Warning: This may be triggering around issues of body image, eating disorders, suicide, assault, rape

My BPD Story

By Donna

Part Two of Five

2 June, 1995:  Women and Body Image class:  "Describe 
a meal you are making for someone you love.  Also, 
bring in an ad or description of something in the 
media you find offensive, exploitative or sexy." I don't 
have a roomy kitchen, and I don't use my energy cooking.  
I love to watch the former Galloping Gourmet, Graham Kerr, 
whose current show is about fixing healthy, finely-spiced 
good food for appreciative people.  I enjoy taking people 
I care about out to eat -- excellent Chinese food, savory 
Mexican food, or a '40's diner near The Writing Center.  
But this isn't what I want to write about --

I am fascinated by something I saw on a tv news show, 
Primetime Live. The singer/dancer Paula Abdul was interviewed 
about her coming out with her treatment for a seventeen-year 
battle with Bulimia.  The news segment showed a beautiful, 
talented, high-achieving woman, who at five-foot-two always 
weighs between 105 and 110.  She lived by strict perfectionism 
all of her life -- indeed, she'd been the star of her high 
school.  She said, "Before I became famous, when I went on 
dance auditions I was cut immediately.  I couldn't even 
audition, because I wasn't tall with legs up to here and 
thin (enough), and blond . . . I was crushed by the
rejection."

In my Partial Hospitalization Program, I talk with a woman 
who is anorexic, and with another woman who is bulimic.  In 
this class, my mind has been blown away by our frank discussions 
of each woman's control (or lack of it) and the sum total of 
our combined self-hate and self-rejection.  When I heard Paula 
Abdul talk of her early rejections (and long-term 
self-castigations), my brain suddenly went  T I L T ! ! ! 

My perceptions shifted like a California earthquake.  I decided 
as I watched the woman on tv, imagining her with her face near 
the toilet-hole, forcing herself to vomit, that I would not 
continue to hate my body, to agree with distortions of the 
media.  I will not continue to be a partner in my self-destruction!
I, who do not look into mirrors, resolve to buy a full-length mirror.  I
resolve to accept my overbite (after all, it's better than no 
teeth at all!)  I resolve to accept my body more and punish it 
less (and eventually, not at all.)  I have been bombarded by 
women's hatred of our bodies -- and tonight I feel, enough is 
enough!  I can only change myself, and I resolve to accept my 
body even "if"  I never grow any taller, even if I never lose 
another pound.  Self-hatred has to stop somewhere . . . and 
it will begin to stop with me tonight, 10 p.m., June 2, 1995.

All that Fit or Fat, and Nutrisystem and Three Steps to a 
Perfect You! has to stop, because all the hucksters promise 
that you can let go of eating disorders, of self-hate, of 
Perfectionism -- and be thin!  I don't think it works like 
that.  I think I need to learn to practice fat-acceptance 
(at least for right now)  -- I need to practice self-acceptance!  
Maybe I'm supposed to be 5' 2-and-a-half" and about 180
pounds; maybe that's ok (for right now.)  I resolve to mock
perfectionism, to knock it off its' pedestal.  Maybe this 
exercise should be called 'Three Ways to an Imperfect, Possible 
You!"

Because I wrote about when I enjoyed physical activity, I 
resolve to move my body more, just to enjoy the mechanics of 
The Wonderful Machine.  Just before my recent hospitalization, 
I felt "passively suicidal": I overate on purpose, purposefully 
regaining thirty pounds, and I was waiting around for my heart 
attack.  But in these writings, I remembered a time when I 
enjoyed being physically active.  I want to be relatively 
healthy, which means Heart Smart -- but I don't wanna make 
myself miserable with a Perfectionistic yardstick.  I resolve.
When I mentioned these thoughts to a friend, she told me about 
when she decided to leave Overeater's Anonymous.  The speaker 
talked for forty-five minutes about how she was 117 pounds, and 
had tried every measure to be 115, and it was such an incredibly 
hard battle!  My friend listened, eventually thought, "For 
Christ's sake!" and got up and left. 

