Therapy is a process of self-discovery which takes place in relation to the therapist, whose interaction with the patient parallels her early experience with her parents. A patient transfers to the therapist the feelings and attitudes developed in her relations with her parents. She plays her role faithfully, with the expectation of gaining love and approval and thereby overcoming her fears and anxieties; e.g., trying to impress with her effort and sincerity. Should this continue, therapy will fail. Role-playing is the main psychological resistance to the therapeutic undertaking.
Alexander Lowen, The Betrayal of the Body (1960)
March 2, 2021
When I read this passage, I was shocked by how exactly it described my relationship to Dr. L. I’ve been attracted to her from the day I met her, about six years ago. I never thought that this was, or would be, any kind of problem, simply because I’m so easily and shallowly attracted to so many people and for the most part, managed to ignore it if it didn’t go away on its own. I did not feel like I’d act any differently if I wasn’t attracted to her. (The Betrayal of the Body is an old book. As I understand it, “transference” now refers mostly to sexual attraction, not to parent-child roleplaying – and Dr. Lowen does say that in some patients, the two are confused, and I know by now that’s definitely the case with me).
But.
When I read this, I realized that I do act differently. I know this now because I had another therapist, and I realized that I would tell him things I’d never told her. I’d be surprised by my own candor and wonder vaguely where it was coming from, but I didn’t even try to answer that. I didn’t (don’t) want to think about the transference that is going on with Dr. L., because, well, I’m obviously invested in the role that I’ve been playing: the good child of the benevolent mother I never had, to whom… I am also attracted, which is so dreadfully sick… which is why it’s been six years, six years now of counterproductive roleplaying.
By this time, she knows me better than most people in my life. The realization that all this has been a role play on my part – not of my real role as patient, but the role of the good child – it’s not pleasant. I feel like I’ve been lied to by myself. Lately, I’ve felt fragile. I just want to get over this, but I don’t know how.
A conversation with my girlfriend dated March 28, 2021, after my last video call with Dr. L.
Six months later…
September 28, 2021
It was more than a little upsetting when C. told me yesterday that I couldn’t upload my journal entries about Dr. L. into our mental health blog. It’s not easy to explain how and why that experience was so important to my development. I had accepted the denial of my true feelings and needs for so long, that I’d made denial a normal part of my life. It was emblematic of how I suppressed my desires and lied to myself and others, because of my fear that I would be abandoned if they knew what was in my heart. I feared abandonment because I believed, deep down, that I was totally inadequate and I could never survive on my own.
Giving her up meant letting go of that fantasy that being a good girl would finally make mother love me and value me. The conditions of our therapeutic relationship mirrored too closely my own experience of childhood to be free of that association, though I only see that now. Like my mother, she was a doctor, she was stern, devoid of warmth, though she did sometimes laugh at my descriptions of my sordid misadventures. Her demonstrations of affection were few and warm far between. Occasionally, her criticisms were biting. She spent her money on vacations and designer wear.
A few times, she smelled of cigarettes, a smell I’d associated since early childhood with hotel rooms and fancy malls – and later on, the exotic and seemingly dangerous pseudo -intellectuals milling about in the haze of bars and parking lots in college. She had tattoos, on her ankle, and one on her neck, I think.
And, of course, she was supposed to know how to make me better.
I did not understand what all these things meant, so I just pretended they weren’t there. Her authority over me – my dis/misplaced longings, her strangeness, her chilly familiarity, the same patterns repeated as I desperately hoped for a different outcome this time around.
I did not get better. I got worse. Much worse.
This particular type of “love” that dares not speak its name is called transference.
If I had known this when I first began therapy with anyone, this never would’ve happened. I would have told her, and she would have handled my therapy differently – or referred me out.
She came here by night, My broken queen To the border of her kingdom And the wastelands I inhabit
Growing between us, between two lives : A thicket of thorns and roses And only dimly perceived, The pain blooming on my fingertips From my fumbled offerings.
