All Good Child - last one to know

[Guest guest]

Hello,

I am new to this group but I’ve been reading many of the postings. I am

100% sure that my mother has BPD, but I think my situation is somewhat

unique in that my childhood was good. Also, I was completely oblivious

to the fact that my mother was mentally ill until I was 36 years old. I

thought I would post my story to see if others share my experiences.

I am the youngest of six children — the oldest three are my father’s

children from a previous marriage, and I have two “full” brothers.

My stepbrother and stepsisters were so much older than me that I have

very few memories of them before they left home. The memories I have of

my oldest “full” brother are that he was “in trouble” a lot and there

was a lot of tension when he was around.

Growing up, my mother and father were very supportive of me. They were

proud of me when I did well in school, and they cheered me on at

sporting events and band concerts. My mother was my friend growing up,

and I remember little things she did to show she cared about me. I can’t

remember my mother ever saying critical things to me—I remember her

encouraging me. I really felt loved as well as liked by both my mother

and my father.

That being said, I was a GREAT kid. I excelled in school, I was polite

and respectful, and I did what I was told to do.

I do have some negative memories of my childhood. I remember lots of

tension between my mother and some of the older children. My oldest

“full” brother was often in trouble. I can remember my mother screaming

at him in his room. Once he even ran away, which really upset me, and

when he came back later that day he had to come apologize to me for making

me worry. I can remember my mother getting overly upset over things. She

fed us bizarre health foods and when we made jokes about it she got

upset. We also moved a lot, and changed schools a lot. But, eventually

things stabilized and I attended seventh through twelfth grade with the

same group of kids. I have very pleasant and positive memories of those

years. The greatest tension and conflicts came whenever my older

siblings came to visit or we went to one of their weddings, etc. There

was always trouble that ended with my mother upset.

I got married as a junior in college to a great guy. We have been

married for over 15 years now. My husband’s arrival on the scene was

very interesting, because he immediately picked up on some strange

things about my family. After the first family gathering he attended, he

said “Boy, you guys really walk on egg-shells around each other.” He was

referring to how we always overdo everything—asking each other—“Are you

ok? Are you really ok?”, thanking each other 100 times for things, and

so on. It all felt pretty fake and weird to him. He also wondered why

the oldest siblings weren’t really in the picture very much. The oldest

son has no contact with the family at all. I was at a loss to explain to

my husband why this was. It was like a family mystery, and my husband

and I became detectives.

Eventually my husband and I ended up living in the same town as my

parents. We were very close with my parents and had dinner with them

every week, etc. That’s when some strange things started to happen.

Every once in awhile, my mother would blow up over something small. For

example, she scheduled an appointment for our normal Friday dinner out

time. We waited for quite awhile but finally decided to go to dinner

without my parents. My mother was so “hurt” by this—she was upset, and

crying about it. I was so baffled by her reaction that I asked my father

if he would talk to me privately about what was going on with her. He

refused.

There were many more instances of my mother overacting to small things.

One of the most bizarre for me was once when I joked about how many

times my parents had moved. Ever since they have been married (44 years),

my parents have moved on average more than once every two years

(total of 40 moves and counting). So one day I

joked, in the presence of my mother, that she and my dad must have been

in the witness protection program. My mother said nothing at the time,

but a few days later my mother and I went out to lunch together. My

mother said to me, “We had good reasons for every move we have made in

our lives. If you can’t respect that, then maybe we should see each

other only on holidays.”

I was floored. I had no response. It was like talking to an alien

creature. This was not the mother I had been close to my whole life. Who

threatens to cut her daughter off because of a joke? But I eventually

recovered from the blow and things went “back to normal”—until the next

strange overreaction.

Eventually, my Dad blew up about something and I realized that he must

have already been upset and this new thing just set him off. So I asked

my mother what was going on, and BOY, DID THEY TELL ME!! Out came the

flood of all the things my mother AND father didn’t like about my

husband and me. Every one was trivial, and bizarre.

For the most part, my parents revealed that they have always had a

problem with my husband and who he is as a person and the way he treats

me. Never mind that he has always been good to them and good to me.

My husband and I were devastated to learn that what we thought were

happy times of getting together with my parents were not happy for them

at all. They had obviously spent countless hours behind closed doors

criticizing us.

It was a real wake-up call to my husband and me that we had been

investing ourselves in people who were not positive influences on us. We

had long talked about moving closer to his family, and we decided it was

time to do it. His family is a little wacky, too, but they NEVER

threaten to cut off contact because of a joke!

We eventually resumed a fairly “normal” but long-distance relationship

with my parents. We drove out to visit them once in awhile, and flew

them out to see us a few times. On one visit, we found out that my

parents finances were in very bad shape. They had spent all their

savings and were now going into debt each month. My mother confided in

us that the financial stress, as well as the stress of my dad’s

declining health, were getting to be too much for her.

