My mom dresses me funny

After posting my last entry, I walked away from the computer a bit worried. I don’t want this blog to devolve into a forum for my rants and whinging. I worry that I’ve been doing too much of that lately. I’d prefer that this blog illustrate what it’s like to live with (and recover from) Borderline Personality Disorder. Yes, along the way, you’ll get a healthy dose of the everyday, but hopefully the everyday as seen through the (oh so perceptive) eyes of a Borderline.

So yes, in my last post, I bitched about a lot of things: my apartment, my car, store clerks, my ass… But the topic that stood out the most, the topic that was largely to blame for my bad mood in the first place…

My mom dresses me funny.

So, how does this illustrate what it's like to live with Borderline? Ummmm.... Well, for starters, it illustrates how my emotions swing between extremes that are hard to manage. Like my intense anger. And it explains (pretty well, in fact) the kind of invalidating environment that CREATES Borderline. Like how my mom trying to dress me invalidates my individuality and oh, I dunno, my adulthood.

I’ve spent a lot of the last few days trying to explain to people (ok, mainly therapists and my husband) how I wound up in this situation. Again.

Here’s the conclusion I’ve come to. It happens by degrees. It’s not like my mom just walks up to me, slaps me on the back and says “Well Juniper, it’s obvious you’re a wreck and can’t manage to look presentable in public. To avoid a lot of embarrassment, your father and I are going to strap you down and make you look like the good little preppy clone we always wanted.” Maybe that’s what she’s thinking, but these situations tend to unravel more sloooowly.

Here’s the chronology of this current mess:

ACT I:
Among my birthday presents are a black skirt and white sweater. I don’t love em’ but then, you don’t always love birthday presents. I feign happiness and gratitude. Mom suggests I wear them to my dad’s party. Hmmm. I hadn’t even been thinking about what I was going to wear. The party’s not for weeks. I don’t want to spend money on a new outfit… I make some non-committal murmurs, not realizing that in her mind, this equals “Yes, thanks mom. Don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t save me from my own ineptitude.”

ACT II:
Christmas morning, I get a gift certificate for shoes at Nine West. I like Nine West. I need some dressy black sandals. Good gift. I’m happy. “Maybe you can use this to get some nice shoes to go with your new outfit!” Mom happily suggests. That’s NOT gonna happen, I think. But do I have shoes that go with that outfit, I wonder? Maybe I will have to use part of it.

ACT III:
Mom tells me she’s getting her hair done while she’s in NJ. She loves that salon and has missed it ever since she moved. Would I like to get a haircut too? Uh, yeah, sure. I was gonna get a haircut in January anyway… why not. Saves me the time and money. And that way they can “style” my hair too. She says. That way I’ll look nice for the party. Ummmm… ok. I don’t usually do that much to my hair but I always let the stylist do something to it after I get a haircut. It’s fun to have “styled” hair for a day.

ACT IV:
On the last day of our visit, mom asks us to try on our new clothes and see if everything fits. The white sweater doesn’t fit that great. Probably because it’s incredibly ugly and unflattering. I tell mom that it’s not going to “work.” She sighs. “Oh noooo, really? And that’s the one I had to go to two stores for and then they had to order it in another size and have it shipped… “ Well thanks mom. Thanks for being so gracious about it. I’m trying to save her the money and she’s giving me a guilt trip. “I’ll just give you a check for what it’s worth and you can go get yourself something that works with that skirt.” Uh… what? Did I just agree to go shopping for an item of clothing I don’t really need to match a skirt that I don’t really expect to get a lot of use out of?

ACT V:
In the week and a half since we’ve been home, mom has reminded me to get some new shoes and a new blouse. About six times. In emails, letters, and phone conversations. Here’s the most recent email:

“Just wondering – did you get some new nice dress shoes yet? And also did you find a top you like for the black skirt? Hope so. Let’s talk about outfits for Dad’s big “do” next time we talk. By the way, when we go to the salon, Ann Marie, the tiny one with long black hair, who is from Maine will be cutting your hair along with shampoo and styling. Would you like her or someone there to do a make-up application for you while you are waiting for me to get beautified? Might be fun.”

So now the shoes and skirt have become mandatory. Great. I leave in less than a week and now I have to fit in a shopping trip.

As for the makeup, this was my reply:

“I’m ok with them doing my makeup... As long as it’s not too “NJ.” I’ll have to be firm with them and remind them that I’m a CT/CA “natural” girl. But it’s a nice idea.”

This was NOT what I originally wrote. This was probably the third draft of my reply. The polite draft. Don’t wanna seem ungrateful, now do I.


So you see… I agree to a new skirt, and a few days later, I’m in over my head. It’s not for any lack of will or spine on my part. It just sneaks up on me… like sinking into quicksand. THAT”S what makes it so hard to escape. (thrashing makes you sink more quickly, right?)