Gleaming in the darkness, The eyes of a ghost A face, still forming Our bodies compliant To the shared chill And too strange to each other For misunderstanding
I said: “The wonder that I feel of you Is easy. Therefore speak; Though I may not understand, I may not remember.
If you came here by night, My broken queen You are not here to dominate, Stake your rule, or subjugate You are here to seek forgiveness And relief from the rending pain Of reenactment Of all you have done, and been, To your weary subjects And seek silence from the approval of fools And the honor you know to be hollow.”
And she: “I am not eager to repeat my thoughts and theory Which you have forgotten. These things have served their purpose; Let them be. For last year’s words belong to last year’s language And next year’s words Await another voice.
If you came here by night, My broken liege You are not here to verify, Inform yourself, or satisfy Curiosity You are here to kneel To purify your motives In the ground of your beseeching In this place where prayer still echoes meaning.”
And all shall be well And all manner of things shall be well When we are both filled By the expansion of love beyond desire or dominion, United in the strife that divided us
All shall be well And all manner of things shall be well In the intersection of the timeless moment Here and nowhere, never and always
All shall be well And all manner of things shall be well
Borderline personality disorder is one of the vaguest diagnoses ever to find its way into the pages of the DSM (the “authoritative” guide to mental illness which is nevertheless subject to ongoing, radical revisions). Supposedly, manifesting 5 out of 9 symptoms warrants a BPD* diagnosis. What happens if the diagnosed borderline later only manifests 4 out of 9 – do they no longer have the disorder? Some professionals get around this question by saying that BPD is a spectrum. That’s somewhat similar to saying your partner is on a “cheating spectrum”. The hurt and chaos occur regardless.
Even those trained to diagnose and treat BPD will sometimes refrain from giving a BPD diagnosis. Diagnostic tests are often marked plainly “BPD Diagnostic Test”** and prefaced with a vague description as a test to derive information about one’s emotions and behavior. Psychiatrists often conceal a diagnosis of BPD from the patient or offer a noncommittal answer (such as “possible BPD” or “BPD traits”) – especially if the patient is generally cooperative during therapy.
The stigma around BPD is evident in pop culture. The list of public figures that have chosen to share diagnoses of mental illness such as depression or bipolar disorder is long – a casual glance at the Wikipedia page “List of people with bipolar disorder” reveals more than 200 names of well-beloved (or at least moderately respected) notables from professions as varied as athletics, culinary arts, business, film, journalism and even a handful of politicians. In contrast, the Wiki for “List of people with borderline personality disorder” turns up a short and grim list consisting mostly of victims or perpetrators of violent crime.
The reason for this should be obvious: BPD is a personality disorder. Unique among all types of mental illness, personality disorders are manifested only through the disordered way that these people relate to others. A schizophrenic will manifest delusions whether or not anyone is around to hear about them, a depressed person will cry and self-isolate regardless of how other people treat them, a manic person will run around in enthusiasm and ecstasy even if no one is around to witness their behavior; but people with personality disorders require other people on whom to manifest their symptoms. A borderline cries and self-isolates in response to other people treating them in ways they perceive as hurtful or unfair, and usually with the aim of influencing others to “correct” the situation; their psychotic episodes are always triggered by external stimuli; and if they act manic, this is always in response to occurrences within relationships, especially new ones where they are still splitting the person white.
How can anyone with such a destructive personality ever manage to find people on whom to manifest their symptoms?
PART 2: HOW IT BEGINS
“She spied on our lives, and she saw that we weren’t happy.”
It’s difficult for most people who are in love with borderlines to wrap their heads around the contrast between the person they fell in love with and the malevolent spirit that now seems to inhabit that person’s body. It seems impossible to understand this person’s motives and feelings. It is especially difficult to define BPD when many of us, at one time or another, have identified with some of the symptoms of BPD: feeling abandoned, feeling empty, feeling hopeless. These are nearly universal human emotions. And yet, something about the way that borderlines act out these emotions is markedly different, and cannot be readily condensed into a bullet-point list. Fortunately, we have stories that we can use to make sense of the aspects of our lives that often cannot be processed and communicated in any other way.
