I woke up to the memory of how we would choose to go to school when we were sick unless almost deathly ill. My mother never believed that we were sick and therefore would have us doing chores around the house and other things that didn't aide to us getting better. We know that it at least made sense to go to school where teachers would have pity on a sick child. They would allow you to put your head on the desk and rest where my mother saw it as a day to labour.
The only reason she could see it that way is because that's what she did. She feigned illness for attention so much. She would claim she were sick and then get up and shout and scream and argue about every minute thing. It always perplexed us because we knew when we were sick we had no energy to argue about anything.
In this way, it's no wonder why those with BPD can be so fickle and have mood swings. We learned that instead of dealing with our emotions we fake illness for attention, and if that doesn't work we make people pay attention with loud outbursts and accusations.
Recently my mother looked up the meaning to her name and it meant something like: a persons who uses others and throws them away when they're done, who takes others for granted...generally a pretty bad person. The name fit her exactly. She didn't believe it. She said that's what people did to her and not the other way around.
The truth is, she's completely unaware of her behavior and how hurtful she is or can be. I grew up in that level of denial and ignorance of the hurt and pain she caused. Therefore it became inevitable that I would become someone who was unstable themselves. Though it is great that because of this crazy upbringing, I can be so aware of the hurt that other people are going through with a heightened sense of empathy. That is the thing I love about BPD, being hyper aware of peoples feelings and emotions. BPD spells empathy. That is the beauty of being raised in instability.
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