It was like this.

His behaving in the ways this article describes really began to frighten me when I visited him in December: his extreme emotional reactivity was not only scary, but made me feel as if I was walking through a mine field or on eggshells.

It's so difficult to know that someone I loved so much now hates me, and wants to hurt me as he feels I hurt him by honestly communicating my concerns. I was "too real." And not in a good way, like the Velveteen Rabbit.

The Frustrating No-Man’s-Land of Borderline Personality Disorder
By Harold W. Koenigsberg, and Larry J. Siever

THE NEUROBIOLOGY OF AFFECTIVE INSTABILITY

In addition to vulnerability to impulsive aggression, people with borderline personality disorder are unusually emotionally reactive. They may be content for a while, then become intensely angry or hopelessly depressed or unbearably anxious—each state, although intense, lasting only a few hours or a day.

To those who are close to them, borderline patients appear to have random and unpredictable emotions. On closer investigation, those emotions often seem to involve heightened emotional reactions to other people. Borderline patients may become distraught at ordinary criticism, which they experience as a blow to self-esteem; may react with rage to a disappointment or minor slight; or may feel terror at a separation that they experience as virtual abandonment. Their emotional, or affective, instability may contribute to their turbulent, often unstable relationships and the inconstancy in their experience of themselves that leads to a confused sense of identity.

Infants who are very emotionally sensitive may respond more intensely to the comings and goings of their mother or caretakers and show much greater distress at separating. This may lead to a more insecure attachment between infant and mother. If the infant is more impulsive and aggressive— that is, likely to express emotions forcefully— he may have crying spells and, later, temper tantrums when frustrated or left alone, which can wear down even the most supportive parents and overwhelm those who are depressed or who themselves have trouble with emotional reactivity and impulsiveness. Parents may become frustrated at their inability to soothe such a child and decide not to respond to its distress; at other times they may try everything to indulge the child to appease its upset and rage. These inconsistent (and, to the infant, unpredictable) responses may make it likely that the child will learn to deal with unpredictability by means of emotional storms or tantrums.

Only by looking at the behaviors of someone with borderline personality disorder in that person’s social milieu do we fully understand their meaning.

As the child matures, he may draw on these interpersonal strategies in order to regain emotional equilibrium. For example, when an upsurge of depression follows a blow to self-esteem, the borderline person may try to bolster her self-esteem by devaluing someone else. When feeling alone and abandoned, she may behave recklessly to stimulate the worry and involvement of others. To onlookers, these behaviors may appear manipulative because their purpose is to bring another person to attend to the borderline’s needs. But because of their heightened sensitivity to the availability of others, people with borderline personality disorder often feel that they are not in charge of their own emotions—their emotions depend on the behavior of those around them. Attempting to control their own feelings, they find themselves trying to control the behavior of people they depend upon and care about. Repeated again and again, these patterns of behavior become ingrained. The borderline person experiences these styles of relating as the only way to survive emotional ups and downs and the feeling that others cannot be trusted to support her.

By the last month of our relationship I often felt we were thrashing in a lake, that he held me by the neck in the crook of his arm and that he would accidentally drown me. I felt and (perhaps still feel) terribly guilty that I couldn't save him, and I felt ashamed that every self-preservation instinct in my psyche was screaming, "Fly! Fly!" I thought I was so strong that I could help him, and that my great love for him could help heal his terrible psychic wounds. What I hadn't realized at the beginning was the terrible risk I had willingly and lovingly put myself in; I feel ashamed that I ultimately had to make the choice to save myself. What I'm trying to become very clear on is this: I could not have saved him. He is the only one who can save himself. I feel such compassion for his wife of many years; how frequently she must have felt as I felt, and how sad and helpless she must feel. She can't save him, either.

But I predict his brilliance, charm and boyish qualities will insure a steady future supply of women riding in on their white horses, hoping, as I hoped and as his wife surely must have once hoped, to save him. There were, what? Three other women I quickly discovered in his life in addition to his wife and me?

I don't think his is a histrionic or narcissistic personality. I think he has suffered unbearably most of his life from a borderline personality disorder that the circumstances of his early life set up. Too bad I wasn't able to do the research as the behaviors occurred; it was all completely baffling and very painful for me at the time. Poor man. Will he ever be able to move on past those wounds? Will he ever begin to heal a little or feel at least a sense of peace of mind? Will his vicious self-loathing -- which he sometimes turns outward on others -- ever end?

Thinking about him makes me terribly sad.

It's the twenty-fifth birthday of my beloved younger child.

