Excerpts From The Diary – My Borderline Years
Why did my borderline mother hit me? Why was that her only solution to what wasn’t even that stressful a situation? Why was it that I could do nothing right in her eyes as a child? Does this woman, or will this woman ever, have even a clue how much she has negatively impacted my life? I have a million questions about so much about my borderline mother. I have most of my answers, not from her, but from the reality that I too was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. Living inside the world of borderline hell has provided me a lot of insight into my mother. But, to what end, I wonder?
Borderline Diary – My Borderline Years – Why Did My Borderline Mother Hit Me?
September 7, 1993
It is Wednesday and I have just returned home from group therapy. The weather is so nice out but my emotional temperature is stormy. I can’t believe what I just went through. Sitting in group and being so triggered by that woman “Lady Jane” as we call her. What a drama queen. What a snob. What a bitch, actually. What a reminder of my mother she is. God, I can’t stand her. Every time she opens her mouth I just want to shove something in it so I don’t have to hear her. I wish someone would just make her go away. She thinks she knows everything. She’s been in group all of two days and I am already at my emotional wits end. I’ve been reprimanded five times in two days for getting into to “it” with her. As if it’s just my fault? As if “Lady Jane” isn’t in the game. She’s in the game alright. She’s the one spinning the games but as usual it seems I’m the one getting all the blame. Unfair, unfair, unfair. I can’t stand it!
Art therapy was just hell today. It sure feels like the last straw for me. I can’t – just can’t listen to or put up with “Lady Jane” anymore. What am I going to do. I’ve been in enough trouble lately. I’ve been high on the group’s radar in terms of feeling like my every word or choice to not speak is overly scrutinized. This entire experience is my friggin family all over again. Like I need that – NOT!
The therapists seem to think that everything that happens with and/or is said between me and “Lady Jane” is somehow my fault. It’s driving me crazy. How can it all be my fault? If C…. says it’s about my “upping the anti” one more *&*&*^%^ time I swear I’ll just lose what’s left of my mind.
I hate art therapy. It sucks. I don’t like crafts. I can’t draw. I don’t paint – houses, and walls maybe, but not canvass in the artsy fartsy fancy. Oh “Lady Jane” is just so perfect – so she thinks. Between her and J bragging endlessly about their unending artistic skill there really wasn’t air let alone space left in the room for the rest of us peons whose artistic talent peaks with stick people and child-like suns with straight-line rays.