Coraline is a handy modern fairytale that can be used to delineate the borderline relationship, and is instantly recognizable (to the point of terror) to those who have been in such relationships. Coraline represents the person who is in a stable but rather unhappy and boring relationship, bereft of surprises or special treatment – yet nothing beyond repair.
domestic bliss, sort of
A borderline, whether they’re aware of it or not, is always looking for someone. Someone to… what? The heart of the borderline is described succinctly by the cat that plays the part of the protagonist’s intuition. “She wants something to love, something that isn’t her.” The borderline does not love herself; she lacks a center. What she has in place is a kind of black hole that warps everything around her, transforms minor slights into deliberate personal injury, mild interest into obsession, absence into abandonment, and draws in and consumes what gets too close.
The intuition-cat continues: “Or, maybe she just loves something to eat.”
A borderline (again, whether they’re aware of it or not) is always constructing a trap for someone. A personality disorder emerges because in one way or another, the disordered behavior “works”. If the traps were never effective, a borderline would stop constructing them. There are many people who feel empty, and choose to throw other things into the hole, such as work, alcohol, drugs, shopping, etc. The borderline consumes people because at some point, they found that it worked, and stuck with it. However – and this cannot be overemphasized – many borderlines are unaware they are doing this. For them, it is not a conscious choice to consume people, it is a need as necessary as air.
A literal gravy train! In fairness, that would work on me.
An elaborate trap captures a choice victim, with plenty of effort and emotion to offer. Coraline, despite the initial shock of seeing the Other Mother’s button eyes, is overwhelmed by the “treasures and treats and games to play.” Note that the borderline often readily shares intimate and unsettling details about herself, which serve to weed out potential victims who will not tolerate the antics to come, and also serve as justifications for those antics, should the person choose to stay.
PART 3: MIDDLE GAME
Eyes figure prominently in this story as the symbol for the soul. Even though the Other Mother has carefully constructed the surroundings and even her own shape to seduce Coraline, she cannot hide her soullessness. But, unless you have encountered it before, it might not be possible to recognize soullessness (i.e. emptiness) even when it’s staring you in the face (literally, in this tale). It can be mistaken for “intensity” or “artistry” or “trauma”.***
After giving Coraline a taste of what life with her would be like – endless fun, toys, treats, and a whole world that seems to revolve around Coraline: A show where she’s the star, a father who sings songs about her, a garden landscaped to resemble her face, being allowed to do and given whatever she wants – dizzy and giddy with delight, Coraline is suddenly presented with the bill. What does the Other Mother want in return for her love? Nothing less than Coraline’s soul.
Not the best monthsary present.
In a gift box, she presents Coraline with the buttons that will replace her eyes when she gives her soul to the Other Mother. Coraline pushes the box away in horror and yells “You’re not sewing buttons into my eyes!” The Other Mother nudges it back to her and says, “But we need a yes, if you want to stay here.” At this point, Coraline has instantly recognized the reality of what the Other Mother has been doing to her. I.e. the seduction has failed. She resolves to leave that night and never return.
When the borderline has found a choice victim, she will not let go easily. It has been mentioned that this person must have plenty of emotion and effort: this is because the disorder (the disorder, not the borderline) thrives on conflict and confusion. Counterintuitively, a person who gives in to everything a borderline wants – a person who is empty, weak-willed or simply in love and eager to please – will bore a borderline very quickly. Without the energy generated by conflict, the relationship seems pointless. For this is the energy that sustains the disorder. As the disorder grows larger and more powerful, the borderline and her victims fade away. Sometimes, by the time a victim frees herself from a relationship with a borderline, she will already have a feeling of soullessness. (Coraline finds three of the Other Mother’s past victims locked away, faded into ghosts, having let the Other Mother sew buttons into their eyes.)