March 11 was a Sunday in 1984, the year she was born. I had insisted on doing the birth naturally, without any drugs, exactly as I'd delivered my son four years earlier. I labored nearly twenty-four hours and was going into shock. The doctor told me it was a Victorian childbirth since she was breech and huge -- nearly nine pounds. He told me we were both going to die and I'd be buried with her inside me like something out of a Thomas Hardy novel if I didn't allow them to perform an emergency Caesarean.


That got my attention. I agreed to the c-section and she was out of me in minutes. The doctor scooped her out of my womb, held her up and she looked around the operating room with her huge cobalt blue eyes. The radio played, "Isn't She Lovely?" by Stevie Wonder, as if on cue. She sucked on her wrist -- in fact, she'd already given herself a hickey since she was post-term and hungry those last days inside me. Her father had to hold her while they sewed me up and then moved me to the recovery room for an hour. When he finally laid her on my breast -- how huge and beautiful she was, like a pink rose! -- I said, "So there you are, Miz Pie!" I guess it was a pet name I coined based on Sweetie Pie, but it stuck.

She latched onto my nipple and nursed voraciously. I fell in love with her immediately.

She is still my treasure, my brilliant, unique, loving, talented, funny, complicated younger child.

I'm meeting her, her partner and a few of her friends to celebrate at a favorite Indian restaurant after work. I have a "Pat the Bunny" birthday card for her with cash in it, a harmonica and a few thrift-shopping finds that looked like her to me.

Belle de Jour shoes!

Don't these want to be Roger Vivier Belle de Jour shoes? But they are just cheap (but very cute) Etienne Aigner instead? My sister and I went to DSW (she had coupons! Thank you, sweetie!) this weekend and I scored these. Plus some other really outrageous ones I'll show you eventually to go along with that Missionary/modern African Queen look I'm planning to rock this summer. I am wearing the faux BdJ shoes today with my wants-to-be Hérmès sweater that's really Ralph Lauren, bought on ebay.

Since a picture is worth a thousand words...

I think today or tomorrow is the ninth anniversary of my divorce from my younger child's father. I don't remember the number of the date. I do remember it was Ash Wednesday that year, because I planned it that way.

I think today or tomorrow is also what would have been the thirty-fifth anniversary of my first marriage, to my elder child's father.

It seems to me both these events occurred within a day of one another. I'm very bad with dates, just as I am with names. I do remember The Ides of March have been a recurring motif in my life story.

Oh, my gosh! I never saw this photo before!

How old might she have been? Nineteen or so?

I'm bored now.

Everyone besides me (and my assistant) is at a conference because I had a meeting this morning which meant I couldn't attend. And because I have a HUGE meeting and presentation to prepare for that occurs tomorrow. A whole academic year's work will conclude tomorrow with that meeting!

But now, at late afternoon, everything's ready. And now I'm bored. I cannot wait for this day to end!

Creativity determines sexual success

The research, by the University of Newcastle upon Tyne and the Open University in the UK, found that professional artists and poets have around twice as many sexual partners as those who do not indulge in these creative activities.

The authors also delved into the personalities of artists and poets and found they shared certain traits with mentally ill patients. These traits were linked with an increased sexual activity and are thought to have evolved because they contribute to the survival of the human species.

Some 425 British men and women, including a sample of visual artists and poets and schizophrenic patients, were surveyed for the report, which is published today in the academic journal, The Proceedings of the Royal Society (B). Although creative types have long been associated with increased sexual activity, this the first time that this link has been proved by research.

Study participants filled in questionnaires which asked about their degree of creative activity in poetry and visual art, their psychiatric history, and their history of sexual encounters since the age of 18. They were also required to answer questions on a ‘schizotypy inventory’, a breakdown of characteristics linked with schizophrenic patients.

The average number of sexual partners for professional artists and poets was between four and ten, compared with a mean of three for non-creative types. Statistics also showed the number of average sexual partners rose in line with an increase in the amount of creative activity a person took part in.

The lead author of the study, Dr Daniel Nettle, lecturer in psychology with Newcastle University’s School of Biology, suggested two key reasons for the findings. He said: “Creative people are often considered to be very attractive and get lots of attention as a result. They tend to be charismatic and produce art and poetry that grabs people’s interest.

“It could also be that very creative types lead a bohemian lifestyle and tend to act on more sexual impulses and opportunities, often purely for experience’s sake, than the average person would. Moreover, it’s common to find that this sexual behaviour is tolerated in creative people. Partners, even long-term ones, are less likely to expect loyalty and fidelity from them.”

Dr Nettle added that the results suggested an evolutionary reason for why certain personality traits that serious artists and poets were found to share with schizophrenic patients perpetuated in society.