This speaker did for her what Paula Abdul did for me.
Maybe Freud was right, that women are masochistic.  My head 
reels when I think of what our Women-Power could accomplish in 
the world if we were not (willingly) shackled to Perfectionism 
and the pressured demands of reaching for the perfect body.  
I refuse to measure up to society's standards; I resolve to 
learn to live by my own standards.  I resolve to accept my body.  
I challenge others to do the same.


5 June, 1995:  "Think of a date -- write it on the page,  then 
write from it."

November 5, 1993 . . . 
Life is so hard -- I can't live this!  I can't live!  Just 
last week when I asked the doctor for psychiatric hospital 
time, he gave it to me, but pushed with an attitude of "Hurry up!  
Get in, do what you have to, and get out!  Hurry!  Hurry!  
Hurry!"

I spent four days in the hospital, but was so conscious of 
expectations, of deadlines, of no time for me -- inside an 
aching void of Need Forever Denied -- I can't do this!  When 
the doctor puts such pressure on me, when my illness and 
dreadful circumstances put such pressure on me, there's no 
room to heal -- no room to live.  If I have to be out of the
hospital in six days, what's the diff?  Why not leave in four?  
So I assumed a mantle of capability (which is really only "Resolute
Endurance") and talked my doctor into a four-day hospital-stay.  
The first night home, I went to my night class, feeling nothing 
but dread at meaningless obligations . . . one foot in front 
of another, with eyes fixed to the ground.  On the bus home 
from class, I started to shake and silently cry.  All was dark 
and hopeless.

Today I wake up . . . and within minutes realize there is 
no reason and no way for me to go on.  Do It! reverberates 
through my head -- My vision is like looking through a 
telescope, with the pressure .  I know what must be done.  
I surrender  (I don't even realize at the time a "conscious 
decision" -- all I feel is numb despair and resignation.  I
also don't realize at the moment the mountain of anger fueling 
motion.) I look over at my desk, where my psychiatric pills 
are -- "Do It!"  There is no thought; no reasoning, no more 
looking for help:  END!  I think not; I act only -- my hands 
move, reach for pill bottles.  I select Xanax and Loxitane, 
and turn to a basket where I keep other medication and take
out a large bottle of asthma medicine, Theodur.  Deliberately 
I thread to the kitchen and fill my largest glass to the 
brim with water.  Pouring out a handful of pale orange Xanax, 
I shove the pills into my mouth, following with gulps of water.  
I pour two handfuls of Loxitane, green-and-white capsules.  
They follow the Xanax, and are followed by half the water.  
Lastly I guzzle a handful of Theodur -- I must refill
the water glass.  Already I feel somewhat sick to my stomach 
-- but whether it is pills or rage, I cannot know.  So be it!  
Fuck it!

Walking to my computer, I turn it on and write a brief note, 
something like, "I blame no one.  This is MY FAULT!  I'm sorry 
-- but I can't bear it any more!"  Walking to my kitchen, I 
remove a sign that says: "STRESS -- the desire to choke the 
living shit out of some asshole who desperately deserves it" 
-- I throw the note and the sign on the floor near my bed.

Oh!  I have things to do before I die -- I can't leave a mess!  
I retrieve my checkbook, and pay my rent and other bills; feeding 
the envelopes and stamping them, I go outside to place them at 
my mailbox.  I leave my doors open so that my landlord will not 
be inconvenienced when the body is found; it would be terrible 
to have to break down doors.  I lie down, and curl within my 
comforter.  My telephone rings.  (Later I will say that I meant 
to unplug the machine, but that is not true.  Deep, deep inside, 
I wanted to be saved.  But I'd already asked for help, and
that was obviously not an option.)

