The Full Moon

Something strikes me today, something I have not thought of before.  I wonder if the full moon causes persons with BPD to go into reaction.  The full moon is imminent this week and Robin is antsy, grumpy and is extremely down.  I know this because it is April, and because he emailed me in short, crisp sentences entirely unlike his usual correspondence.  I am not mind reading, but I know his writing and his communication well.  I can hear his voice on paper. I wonder if there is a connection.  My friends tell me not to concern myself with his stuff. That it is water under the bridge.  I wish it were easier to let go.  It isn't as if I couldn't find someone else easily.  No one tells you who you will love and no one understands why they choose the people that they share their lives with - even the destructive ones.  I love Robin - don't want to be with him right now - but I have a lot of respect for the good stuff we shared. The bad was destructive.  I know that if you are a wife and you have a husband who has this condition, that the balance is challenging at best.  We know what is right and what is clearly wrong.  But a sense of empathy pervades. 

Just a thought. Looking back, on my memories I wonder how many of those days were attributed to the moon. Worth the mental note if nothing else.

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Day 8, Hit with a Ball Pean Hammer

There is something therapeutic about writing a blog. The having of a vessel for my memories and feelings to sail upon, swiftly out of the closets of my mind and into the welcoming sea. It doesn't matter if anyone reads them, merely that I freshen up what hurts and give myself some room for growth and movement.

I picked up the mail from our box today. Inside, an assortment of bills and a rejection note from a credit card company. It pissed me off. When you are in a relationship with someone the credit card companies leap through impossible cracks to hand you money, and when you apply as an independent, you appear as a beggar. It is insane how as a wife, the world works for you in such a way that you can have whatever you want, but you can not make a decision. I recall trying to change something on my cable bill, and because the name on the account was Robin's, I had to call him and seek permission in order to make the change. He then, had to contact the cable company to inform them that I could in fact have a say in what we would have in our home. It wasn't just the cable company, it was the hydro, the water people - all of the utility companies and of course all of the banks.

I realized back then, that in about a minute, my existence here in this house, could be crushed. At any moment, he simply needs to make a phone call, and I won't have so much as running water and therefore by extension, not a pot to piss in. I am angry by this. The man is an abusive, cruel and sick person, and he still has all the power. Oh yes, I can walk and I have. But, I am the one who is spending money on the hotels, in the hostels, or sleeping on friends couches while he luxuriously lays in the home I created. If he realized what he could do with a phone call or two, well, I can see his twisted smile now. I am sure, had he realized the extent of his power, he would surely take me down to the river to drown me.

There is anger rustling deep within me. This isn't the ticket to the bus ride that I bought. I feel quite emasculated actually, instead of powerful for choosing a better life for myself. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't feel like a victim either, just annoyed that in this day and age with women working as hard as they do for the money they make, why the husband still has so much control over the decisions in a home. And why mine, can have a mental disorder and still be the cock on the walk. I shake my head.

I look around my house and glare at the patch marks I have sculpted on the walls, prepped for touch up paint and I wonder, what life will be like for me without him and this house. The rain beating on the skylight feels like my spirit feels. Gray, dark and a bit lost. I don't need a man, or company, that isn't it. It is just a feeling of waste. I thought I had made the right decision when I married him. I thought he would be my prince and instead of living happily ever after, I find myself recalling the notes I would scribe over years, to convince myself that I was worth more. I try to come to terms with the fact that he doesn't care, and no amount of reconciling will ever make him fully capable of giving me the life I deserve. It is so sad.