He added: “These personality traits can manifest themselves in negative ways, in that a person with them is likely to be prone to the shadows of full-blown mental illness such as depression and suicidal thoughts. This research shows there are positive reasons, such as their role in mate attraction and species survival, for why these characteristics are still around.”

Yet although some 'schizotypal' traits are linked with high numbers of partners, schizophrenic patients do not experience this level of sexual activity. These people tend to suffer from acute social withdrawal and emotional flatness - characteristics that the researchers found were linked with a reduced number of sexual partners.

SOURCE INFORMATION: ‘Schizotypy, creativity and mating success in humans’ Daniel Nettle and Helen Keenoo, Proceedings of the Royal Society B, November 2005. Doi:10.1098/rspb.2005.3349

No Camille for me this spring.

I hadn't much wanted to talk about it here, my ongoing health issue. Today was the long-dreaded day when I went for the follow-up imaging, and prepared myself for bad news, as I've had in the past after the imaging, and then the scheduling of a biopsy, and then the torturous weeks of waiting for the biopsy day to arrive. And then the hellish days of waiting for the biopsy results.

Good news: there's no change from the imaging six months ago, which equals No Biopsy. I'm off the hook for one year, told to "keep on keeping on" with my normal healthy lifestyle. I have a separate, early June blood work retest to do, but was told that one was hardly abnormal and not to lose sleep over it. If the June blood tests come back okay, I'm off the hook on all accounts until summer of 2010. If you know me in real life and knew the scary thing I'd be enduring alone this afternoon, thank you for your thoughts and prayers and good energy today. It is always a little sad and frightening to go through this by myself, but you know I prefer to do it alone.

But tonight, I'm so relieved. I've felt since I returned from Italy in January as if I couldn't or shouldn't make any long-range plans until I had these medical test results. Now I know I have a year-long dance card, at least, to start filling in without fear of the issue for which I'm being poked and prodded. I could, of course, be hit at any moment by a Mack truck, crumple like a sheet of paper with a heart attack, etc. But I'm unlikely to be felled by this particular ailment. So I'll start working on the next book, make jewelry out of found bottle caps, make Joseph Cornell boxes, sew a nomad dress or whatever else appeals to my imagination now that I know I have some time.

Coraline: highly recommended for some

I took the entire Jimmie/Cindy clan on Friday. Dark. Frightening. Autumn nearly climbed up Jimmie as the movie got darker and darker and sadder and sadder. Maya had read the book and so was prepared. I hadn't read it, and so was a blank slate -- but the book's on its way to me now, courtesy Amazon.

I really loved it. Don't know that it's appropriate for "normal" children under about the age of ten, though. Could inspire nightmares. Could inspire nightmares in unsuspecting adults, too. There was something heavy in there about mothering and mother/daughter relationships that was more than just a little upsetting. Not exactly a sick puppy, but not joyful in its darkness like Nightmare Before Christmas, for instance.

Laissez les bon temps rouler, y'all

http://www.nola.com/paradecam/index.ssf?video

Parce qu'aujourd'hui c'est Mardi Gras!

It's so hard to even ponder going back there after the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina. I haven't been back since the summer of the year before it hit. I just don't know if I can stand seeing the lingering profound changes.

...although my former love and I had planned to honeymoon there when we married next August. It's closer than Venice, he'd never been there, and he was a great fan of Louis Armstrong and other New Orleans jazz musicians.

I didn't even make a King Cake this year!

Oh, and I forgot to say about Kate Winslet...

I was overjoyed she got the Academy Award for Best Actress. I haven't seen The Reader yet. She was superb, as I wrote before, in Revolutionary Road. She pulled a Bette Davis, didn't she? More than one movie in a given year for which she deserved a nomination.

But I have to say how goddess-like she was, and how I approved of her speech and her dress and her hair and makeup. She's beginning to somehow remind me of Julie Andrews -- that kind of class and grace. Meryl Streep's another woman like Julie and now young Kate who I sometimes aspire to channel depending on the situation. When I'm not aspiring to remind everyone of Catherine Deneuve, that is.

Yes, Kate's a rising goddess and definitely on my Essential Women list these days. Maybe she's her generation's Meryl Streep?

It was great to see Sophia Loren and Shirley McLaine on last night's show also. (But Sophia scared me a little, I will admit. Too much plastic surgery or Botox? She seemed afraid to move!)

Beaucoup de photos

http://www.flickr.com/photos/diebuechsepics/

I spent some time this weekend FINALLY uploading all the photos from my roots journey in May and June to Bavaria/Switzerland avec ma mère if you want to see some images finally. Also Sicily and a couple from Paris. I know I must have a roll of London somewhere, since that's where I started out from...

