A few weeks ago my therapist sat across from me and asked about my homework (it's homework. And I get to pay £50 an hour for the privilege of doign homework. I'm finally in a form of private school, albeit sans ties and tacky knee socks). I'd had homework to do and done it I had, only I wasn't sure that it was correct. It was like math homework-I needed a key in the back with the answers to every other question. Luckily, mental illness is not something that comes with a little red pen so it was clear he wouldn't be able to mark points off for punctuation errors.

I was to come up with how I felt about addressing some of my issues. The past 8 months have been fact-finding only, to get a view of the mountains before determining where to start the mining operation. Now that the view's been had, the earth-moving equipment is being brought in.

I had decided how I wanted to address my issues-I was going to see if we could find a way to handle it scientifically-identify problem. Examine. Theorize as to nature of problem. Hypothesize about treatment. Apply treatment. Mark issue off on checklist. Move on. These formulas I am familiar with, and like a true punnet square addict I was prepared to get my number 2 pencil out and give it a go. Once upon a time I was a crunchy-granola anthropology student, but all these years as an engineer have taken their toll on me and the Scientific Method is as critical to making choices as my Benefit Brow Zings are to my eyebrows-I don't leave home without either one of them.

But then our shit arrived from Stockholm and all that went out the window. Upon opening boxes that hurt, I quickly compiled all dangerous and toxic items, winged them into combined boxes, and asked Angus to get them out of the house and into the garage lest they contaminate the rest of the house. There were bad things in those boxes. There were things that affected me, and that was not part of the equation, my scientific equation did not include things that go bump in the heart. I accept a life that has to have feeling, that has to have me living it in the first person, but I meant from here on. Now. No, wait. Now. Hold on, let me start over. I mean now.

So I went back to my therapist with a shrug. Personally, I'd prefer it to be like that old math question: If Helen leaves train station A traveling eastbound at 70 mph, at what point will she pass Her Issues on Train B, traveling westbound at 92 mph, and be able to submissively look into the window and see them before their trains move on? And then my next choice is not a choice-I would be happy to just bury them under a few levels of concrete with an absolute promise that I would definitely not, ever, bury things again, just please let's not address these issues, ok? But my couch man, he is not one to bury things, he's a 'let's address it' kind of guy, a "you're feeling something? That is the shit!" professional.

Bugger.

So his proposal is to start blasting down the doors. Only twice in our entire time together has he been able to get an emotional response out of me-once was this time, and once was during the first week of May, when just as I stepped off the tube platform to start the 15 minute walk to his place, I fell apart. I walked sobbing through those streets and didn't stop crying for over an hour. I went into his office and did the deep heaving sobs that one does as a kid, where huge gulps of air fuel the teary fire. I don't do emotions with regards to things that hurt me. I can sit there and talk about things as passively as someone who is just a casual observer, and because I can disassociate most of the time that's exactly what I am. He is clear with me-I am not a psychopath, someone who is unable to feel sadness, rage, happiness, etc. I can feel all of those things, only because I am BPD* I get to step away from them to protect myself from feeling them.

My therapist has a personal war on numbness, which is ok since (as I have learnt) numb isn't really numb, it's just shit lying low for now.

Being in therapy continues to be something that I am 100% committed to doing. I don't kid myself that my prospects are bleak without it. I don't deny that I have issues**, and in order to stop being an imposter amongst the living, I need to get rid of them and learn how to lie down and sleep next to them. Starting therapy was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Continuing it is quite possibly the easiest.

My guy, he wants to start with Kim. You know, the little things. I am to bring my silver box in this week, which we will open together. He has yet to get a reaction from me about Kim, and if I have it my way, he never will. He says there are many things that we have to deal with, some of them that have spread like a fungus over my entire outlook, some with lines of poison running through my past, but maybe some of the more recent are easier. I don't say one thing or another-I have recent things, including family, fights with Angus, work hell, divorce, job loss.

Why Kim you might ask (or maybe you wouldn't but I am a presumptuous cow, and I asked it myself)? Based on a series of questions, my therapist came to a conclusion. He asked the date that Kim died, and you know what? I can't remember it. I never can. I can remember his birthday, the day we met, and other things but I can never, ever remember the date of his death. He asked me how often I talk to him. This startled the fuck out of me-I had never told anyone I did that. I used to talk to him daily, and though it's less often now, I still do talk to him. It's always in the car while I'm driving-I will turn the radio off and just talk to him, even though I never plan to do it, even though half the time I don't realize I'm doing it.

My therapist scrutinizes me constantly when I talk of Kim, which is incredibly rare-he tends to give me space or else I get cagey and whip out 20 dollar words, a thesaurus my own personal gates barring entry to getting too close to me. I often don't make eye contact and I don't cry. I don't want to do either.