"Hi Donna!" comes Elaine's cheery voice.  "How'zit goin'?"
"Hanging in there . . . " I say blankly.
"I called to invite you to dinner -- what do you say to Kung 
Pao Chicken? Boy, have I got lots to tell you!"  She is my 
dear friend, but I turn my back -- 
"Thanks, but I think I'll just go to sleep.  Another time, ok?"
"You sure?  Kung Pao Chicken . . . " she tantalizes.
"No thanks.  'Bye."  And I hang up and close my eyes.  The 
phone rings twenty seconds later.
"Donna?"  Elaine again.  "You sound funny -- are you ok?" 
"Umm . . . "  I don't know what to say.  I would say I can't 
lie to a direct question, but I have before.  But it's a lot 
harder to turn my back when someone I love confronts me directly.  
Besides, deep down inside, a tiny voice is screaming for help.
"Donna?  Tell me what's going on!"
" . . . I took pills . . ."
"Oh God, Donna!  Holy shit!  You stay right there!  I'll be 
right over!" I close my eyes and I'm gone.  I find out later 
that she called my doctor, and he said it would be better for 
her to get me to the hospital than calling 911 (besides, I 
realize later, paramedics would never have been able to negotiate 
through my studio's unwieldy passageways.)

I have vague memories of Elaine's voice nagging and digging at 
me: "Walk! Stand up straight!"  In the car: "Sit up!" while she 
buckled the seat belt, while she drove me to the emergency room 
of a hospital.  "Walk -- now!" from car to hospital.  With that 
Elaine saves my life. There are vague memories of the emergency 
room -- being forced to vomit, a tube being forced down my nose 
and into my stomach, my legs twitching violently from the 
Loxitane, and a nurse putting a catheter in my private place.

"Donna . . ."  I open my eyes.  I'm lying in a bed.  "Donna . . .
"  I look to the right.  My mother is there.  I realize she is 
holding my right hand.  I grip her hand tightly. "Donna . . . "  
I look to the left.  Elaine is there, and I realize she
is holding my left hand.  "Are you mad at me for saving you?"  
I grip her hand tightly and whisper, "Thank you!"

That was my third and final overdose.  Xanax sedated me, 
Loxitane gave me severe muscle-twitching, and Theodur almost 
burned a hole in my stomach and pushed my pulse to a dangerous 
range.  I might have died had Elaine not called serendipitously, 
had Elaine not noticed I was in a dangerous state of mind.  How 
easily one can slip from life to Hell, and how astonishingly can 
God place angels in our lives.


24 August, 1995:"It has been said, 'language protects us from the
scariness of things with no names.'  Write about those scary 
things." Sometimes I go to a cave in the center of my abdomen, 
where the glacier lies.  No life exists there -- not ice fox, 
lichen or bacteria.  All is lost.  It is black, empty as the 
outermost part of the universe.  No language here, only grunts, 
moans and gestures. An arm lifts, as if to ward off an assault 
from a menacing Void.  The blow lands, and the thing that is 
me cringes, and clutches out at empty space.  I fall -- I fall. 
Nothing catches me.  Terror is legion, and relentless.

And yet -- and yet -- At other times I am full with the joy and 
the wonder of being a speck of Life: animate, whole, fulfilled.  
My heart bounds at the miracles of easy breath, of movement, 
of acting and reacting within the boundless universe.  I recognize 
God in every aspect of living; I rejoice.  Looking with eyes 
that see connection everywhere, I increase with respect and awe
at Life, living, at molecules and atoms doing their dance.  

Am I -- is Life -- a half-empty or a half-full glass?  Does the 
glass contain dust, or water, or wine?  Do I drink my fill, or 
do I deny myself?  Moment-by-moment, act-by-act I answer these 
questions.

	atoms and molecules
	tables and chairs
	paper and pen
	I need you -- 
	Don't let me leave you!
	Grant me Time --
	Perspective --
	Respect --
	and self-made safety . . . 


12 October, 1995:"Write about a secret, true or untrue."  
<<<>>>> I emerged from a psychotic fog three days 
(or was it six?) from when I had descended into madness.  
From the surroundings, I realized I was at Mesa Verde, a 
private psychiatric hospital.  My fellow inmates barked
rough curses, or gestured in odd ways -- I was in the psychiatric
Intensive Care Unit.  Madness lay here.

Looking down, I saw that I wore a gown, along with two robes -- one
front, one back -- and hospital slippers.  That's all.  I was cold!  
I put a hand to my hair -- it was disheveled, dirty.  I carried a 
notebook and a black crayon.  Opening the notebook, I found 
unlined pages with disordered, backhand, slant-handed writing 
-- cursive writing, printing, block lettered lines, curling around 
pages, upside down; there were a couple of crude pictures drawn 
in crayon.