That's me at my desk at work before Christmas wearing the dirndl I bought in Bavaria with my mother.

Often when a relationship ends

...I feel the urge to buy a bicycle.

And so I did today.

Just like this, but red. No gears, no hand brakes, just a simple old-fashioned coaster. I love it! It's a Sun Bicycle -- I never had one before.
http://www.sunbicycles.com/sun/index.html

I purchased it an Eastside bicycle shop, so it comes with support, unlike a Huffy or Schwinn from a big box store. And it's much better quality for only about $50 more than what I thought I'd pay at Academy or Target for a Chinese bike. And I got a basket installed so I can run errands on it. Or so I can train Buster to sit in it and go for a ride with me. Good times!

And if it's the Second Coming of the Great Depression, at least I've got alternative, non fossil fuel transportation now.

Hmm. Can I rock this summer look?

Just bought this skirt on ebay from a company in Thailand. We'll see how long it takes to get here. They have all kinds of fabulous Dutch wax African print skirts, dashikis, etc. I'm thinking there must be some way to rock the African skirts with vintage Nike or Adidas t-shirts, gladiator sandals or Converse One Stars, piles of bracelets or cowrie shell necklaces. And what if I used one of those purses made out of flattened tin juice cans and other recycled materials with it? What I think I'm trying for is a Missionary Look. You know, as if I'm a white woman in 21st Century Africa, who brought along a bag full of Goodwill clothes to share -- colorful athletic t-shirts or other kinds of shirts with American writing on them.

Hmm. Just an idea from Rachel's Summer 2009 collection.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona: I'm warning you, don't say it!

Yes, Scarlett Johansson's character Cristina, in Woody Allen's film Vicky Cristina Barcelona, behaves eerily as I have done sometimes. Even though Scarlett is worlds more beautiful than I ever was and nearly thirty years younger than I am, yes, I will admit it. And the movie is good, I think. I enjoyed it and recommend it to you. Just don't say Cristina reminds you of me to my face. Just think it silently, okay? You don't have to tell me.

A beautiful image by fashion photographer Peter Lindbergh

for you.

Ow! Ow! My head hurts! I can't even begin to describe how taxing work is these days, so I won't even try. Plus, it would be very boring if I did explain.

And we had a student death in the wee hours Saturday night. Rumors abound, but it does seem foul play must have been involved, and underage drinking. What a tragedy.

But I got thirty-five free downloads at emusicdotcom. I swear they don't pay me off. Go check it out, and you, too, can get free downloads like all the cool kids. I got a whole Tanghetto album, a Zero 7 album and assorted songs to fill in some gaps in my music collection with my freebies. They have more independent labels, obscure European stuff, etc., there than the iTunes store, it seems. And I did learn most of the bands I love fall under the electronic,trip-hop, down-tempo label. Good. I never had the terminology to explain the kind of contemporary music I enjoy until now.

Dear (British) Abby,

I met a man recently out of an unhappy long-term relationship and supposedly ready to move on. We live in different cities, but would spend hours on the phone. He was shy and nervous, which was endearing. We got on amazingly well...(snip) Now I’ve walked away, but I fear I’ve left an amazing connection behind. Was I holding on to something that wasn't there? It’s so easy to say that people have baggage, but surely it’s better to help and be understanding?

*****

Of course it’s good to help others and to be understanding about emotional baggage, but just because it’s good to be that way, it doesn’t necessarily mean it’s good for you.

Look, for whatever reason, some people are emotional black holes. No matter how much love and kindness we hand out, it’s all absorbed into the vortex. Our actions come to seem both meaningless and pointless, because no amount of love and reassurance has any effect except to make them crave more — and more. That leaves us bewildered, anxious and, frankly, feeling as if we don’t much matter.

I think of people like that as emotional vampires. Unable to sustain themselves or fill the hole of need they carry inside, they leech the life out of others. I suspect you feel low because it is extraordinarily disappointing to encounter somebody who seems able to speak the language of love, but is unable, emotionally, to absorb its lessons. All the promises are simply dust. When he says he loves you, I’m sure he believes it to be the truth. It’s just that, emotionally, he can’t follow it through. We can understand something intellectually, but fail to feel it emotionally. It’s a head-to-heart disconnect.

He may want to love you (or, rather, the idea of you), but as soon as you respond, he shuts down, and when you get too close, he runs away. It seems likely that he’s badly wounded emotionally, but — and here’s a big but — just because he’s wounded, it doesn’t mean that you can heal him, or that you should try. You don’t say what happened in his previous relationship. It could be that he was bullied or neglected, and that has caused him to feel scared of being hurt again. Or it could be that he was acting out similar dysfunctional behaviour with his ex-partner, who, after a long battle to love and reassure him, came to feel as low as you do and gave up.