So we start off today by blowing the lid off my silver box. It will be Round 1 in the fixing of Helen. We are now nearing the hard part, the part where I go through what is known as CBT, or cognitive behavior therapy. Basically, a BPD person has to have their thoughts and beliefs explored and destroyed, like the Marines we have to be broken and then put back together again, only instead of being created into simper fi, we simply become human.

It is as Ann Sexton said: I begin to see. Today I am not all wood.

Kim. My therapist feels that I have never dealt with his death.

Maybe the truth is, I never dealt with his life.

-H.

*BPD stands for borderline personality disorder, not bi-polar disorder. It's an environmental condition, meaning it's not passed down genetically. There are many theories on how one becomes BPD but none of them involve murky gene pools. This instruction is for the asshole that felt the need to dump all over my other site***. I keep writing about my own issues because it helps me and I hope perhaps it can help others. If you want to learn more about BPD this excellent book describes what life is like both being BPD and living with a BPD.

** And if you want to follow up in the comments about how having issues perhaps makes me unfit for wanting to be a mother, my therapist and I have spent a great deal of time talking about that, too. He says I am ok to be a mother, as one of the premises of me wanting therapy is that I want cycles to be broken. In his words, the mere fact that I constantly revisit how to be a good mother in our sessions is proof that I would do my very best to be the best mother I could be. I suppose that's all anyone can ask for.

*** Jesus Christ I sound defensive but I'm really not. No really. Honnnnnnnnest.

Posted by: Everydaystranger at 10:31 AM | Comments (12) | Add Comment
Post contains 1518 words, total size 8 kb.

1 To your point about being a good mother - I think you will be an excellent mother, because you are dealing with these things, you recognize that there is a problem and are working for the solution. I think you are one of the bravest people I "know." Hugs to you. I know this will be a tough day for you.

Posted by: donna at June 19, 2006 12:10 PM (nkvqO)

2 I believe you're very fit to be a mother. The fact that you are getting therapy shows that you want to be the best you can be: for yourself, your Angus and your future children. Keep working on this - I think it's wonderful.

Posted by: Serena at June 19, 2006 01:05 PM (ToHm9)

3 You very brave, honey, and I wish you all the courage and strength in the world as you undertake this particular journey. I was wondering about therapy, though. I kind of always thought that a lot of therapy would have to be cultural specific. Like, can a Swede working in London totally relate to a nice girl from Texas? Or do the issues transcend culture? Or what.

Posted by: RP at June 19, 2006 01:06 PM (LlPKh)

4 It is those people who make grand declarations about your ability to be a good mother that really are the ones who should be sterilized at birth. They need not breed any further gene pool hall monitors. Wanky fucks.

Posted by: Sir Henry at June 19, 2006 02:04 PM (4K1xq)

5 thanks for being so honest. it's nice to know that someone else is capable of at least acknowledging that life isn't always ok. gives me some hope.

Posted by: copasetic fish at June 19, 2006 02:34 PM (P1qaC)

6 Therapy is hell. Sometimes it's not. But it is necessary. I wish I had something more eloquent to say...

Posted by: Donna at June 19, 2006 05:51 PM (Aanzg)

7 The pictures from Greece are amazing. You look amazing in that dress. And you are doing amazing work at the therapist. Did I mention I think you are amazing?

Posted by: Donna at June 19, 2006 05:55 PM (Aanzg)

8 Wanting to make yourself better is the first step in getting better. I'd say you're on the right track. You'll be an awesome mom. Just ask Gorby and the kitty-girls.

Posted by: caltechgirl at June 19, 2006 06:42 PM (/vgMZ)

9 I missed you this week while I was gone. You would be a fabulous mother; I just know it.

Posted by: kenju at June 20, 2006 03:58 AM (2+7OT)

10 I just want to assert that you are NOT a presumptuous cow, not in the least--but boy howdy, does that phrase tickle me. I can't get it out of my head now. Also can't wait for a chance to whip it on someone who's really spoiling for it.

Posted by: ilyka at June 20, 2006 09:16 AM (Vap83)

11 Ooh, and I should read all the comments before posting mine (I am such a presumptuous cow!), because I forgot to say that if I could, I would reach across the internets to high-five Sir Henry.

Posted by: ilyka at June 20, 2006 09:18 AM (Vap83)

12 I don't think I've ever questioned whether or not you'd be a good mother - although who am I to judge?! Anyway, I know you'd be a great mom already. Look at how great of a mother you are to Gorby and the girls! Nuts? Not really. I do love my cat like a child. My husband teases me about having her stuffed when she dies and then bury her with me when I die. He's sick. I do hope that you can open up to your therapist. I know it's a pandora's box of emotions and it's really scary to open. He knows that there are emotions hidden in there and he's going to do any and every thing to get you to open it.

Posted by: Michele at June 20, 2006 10:16 PM (5VGFA)

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