Get Me Out of Here: My Recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder
Rachel Reiland
Language: English
Pages: 464
ISBN: 1592850995
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Excerpt: "My hidden secrets were not well-concealed. The psychological profile had been right as had the books on BPD. I was manipulative, desperately clinging and prone to tantrums, explosiveness, and frantic acts of desperation when I did not feel the intimacy connection was strong enough. The tough chick loner act of self-reliance was a complete facade."
had to think about that one. “No, I guess I don't.” “So what are you worried about?” “Maybe I had a right to be angry. But maybe I overdid it too.” “Welcome to the land of imperfection, Rachel,” he said. “Nobody can completely control their anger all the time. And even if you did overreact a bit, who doesn't sometimes? Everyone is irrational sometimes.” “Even you?” I asked. He smiled broadly then. “Even me.” The onus had been lifted. I'd been given permission to get pissed off again, to
Everything is supposed to center around you. You're pretty self-impressed, you know that?” Brushing aside the insult, he continued. “The closeness a mother experiences with an infant could be a substitute for the closeness you feel here, a way to avoid the pain of separation. “You've said that the time when your kids were infants was the most peaceful, secure time you'd ever felt. Things began to fall apart when they started to grow a little older, to become independent and separate. Another
insistent baby cravings and focus more on the underlying issues, particularly that of termination. The time had come to seriously consider life without Dr. Padgett. In addition both Tim and I needed to accept the fact that the two children we had might well be the only children we were destined to have. We also needed to accept that they wouldn't be little forever and that someday our home would be an empty nest. Even aside from conception worries, I decided it was time I was weaned from the
hate it. It's a fucking mess. The kids are napping, but I just don't feel like cleaning it.” “Then don't clean it. Take a nap yourself. I can help you clean when I get home.” “When are you coming home?” “I dunno. I have a whole-life insurance presentation in a half hour, and then I have a call-in on my annuities ad. I thought I'd go over there at about five.” “Then you won't be home until six or seven.” “I know, but I haven't gotten a lot done lately.” “And it's my fault, isn't it?” I
zone—my own declining neighborhood. In reality our historic neighborhood was still thriving with a population determined to thwart the tide of decay, ready and willing to keep up the fight for years to come. In the dreams, however, the battle had been lost, and nearly everyone had vacated—except us. We were trapped. The only other signs of other human life were the occasional gunshots that pierced the silence. My favorite building in the neighborhood had always been a three-story brownstone