Communication or Comprehension?

 I have an ambivalence. I am of the mind to give zero fucks about what anyone thinks but I am also completely irritated when I am misunderstood and misrepresented. I am not sure how both of these things can exist simultaneously, yet here we are. 

An epiphany of sorts occurred to me the other day. I read words so simple yet so profound and they have been circulating in my mind since. 

A long, long time ago I noticed the trend that it was breakdowns in communication that lead to the strife in my life. I have strived since to improve my communication, attempt to perfect my communication as to avoid the pain and heartache associated with unmet, unspoken expectations. Even within the last year I was still searching for a counselor to help me, to reveal to me my barriers and teach me how to express myself. Because it always falls back to me. I speak, I share, I tell, I advocate. Over and over and over again. Years go by and my needs remain unmet. So I leave. And then I'm a liar. I'm a cheater. And any love I've professed or shown over the last {insert number here} years has been a lie. 

But it's not been my communication that has been the problem. My counselor says that I communicate very well. I express my needs and my boundaries clearly. I realized it's their COMPREHENSION that has been the problem. If the recipient of my communication does not comprehend my words, then I am just speaking into the void. Words are wind. It's no wonder I'm frustrated. 

Comprehension is the key to success, not communication. Communication is a necessary and viable tool, one arguably cannot achieve comprehension without it. But without comprehension, any attempts at communication are moot.

So then I asked myself, "Self, are you being unclear in your communication?" How is it all of these attempts at communication, at relaying necessary information have failed. Well, maybe not all, but surely enough to create and sustain a problem. 

By no means do I wish to portray that I am perfect in my communication. There are still times I hold back. There are situations in which I shutdown, become mute and any forceful attempts at verbalization result in a stutter. But I am truthful and I am able to convey my feelings and my needs. 

What I've learned though, over many, MANY experiences, is that some women have a narrative in which all things must exist. If things do not fit into this narrative, they are either twisted and contorted or ignored all together. Because for humanity, it is easier to believe we are a victim than to accept failure; to accept and acknowledge our shortcomings. 

The parts of me that are irritated by the mischaracterizations and the misrepresentation want to go to war, they want to defend my character, my truth, THE TRUTH. But the parts of me that have evolved realize such actions will only fuel the narrative. There are hundreds or thousands of versions of me out there in the world, each one existing only in the mind of anyone that's met me. And those versions are none of my business. So this is when I let the zero fucks parts of me take control. 

Say what you want. Present to the world whatever version of me you need to help yourself sleep at night. It does not have any bearing to the validity of the real me, nor does it detract from my current happiness. 

People will believe what they want to believe. Who am I to interfere?

Life on the Borderline: The Explosion

I suppose it was always going to come to this, always going to end in this fashion and I had been just delaying the inevitable.  Maybe, on some deeper level, I knew this and that is why I waited so long.  (Procrastination is a dirty, little habit of mine.)  There was never going to be an amicable parting of ways, an agreement and calmness to the detangling of our shared lives. The moment I stated my unhappiness, it activated a chemical bomb.  A chemical reaction was initiated that could not be stopped, nor reversed.  When the situation reached its boiling point... BOOM!!!

There is no other way when sparring with emotional dysregulation.  I can't even be mad at her for the things she's said and done during her eruption, because in a sense, she cannot control it.  She CANNOT regulate her emotions; she's incapable. She blasted into a manic state, spiraling up and out of control.  I can, however, and did, protect myself and my son from her unbridled outbursts.  For everyone's safety, most importantly hers and her daughters, I had to create space. I was the trigger for her, being near me caused the temperature to rise, the two of us residing under the same roof caused this explosion.  It was the toxicity that flowed and brewed and stirred within each of us and around us; one triggering the other.  She had to go.  Away from here, away from me she could come back down from her manic state. She was unstable and unsafe and still had a little one to consider.  She needed to return to baseline to be there for her daughter during this period of change too, to be safe for both of them.

