Borderline Diary – My Borderline Years – Mirror Without Reflection – My borderline mother, my mirror without reflection. My borderline mother, blank face, blank stare – angry. Always so angry. How many more times will you reach out to her only to be abandoned again. Only to be rendered just a little more invisible? How many times? She hurts me. I hate her. She hates me. I love her. I hate her. I need her. I can’t stand this.
She says, when I ask if she loves me at all, oh so disengaged, “Well … let me put it this way, you know how you can love someone but not really like them?” Oh sure, mom, sure. I know. I thought to myself as it felt like I had literally disappeared. Standing in front of her bearing way too much, again, essentially with my heart in my hands, she just smacked my hands together. She squished my heart. A heart that hasn’t ever been whole. A heart that has always been so broken. A heart that she fragmented so many years ago.
Borderline Diary – My Borderline Years – Mirror Without Reflection – Invisibility’s Painful Perfection
July 17, 1994
Okay so here I am again writing stuff down. Remembering so much stuff. It’s all bad stuff. It’s all stuff that hurts. I am learning so much in therapy. So much I just never knew before. Never understood before. Never could have withstood before. Can I bear it now, really? Will I get through this pain? Really?
I don’t know why I saw my mother last night. What a useless visit and conversation. What a pain. It still pisses me off beyond description only now I don’t just feel the rage there are also tears. Tears of a little girl. I was that little girl seeing my mother’s face. A face, a mirror without reflection. A blank slate most of the time. An unhappy and often rather blank stare on a face that definitely hated me the more she saw herself in me.
She hates me. I hate her. I love her. She sees in me the little girl in her who she was taught to hate. So hate me mom, hate me. I hate you too. I love you – I hate you. In times when I have tried to say I love her or reach out for something more – for something – she lashes out with a violent vengeance. She can’t tolerate the thought of us connecting or of there being any demonstrated love. This seems nuts to write but I feel abandoned when she spurns the love I have tried to give. The times when I have extended myself to care for her and look after her in ways that she has never been able to do for me.
She hates me. I hate her more. She hates me more. I love her. I’m lost. She’s busy. She’s raging. She’s drinking. She tells my father lies and he beats me right in front of her. Silently still she sits condoning his violence. Powerful she must feel in these hateful choices. All my life my fantasy was to beat her to a pulp. I so wanted to punch her head in. I still feel it. I dream about it. I feel urges to do it.