13. Research Mode

Research Mode

M ara

For years now there has been a weapon lodged in my chest, positioned beneath my heart, embedded within the cage of my ribs. Its sharp edges inflame the delicate intercostal muscles between my ribs and lacerate my heart. It takes up space, makes it difficult to breathe, shallow breaths only so as not to puncture my lungs.

Although there were treasured times when it was barely discernible, I no longer remember how it feels to live without it. It swells and shrinks at will, with spikes that sharpen and dull, spikes that when dull, are almost a comfort in their familiarity. I can sense its borders, feel its weight, my nerve endings cringing and curling away from its sharp points that strive to build upon the scar tissue as I breathe through the stabbing pain it delivers.

I map its shape in my imagination. I look up medieval weapons on the internet, sure that I know what it is, and I am correct. A spiked ball suspended from a chain, every spike a pointed weapon designed to cut me down, take my breath, silence my voice. It shreds me from the inside, keeping me curled protectively around my pain, my attention bent on survival and not escape. It is a morning star.

I should not have avoided him last night.

No guarantee that he would have reached for me, but it would have been better for me if he had. Making love took the edge off my panic, sliced slivers off my angst. His touch, a refuge from the fears that plagued me. The more he was inside me, the deeper I could breathe.

I was not breathing easy now.

I flipped through my journal again. The doctor’s observations were starting to ring true and only served to confirm what I already knew: I was trouble. Too needy, too demanding, too emotional, and I knew that Zale knew it too. But was I too much? Was I worth the trouble I brought him?

Uncertainty and doubt burrowed under my skin, skin that was thinner than usual since hearing the awful diagnosis.

I wanted to ask him. I desperately needed his reassurance, that for him I was not too much. This was a question I asked often, phrased in different ways. Do you still love me? Do you like me? Am I funny? Are we friends? Do you want me still? His answer would appease me for the moment, but the relief never lasted. It offered a momentary respite that often sparked an internal audit of all my experiences with him, looking at evidence of past words and past rejections, that I believed refuted the truth of his words.

Even so, I felt compelled to ask. I sent my question in a text because I could not wait for him to come home, because I could not bear to see impatience on his face, because I was fearful of the time in the future, a future that may become all too present with my news, when his answer would not offer me respite.

‘Am I too much?’

Three little dots bounced in the text line as I awaited his response.

‘You are perfect (most of the time) … the end.’

A tiny thrill, a candlewick’s worth of warmth in my belly, a flicker of hope, I turn his text message over in my head, wondering if it could possibly be true, and I’ve almost decided that it couldn’t be, when a whisper of a question breathes life-giving hope into my heart, when has he ever lied to you?

He has never lied to me.

Never.

Feeling lighter and much happier, I began the process of extracting Olivia from her bed hoping the planned visit to see my mom would be a good incentive .

It was not.

In fact, Olivia was ‘having a day.’ Having a day meant she was bent on taking uncooperative to the next level, maybe even Olympic level. Could be because she didn’t get enough sleep, could be she was worrying about something and couldn’t find the words to express herself, could be she had a headache or a bellyache and couldn’t pinpoint the location of her pain.

“Little bird, are you having a difficult time today?”

“Yes.” She gave me the death glare. I’d have to tread lightly with my next questions. Too many and she’d shut down.

“I can see that,” I murmured. “I wonder if there’s something I can do for you.”

She appeared to be open to suggestions.

“Do you have pain in your head or in your belly, maybe?”

“My head.”

“Can you point to where the pain is?”

She indicated the top and her temples. “How’s your vision?”

“I can see in the middle.”

Ah, yes. I cracked the case. Olivia suffered from migraines; this was the beginning of one of those. There was a lot of detective work involved in parenting. There was also a lot of nursing. It was paramount to get some painkiller into her and get her to relax .

“Let’s make a nest on the couch for you and Sirius. Mommy will give you something for the pain, and in a few minutes we’ll put Harry Potter on for you.”

I could almost recite The Prisoner of Azkaban by memory, but sacrifices had to be made.

“Okay.” Her brow smoothed somewhat with the new plan.

