Borderline Personality

The term brings to mind someone who just can’t make up their mind at how screwed up they are, when in actually, it is the initial diagnosis I’ve been given by my therapist. Actually, it was 2 months ago now that I got that diagnosis, but have only been researching it as of late.

The medical jargon out there is definitely not lacking in the definitions, the drugs to be administered, nor is it holding back when it says most medical doctors really dislike the disorder itself (and loathe to treat the person with it). It is, however, lacking in what a newly diagnosed person can do with it. Can I get better? Will I always be angry? I’m working at one moment at a time with my therapist so we haven’t approached this subject yet. I’ve also got a dabble of dysthymia, a more moderate and higher functioning clinical depression.

I guess I’m just blabbering, wondering what does a diagnosis really mean to me? As of right now? Nothing, it means I’m still messed up with no real direction to go except now I know that the jumbled mess of symptoms have a glumped up term called Borderline Personality Disorder. Yay me……

His-tory, learned in the most beautiful way

My grampa is a writer, published often in local papers. He wrote stories, poems, non-fiction and fiction alike, of his childhood, his dreams, his loves. At any point and time in my life, there isn’t a moment I can remember that my grampa wasn’t telling us some kind of story. We soaked it up, relishing every corner, every turn and every pause. He was a great story teller. I say all this in past tense because my grampa is now blind and is on the downward slope of dementia (initially thought of as Alzheimer’s, but just dementia now). He also has emphysema, so his time with us is short. He doesn’t remember most of the stories he wrote, nor does he remember even writing them.

Today, I spent another few hours chatting with my grandparents over coffee as we do every Saturday. This was one extra good because I hadn’t children with me, nor were my parents there. It was just me, my grandparents, and my wonderful uncle, whom I also adore. As we were sitting there chatting, I got thinking about how much grampa wrote, but the only works I’d ever seen were the ones titled “Hairs in the Water Trough”. I asked gramma about them and to my surprise she took me to her filing cabinet and showed me dozens more. I was in heaven. I asked her if I could take them, one at a time, and type them out onto the computer so that all of his family could have a copy of his history, written from his own eyes.

Today’s version is his poetry, and I’m already scared to have it in my home. I have myself, 2 kids, a husband, who, let’s face it, are not the neatest people in the universe. The thought of having the only copy in existence of such a precious piece of my family’s history scares me. I will be spending most of today and tomorrow typing out the contents of my grampa’s beautiful mind onto the pc in order to get it out of my house as quickly as possible. I will be learning so much, and so thankful that I will have all this fabulous information to share with my children.

Non-existent

Meaning the title, didn’t wanna think up something for my blah-ness.

I think I’m feeling sorry for myself, and I really, really hate that. Ever since my ‘friend’ left w/o telling me, I’ve been reassessing myself to see if I really truly suck as a friend. I realized that I do. I rarely call anyone (hate the phone actually), never remember birthdays (don’t know what half my friends’ big-days are), Christmas cards are often forgotten, and other little tid bit kinda things that made me realize that I wouldn’t want to be friends with myself! What can I do different? I can’t imagine trying to squeeze in more room for random coffee breaks with my schedule. Yeah, I’m a SAHM, I get that most think we sit at home and eat bon-bons, but I’m also a student, so there’s studies in between the bon-bon fest. I also can’t make myself like the phone, I really can’t, I’ve always hated it. I’d rather email (yes, even my next door neighbours, I’d rather email because they can read my inquiry/hello at their perusal rather than my blaring interuption through the phone ringing).

I can tell you this for sure, I’m seriously hesitant about creating any new bonds of friendship unless the connection is uncanny (i.e. lots of things in common).

Did you know I was a writer?

I use the past tense ‘was’ because I no longer write for pleasure or to create stories. I haven’t enough time to squeak any form of creativity out of my spongy brain, my muse is gone. I do however think of the stories I have written and mentally rearrange them. I have one story I’ve loved since I dreamt it 3 years ago. I wrote it while at TPP and even posted it (even with my paranoia that someone will steal it to publish). But I stopped writing it as life got in my way. It seems that until I make an effort to squeeze writing in, this blog is about as close to creativity as I’ll get, or even as close to being published!

She’s gone, who knew?

Ever have a friend move away and not tell you a forwarding address? I have…. I must be one sad, strange little lady. So, this friend is someone I’ve known about 2 years or so. Our friendship started because we both attend the same University and know of the struggles. When we first met it was through the University coffee group, and we hit it off. We were in the same program (I have switched slightly since then) and we have critters the same age. We’d meet fairly often to gab, relax, and vent. Then we got our families together and had such fun, our kids went to each other’s birthdays, they had sleepovers.

As you can see from another post, we’ve been camping ….. a lot. Out of July’s 31 days, we camped 20 of those days. The other 11 were spent mostly cleaning up and packing for the next trip. August has been no different. I knew she was moving for a couple of months now, but not because she phoned me to tell me, but because I happened to phone her and she let me know. I tried to phone her today to see what the update was (she didn’t know details yet) and her phone has been disconnected. I feel so stupidly betrayed, is that ridiculous? Am I such an awful friend? Wanna hear how passive/aggressive I am about it, I’m not even going to try and email her to see what’s up. I want to see if she will. I really am such a sad, strange little lady.

Call me Crazy ………

The husband and I are about to journey to our first backpacking trek in 10 years. 10 years ago, almost to the day, we headed out to a mountain trek that most would say is an insane climb. It’s not impossible, but it is a doozy. That hike was our ‘honeymoon’ before the wedding. We were going to College 2 days after the wedding so a typical honeymoon was out of the question. It’s still out of the question, so we decided we were going to do another hike this year, as our kids will be busy amusing my dad on his annual ‘take the granddaughters camping’ trip. It’s a hike that’s too much mountain for young kids, so we thought it may as well be a ’second honeymoon’ like adventure. We even bought bear spray (don’t get me started on the supposed rarity of a bear encounter since we’ve had at least 4 in the 10 years of our marriage).

It’s 11 pm and my backpack weighs 29 lbs (dh’s is 51), am I insane? Yeah, just slightly. I’ll take pictures of the reason for my insanity though (no, not just pictures of dh and my kids, but the views ).