People that suffer from BPD aren't capable of true love because they are wired differently than other people. They have impulse control issues, and high level BPD's are much like grown up children who have silly childish temper tantrums. When something doesn't suit them, they shut off all elements of logic and instead find themselves in reaction. The reaction very much resembles those of a small child who is unable to use his or her words to explain their pains. They act out irrationally and without warning, but high level BPD's experience a different kind of modification than more serious degrees of the condition. These people have situational reactions. They are frightened of the authority figures in their lives and therefore they don't have the hissy fits that they have with their close partnerships. High levels wouldn't dream of going to their boss and using ridiculous profanity, or smashing things, but they don't hesitate to behave inappropriately with their mates or closest relationships. The reason seems clear; high level BPD's trust their partners not to leave and push the package as far as they can to create a reaction in us so strong, that their biggest fears are fully realized. The replay of their childhood abandonment. They need the push. They feel loved by the push, and the drama that comes only with their intimate relationships. They have such a skewed view of themselves that we, as their mirrors, become the vessel for their weaknesses and their biggest fears. The projection of their lowest selves is the vision we reflect back upon them.

When we leave them, they can become the victims they truly believe that they are. There is no remorse for their behavior, merely emptiness.

I recall when Robin would talk about his twin brothers arriving on the scene when he was just five years old. As he told the story, I was touched and deeply saddened for this child of Manic Depressive Parents, who had difficulty relating to each other. Robin was terrified about living that life in his own marriage, and sadly, I believe he created much of their relationship in our life by replication.

He was a beautiful little English lad, complete with nicker shorts and golden hair. He possessed a naughty grin and deep blue gray eyes, with super long blond eyelashes. He appeared in his pictures as a happy little tyke. full of mischief and wonderment. Then one day, the close relationship that he had with his mum and dad seemed odd and they picked up his toys and in what sounded like a fairly fluid motion, the family moved to a bigger home. Shortly after, his brothers would arrive to the new house, and the connection that he had with his parents was shared. An unequal share at that. The babies naturally took up all of his mummies time, and the fun that Robin once had, was gone.

School would begin and when it did, there would be no time for play. He went to a elementary school that did not allow fun or drawing or impropriety. He told of a story where he was off of the school grounds, walking towards the building and eating a sandwich on the street. As he entered the school yard, his teacher saw him eating. Upon returning to class, he was brought up to the front of the room and slapped hard across his tiny face. The teacher looked at him and said that eating on the street was an embarrassment to the school. He never played in his elementary years again. He studied, because that was what all good boys did and he did not want a repeat of his childhood trauma.

I think that the combination of these events became catalysts to his life with BPD.

Let me make a note, much like most people who suffer from this disorder, Robin does not believe that he has any kind of ailment. He entirely dismisses it. His diagnosis comes from my own independent investigation of his behaviors and symptoms. I have discussed these traits with my own counselor and she concurs that Robin possesses a significant proportion of the traits that characterize this disorder. In addition, I have spoken with our marriage counselor, and other social workers whom have agreed that Robin carries an abundance of the common patterns of a person who has BPD and Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

It is important to note that many people are never diagnosed. Having said that, if you live with a person who has these qualities, a diagnoses only allows the doctor to use his prescription pad. Unless the condition, is in it's extreme form, where suicidal tendencies and extreme violence are prominent, making the diagnosis is difficult at best and requires cooperation from the patient. I invite you to visit BPD Central for a complete list of the traits associated with this disorder. High level BPD's function very well and they go through cycles of up and down behaviors, and consistently change views between hero worship and hatred. There temperaments are volatile and they explode with little warning. Again, I invite you to consider the symptoms carefully. It took me well over a year of the ten years we were together, to finally come to terms with his behaviors. For the first 6 years, I blamed myself and I internalized a lot of the abuse. It did not belong to me. Once determining that this was his disorder, a huge relief followed and things he had done and said became a new normal. The condition is very clear. It was like a huge burden was lifted and I could understand what I was living with.

Anyhow, at the start of this entry I was talking about the mail and how I was feeling frustrated by the fact that I would be starting my life over again. Had I known in the beginning that he had BPD, I am not sure I would have stayed. I would have made a different choice, or perhaps learned sooner how to detach. I have talked a lot about the condition as it relates to Robin, but not so much as to how it relates to those who don't have the condition.