I gave her medicine, then made her and Sirius a blanket nest on the couch. She climbed in and fell back to sleep within minutes. Hopefully, with extra sleep, quiet, and, fingers-crossed, if I got the meds into her fast enough, we’d skip the vomiting phase. I put a wastebasket lined with plastic bags on the floor beside her just in case.

I’d give her an hour before I canceled our visit. Sometimes she bounced back quickly and wanted to resume with plans for the day.

My cell phone rang, and I answered it without checking the number, not wanting the ringing to irritate Olivia.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Dr. Donaldson. Is this Mara?”

“Yes, this is me. How’re you doing?” I wondered why she was calling.

“That’s my line! I’m calling to check in with you, see how you’re doing in light of your past appointment with the psychiatrist.”

“Hmm, honestly? I’m struggling to believe it. Do you believe it? ”

“It makes sense. Remember, it’s borderline personality issues, not the full-blown disorder, and from what you’ve been going through, and the things you’ve shared about your past and your family of origin, I believe it fits. Have you looked into it at all?”

My doctor had known me for over twenty years. I trusted her. If she thought the diagnosis was correct, it probably was.

“I haven’t, but I’m going to do it today. I have counselling in two weeks.”

“That’s good, you deserve the help. Keep in touch, Mara. Let me know if you need anything.”

You can either run from it or learn from it.

I needed to stop running and deal with it. I needed to at least see if I thought the diagnosis was correct. Curling up on the opposite couch to Olivia with my laptop, I typed ‘borderline personality disorder’ into the search engine and began to take notes.

I read that BPD involved problems with emotional dysregulation, something I apparently had in common with Olivia. It was ironic that I had been coaching her on that same issue for years. Emotional dysregulation strongly affects relationships, sometimes all, sometimes just one. Lucky Zale, it was all on him, although I worried incessantly that something would happen to Olivia, something bad that would take her away from me.

There were also problems regulating thoughts, and it could exist with other disorders like depression, anxiety, eating disorders, and other mental health issues. I fell into that category as the doctor diagnosed me with Persistent Depressive Disorder as well.

It declared in black and white print that environmental and genetic components contributed to the development of BPD. I had both of those. Child abuse was a great contributor, or what they termed adverse childhood events. I’d had a few scattered incidents, but other people had lived through much worse. I was not sure it should have been enough to qualify. Maybe that made me a weak person.

Prognosis was expected to be good with treatment. I wasn’t thrilled about adding on to my to-do list, but I wasn’t daft, I knew this was a must-do not just a to-do.

There were nine symptoms of BPD and you had to have five to receive a diagnosis. The first was having a fear of abandonment. I screamed at Zale, on numerous occasions, telling him he must call if he’s going to be even five minutes late. I remembered the tears and the feelings of utter devastation when he had to go away on business. I worried about plane crashes and car accidents, as well as attractive co-workers. I lived with the constant influx of thoughts that he could do better and one day he would realize this.

A history of unstable relationships was a hallmark trait. This was not a problem for me. I cut off all the relationships that were not good for me. Hmm. I guess that might be considered unstable. I wasn’t as worried about that one, but the next one cut me deeply.

An unclear or shifting self-image that leads to changing jobs, religions, values, and goals. Huh. I had sixteen jobs between the ages of fifteen and twenty-four, then at least four more up until the time I had Olivia and became a writer. I’d been baptized three times but no longer went to church, although I did believe.

At least that hadn’t changed.

Impulsivity, or self-destructive, sensation-seeking behaviors, like overspending, risky sex, binge eating, drugs, and alcohol. I was a terrible binge eater when I was upset. I’d replaced that, eventually, with sex with Zale.

Suicidal behavior, including thinking about suicide, making threats, or an attempt. I had thought about it, not about doing it, just about not having to carry on, at points when I felt too tired, when I felt hopeless, when I got tired of feeling so low, but I didn’t want to leave Zale and Olivia. I didn’t want them left without me.

The next symptom, self-harm, gave examples of cutting and burning. Pulling my own hair and digging my nails into my flesh probably counted. At least it wasn’t as bad as burning or cutting. Although, I understood and experienced the urge to cut, and if I burned myself on the stove accidentally I had noted that it served as an excellent distraction.