Where had I been during those days?  Where was I now?  My mind 
was just emerging from darkness -- where had I been?  I had 
lost myself, dropped through many incarnations, and emerged 
into whatever I was now -- at the bottom of the heap of humanity.

I asked the mental health worker to be let into the bathroom; he 
fiddled with a handful of keys, and unlocked a bare door.  I 
could not lock the door behind me, but he flipped a sign that 
indicated, "occupied."  I took off my clothes, and found my 
body covered with scrawled black writing; someone -- was it 
me? -- had written all over my pale skin with a black marker.

"Meds!  Meds and dinner!" scratched a voice from an intercom in the
nurse's station.  I put my clothes back on.  Looking in the plastic,
shiny mirror, I noticed even my face was marked with words.  
Complying with the hospital routine, I ate with the other inmates 
at a large green table.  Plastic plates, plastic forks and spoons; 
mystery meat, and soggy peas and carrots.

"Dennie, you have visitors," the nurse said, showing an elderly 
man and woman over to a green couch near the tv.  Mom and Dad!  
They looked old, but vibrant, ready and able to handle the 
problem that had emerged from the depths.  I tried to talk to 
my parents -- my words mixed themselves up, the sounds fell over 
themselves.  I stopped and tried to start again. "Take your time," 
encouraged my Dad.  "We want to hear what happened."

Slowly a convoluted story emerged from my mouth, flapping and 
bouncing through my mind -- whatever my mind had been through 
and was becoming.  I had taken a car into an Auto Body Shop for 
maintenance and a paint job. To show that this was true, I showed 
Dad a page from the notebook, where I had painted a carefully-made 
color chart.

"I choose that warm and refreshing orange red," said Dad.  
Then I went on with the nightmare story --

"The men in the shop -- they assaulted me!  They raped me 
-- like the story in Ms. Magazine about a woman who got drunk 
in a bar and was raped by several of her so-called 'friends.'  
They assaulted me, and beat me! 

I remember this -- the abuse, the horror caused my mind to 
cave in, my personality to regress, my memory to break up and 
submerge into darkness and mindlessness.  I lost myself!"  Dad 
and Mom held my hands, encouraging me to tell the story.

"Those men did every horrible thing to me that sadists can do," 
I said. "Rest now," Dad said as he took my hand into his big, 
safe hands.  A nurse gave me pills and water, which went down 
my throat.  Just before my eyes closed, I grabbed Dad's hand 
again, urgently -- "I wrote it all down!  I wrote on my body, 
I wrote and drew all over the notebook!"  and I showed him the 
pages of the notebook.  He looked at the crudely-written pages, 
full of desperation and pain.  He came to a page with an oval 
face, hairless, with high cheekbones.  I knew the face
should have a small mustache and a goatee.  "This man led the 
group!  He pretended to be friendly; he gave me a toaster, but 
it started a fire, and that made all the men angry at me."  I 
sank into a bed and into oblivion.

When I awoke, my mind was more there.  I asked to take a shower, 
and a mental health worker unlocked the shower.  He gave me a 
washcloth, two towels, a tiny, wrapped Ivory soap, and a small 
bottle of Johnson's Baby Shampoo.  The warm water and fresh soap 
cleared my mind more, but the writing covering my body had been 
written in indelible ink.  I read the writing, remembering more 
of the assault.  Luckily I have heavy thighs, so I had been 
able to write quite a bit on the large amount of flesh.
Dad and Mom had brought me clothes when they visited, so after 
I towelled off I put on levis and a thick orange-red sweater, 
for protection.  Later that day I was released from the hospital, 
to the protective custody of Dad . . . oh yeah, and Mom.  But 
Dad was the person who really protected me.

