Compass

Tag: Relationships

  • Handstands

    Handstands

    Trigger Point

    It was 8pm. We were on the sofa, watching television as usual. The dog crouched on the floor, quivering with excitement, waiting for you to throw his ball.

    Fleabag had just said I love you — and goodbye to the hot priest. A lovely end to a brilliant series. I said “all done” to the dog and walked out into the hall to put his ball away.

    When I came back, you were off the sofa and furious.

    The dog had ruined everything, you said. No — I had ruined everything. You’d wanted to do handstands. I’d ignored what you wanted, got the dog’s ball out instead, and now the moment had passed. You’d lost your motivation and it was all my fault, because I always put the dog first.

    You were getting louder and louder. I asked you to stop shouting. You said I only listened when you shouted. You’d asked me nicely to put the dog in his crate so you could do handstands, and I’d ignored you. Why should you make all that effort — keep trying with your DBT skills — if they didn’t even get you what you wanted? If I was going to carry on being so fucking useless?

    I stood there trying to catch up. It all felt like it had come out of nowhere, but it hadn’t.

    The Set Up

    It had started twenty minutes earlier, while you were still eating.

    Or maybe even earlier than that when I decided to eat without you. I was post-migraine hungry and couldn’t wait for your appetite to kick in. So I ate on the sofa alone.

    A Routine Disrupted

    Eating separately shifted the whole rhythm of the evening. It meant I’d already done the after dinner dog routine — ball throwing, kibble hiding, peanut-butter LickiMat — the routine we’d devised to try and put a limit on his relentless demands to play with us in the evening. The routine we usually did together.

    Then I was back on the sofa again, keeping you company while you ate your dinner. Sausages and mash, broccoli and green beans, everything swimming in gravy. One of your favourites.

    The Ask I Missed

    We were watching Fleabag when you said you wanted to do handstands, after you finished eating. These post-dinner handstands were a new thing. You said they gave you that strong feeling in your joints — like when you used to swing from the chin-up bar when you were little.

    You said, basically: he’s had his ball — put him in his crate so I can do handstands in peace.

    But I wasn’t so sure. The dog was staring, fully expecting the ball to appear again. And I wanted a quiet life — because when the dog got frantic, you shouted, I snapped back, and everything went to pot.

    I didn’t say any of that out loud. I just went to the kitchen and came back with the Nutella jar and a big spoon — your favourite pudding — and the dog’s ball.

    The Spiral

    You stared hard at me and silently flicked two middle fingers while you licked your Nutella spoon. I let it slide. I was focused on trying to please both of you: a quick play with the dog, then the handstands.

    Except the dog didn’t want to play with me. He kept delivering the ball to you.

    So I leaned over and picked it out of your lap, trying to save you the trouble of throwing it. You flinched as I got close. That stung, but I ignored it, not wanting to provoke you.

    Eventually I put the ball away. And then I came back to find you furious, and I got that familiar stomach-dropping feeling as your rage ramped up.

    Part of me was cross because it felt like it was over nothing — like I was being attacked out of nowhere.

    I told you I wasn’t a mind reader, and that if I’d known the handstand thing was time-critical, I would have handled the dog differently. You looped through your anger again: I should have known what you needed.

    As you raged I flipped between trying to defend myself and mutinous silence. Eventually I pushed back — telling you it was impossible to be open and reflective about my own actions while you were shouting at me.

    Lessons From Childhood

    You said this was no different from what had been expected of you at school — the teachers had shouted you into overwhelm, and then expected you to reflect on your behaviour and apologise.

    Hearing those words, my heart broke. I knew you’d been challenging at school, but no one should be treated like that, especially a child.

    You said it wasn’t just teachers. It was me too — I always made you apologise and rarely apologised myself.

    It was an uncomfortable truth. For all the stories I could tell myself about your “bad” behaviour, things usually escalated because I lost my temper.

    And then you looped back to the same old point: I never listened.

    The Repair

    You’d said it many times before — the not listening — and it always hit a nerve, because I did listen. I just didn’t always agree. But in a moment of inspiration, I tried something different. I asked if I could repeat back what I thought you’d told me, to check whether I’d understood. You could correct me if I’d got anything wrong.

    I said something like:

    So you were eating your dinner and you decided you wanted to do handstands when you finished. You could see that might be difficult with the dog jumping around, so you suggested putting him in his crate. I ignored that and got his ball instead. He kept bringing it back to you, and then I invaded your body space by leaning over to pick it up, which wound you up even more. And by the time I put the ball away, you’d lost the urge to do the handstands. That was frustrating because you’d genuinely wanted to practise. And it felt like I’d ignored you and put the dog’s needs before yours — and that wasn’t fair.

    As I said it, I could see — and feel — you calm down. And as you calmed, I felt myself shifting too. I could see it more from your point of view. I felt empathy for your frustration. I saw that little girl — taken into foster care — who’d never felt she’d been put first.

