My Borderline Mother

My mother died in November of 2008. She contracted rheumatoid arthritis as a teenager, and developed osteoarthritis later on in life.

She had multiple strokes, one so severe she suffered from aphasia and deafness in one ear, and a permanent staph infection from a botched hip replacement surgery. My mother was also a borderline personality.

My grandmother was the Witch mother. Sadistic, charming and only affectionate when she wanted something. My mother was beaten, as was her youngest sister, and both my mother and my aunt chose to something interesting when they had children. They each embraced the borderline mother within. My mom was the Waif, the Witch and Queen. She was fragile and needed constant care, she was sadistic and cruel and she was the only person in the family who mattered. It was a very dysfunctional environment in which to grow up.

I got my borderline personality the old fashioned way-I inherited it. At the age of 16, on my birthday in fact, I took all the Naprosyn and Darvon my mother had in her medicine cabinet. Her first response as my father carried my semi-conscious body down the stairs was “What am I going to take tomorrow?” According to my dad, eventually she realized that her only child was in crisis and thought about someone else.

When I became pregnant with my son, I cried because he was a HE. Women from BPD families are more likely to carry on the tradition than men, and Josh being, well, Josh, was a huge weight off my shoulders. Then I realized I had to get well. Realizing that and doing it are two entirely different things. Josh was 5 the last time I was hospitalized for self-injury. In the nine years since that last hospitalization, I found a truly wonderful therapist, went on Lexapro for a while, and came out the other side of BPD. I don’t think about cutting, or starving myself, and I would never treat my son the way my mother treated me.

I have scars all over my arms and legs. In the summer, I can see people look down and try to figure out what happened to me. They usually don’t ask. If someone did, I would proudly say “These are battle scars. I won, by the way”, and grin. And I did.

Borderline personality disorder affects millions of people, mostly young women. If you are reading this and saying to yourself this sounds like me, or my mom, or my wife, get help. For you and for the borderline. If the borderline won’t get help, get out. It sounds cruel, and when my then fiance now husband did it, I hated him for a year, but borderlines will destroy everyone around them even as they destroy themselves. Think of it this way: borderlines don’t see the world in shades of gray, they see it as black OR white. One day they love you, the next day, they despise you. Borderlines self harm, they engage in risky and often dangerous behavior and they will hurt you on a whim. But a recovered borderline is one of the most beautiful creatures on Earth. We are strong and empathetic, and we are hyper aware of the perfection in the petal of a flower or the giggle of a child. We are scarred, but only because we fought so hard to stay alive.

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