We went to a lawyer, who listened to my story, read the notebook; 
a woman stenographer took me and Mom into another room, where I 
disrobed.  The stenographer transcribed all the writing on my 
body.  Clothed again, back in protective custody, we called the 
police, and laid the whole story before them.  Dad and I went 
to the Auto Body Shop with the police.  The men filed into a 
room, and I stopped the last one -- "I know you!  I remember 
you!  I remember you!"  The three (six?) days of psychosis were 
slowly clearing, although there would always be time lost,
never regained.  The man with the small mustache and the goatee 
winked lasciviously, "And I'll remember you, baby!" he said 
with a arrogant grin.


9 December, 1995:  "Shards of Memory . . . "
Around 1979, Elaine introduced herself to me, and became 'Best 
Friend.' Around 1982, Elaine, hurt and angry, unforgiving of 
my mistakes, stalked off the set.  Around 1991, Elaine and 
I crossed paths once more; we found each others' eyes and were 
instant 'Kindred Spirits' once again.  Around 1993, Elaine 
(my very own red-haired and honest angel) saved my life. 
Around 1995, Elaine, hurt and angry, unforgiving of my mistakes, 
stalked off the set.  "Nothing's going on!"  she sputtered.  
Around 1998, I reached out to Elaine . . . and she responded.  
She can't do those nightly hours-long telephone calls, and 
there are no obligations on either side ­ but we've always been 
buddies.  We had to have been mates in a previous incarnation.

Around 1970  I started my first job (other than babysitting.)  A
cadaverous man who worked for a mortuary delivered to me lists 
of names and boxes of cemetery mailings.  After I finished my 
shorthand homework, I got busy addressing these mailers, earning 
two cents for each one . . .

Around 1972 I officially went on Social Security Disability . . . 
Around 1974 I worked after hours cleaning a laundromat.  I 
found five dollars in a washer.  Faded and wrinkled, it sure 
was clean . . .   Around 1978 I trained to be a respiratory 
therapy technician . . . Around 1979 I was hired at Scripps 
Memorial Hospital . . . Around 1981 I left my full-time
job . . . Around 1983 I went back to Scripps as a casual 
part-time worker (no benefits) . . . Around 1985 I left Scripps, 
to go on State Disability . . . Around 1986 I went back on 
Social Security Disability . . .Around August 1991 to September 
1994 I worked part-time at The Mental Health Association.  
Around January 1995 to June 1998 I took classes and
volunteered at The Writing Center.  

Around 1972 I graduated from Hoover High School and immediately 
started at Mesa Community College . . . Around 1977 I graduated 
from Mesa with a 2-year degree in psychology and immediately 
went to California College for Respiratory Therapy . . . Around 
1983 I went to S.D.S.U. for two years . . . Around 1988 I went 
back to community college to obtain a 2-year degree in word 
processing . . . Around 1995 I started going to The Writing Center 
. . .  Around 1996 I returned to City College to work on a
2-year degree in English.  Around 1998 I decided to add 
Philosophy, and work on two 2-year degrees.  After I get those, 
maybe I will go towards a 2-year degree in History.

My tree is  a California Black Oak.  The branches are brittle and 
stark, and the tree seems dead.  Branches meander out into space, 
having grown
this way, then stretching out that way, with many stops and starts.  The
tree is tall, austere, and the branches have not a green leaf to speak of
life, all stretching out into a dark morning.
The time is winter -- January.  The tree is Life-gone, with twisted,
black  branches stark against white snow.  Above is an empty, mournful
sky in the depth of winter. This is nobody's favorite tree, and 
nobody's favorite time of year, but this is my tree.  I said it 
seems dead.  But it is only in hibernation. Death calls to death, 
so the tree's sap barely stirs, waiting for April;
for blue-sprinkling rain, for soft, filtered sunshine, for 
birdcalls in the morning and katydids chirruping at dusk.
Life is true, Life awaits the chance to spring from barren-ness.  
When the time comes, brittle branches will be infused with
yellow-sap-strength, and faint beginnings of green leaves will 
appear. 

It takes an immensity of Darkness to kill a tree.  Just wait . . . 
Today my tree is aflower with greenery, (tipped with fuchsia and 
rose) and gold-green catkins.  Life living is beautiful to 
observe, and precious to be a part of.  But I will always remember 
a seemingly dead, brittle branch in the dead of winter . . . 
clinging to HOPE. 

End of part two (more parts will be up soon)