as such. He would later deny both having had this conversation or of ever being a bad father. And I still refuse, on at least an intellectual level, to hold myself accountable for anything I did or said at the age of seven.

But all of this leads me to the reasons I started seeing a therapist in the first place. (1) The mini-breakdown I had upon reading the section in SWOE about protecting children from a parent with BPD and the flood of memories it unleashed, and (2) my insatiable need for validation from men in romantic relationships. For, while I knew on some level that William cared for me and actually did want us to work out I had a strong emotional reaction to his refusal to spend time with me. Even though I knew he was going through shit of his own and was having a hard time with it I was unable to see past that and take it as anything other than rejection. Just like that bedroom door being closed in my face when I was 15 years old.

ACT II: And I felt that twinge of rejection last night when I saw him at the pub playing pin-ball with plain Jane. Have I mentioned plain Jane? She is a girl that he may or may not have been dating. He may or may not still be dating her, though last night they didn’t appear to be anything other than buddies. So much I have left off the blog but the last couple of times I saw William at the pub he had a very emotional reaction to my presence. No longer aloof or seemingly un-affected by me he would appear fine and then quickly deteriorate. I suspect that whatever was or was not going on with plain Jane ended after the first night he saw me. The night that he kept looking at me as though he wanted to talk to me…the night that I heard Sally remind him that what happened on that fateful night 6 weeks ago was an accident…right in front of Jane. I suspect this because after that night, this girl who has been shooting me dirty looks for the last month or so, who smiled at me sadly as I walked out the door that night seemed desperate to talk to me the following evening. I made sure she didn’t get the opportunity.

When I saw them playing pin-ball I looked at Paul and said “If only he would have hung out with me the way he is hanging out with her we never would have had any problems.” This is actually false. The more correct statement would be that “I wouldn’t have had any problems.” Paul said “Yeah…I never really understood that but you know…maybe she is better for him than you are.” Not at all what I wanted to hear and I suppose he could see that in my face as he quickly said “Look…she is far less threatening than you. She is not going to challenge him or call him on his shit as she is probably grateful for any bit of attention he does give her. You’re not like that…and you deserve better than that” He’s right. I looked at him and said “Yeah…all things considered I know you are right. Not only that, but I doubt William will have to worry about other men approaching her.” To which Paul replied “Well…maybe if you knock the white stick out of the way or get them really drunk.” Sad but true…she is not the kind that attracts much attention either for her looks or her personality. Normally I would feel bad about having these thoughts about someone I don’t know but…I have little care for women that shoot me dirty looks simply because I exist.

As I sat there sipping my drink I was reminded of some of the things William said to me during our time together. Things like “I don’t normally date women that I am attracted to.” Huh? Maybe I get it now. And in the last week that we were still together he told me on the phone that he wished things were different. When I asked him what he meant he said he just wished everything was different. He wished he were different…that he felt like he should be where I am. We both suffered at the hands of our fathers (some of his stories rang eerily familiar to me as I’m sure mind did to him) and to quote him “And you’re making it happen…I’m not.” If he was comparing himself to me and coming up short that couldn’t have been good for him. Even if you don’t have BPD that is not a good state of mind but if you do…well…if I understand all of this properly then it’s even worse. I imagine he feels more comfortable in a relationship where he feels superior…one where, as Leila is wont to say, he “holds the ring”.

A little while later Simon stopped by to say hi and gave me a friendly kiss on the check. I imagine he “got in trouble” for talking to me last week so he made his visit brief and kept the remainder of his interactions with me to tugging on my hair as he walked by. A little flirtatious but far nicer than hanging all over me whilst trying to suck on my ear which is how he used to behave. I guess we’ve become some sort of friends. And William seemed more like himself than I’ve seen him since that night 6 weeks ago. He was neither overly happy nor overly melancholy and it looked like he was sticking to beer, which…if you’ve ever had a drink at The Zone…you know is like having a water.

At the end of the evening I hung back as Paul said his goodbyes to the table that included Simon, William, Jane, and a few assorted no one I’ve ever seen befores. My intent was to wave a good-bye to Simon as I headed out the door but Simon had other ideas and I got to tell you…I could kiss him for what happened next. Simon called out to comment on my ensemble. It was a very Carrie Bradshaw kind of get up that showed off a lot of leg and as far as Simon was concerned he could have done with a little more show of the stems. As the rest of the boys in the vicinity chimed in with their favorable opinions of my appearance last night I asked if my dress was too short. William was facing me to my right and Jane had her back to me on the left. Amidst assurances of “no…it’s perfect,” Simon…in an ever so Simon way…let me know that not only was my dress not too short but that it could be even shorter…like Porn star short. Jane looked over and gave what must have been meant to be a half smile but looked more like a grimace. William kept silent, keeping his gaze off the table and definitely not on me. Simon then said that what he’d really like is for me to need to pick something up off the floor. “Like this” I said as I started to bend over but then stood straight up to exclaim “Sorry Simon…no cheap thrills for you.” To this he replied “How about an expensive one?” I laughed and said “Leave it to you not to miss an opportunity to cross the line.” I drew an imaginary line on the table and said “This is the line” and then pointed to a spot somewhere across the bar and said “and that is Simon town.” I looked over at William to see how he was reacting to this little exchange. He wasn’t actually looking at the table and his expression was hard to read but if I had to take a guess I would say that he was amused. I gave Simon a pat on the hand and said “one day you’ll learn.” I turned to leave and called out “Good-night boys” over my shoulder. “BOYS!?!?!?!” came the cry from the peanut gallery. I turned, smiled, and with a slight curtsy said “I’m sorry…Good-night…MEN.”

And that…got a chuckle out of ‘ol William. And for that…I could have kissed Simon.

It was a good end to a good night. From dinner with Zabel…to seeing old friends at Farts and Darts…to charming the pants off of some boys…err…men at The Zone. I went to bed feeling good and woke up feeling good.

And no…I still have not called my father back. I don’t think that I will.