I could relate to the extreme mood swings. I was hypersensitive to triggers that didn’t seem to bother other people. Bex was not easily riled, and Willa was always sunny. I admired that greatly.

I didn’t feel empty. I remembered the doctor asking me about that, although I did feel like a nothing and a nobody at times, and I was often bored. I described myself as being without substance, or like part of the background in my own life. I often felt invisible.

Explosive anger. Ouch. This I had. In the past it was directed outwards, then I was able to suppress it, but it was becoming a problem again. This was the problem that sent me to the doctor, which led to the terrible diagnosis.

The last symptom listed was dissociation, as well as struggling with suspicious thoughts about others’ motives. I couldn’t really wrap my head around the idea of dissociation. Although when I was under stress, I felt foggy or spaced out.

I did have that one instance where I was outside my own body, but that was under extreme duress. There were times I felt weird in my body, and the world looked hazy, but I wasn’t sure if that was what was meant by dissociation.

I gathered more information, and it made me think, and make connections to beliefs and behaviors I believed were normal or warranted. The suicide rate of eight to ten percent scared me. What if my condition deteriorated? With all that I’d read that morning, the worst of which were the countless articles counseling people about how to escape the clutches of my kind, I had to admit that the doctor was right about the diagnosis.

The one thing that stood out the most for me, and was quite validating, was the belief that BPD was the most emotionally painful mental illness. This rang true, and it rang loudly. In some small way I felt proud of myself that I’d done okay considering the constant emotional pain I’d suffered, but mostly I was appalled. Appalled that Zale was stuck with me and appalled at the amount of emotional labor required by me to secure some sort of recovery.

I printed off twelve pages of information. Then I went through the document on the computer again and blacked out all the stuff I didn’t want Zale to know yet and printed that copy out too. I could have made a new document with none of the disturbing stuff included, but at least this way he’d know there was information I was withholding.

I would deal with that later.

Although I’d never kept anything from Zale, I wasn’t ready to tell him any of it, not yet. I was not looking forward to sharing and I needed to prepare myself in case he was horrified. I needed to prepare myself because I fully planned on giving him an easy out. One that I was only half praying he wouldn’t take.

Olivia was still fast asleep on the couch. I took my phone into the sunroom to phone my mother. I wouldn’t tell her about my diagnosis yet, but I needed to cancel our visit, and I needed comfort.

“Hello?”

“Hi, mom.”

“Hello, dear.”

“How are you, Mom? ”

“Well! I emptied the dishwasher. Took an entire week to fill it with just me eating here. I did all my laundry, as well as the towels, and I just finished folding it all. I stripped my bed to wash next. I’m thinking about getting a new bedding set. I’m tired of these colors. I’ve been online shopping for the past two hours. I found a nice set for you. I’ll forward it to you. You should get it. Your bedroom needs a fresh-up, I’m sure. You’ve never been one to stay on top of decorating. I haven’t found one for myself yet. I have not decided if I want to paint my bedroom, but everything I’ve liked so far will require the bedroom to be painted. You know I can’t do it, it’s so frustrating to not be able to do what I want to do. Is there a time Zale could paint my bedroom?”

She spewed out a lot of words, the words dribbling from her lips in an unhurried fashion. She didn’t babble so much as she rambled.

“No, Mom, Zale is working a lot of hours right now. He has little free time.”

“It wouldn’t take that long,” she scoffed. “In my younger days I’d have it taped and painted in a single afternoon.”

She stopped talking and the silence stretched out between us. This was her game, and I’d learned not to keep on saying no or I’d soon find myself saying yes.

Finally, she sighed. “It’s not easy being a widow, Mara. When your father was here, he’d do all these things. God knows Willa won’t lift her hand to do anything for me. Never did. She was always selfish and self-centered… ”

“Change the subject, or I’ll let you go, Mom.”

“No need to be touchy, Mara,” she reprimanded. “She is my child you know. No one loves like a mother does, but no one knows a child like a mother does either. You should know this. But I have to be honest, she’s a selfish girl.”

“Okay, Mom.” I sighed. “I’ll let you go.”

She huffed. “Fine. I suppose it’s good that you’re as loyal as you are. Just don’t forget to protect yourself. You’re much too trusting. I see something I like here. What do you think if I choose something sunny and yellow? That might work with the paint I have now since Zale can’t paint for me.”

