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Re: Poem - The Write Stuff

Hi @PeppiPatty

Gee what you write about your mum is sooo much like mine.  And I have tried so often in my life to be 'the good daughter'.  I think my mum is borderline/narcassistic  as well.  I have been diagnosed with borderline. My mum is the same - she will lie to make herself look good to my dad and other siblings.  She doesn't care who she hurts and how she hurts them.

I am like you - exhausted all the time; no motivation.

Keep going back to see if she loves me or not? - I guess I have done the same and is it because we want to be loved; we want to feel validated by them? Because if they have hurt us once why do we (I) keep going back? 

Oh I hold onto special dates that are painful as well.  Why do we (I) torture myself; we need peace not more pain.

Hugs to you. xx

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

 

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

DEar @Silenus

This is the post which I feel very...understanding and clever.

Before I forget, Thanks @eth for your propping up messages. I read them feeling them for me too.

And yes, at last...I see you @Appleblossom....Yay !

@Silenus you write;


A monstrous terrible thing happened to you. Abuse and betrayal of trust. This was in no way your fault. You needed to open up about it and confront it as an integral part of your healing process. You did the right thing. The fact that your mother is unable to accept or process the things that happened is also not your fault. It is a terribly sad thing, but not on you.

I speculate the pain was too much for your mum, and she lashed out at the bearer of ill tidings - you. It's a regrettable but all too human response, and it has caused you so much more pain on top of the existing hurt...

I cannot see that her Mum is going through pain except just, hating herself. My Mother is a pathelogical Narsacisst ..... is also pathelogically jealous of me but there is still this.......need for her to love me. 

Why do I do this? Why can't I just get on with my life? 

 

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

You know @PeppiPatty 

I think my mum is probably jealous of me - I have a husband and three great children.  We go away on holidays each year and I remember now that each time I told my mum we were going away she would get 'all funny' and say to me 'oh gee you must have lots of money'.  No we didn't have lots of money, we saved our buts off to take our children away.

She (my mum) needs to stop and sit down and realise what she has done to me and not just me but to her husband - my dad.

And like @PeppiPatty I have this craving for my parents to love me too.  I can't understand why.

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

It seems to me you are getting on with your life @PeppiPatty and @BlueBay especially when it comes to creating your own families.  Mother's Day is like an anniversary, bringing up lots of grief and stirring up many other feelings.  I believe it will pass if you can get through it and gradually your feelings will not be quite so raw and you will feel more functional again.  Nothing will completely cure the pain, but you will learn to live with it more gently on yourself.  That's just what I believe and hope for you both. That's what I have experienced with grief and shock of betrayal and abuse.

Re: Poem - The Write Stuff

Dear @BlueBay

In 2003 when my youngest son survivied a brain tumour, he decided to move out of home and move into my Mum's place se he could focus on study and pass year 12. 

So, the attacks started. My Mum started telling him that I was a theif and stole money from his maitenance, and other terrible things. It almost ki........ me. I didnt hear from him for about 5 years. 

I went to the hospital and GP and I was also diagnosed with BPD. 

How? Well, I went around and got on medication and this is not an issue at all. AT ALL. No symptoms. 

I have other issues; PSTD, head injury issues , 

So, this is what I feel we may need to do to save our own children....my sons and your children.

Cut contact. Someone told me that no matter what they have never ever met someone with a Narcassist Borderline mother who is successful is having a relationship with them.

We need to forget dates and times....ohhhhhhh......

xx

 

 

Re: Poem - The Write Stuff

@BlueBay I have to face that my mother couldnt face our abandonment in her life and by playing the "pretend it didnt happen" she caused a lot of destruction, pain and death. She didnt realise her pride crushed and blocked our realities. I also sacrificed my relationships to try and keep a broader extended family for her and kids and me, I guess.  Yet I also love my mum and have some traits that are similar and some that are opposite.  We need to find a path to walk where we honour our own motherhoods and not lash out in hurt. I hear your hurt too.  My mother couldnt cope with the fact that I was a mother at all so Mother's Day was only ever about her .. Tomorrow I may send a mental prayer up for her because that is all that is left now she is gone.  I send more dreams up for my daughter who is a father-mother?? at the moment ... its a crazy world we live in.