In my situation, I don't really know what normal is anymore, I just know what isn't. I am so used to waiting for the ball to drop, that I go through incredible phases of highs and lows about leaving this life and starting again. After living with a person who has BPD, you are inevitably on a roller coaster of your own and it takes a while to look at yourself with clarity. Plus it is really hard work. On the one hand, I am pretty excited. I have my sailboat, my sanity (although at the moment that is a bit questionable), and a pretty good outlook that it will be okay. But I also have this incredible sense of guilt. I mean, if Robin had Cancer, heaven forbid, I wouldn't leave him. If he was diagnosed with turrets, I wouldn't be thrilled, but I wouldn't leave him - and so I have to ask myself why put myself through the start again process. My little voice chit chats and says "Give in, give him the money he wants (he equates me to a yearly dollar value) , let him get stupid once every four months, he'll be good in between. " I tell myself it would be so easy just to let him be who he is, accept it, and not take his stuff personally. And then, I look at myself in my own mirror and I know, that abuse is wrong. Mental condition or not. No one has the right to hurt you on purpose.

It is my life and I only have one. When this is all over, and I have found myself again I will be stronger for it, with or without the extra credit card. His voice in my head will quiet over time. I will be able to breath in and out in my own home, without fear that my belongings will be kindling for the fireplace. I will be able to see myself again as the beautiful, smart, fun, energetic, healthy person that I am, and not the words he uttered in lunacy.

My counselor said it best, she said: You will find happiness again. You will be able to get out of your own head and see the world for what it is, but he never will be able too.

I can pity his situation, but not make it a life sentence.

I reach for my tea.

Day 7, El Boca, El Shutta

I got an email from Robin today. A friendly little note that says - gee, haven't spoken for a while; hope you are well. I guess you don't have any thoughts about my last little note about our financial future together. Oh bite me.

I am not sure sarcasm suits me very well, but I haven't had much sleep in the last few days and so I am a little punch drunk I think. Going through the motions and playing the waiting game while my lawyers drafts up the paper work, is leaving me on pins and needles a bit. Like I said, so much of me wishes this was just a bad dream, but alas, it is not.

One of the major symptoms of BPD is the yo-yo factor of being on a pedestal, and then off a pedestal within the same breath. One minute you are adored, and in the next second and without warning, you are worse than a sea slug mating is a cesspool. There is no logic. One day, Robin and my son and I were just hanging out, watching TV, doing nothing in particular. Robin was a great cook, and he started to make a stew or something. It seemed he was enjoying himself and we had all been laughing and enjoying our time together, when all of a sudden Robin slams the knife down onto the kitchen counter. He walked over to the sink and began seething. I casually looked up, and asked if he was okay. He threw a glass and it ricocheted off of the counter smashing onto the blue tiled floor. I calmly asked what was going on, to which he replied " You guys just sit there and take, take, take, while I slave over this stove. What is the matter with your son, can't he get up and peel the carrots without being asked to contribute? Can't you see I need some help in here?"and with that, he stormed into the laundry room and blew the breaker. The power was shut off. " I pay for this power, and I will decide how it is used." he growled. He stood at the kitchen sink facing us - complete with the look that I had grown so accustomed to, and oozed anger from his pores. We quietly apologized. We couldn't say or do anything. I stood, pushing my son behind me, and asked how I could help. He stormed outside. I turned on the power and continued to work on his concoction. Silence filled the house, but the air was thickened in a deep blanket of dense fog. The storm had arrived. Tread lightly.

I don't remember much else. Just that the day had been spoiled. Another family day, stressed and without so much as any warning. I recall, the next day he told me how wonderful I was and how lucky he was to be married to me. How I looked so young and beautiful. As if nothing had happened.

When I read the email a moment ago, it reminded me of the cycle.