“You could hire someone, Mom. There are lots of painters out there. You could freshen up the living room and the hallway as well. You’ve been talking about that.” I needed to appease her and get her off the idea of Zale painting her house. He didn’t even paint our house; I don’t know why she’d think he’d paint hers.

“I suppose so. I’ll see if one of the teens at the church is looking for volunteer hours. I’ll look at furniture too. I’ve had the same furniture since before your father died.” She sniffed. “Maybe it’s time to get rid of it and get something new. It’s hard to move on, Mara.”

My mom had more than enough money, a fact she liked to remind me of often, to hire someone to paint. She should be giving someone a job instead of playing the poor widow card to get some unsuspecting teen to work for free. I needed to rein it in. My mood was worse than I thought. I refocused on her last words.

“Of course. When you’re married as long as you were, it’s a huge change.”

“Aren’t you coming over here soon? I can show you the bedding and the furniture, get you to take a look at my bedroom.”

“I can’t come today, I’m sorry, Olivia’s not well.”

“What’s wrong with her?” she snapped.

“She’s got a migraine. I got the meds into her on time, but she's still sleeping on the couch, and I don't think she’s going to be well enough to go anywhere.”

“Does she really have a migraine, or does she just take advantage of her mom being her teacher?” She spoke knowingly, “Maybe she’d do a lot better surrounded by her peers, she’d maybe do more if she saw the other kids doing their work.”

This was a favorite topic of conversation for her, not at all for me. I remained silent.

“By the way, I ran into Rebecca the other day, met her fiancé,” she chirped, enunciating the three syllables of fiancé.

“Oh, yeah?” I brightened. Here was a topic I could happily discuss.

“Yes, he’s quite a step down from what she had before, isn’t he?”

Ice hit me center mass and expanded. “Pardon me? ”

“All those tattoos, hair needing a good cut weeks ago, laborer too if I’m not mistaken. What was her husband’s name? Jack? He was a professional, wasn’t he? So well-bred, well-groomed, a real gentleman.”

“Rhys is a good guy, the best actually.”

“Better than Jack?” Her voice was sneaky.

This question irritated me. She knew Jack had been a beloved friend.

“Just as good as Jack.” I replied firmly. “I don’t compare them, they are their own people, but I love Rhys, and I love Rebecca, and more importantly they love each other so I couldn’t be happier.”

“I suppose so. He has children? Those two kids are his?”

“You saw the twins? Aren’t they adorable?” I latched onto this topic. My mother loved kids. She was sure to be positive.

“They are! So cute, little blond heads. They look like the best kind of trouble.” Her tone changed to one of warning. “But I’ll tell you this, I would not want to take on the raising of someone else’s kids.”

I had the uncharitable thought that she hadn’t wanted to take on the raising of her own two kids. I’d called her wanting comfort, but I could see myself soon joining Olivia on the couch with a headache.

“Mom, I’ve got to go now, check on Olivia. ”

“Why? What could she possibly be doing? That child barely moves on the best of days, and you just said she’s sleeping. And, anyway, when are you going to come see me?”

Some days I felt pulled in too many different directions. “How about Friday?”

“Tomorrow would be better.”

“I can’t come tomorrow, Olivia has plans.”

“She can’t come tomorrow, but you can.”

“I can’t visit tomorrow either. Would you like us to visit on Friday?”

“I just don’t know. I’ll have to check my calendar,” she stalled.

I strove for patience. “Would you like to do that now?”

“No, I’ll check later. I don’t see why you can’t come tomorrow. She can miss one week; I’m sure Willa will give her a week off.” She snorted.

“Gotta go, Mom. Love you. Talk later.”

“Okay. Well, call me when you have time for me. Bye, dear.”

I ended the call and leaned forward, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, feeling the beginnings of my own headache.

A minute later my cell phone dinged with a notification. It was my mom .

‘Thanks for always being there for me, Mara. You’re a good listener,’ splashed on the screen, underscored with several heart emojis.

I sighed to myself. No wonder I was so messed up, that woman made my head spin. I had too many other things to worry about, I had nothing left in me to devote to figuring out what was going on in her head. At least I did a good deed for the day.