You know that I love you.” And despite herself, Coraline nodded. It was true. The other mother loved her. But she loved Coraline as a miser loves money, or a dragon loves its gold. In the other mother’s button eyes, Coraline knew that she was a possession, nothing more.
“Coraline”. Book by Neil Gaiman, January 24, 2002.
When the borderline has established the fact of her brokenness in the beginning, at first it seems completely vital to comfort her every time she falls apart, and drop everything to do so. Her intense and irrational needs seem acceptable, given everything that has happened to her and everything that she feels. Her sadness can even appear to be profound and beautiful, as if she is in touch with some aspect of humanity in a way that not many people are. And in contrast to all this sadness, her manic moods seem all the more magical and exciting.
PART 4: ENDGAME
In time, the victim finds herself fighting for her life. As the borderline drops all pretenses and reveals her emptiness and all-consuming nature, the victim finds herself trapped in the world that the borderline has constructed to beguile her. The Other Mother transforms into her true, terrifying form, locks the only door out of her world, and swallows the key in front of Coraline. When Coraline leaves the house and tries to walk away, she ends up walking through an empty white expanse. She asks the intuition-cat what was happening, and he replies: “She only made what she knew would impress you.” The emptiness of the borderline serves as a blank canvas on which they can construct whatever their victim wants to see. Coraline continues to walk and soon ends up back at the house. When she asks “How can you walk away from something and still come back to it?” The cat replies: “Walk around the world.”
The world of the borderline is limited to her constructions and sealed off from the real world. Cut off from the realities of ordinary life – bills, friends who come and go, minor fights that get resolved, regular rhythms of eating, sleeping and working – the borderline constructs elaborate inner worlds in which everything is a drama, a spectacle, and everything matters more at this moment than anything that has ever happened before. She often lives in abstract social concepts and substitutes various -isms (feminism, racism, environmentalism, etc.) for the absence of a life that is grounded in physical reality. This is not to say that all people who are involved in social causes are disconnected with reality, but rather that to the extent that they neglect their own personal well-being and the well-being of real relationships with real people in their lives, they begin to live inside their minds more than they live in reality.
Because the borderline is trapped inside her constructed world, the only way she can sustain herself is to draw a person into that world. This is the world of her pain and the temporary enchantments that she can offer. This is why borderlines tend to be women: because a woman in pain is more compelling than a man would be.****
Using her cunning, and the help of the intuition-cat, Coraline finally manages to escape. As she flees, the Other Mother bangs against the door, screaming, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me! I’ll die without you!” This is the final resort of the borderline, after all the other tricks of the trade have failed, as the victim is fully cognizant of the danger they are in and fully resolved to leave. Because of the immense manipulativeness of this statement, recovery of the relationship becomes impossible, and the escaping victim may be permanently scarred by the guilt that is thrust upon them by the borderline’s self-destruction.
In the end, Coraline returns to her boring life, content with her boring relationships. It is fortunate to recognize early on what the borderline’s love looks like, and know that it will not help her to be drawn into her world.
*not to be confused with BP, or bipolar disorder.
**capitalizing on the confusion of BPD with bipolar disorder.
***For this reason, many people with BPD are drawn to the arts: their erratic behavior can easily be explained by the “tortured artist” archetype.
****Men are more often narcissists, because a man who is powerful is more compelling than a woman would be.
we ignored all warnings we built a tomb of unsaid words filled the walls with our secret discontent, the rugs bulging with all we’d swept underneath a cave, a prison, a mausoleum for all of our dying dreams
What was the cause of the fire?
an overloaded circuit a cigarette, not quite crushed out a forgetten stove was it you, with a lighter and me, with a gas can what was started by the disrepair of neglect was surely finished by the deliberate destruction of a desperate rage
Were there any victims?