I am not claiming my actions were solely altruistic, they were not.  I made her leave because I needed the safety of her absence, my son needed that safety too.  There is a storm that revolves around her, like a cyclone or whirlwind; a tornado.  Wherever she is, chaos ensues and endures.  Since she's left, the storm clouds are receding, the sun is poking through, and the dust is settling in the new calmness.  This is where I'll build a life...far away from the Borderline.

Life on the Borderline: End Times

I wanted to be the person that can withstand the troubled seas during the storm, be the anchor that held my partner steady during the worst of her battles with her personal demons.  I wanted a happy ending, one that included her and our beautiful, little family.  But.  That is not how this story ends.  It turns out, I am not a superhero and there are limits to the trauma I can withstand and endure.

I feel for her. I really do.  I cannot imagine the pain and anguish that burdens her mind on a daily basis.  What she feels when she experiences emotion is in extremes, overwhelming to her senses.  But it's her complete disconnect from reality that breaks me.  Her perception is not based in reality, in the world in which we all live.  The sleights she feels, powerfully real to her, just do not exist.  Each day I need to defend and explain and apologize for things that were never meant, never said, or never done.  And it's all futile in the end because she is incapable of seeing things outside her perception.  She has already determined the facts and nothing I could ever say or do could possibly sway her mind.

I have insidiously poisoned myself over the last 18 months, all with the same result of bashing my head against a brick wall repeatedly.  But rather than a bruised and broken skull and a bloody mess to mop up, I have a bruised heart, broken psyche, and an immensely tangled living situation to unravel.

There's a gaping emptiness engulfing me. I do not the feel warmth of another human being touching me, I do not see softness in the eyes that are supposed love me.  There is just coldness.  There is anger and hurt and betrayal.  There is the sensation of drowning... in sadness.  There is grief in unrequited love. I have come to realize that my self-esteem, my self-worth have been on a steady spiral into nothingness.  I have grown to believe that I have lost my zest, my appeal, my attractiveness to others.  I am losing myself in her crisis.  This is life on the borderline.  Life with a Borderline.

To save myself, my sanity, my liveliness.... This is me walking away.

Life on the Borderline

I didn't realize it immediately.  It's not like they wear name tags or announce their diagnosis like alcoholics upon introduction.  It's not like most even know it themselves.  

I fell in love.  She was fun and fresh and intoxicating in her vitality.  She had career goals, life goals and was actively working to pursue them.  She was a devoted mother to her beautiful toddler, family oriented, and loving.

I feel duped.  I feel deceived.  Smoke. Mirrors.

Today she is lost inside her own world.  Her personal demons have taken over, clearly in the driver's seat.  She is too anxious to work, too depressed to clean or cook or eat or even wake some days.  Her only coping technique? getting high.

Today I have no voice.  My life is no longer my own, my wants and needs irrelevant.  I exist solely to serve her. I provide the home, the utilities, the entertainment features, the food, and the means of transportation.  I provide, she takes.

We have been living amidst her crisis for a year now.  Hers are the only feelings that matter, her problems the only concerns to consider.  I am invisible except to provide.  When I fail to provide any given whim, I disappear completely.  Until a provision is needed again.

Manipulation is the only tactic she knows to fulfill needs.  Primary go-to: withhold and/or threaten most treasured, most valued need of subject. I have gone without genuine love and affection this year.  She dangles that carrot out in front of this horse and I will walk to my death to receive the sweetness.

It is killing me. Living with a Borderline is torturous. Physically, my body aches all over.  My nerves are frayed, one in particular misfires when stressed, causing debilitating pain on the left side of my face and head.  Bring me to my knees in tears pain.  The tension carried in my shoulders prevents full range of rotation in my neck and provides constant pain.  The abdominal pain has reached levels of intensity worthy of an emergency hospital visit and many thousands of dollars spent in diagnostic tests and procedures over the months, all results "normal."  Muscles hidden deep in the pelvis, muscles most do not know even exist, are now so tense it is nearly impossible to defecate, impossible to fully empty my bladder, and impossible to sit comfortably, as these muscles are squeezing my anus and urethra closed, and pulling my coccyx out of place.