Who’s to know? Perhaps not even he does. It’s difficult to see our own destructive patterns until something sufficiently painful happens to make us pay attention. It takes years to establish behaviour and, no matter how dysfunctional or destructive, it at least has the merit of being familiar and, therefore, safe. Change is frightening because it’s a leap into the unknown, but I suspect your frustration lies in wanting to believe that, with sufficient love and kindness, he could and would change. People can change, but challenging established patterns of destructive behaviour takes enormous personal effort. Unless somebody is really willing to put in the work, it’s impossible to help them, no matter how much kindness, love and good emotional sense we send their way.

It’s like the oxygen masks in an aeroplane. You must put the mask to your own face before helping anybody else. Why? Because if you don’t have your own supply of oxygen, you’ll soon start grabbing at others and pulling them down in your desperation to get at their supply.

He’s not deceitful or unkind; he’s just an oxygen-grabber. You, on the other hand, are a giver and someone who believes in honesty, trust and kindness. Good. Those are excellent, healthy instincts that make for real happiness in a relationship. If I were you, I’d keep walking until you find them.

****

And someone else wrote elsewhere, If a vampire came up to you and asked you to let them drink your blood or else they'd die, would you feel guilty if you wouldn't allow them to drain you?

It was like that. At first I was, in a way, hypnotized, walking toward him in an extraordinarily beautiful and atmospheric dream. But by the end I began to distinctly feel as if I were suffering from acute blood loss and that my survival was in jeopardy.

And someone else, a psychiatrist I recently visited, in fact, reminded me that she who tries to save a drowning man is in great danger of being drowned herself, as the drowning man, in a panic, sometimes drags her down with him -- and not on purpose. It's simply a tragic accident.

This is really about all I can say about the end of my romance. In case you were at all curious. But I think that's all I want to share.

Happy, happy heart day to you all!

Because love is, when all is said and done and done and said, all that matters, mes petites crises du coeur!

Now, go eat 75% bittersweet dark chocolate, drink a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape or try out that new bottle of lube with your beloved! L'amour, toujours l'amour, even when it's l'amour fou.

My dreams these days

...seem frequently to be about my recently ended romance. About a week ago I dreamed I was riding in a car with his long-suffering wife (she was driving), who assured me everything I found troubling about my former lover's behavior was par for the course, his normal m.o. She sweetly thanked me for trying to help him and told me my efforts were, unfortunately, totally useless.

Last night I dreamed my former lover was played by some other man, like an actor would play a role -- but still, I knew it was him. He greeted me joyfully and seemed delighted to be with me again. I said, confused, "Are we still a couple? I don't understand. You seem so happy now, when before you often seemed so miserable and mopey. You seem like a new man!" Then the actor playing him beamed at me. And I said to him, "Wait! You ARE another man, not my former lover," and woke myself up.

What's to stop me, really, from behaving like an angel?

Since the abrupt ending of my recent relationship I've spent a lot of time walking. Walking my dog on the trail around Town Lake, specifically. And while I walk, I think. I can't help it.

I used to try to avoid making eye contact with anyone as I walked and thought. But lately I've been thinking a lot about people and about human nature and about what fucked up and wonderful creatures we humans are. I try to think more about what others are thinking and feeling than about myself these days. Doing so made my mind turn to Wim Wender's beautiful 1987 film, Wings of Desire. I always wanted to be one of those compassionate, trench coat wearing angels gently listening to the stream of thoughts constantly pouring out of the minds of human beings, helping people, comforting them. Invisibly. Without ego.

So I thought, What's to stop me, really, from blessing people like one of those angels?

Now, when I walk, usually at twilight, I try very hard just to psychically hear what the people walking past me are thinking and feeling. I try to make myself invisible, try to let them walk right through me as if I have no substance. I try to maintain gentle eye contact and a slight smile as I listen to their thoughts. I bless each of them as they walk through me, I say a silent little prayer for them to be released from their cares and their pain and their hurts. If I am not destined to love just one person, my soul mate, what if I were to share that love energy quietly with many instead?

It's so amazing, this meditation. The sensation is incredibly powerful and moving when I walk as an angel. Some people make full eye contact with me and their faces light up. Some are at first surprised by the eye contact, but soon smile gratefully. Sometimes I nod and whisper to them, "Good evening" or "Good morning" as Buster and I pass. It strikes me how sad it is that so many of us poor human beings are starved for any kind of contact with one another.

It feels like a kind of volunteer social work, this walking like an angel. It's good. I love to do it.