I looked at you ringed by fire at every window and every door there is someone waiting with outstretched arms ready to pull us away to safety back to the light of a world we’d all but forgotten in our years of creating this darkness together
the flames are licking tenderly at my skin the air is hazy with a heat i almost love after our endless winter your eyes call out to me your hand reaches for mine
i will hold you until the world ends, i whisper as the light fades as i am torn away as the sound of falling timbers fills my ears
I. Danton Remoto x Shakespeare (Baler x Romeo and Juliet)
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand If only I could be a glove upon her hand So I could touch her cheek
The salty wind builds a nest in her hair While I am chained to a desk If only I could be a wave upon the beach So I could kiss her feet
II. Capsaicin
It’s almost too much, this heat My eyes water every time I taste [it, him, her] It’s the moment before sunshine turns to sunburn It’s the moment before the fire’s warmth begins to blister
It’s almost too much, this (lust)er The only other thing this red Is the blood rushing to my skin now The steady burn of capsaicin on my fingers
It’s almost too much, sometimes When some [thing, one] Is waking you up And making you feel Alive
III. Waterfall
In time, the hardest rock will yield To the persuasions of water this one sits at the edge of the falls Far from the mouth of the river That whispers in the spring and shouts with the thunder Of the summer storms Whose voice is no less heard for the distance
the valley spreads below What erodes the unalive Is nurturing whatever strives
And you sit there, blind to beauty you sit there, wearing away And the years will break you into pieces While you sit there, wearing away
There is no sound now but the gentle patter of the rain outside the open window I could breathe so easy In this cool, clean air
but my chest is tight as my ears ring with sirens only i can hear racing towards a body, a fire always running and running out of time
I close my eyes and think about the quiet of your room the flood of sunlight in the morning the paintings and plants that line the walls
a profound weariness sinks into my bones whispering “i’ve tried so hard”
I close my eyes and think about your heart bashed, broken, burned, but always whole again so full of a love a lifetime of betrayals could never destroy
my mind working up a sweat with every conversation the exhilarating struggle to keep up with your long, sure strides almost losing you in the crowd but never too far behind
the intimacy of looking at a picture side by side, leaning in unison as your fingers trace the paths that we would take together the immersion in the microclimates of your mind
It’s been so long since those platitudes of consolation everything that everyone tells everyone: to make peace with it accept it move on forget
So long since I cut the creeping grass that obscured your name Though my hands trembled with the urge to dig you up from the depths where you lay forever out of reach
so long since the last trace of secondhand courage drained from my body
Why are you haunting me tonight?
All the poems I’ve written lately are for and / or about JM. I’ve actually been going through a little depression lately because our non-relationship has changed (read: we don’t talk much anymore). It sucks.
None of my relationships or friendships have been real. Nothing has stuck. Nothing has remained.
Nothing joyful in my life has ever stayed.
I don’t know.
Being bipolar is like living in a warped reality all the time. Mania makes the world ecstatic and full of boundless opportunities; depression makes the world miserable and hopeless.
When will I ever be a part of the real world ? When will I ever make real connections? When will I ever be able to accomplish anything real? When will I ever feel real love ? – not the kind tinged by desperation, loneliness and neediness like I’ve felt for all my lovers?
After 2 years of being an unimaginably difficult gf I made up my mind to get hot, rich, stable, and generous but we were on the rocks and she was tired of her life being all about me. So I said, and I meant it
“From now on everything will go your way. I will give you whatever you want.”
And she said, and she meant it
“I want my freedom.”
***
So many mornings I woke up crying, lying next to someone who, though her body was next to me, was a million miles away. My own body singing in pain from the top of my head to the tips of my toes.
On some days I would lie in bed the whole day: dreading the moment she left for work. Waiting for her texts during break. Counting down to the minutes until her key turned in the door, late at night.
***
I’ve always loved science. How it has an explanation for everything. I had just one question, which turned into countless more:
Why does this hurt so much?