    I waited a moment then said that part of me still thought waiting could have worked — but I could see why it hadn’t for you. I was half-expecting you to explode again. You didn’t.

    See Me

    How quickly you calmed down surprised me. It gave me pause. I’d assumed it was obvious that I understood why you were angry, but it wasn’t. I’d already been moving on to the next thing — trying to solve the problem — when what you wanted first was to feel seen.

    You told me how frustrating it was when I looked away, or made what I thought were sympathetic noises while you were trying to explain how you felt. How it made you feel ignored — like I didn’t care or understand.

    I asked if I could do the repeating-back thing again in future — so I could check I’d understood, and you could feel me listening properly. You agreed it might work. It felt important.

    You suggested I write it up as a journal post.

  • Finding Our Way

    Finding Our Way

    I know you don’t want to read this right now, my dearest daughter. 

    I asked you to take a look because, well, it’s my first post and I’m worried I might have said something that unintentionally upsets you. But maybe that isn’t fair. You said you fear reading it might trigger you and that you couldn’t cope with that right now. I get that. 

    After all, you have no idea what I’ve written, and perhaps you’re expecting the worst. Maybe we both need to keep the right not to read what the other has written. And yet, I’ve written things here I really want to talk about with you — because they’re about our future lives, and how we might make them better. 

    Fair warning: I want to use this journal to dissect things down to the bone — to pull apart what we’re going through, what BPD is doing to both of us, and to our relationship. So, no doubt it’ll get sticky at times. Sticky, but not a whinge-fest — there’s enough of that in the world already. 

    It feels far too “us and them” out there — people with BPD and their loved ones in two separate camps. My dream is to build a more collaborative way for us to work together. A way that might make all our lives better. 

    I’m already panicking that it’s too lofty an ambition, but surely it’s worth a try. 

    The Invisible Woman 

    I’m also being selfish. I don’t just want this project to help others; I want it to stand as evidence that I exist. Somewhere along the way I became invisible. It happened long before you came along — from a time when I had to prioritise someone else to survive. 

    And then adopting you gave me an excuse to stay invisible. Your trauma was so great, your needs so all-encompassing, that it was easy to let them become everything — to forget about me and focus on fixing you. But I can see now that this has harmed us both and must change. 

    N Is For Needs 

    It’s a plain fact of life that we all have them. Just like bodies, needs come in all shapes and sizes — and just like bodies, they’re nothing to be ashamed of. I say this for the record because I don’t think either of us has a particularly healthy relationship with our needs. 

    The trouble is having needs can make a person feel vulnerable. Especially if the adults around you were bad at meeting them when you were little. Some people react to that vulnerability in extreme ways: by becoming hyper-independent and refusing to rely on anyone (that’s me), or by swinging the other way — becoming hyper-reliant on others to fix things (does that ring any bells with you?). 

    The Scale Of Your Feelings 

    I know you feel things on a scale most people can’t imagine — the highs as well as the lows. It’s like your feelings rise like mountain ranges to other people’s foothills. 

    You’ve been like this ever since I adopted you. I hoped that having me as a loving, constant mum — combined with all the therapy to process why you were taken into care — would take away the rages, the hypervigilance, the terror. But it didn’t. If anything, it’s got worse over the years. 

    And for that, I am truly, deeply sorry. 

    There’s a theory that people who develop BPD are born supersensitive — that they notice and react to everything more strongly. Having unmet needs in childhood then hits them harder than most, and that in turn shapes the BPD. 

    This theory makes so much sense to me now. I look back and wonder what I could have done differently, what might have truly helped you. I don’t have the answers — only regret, and a desire to seek out understanding to help other children in the future. 

    Standing In The Foothills 

    Given how huge your feelings are, it’s very easy for me to slip into feeling insignificant. And my biggest challenge, after all these years of invisibility, is to learn how to speak up for myself and what I need — while standing on my own little emotional foothill in the shadow of your mountainous needs. 

    I must look small from up there. But if you do look down, you’ll see me — still here, waving up at you. 

    B Is For Boundaries 

    I’ve read a few books aimed at the loved ones of people with BPD. They talk a lot about setting boundaries — how we, the long-suffering ones, must impose firm rules to protect our needs, and the person with BPD will learn, somehow, to adapt and get better through us doing this. 

    I get that boundaries are important in relationships, but that kind of thinking feels wrong to me. It’s punitive. Cruel, even. 

    But what’s the alternative? 

    I don’t have the answer yet. But I think it has to start with kindness flowing both ways — and a shared effort to problem-solve and negotiate boundaries together. 

    Is that possible? I don’t know. If we set sail on this course, we’ll be heading into unknown territory — but maybe this is our compass, the way we learn to navigate BPD together.