One minute his behavior hurtful and cruel, the next a note with the sweet salutation "Love Robin xo". The idea, I am sure to show what a lovely person that he is, and that of course there was nothing wrong at all. If anyone were to read the emails, they would appear to be caring and loving and logical. Why would anyone think badly of Robin; he is trying to work things out with you Ann. He closes the note with " I will call you later to catch up". I could hear the nonchalance of that accent.

I began to write a reply - and in it, I told him off, and then like a bolt of lightning, my intelligence kicked in and screamed at me, that that was exactly what he wanted. A response. Any response was better than my silence. And the words I would send would fulfill his need beyond anything I could predict. He would be satiated. A twisted kind of comfort that I had grown entirely accustomed too. Part of the ride.

I thought better of it and abruptly erased it. Hearing myself, my own justification for what he has done, doesn't serve me in the least by sharing it with him.

It is what he wants me to do. No, silence has more impact for me right now. Preservation and patience. I know what I know. I am back on his little footstool again, and he will try to swoon me. No, there will be no reaction this time. My spider senses are working overtime.

There is a certain predictability with BPD. It goes in cycles that can almost be measured on a graph. When the burst of anger has passed, there is a honeymoon stage. A stage where you can do no wrong because the major flair has exploded and the building of the new cycle of tension hasn't yet fully formed.

It is a bit of a sweet place, because you know that you will be safe for a little while. It is also the most dangerous, because that is the time when the people who suffer from BPD are the most charming. And they are charming. I received flowers every week, whether I needed them or not, during this phase. I am courted, romanced and spoiled rotten during this phase. Nothing I do is less than wonderful. As the tension begins to build, snipes slip in, without really being noticed. They are small. Orders start appearing in the form of "you are not busy, you can do this or that", and in the desire to please, the jobs get done without question. Truth is, I would complain a little bit, because I had an agenda of my own that needed my attention, but to keep the peace I would inevitably comply. The cycle builds in unnoticeable baby steps from an external point of view, but internally my body would quietly begin to rumble. I knew an explosion would be coming due and I tried painstakingly, to do everything right in order to avoid it. It could never be prevented.

There is a term for those who live with partners who have BPD called "walking on eggshells", and it is true metephor. It became a household term, along with a few others, like Oz and Hoovering, by a wonderful support team named Randi Kreger and Paul T. Mason. Their book "Stop Walking on Eggshells" is considered the BPD Bible. If you want to understand BPD behaviors, this is the best first line of defense. You can find their books all over the internet and at most major book stores. There is an accompaniment workbook that will help to identify your own feelings, and understand how your contributions to the problems of BPD surface and perhaps fuel their issues. It is a guide to help sidestep major problems and although each person is different, there are enough commonalities to make this a usable tool kit for surviving and understanding who you are involved with. The book has certainly helped me and frankly, it gave me a resource when I thought I was going crazy.

The BPD behavior is so odd, and so difficult to wrap your head around, that partners often feel that it is them that are the crazy ones, but it is isn't us at all. BPD, and Narcisstistic Personality
Disorders are commonly intertwined and the conditions effect every part of the relationship and it also creates a codependency over time, like nothing else.

I am constantly amazed when I go back into my memory about how much responsibility I took for his behavior. How I would try to prevent explosions from happening, how I would even martyr myself to justify his choices. I can only revisit these events and try to watch them as though I were watching a movie. Then in hopes of further understanding, question myself with "Did I say something to trigger him. Why did he chose to make us afraid of him. What was he afraid of?" Then I ask myself why, why did I stay, year after year?

It is a process. It is hard to remove oneself from the situation. The good is so unbelievably good and the bad, well it is equally tough. I kept saying, " but he only does this four times a year ", and then I would allow myself a little more time to process. It would be okay, over and over again I would tell myself. It never was.

Yesterday, I expressed a feeling of depression. I feel low today, but not really depressed. This is a tough road and there is much to be done, and much to be felt.

