Eulogy For My Fada-Warning, this is Long

[Guest guest]

Hello. I very rarely post here, though I read when I

can. I thought the suggestion to write a eulogy for

my BPD biological predecessor as suggested in

Surviving a Borderline was a brilliant idea. I had

not actually done this exercise before, so I spent

some time this afternoon writing it. It was

surprising how much I had to say...it turned out more

like a combination of a eulogy and letter to my fada.

Please forgive the length, but I felt moved to share

with this wonderful group and I know that you all will

understand the concepts in the eulogy. I totally

recommend this exercise, it's very cathartic.

" Those of you who knew Claud as a friend or

acquaintance no doubt saw someone who was bright and

hardworking with an incredible sense of humor. And

you are absolutely right, Claud was those things and

more. He was a good provider, he believed in making

sure his family had a roof over their heads and three

square meals a day. He was not a learned man. He

never liked school very much growing up, but that did

not detract from the intellect that was a natural part

of him. He may not have been able to spell simple

words, but there was a kind of shrewdness about him.

He managed to pay off his house and buy a new truck

for cash by cleverly managing his resources and

cashing in his gold investments when the market spiked

in the late ‘70’s/early 80’s. I remember his stories

about how nervous he and my mother were when they had

sold the gold and walked through Oakland with their

pockets full of thousands in cash. His wit was

incomparable.

However, those of us who knew Claud more intimately

would have to agree that there was a great deal more

to him. Despite having grown up with alcoholic

parents, despite his mother’s rages and beatings, he

showed promise as a young man. He was never college

material, but he left home at the age of seventeen to

join the Navy. He was good with his hands and showed

a fine grasp of the workings of all things mechanical.

In addition, he had a good understanding of basic

numbers and bookkeeping. When he left the Navy, he

put his mechanical skills to work for XXX Co. as a

machinist. A few years later, he met my mother and

instantly connected with this sheltered, eager to

please young woman. She was the kind of person who

would do anything to make herself agreeable to him.

This was the perfect arrangement for a man who would

never take a wife who dominated him in the way his

mother had his father. In addition, Ruth was

pleasingly slender, which was in no way reminiscent of

his mother’s lifelong weight problem. Well, that was

true until she reached middle age. Ruth was not

clever. She never held a steady job. She never

learned to drive. She was completely dependent and

submissive. She would never have the resources to

leave if the thought occurred to her. He appeared to

be on the right track. Claud and Ruth married. They

bought a condominium together, then their first house

with my father’s VA loan. My father then decided that

it was time to have children. Mom would have been

perfectly content to never have children, but my

father convinced her that this was something that she

should do as a good wife. I was conceived in that

first house they bought down the street from my

grandparents’ property. And I knew from Day 1 that my

mother didn't want me.

Claud had obviously wanted a son to carry on the

family name. That was readily apparent from the types

of toys I had to play with as a little girl. Then

there were the times he openly expressed

disappointment that I had not been a boy. Like his

mother before him, Claud proved to have difficulty in

regulating his emotions. His moods changed at the

drop of a hat. I could be his treasure one moment,

and his enemy at the next. I was frequently called

upon to mix his drinks early on and he’d drink until

he fell into a stupor. Later he stopped drinking, but

he still would hurl cutting insults at both me and my

mother when his mood was foul. There were times when

there was no pleasing the man at all. What worked one

day would have no effect the next. I grew up loving

my father, but also afraid of him. I developed a kind

of radar for his moods and avoided him when I sensed

he was angry or disappointed. My mother was deemed

impossibly slow and incompetent. When he went on

these tirades about how stupid my mother was, I

frequently joined in these sessions of ganging up on

her. If I agreed with him, I was his buddy and

friend. If I didn’t, then I too was stupid. I look

back on this and am sorry to have engaged in such

cruelty.

He had a phobia about his women gaining weight. I had

inherited his mother’s predisposition toward weight

gain. This was unforgivable. My father made horrible

remarks about my figure disguised as jokes. He called

me all manner of names like jelly belly and lardbutt

every single day of my young life. If I became upset

by them, I was not able to take a joke. I turned to

sweets consumed secretly as my comfort.

Unfortunately, I was still a child and not clever

enough to see the wrappers were disposed of where he

wouldn’t find them. There was really no place he

wouldn’t find them, as he felt free to go through my

drawers and closet whenever he liked. He’d find my

hidden stashes all the time. It wasn’t until years

later that I realized I got most of my stash from what

was hidden in his closet. Isn’t that the pot calling

the kettle black?

During visits with his mother and father, I was

humiliated in front of my grandparents all the time.

He’d tell them about what I had been up to with my

grades, my difficulty getting along with other

children, my stashes of candy and wrappers. He’d

speak about it in the guise of being concerned that I

was going to rot my teeth, end up with diabetes, and

be an outcast. That was not the motivation at all, he

enjoyed telling my grandparents what a bad little

child I was and how many times he’d had to spank me.