Loving her is making me sick.  It is robbing me of my light, my love, my laughter.  She doesn't even notice.  This is by far the most toxic, the most unfulfilling relationship I've had. Yet, here I am.

I complain. I cry. Yet, I remain.  Forever the hopeless romantic or just the twisted masochist?

New Year's Reflection

 My heart aches.  A weight of unlimited and undefined measurement engulfs my body, pressing me, squeezing me, holding me down, from the outside, from the world, but also from within.  It feels as if lead is sludging through my vessels, a slow and crippling pace while cement is drying, hardening all around me.  This year has been tough.  The whole planet has struggled, life has changed dramatically for everyone in one way or another, and for too many, life has ended.  I have struggled.  My demons remain, finding ways to test my resolve.  My most recent tests have involved allowing others to face their demons without trying to fix everything for them.  One of the hardest things I've had to do is watch people I love so dearly be so miserable, struggle so immensely, with hurdles looming so large that some, at times, no longer wish to continue in this life.  And I can't do a single thing about it.  I cannot help them.  I can encourage them to help themselves.  I can listen; I can provide phone numbers to hotlines, counselors, resources; I can take them to appointments and suggest healthier coping techniques but I can't fix it for them. I cannot make them do things they do not wish to do, they do not feel is helpful or important or necessary or possible.

Another major difficulty for me is to advocate for myself, to ensure my needs are being met, and to walk away from people and situations that just aren't getting it done.  My well to help others seems infinite but my well of strength to stop slighting myself to accommodate others appears to not yet be drilled.  I have thus far been incapable of saying "no more."  I write this as I contemplate saying such a thing, of performing such an act.  This act, these words will break my heart, crush it into millions and billions of pieces.  The pain I feel even thinking about it is real, it is raw, and cuts me deep.  But it would still be less than continuing to accept that my love is not reciprocated.  My commitment is not equaled.  My broken heart will heal, but my resentment will only continue to grow if I let me be disregarded and not considered.

My big lesson of 2020 is to learn that I cannot not save anyone but myself.  I am worthy and must insist I be treated as such.  That's my 2021. 

Starbucks Ruminations

A person's reality is formed by their experiences in life.  A person abused as a child learns distrust and fear of others. A narrative forms in their mind, a belief system that they are not worthy of respect and love from others and that others will undoubtedly hurt them and let them down, leave them. All input passes through the lens of this narrative becoming distorted. A person lives in the reality they create in their mind and truly believes the distortions their lens has produced. These distortions are then projected as truth out into the world because it is the only truth they can comprehend. Kindness, love, compassion are viewed as scams and lies. Differences are viewed as validation of the narrative. Adults have the ability to change their narrative, change the lens. It really is a choice. A person can make a choice to learn new thought patterns. A person can make a choice to accept they are flawed and accept responsibility for their behaviors triggered by their distortions. A person can seek resources to help them be a better version of themselves. They just have to want it enough to make the first step. And keep taking steps every day. Day after day. Change is work. Constant hard work. Even though their narrative creates a painful and lonely existence, it's still a comfortable existence because they know it, they don't need to do anything to achieve it, it just is. It's all they've ever known.

This is why there is a mental health crisis. It's easier to keep status quo than it is to effect change. We live our lives in a connected state, with limitless access to people supporting our narratives. Healthy or not, a person can find "facts" or quotes or even stylish memes to support their distorted perception. A person may see a quote about not falling in love with a certain someone because this certain someone wants them to seek treatment for their mental illness and therefore must not truly love the real them, and think "this makes sense" because it validates the distorted narrative of they are not worthy of love.