But not in his email. No, not again. The cycle will be broken.

Day One, The file.

I never imagined that I would be in this place. I turn 47 in September of this year and after ten years of living with a man whom I adored, I have let myself out of Oz. You see, here is the thing about being in an abusive relationship. Most of the time, you find yourself shocked that you allowed yourself to even be in it. I come from a family of strong women. Women who would never tolerate any sort of abuse, backbiting, alcoholism, drug abuse or any of the taboo determiners some families vocabulary. I am a tough gal and I don't deal with that kind of stuff. Yes, it sounds bad but I am just too good for crap like that. That stuff is for other people and I am not one of those people. I don't have bruises on my face or on my body. In fact, I am a pretty good looking lady if I do toot my own horn. How did this happen to me? I am an intelligent chick with an extremely positive outlook on life, and I am very well liked by most people. In fact, no one would expect that I had ever experienced the deep scarring that verbal abuse leaves behind, nor the twisted sense of security by staying in a toxic environment. I just don't fit the proverbial profile.

Robin, my husband; was a 7th Dan, International Karate Champion. Born and raised in England, he was scholarly, handsome and extremely dashing. The kind of guy, that when he walked into a room, people knew he was there. Upon first meeting, he swept me off my feet. He had a crooked grin and a set of eyes that could penetrate the Berlin wall. He knew how to charm a girl, and that accent...that accent would make a woman feel like a temptress with a single word. He smelled erotic. He was haughty, and daring, delicious and dedicated. I deserved a man like this and I decided that pursuing this prince was well worth the adventure. So, off into the depths of a deep relationship I ventured. He charmed me and spoiled me with gifts almost everyday. Cards, notes, romance abound, Robin was every girls fantasy. The car door was opened, the hand consistently reaching for mine, the glowing eyes and the deep mouth kisses that lingered for what seemed to be hours and leaving a deep want for more. Everything we did was magical. Walks in the woods, travels to weekend retreats, fine dining and extraordinary little heart stickers carefully hidden in secret corners. When discovered, they would leave a feeling of admiration and frankly, I felt loved. He was too good to be true. I would live happily ever after with him. I would forsake all others to stand by his side. I would involve myself in his life, his friendships, his goals. I would be his partner in life. When he proposed and placed the half carat ring on my hand, I couldn't wait for our life to begin.

For the first two years, Robin was a man among men and when we wed on March 21, 2003, I felt like a princess. We married in a tiny church, our rings blessed by a minister, who was almost as old as the antique chapel. It was a small wedding, only about a dozen or so people invited. The church was almost a hundred years old and was complete with old wooden pews, and a large stained glass window. It was quaint, and rich in history. We said our vows to the soft sounds of the ministers voice. It was a pretty ceremony, and while we told each other of our commitments, a ladybug perched herself upon my gown. It was the stuff that Walt Disney makes movies about. The stuff that little girls pray for their whole lives. Our vows said, and a new life had begun. As the flashes went off around us, I felt a little like Lady Dianna. My husband reached for me on the stairs of the old church, careful lifted the skirt of my gown, so as not to step on it, and kissed me deeply.

Just before we had gotten married we had purchased a house in the country. We found a rancher style home, with an acre of land and a few chunky old paddocks in the back of the property. I am a bit of an artist, and so we talked about how we would build an art studio in the back of the property, a place where I could eventually sit and paint my old age away. He would build for himself, a Dojo, where he could practice his craft, and perhaps teach karate classes to a few special students. It was the beginning of a dream. I looked forward to the day when I would be able to paint, and watch him do Kata and Kummite. He was brilliant at Karate. Utterly, poetry in motion. But as time went on, little did I expect, that dream would become merely a vapor.