This would get my grandmother going with questions to

me about why I behaved so badly and what was wrong

with me anyway? I wanted to melt into the floor at

these times. It took me years to understand that a

loving parent would not treat their child in this

manner. But back then, I felt so much shame and was

convinced that I was defective…I didn’t know how to

behave any better. It was frustrating. Even when I

was convinced that I had good reason to be angry with

him for mistreating me, all it would take was a

session of him twisting the facts and blaming it all

on me to convince me that I was horrible. He was a

master of manipulating the facts. I knew something

was terribly wrong, but my child’s mind did not know

how to describe what was happening.

How could I grasp why I felt so dirty and ashamed at

that age? I even felt diseased, thanks to his

hypochondria. When I got sick, my father would spray

me with Lysol, bid me go to bed until I was well and

send my mother in just to deliver food. I was

criticized for coughing too hard. I became afraid to

anger him with my cough. He nicknamed me “Typhoid

” and blamed me for getting sick so often. He

refused to come see my high school play because there

were too many people in attendance with germs. He

missed my graduation for the same reason.

I loved my father. I wanted so much to please him and

make him proud. I wanted that more than anything. I

craved his love and praise. Sometimes, I was in his

good graces and get the praise I wanted. Other times,

I was a bitch who didn’t know how grateful I should be

for the things he provided. Ah, let me tell you about

the things he provided. I was given two pairs of

polyester pants and shoes, and five shirts per school

year. It was not like we were so poor that we

couldn’t afford better. I endured constant teasing

about my apparel. I was never so happy as when I

started earning my own money and could buy my own

clothing. But to this day, I find it strange to have

more than two pairs of pants and shoes. I have more,

but am predisposed to use just two pairs…I’ve had to

teach myself to change my clothes more often. I

learned to distrust gifts, because they always had

strings attached. He’d become angry at me for any

perceived slight and then take his gift back. This

taught me not to trust any kind of generosity. I

stopped getting excited by anything good that

happened, because he’d eventually find some way to

take it away or steal my joy. I learned unhappiness

because too much happiness was not allowed. I loved

my father, but I also wished he’d die. I’d sit under

the orange tree and think about ways to kill my

parents and not get caught. I felt so disloyal and

inhuman for that.

Dad, I’d like to thank you for dumping me at your

mother’s house for a year. You said you had no idea

what to do with me because I couldn’t fit in at school

and the kids were constantly beating me up. Your

mother was supposed to “straighten me out”. You knew

what she was like, didn’t you and your sister both run

from that house as soon as you could? You ran to the

Navy, she ran to the first man who would marry her.

You knew and you still left me with that constantly

criticizing, alcoholic, martyr grandma. I guess you

learned from the best. Even when I succeeded, it was

never okay with you. If I got all A’s and one B, you

wanted to know why that B wasn’t an A. If I made

friends and started getting involved with activities

(something you constantly said I should do), then I

was away from home too much and didn’t care about my

family. Was there any way to win with you?

Still in spite of it all, I hope that now you’ve gone

to the other side, your tortured soul has finally

found peace. I can’t conceive of treating my stepson

the same way you treated me and my mother, so you must

have been horribly tortured to do the things you did.

Yet, you could have made a different choice. I know

that you meant to do better than your parents did.

You started off by getting away from the woman who

abused you. You could have continued by admitting you

needed help and going to see a qualified therapist.

But none of that namby-pamby stuff for a real man like

you, right? Besides, everyone else was to blame for

your problems and they should be getting their heads

shrunk because they were the crazy ones, not you. You

lie before us all now, physically passed away at last.

I grieved your passing years ago when I decided that

I needed to stop speaking to you and mom to save

myself. During the eight years that passed since

cutting off ties, I finally found out that I came from

a family afflicted by Borderline Personality Disorder

and started understanding that it wasn’t my fault.

What a relief. I’m not perfect and never was. I

struggle every day to love myself for who I am, warts

and all. It’s not easy to overcome all that early

programming you instilled into me…but my efforts have

been blessed. I have my own family and it’s a warmer,

more accepting place than I ever knew before. I have

a good career and I try to be self aware. I wish you

had made more efforts to overcome your demons, you

could have had these things too. I pity your

narrowmindedness. If you’d opened your mind and

worked to be a better man, you would have undoubtedly

had a richer life. It wasn’t all about money as you

believed. Did you get to take it with you? I don’t

think so. I hope the Goddess has healed your broken

mind and spirit. I hope your next life is a healthier

one where you know how to give and receive joy. You

made me who I am…I’m grateful that you made me strong

and independent, that I inherited your intellect and a

sense of humor. I’m grateful that I can use it better

than you did. If nothing else your life has been a

shining example of what not to do, so it was not all

in vain. You can rest easy at least knowing that. "

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