If a person suffers from a mental illness, is aware they are afflicted and they are aware their illness negatively affects those around them, their loved ones, but refuses to seek treatment, how long should those loved ones subject themselves directly to this illness? Is wanting someone to be truly happy, wanting someone to find peace and solace within themselves mean you do not love them for their true self? When does supporting someone become enabling someone? Is understanding a person's motivations providing justification for their hurtful behaviors? How does one continue to withstand the consequences of a loved one's behaviors while maintaining their own good mental health for which they work very hard to achieve?

Judgmental Rant

There’s no love greater than a mother’s love for her child.  I don’t care how you much you love your husband or your wife or your stepchild there is something special, something unique in carrying a life inside of your body and then caring for this new tiny, helpless person that you made.  The bond that develops is indescribable and unmatched in any other human attachment.  I know this to be true because I’ve experienced these bonds myself. I’ve had a wife and I’ve had stepchildren and I’ve given birth.  Nothing compares. If you have not experienced this then you cannot relate to me as you do not understand my perspective in regards to my child.  Therefore, your judgment is unwarranted and misplaced.

He was three years old when I began pressing the doctor for answers.  My partner and I had split a year previous and had no contact with each other.  He had a list of signs and symptoms that just weren’t being relieved by traditional methods.  We were referred to specialists who then referred us to other, more specialized specialists.  For the next two years I offered up my only son, my baby, to a plentitude of tests and needle sticks and procedures to try to determine the cause of his distress.  Two years I spent in the dark, alone, knowing something was wrong but getting no answers.  He was five years old when the brutality of life slapped me across the face with such a force that the bruise has yet to fade.  If you have never sat in a doctor’s office alone and had your entire world crumble around you with the delivery of a terminal diagnosis for your child; if you’ve never had to process and accept that no matter what you do, you will likely outlive your child as he has a diminished chance of even making to adulthood, then you cannot relate to me as you do not understand my perspective in regards to my child.  And again, your judgment is unwarranted and misplaced.

Two years after receiving that terrifying and crushing diagnosis, we were given another:  my son is on the autism spectrum; he has Asperger’s Syndrome.  He is a brilliant child, yet socially inept.  He has sensory issues and intense anxiety that cripple his ability to function successfully in a classroom setting.  Other kids see him as odd, different and naturally exclude him.  They can’t relate to him and he can’t relate to them.  His inability to perceive and understand social cues creates a plethora of misunderstandings and miscommunications with adults and peers.  His emotional maturity- his ability to understand and process his own emotions is stifled and delayed which leads to inappropriate conduct during these miscommunications.  He is in a constant state of fight or flight.  He has to work twice as hard as the next person just to get to the same place.  Every day, every moment is a struggle and he is weighted by the hand he was dealt.  I am his mother and it is my job to understand his struggle, understand his perspective and advocate for him to those who do not.  It is me, and only me, in the school office day after day, year after year, through countless meetings and conferences explaining and defending and apologizing and fighting for his rights.  If you have never had to face the reality that every day of your child’s predicted shortened life will be an intense battle with the world around him, then you cannot relate to me as you do not understand my perspective in regards to my child.  And again, your judgment is unwarranted and misplaced.

The persona you see in public-at work, at school, at play, is a façade.  It is the mask I wear to make it through each day.  Please do not presume you know me because you have lived with me or have spent considerable time with him.  You do not know us.  You have not been on this journey with us and you have no relatable experience with which empathize.  I do not want your pity, nor do I need your judgment.  I have done the best job I could given my own flaws, shortcomings and talents with the obstacles and hurdles I have faced.  And I continue to do my best to create the greatest quality of life I can for my son.

To anyone listening: Your unsolicited parenting advice, either to my face or to my peers behind my back is inappropriate and offensive.  Just because you can form an ignorant opinion doesn’t mean you should share it.  Mind your own business.