The first time that Dr. Hyde appeared, I was cooking in the kitchen. I can't even recall what he was angry about. It was like a gray shadow had overtaken his face, and his usual steel blue eyes, had turned to black, or so it seemed. His demeanor became one of a fighter, a boxer in the ring ready to take on the world. I was amused by it. In fact, I thought nothing of it at all. The first strike to the door with his fist punctured a whole in it about the size of a frying pan. Still, not really clear what was going on, I looked at him like he was an alien and then I said to him, "And we did this because...?" He retorted by kicking the rest of it off of it's hinge. Standing in awe, I looked at him and wondered what would happen next. I was silenced.

He did not touch me, but he left the house and went to the back of the property. It was a dramatic scene and sadly, one that would repeat itself every four months, almost like clockwork for near eight years. It was not always a door, sometimes it would be other things that would become fireplace kindling, but each event more violent than the last.

When it initially happened, it could be compared to a poltergeist. Or better yet, if a person grew up in the 70's and 80's they may recall the story of the "Incredible Hulk", the guy who turned green and then would run away after he damaged whatever it was that had made him turn into the creature. Afterward, the Hulk would feel a sense of unknowing and shock at his own body. Well, that was Robin. His entire presence changed and he was not the person that I knew. Sometimes he would yell a primal scream that was so deep that it could be felt in another country, yet on other occasions, it was a silent brooding and a threatening glare. The purpose, always was to instill fear into me. It worked. Every time.

But I digress, and so I will return to the initial day he changed. After he had kicked down the front door, I was suitably flabbergasted. That, and totally lost in a sea of confusion. But like most strong women, I knew that this first incident would need addressing so that it was not to be repeated. While he calmed himself down in the back yard, I picked up the door and leaned it against the wall,then I grabbed a blanket to cover the open hole.

I decided that although I wanted to talk this through, it was best to wait until the seas had calmed. I did not know what I would say or how I would say it. It was so uncharacteristic of him to behave in this way. There were no red flags to set it up. Nothing unusual. Just an immediate and violent outburst. I knew that anything that I said would have to be in caution. I would not know what I was up against.

I can't honestly remember what happened next. It was all a blur. He didn't hit me, that I would recall, but he did not have any real sense of remorse either. His view of our marriage, had changed in that instant. We had not been married long. He didn't seem to feel regret, but said words to the effect that he had felt unappreciated. I had somehow taken something from him. That he had produced the things that we had entirely and that I didn't have gratitude for what he brought into our life. I didn't understand.

Everyday, up to, during and thereafter, I would thank him profusely for everything. And, if you knew me, you would know that I am always over thanking people. I would hug him over and over, constantly showing my joy over what he had done for us and for our home. I would send him notes, make his favorite foods, carefully prepare his lunch each day for work, and always remind him of how attractive and dashing that I thought he was. Unfortunately, it did not matter what I said to him. His belief was firm and held strong. He had "made a mistake by marrying me". I was devastated.

For Robin, the cup was never full enough to satiate his need for appreciation. I recall internalizing this event. I never wanted to see my front door off of it's hinge ever again, but my eyebrows were merely raised on that night. Normal people would not kick down doors. Honestly, at first, I chalked his behavior up to a temper tantrum, and tried to view it as a one off, but that would not be my truth. Each episode, to come would be worse and more uncalled for than the last. Each episode would begin to attack my character as well.

I did not equate his behavior to a mental illness initially. In fact, it took some months for me to understand what his triggers were, and those were evasive at best. Much later in this life I had chosen, I would come to terms with what I would come to believe as BPD. Boarderline Personality Disorder. I was in OZ. The violent outbursts would become a volley between me being on a pedestal, and me being nothing better than trailer trash. This was not at all what I had thought would be my life.

In the following posts, I will share my experiences mixed with my present detachment from Robin. It is a hard place to be, somewhere caught between the person whom I believed he was, to the person he actually is and the effects that the trauma has had on life as I know it now.

Lucky for me, I can see a rainbow slowly appearing in the distance.