My husband and I had compassion on my parents and we started looking

into retirement homes and other options for them. Looking at their

finances, we did not see how they could afford anything long-term. In

any scenario, they would run out of money in just a few years. We

thought long and hard about what we were willing to do to help my

parents. We could not afford to give my parents money. None of my other

siblings were willing to help (I now understand why). So we offered my

parents the one thing we had to offer them—they could come and live

with us in our home.

Ok, looking back that was not a wise decision. If there is one thing all

the books would say, it is “Don’t, under any circumstances, invite a

person with BPD to live with you”. But at this point, we didn’t really

know what we were dealing with.

My parents were not excited to come and live with us, but they had no

other ideas. We moved them in with us, and the adventure really began!

The move brought out the worst in my mother. She cried almost daily. She

projected her own feelings onto us— she said we kept implying she was

stupid, for example. I had a few arguments with her, during which she

twisted my words and came up with such bizarre statements I couldn’t

even believe what I was hearing. I started saying to myself, “This is

not normal. This is something.” After five months of my parents living

with us, I eventually got online and found a list of personality

disorders. I clicked on one or two and then came to “Borderline

Personality Disorder”. That was one of the most pivotal moments of my

entire life. I knew I had found what was causing my mother’s behavior.

At the BPDcentral site, I saw the “games BPs play with nonBPs” section,

and saw my mother’s behavior described perfectly. Then I saw the book

title “Stop Walking On Eggshells”. My husband knew from the beginning

that my family walks on eggshells. It was unbelievable to see it in the

title of a book. I devoured all the books I could find on the subject.

I read the book, “Understanding the Borderline Mother”, and saw a lot of

truth in it. But I was horrified to read about mothers who verbally

abused their children. My mother just wasn’t like that. I almost felt

guilty reading the book.

Slowly it started to dawn on me, though. Obviously I was the “good”

child. I have three step-siblings who have strained relationships with

my parents. They might very well have seen a different side to my

mother. I started emailing my siblings. It turns out that they saw

exactly what children of BPD mothers typically see—the raging, the

instability, and so on. And they had always wondered why I was treated

so differently. I realized that I had unlocked the secret to

understanding my family’s dysfunction.

Meanwhile, by the grace of God, my parents decided to move out of our

house into apartments across town. While I know they may not be able to

afford it long-term, I now realize that their living with us was never a

viable option.

I am also realizing that any relationship with my parents is not very

realistic. My father teams up with my mother to such a degree that I

don’t know where her illness ends and his begins. They continue to play

the blame game with us. My mother no longer remembers how bad things

were before they moved here, and in her mind they are worse off now than

ever. When I remind her of all we have done to help her, my mother says,

“You did the best you could outwardly, but not inwardly.” I don’t even

know how you argue with a statement like that. Only my mother could make

me feel bad for being a good daughter.

It has only been a few weeks since I realized that my mom has BPD, and

just a few weeks since she and my father moved into their own apartment

in town. I found myself dreading contact with them, knowing it would end

in me feeling bad about myself. Now I know that even when they are

saying cheery things to your face, they are still unhappy and blaming

me for their unhappiness.

I wanted to distance myself from my parents, but their being just a few

miles away made this very weird.

I recently sent my parents an email, telling my mother that she is

emotionally unstable and telling my father that he has left me feeling

as if I’m to blame for her problems, and I’m not. I told them I feel

emotionally abused by them and I am choosing to distance myself from

them. I invited them to email me if they want to talk about things. They

have not emailed me, nor do I imagine they will anytime soon. I know

there is a lot of debate about whether sending such a letter is ever the

right thing to do. All I know is, I had to get out. And the only way I

could justify getting out was to explain my behavior to my parents. I

feel very relieved to have created a safe zone for myself. I need time

to process everything and begin to heal. Maybe I’ll come up with a

better strategy someday, but for now this is what I need.

When I look at the big picture, I am just amazed at how I managed to go

so long in life without really knowing that my mother is mentally ill.

Naive little me often thought that my siblings were trouble makers, not

that my mother lashed out at them. I felt the tension, but I never put

two and two together and said “The tension IS my mother. My mother

IS the tension.” Now I know.

It is very difficult to realize this just when your parents are at the

age when parents typically need their children. There is an unbelievable

amount of guilt that comes along with not being there for them. And

there is the added guilt of them having moved here for the very purpose

of me helping them, and now I am not helping them. I know they don’t

understand my behavior. I know they think I am the most hurtful of all

hurtful children. But I also know that if I could have a relationship

with my parents, I would, because that’s the kind of person I am. It is

not my fault that my mother has BPD and that my father won’t talk about it.

I have been very encouraged by other postings I have read. When you see

someone quoting their mother, and it is a quote from your mother, you

know you have come to the right place. Everyone’s BPD parent is

different, and everyone’s experience is unique. But you see the common

themes. I thought posting my story might help some of the other “good

children” out there, who somehow avoided stepping on the BPD land mines

until they were adults, and are now trying to figure out what in the

world is going on with their mother!

-allgood (a.k.a. whitewashed)