I learned that rejection fires pain receptors just like a physical blow. I learned that certain gut bacteria can release hormones that make you feel sad and guilty though you’ve done nothing wrong. I learned that blood won’t flow properly through your body unless you walk. I learned that cadmium and lead break your brain and that our accessories and makeup are full of both.
I changed my diet, took supplements, tried yoga, tried things at the gym that scared me or made me look stupid. I got a colon cleanse!
Then in the mornings, before the tears would start I’d go downstairs to our building’s pool and greet the other early risers “good morning” – the maintenance men pushing the powerwashers, the gardeners watering the plants, the young mothers sunning their newborns. People doing things that really needed to be done.
People tending life.
I cooked, drew, got massages, went grocery shopping.
I stopped smoking and drinking to forget.
I ditched the cheap, flashy trinkets and accessories that were leaking heavy metals into my system, and kept two things: a cross, and a watch.
Every day there was something new to learn. Something to stop doing, something to start doing. Something new to know, feel, hear, see. Every day, I loved the world more. I loved myself more. I loved her more. I saw her more:
how unhappy she was, how trapped, how she so seldom laughed around me anymore, how much she longed for her friends and family, how much she hated the thought of marriage and children.
I got stronger. Strong enough to lay down my heart fully and hold nothing back for once.
She got stronger. Strong enough to stand by her own wishes and her conviction that the life she wanted was not the one I wanted to give her.
The cross is from my mother. The watch is from her.
***
“When someone leaves you, is something given to your heart or is something taken away?”
The answer to that is 50% up to you, 50% up to them.
This chapter has come to an end, and it’s been the most beautiful of my life so far. The chapter she co-authored.
I sit in the light of the sun, and think that I would not perceive the warm rays as I do now if she had never come into my life. If she had not, at one time, filled my vision and in doing so, changed my eyes. Changed how I saw everything afterwards.
Everything is different now, and so much of what I am today is because of the motivation she gave me to become a better person. To set an example, to become capable, to be strong, to provide, to protect, to connect, to delight.
To “fail better every day.”
There’s so much more this story and someday I might be able tell it all. I hope so.
Life has been absolutely crazy lately. But I have never been happier than I am at this moment. That is to say, my serotonin and dopamine have never been at more optimal levels than this.
***
I’ve been learning how to be a beauty queen. That’s something I never in a million years thought I’d be doing. Through circumstances aligning, I’ve been thrown into a class of titled beauty contestants who are the most beautiful human beings I have ever seen in my entire life. Even though I know how easy it can be to tweak appearance to become that beautiful, it still impacts me in the deepest, most primitive part of my ancient monkey brain, which screams: THIS WOMAN WILL PRODUCE THE HEALTHIEST, STRONGEST BABIES FOR THE TRIBE, PROTECT HER AT ALL COSTS. My heart pounds, and my brain short-circuits and crashes into a pile of swooning poetry.
There’s a moment when I look at you
And no speech is left in me
My tongue breaks
And fire races under my skin
For I am dying of such love
– sappho
I even dreamed of one of them all night long, a convoluted and feverish dream.
I don’t even know what to think about all this anymore, but I’m enjoying the ride
Contrary to popular internet belief, people don’t hold back from their dreams because they’re simple cowards or lazy. If that were the case people would receive a pep talk and then just go for it. We always have to trade something we love very much for our dreams.
Like for example, a guy might say “I want to be with [girl] more than anything” and the price is sacrificing 5hrs daily gaming time for gym and studying – to be the kind of man she deserves – when popular culture would have you believe it’s all as simple as daring to ask her out. There is a price on all our dreams, and sometimes we cannot afford it in terms of energy and the capacity for emotional work.
I’m looking at the price of what I want and my heart is sinking at the thought that at this point I still can’t afford it.
It’s just so sad when everything you ever wanted is right in front of you and you’re just not ready.
My Name Is Trinity 