@Silenus

Thanks for the light-hearted jtoke on smoking. I have been out of that world for so long (30 years). Its mainly nostalgia for me, now ... for my wild child side.  No no chance of slipping, just doubt about replacing one posion with another legal one.  At a time ironically when crops are farmed legally in california .. my mind has always boogled .. doesnt stop on or off .. substances ... hmmm.

I dont regret stopping it for my kids and my own health (a bonus I hadnt thought about back then). Re substance issues, in my family it was a yo-yo problem.  So I am of the opinion that our attitudes to it matter and that teetotalling is not akin to virtue or perfection, can be destructive in fact.  Go for the middle way. 

Cheers Apple

 

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

DEar @eth

 

Hear hear that your here!! This is the poem I wrote about 5 years ago on my Mum, when I was diagnosed with BPD...

 

Am I enough?



My knees bend into the mattress. I feel the sheet touching skin around my knees.

Down the shins, my feet, fall over the mattress onto the floor.

Elbows hold my forearms and my hands up.

They are touching my face.



am I enough?



He leaves the room, leaves the door open.

I look at the glass of water next to me and I feel my stomach wanting food to fill it up but Im not hungry.

I want to feel the texture of apple cake between my teeth.

I imagine 
salivary glands moisten and soften the cake, I chew it thoroughly and swallow. 



He comes into the room and lies down next to me.

He kisses me on the
cheek and says good night.

He turns his body to the computer and places his hand on my hip. A light touch.



Am I enough?



I feel empty inside my stomach.

Am I attempting to reduce my tension by eating? How will I bear the pain of living?



I see ink marking this paper writing words to effect an emotion. My writing, creative and curly words.             I want to write a feeling 

I want to evoke it out.



I drive up and down Circe Circle, around and around.

A dark house is in my view. I'm walking up the stairs to the front door and I see cobwebs covering the rails near my hands, my shoulders, my clothes. I feel a creepy emotion that if I brush away the cobwebs, with my bare hands, a spider might appear and bite me.



I am dizzy with needing love.

I walk up the stairs again. I can't open the door. I can't have what I want. This house is not mine.

It's my mothers.



He turns his body toward me. His knees cover mine. His legs touch my ankles. His fingers stroke my belly.

When I try and climb those stairs again, past the cobwebs, past the spiders, I know I am locked out of my mother's house. She wont let me in. Her stories of spiders and cobwebs, of owning houses and leaving me out of her memories make me feel like drowning, dizzy, desperate to 
be loved. I am locked out. I am left out on the porch

.

Am I enough?



I drive around the streets of Circe Circle.

The houses are resting. There's no moonlight. It's almost black outside.

Is there light beaming from the car headlights? Where am I going? I want to be contained.

I am dependent and I feel my identity is unsure. It is hard to acknowledge this.

I drive to my childhood friend’s house. I want to be saved.

I am driving 
to the wrong house.



He is in the kitchen. He is making coffee. He uses full cream milk. I notice a glass of water next to the bed. Why is it still there?

He walks into the bedroom and says, Here Annie. He walks away to smoke a cigarette outside.

 

 

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

@PeppiPatty

Are the houses resting when it should be mother and child resting together ...

I loved this dream-like story last time.  I feel gentler towards you now that I know you better and have read it again.  I can trust you more.

Re: Writing As A Form Of Therapy

DEarest Apple,

Your back....were you gone? 

I thought you trusted me before?? 

I can only do something in this way once every now and again. 

I'm starting up a little quilt for my neice because I want to but not that good at it so hope it looks good by tonight. And of course, Take 5 and Thats Life magazines need to be finished........

How are you? I missed you 

Anne xxsnoopy.jpeg