Monthly Archives: August 2013

Motherhood Vs. Mornings

Me, not so much a morning person.

My son gets up at 8am, but he’s super good about it though. I hear him playing on the baby monitor, he talks to himself or plays with his toys. I lay in bed another fifteen or twenty minutes then go get him. He’s so happy in the morning. He beams at me and says “Good morning mom!” We come out to the living room and eat breakfast in front of Netflix. He has toast, pop tarts or fruit and watches Cars or Special Agent Oso. I have my slimfast at the computer while I check my messages. All is well, for about twenty minutes.

I know a good mother would cook breakfast. We’d sit at the table, with the tv off, and enjoy a meal together. There are two problems with this. First, he doesn’t eat breakfast foods, so it’s really a waste of time. No eggs, bacon, pancakes; nothin. Second, I’m not entirely awake yet, and it takes me time to clear my head and prepare for the day. So I check my messages, in relative silence. It might be the only time all day I will be left alone for five minutes.

Some days it’s tough. Today, for instance. I’m checking my messages, I Just want to be alone with my coffee and see what the rest of the world is doing. (I hardly ever get out of the house) My son wants to find his red helicopter. He tugs on my arms at the computer so I can’t type or use the mouse. He yells over and over ‘Where’s red helicopter?’ I tell him to give mum a minute, go look in his room and I’ll be right there. But no. He understands, he’s just got a toddler’s impatience. He wants it now. He wants mom to help him now.

This is probably not even a hiccup in a normal mother’s daily routine. She’d drop what she was doing, and go into his room with him and find the red helicopter. He’d be happy and she’d go back to what she was doing. My brain doesn’t work that way. I just get irritated, irrationally and overly irritated. I’m irritated that my morning routine got interrupted, I’m irritated that I’m even up at eight am. I haven’t been getting much sleep, my husband just started working the night shift and when he’s not home in bed with me I’m up every couple of hours, and getting really restless sleep in between. So today, it’s especially irritating. I just want him to sit on his little couch, watch Cars and eat his breakfast.

Most moms, I believe, aren’t so selfish.

So he’s tugging at my arm, screaming about his red helicopter. I’m taking deep breaths and trying to talk to him in a calm manner. (Don’t yell at him, don’t yell at him) He’s not doing anything wrong, he just wants his toy. My mind knows what’s best, just go look for the helicopter. My ‘nature’ is fighting it, saying ‘I just want to check my messages and drink my coffee damn it!’

Deep breaths. Don’t yell. Go look for helicopter.

We don’t find it, but somewhere along the lines something on tv gets his attention. He’s back to his show, he’s content. And now I’m back at the computer. Pat on the back, I didn’t overreact to having my morning ritual interrupted. I didn’t raise my voice. My son is still a happy camper.

These are the challenges I face every day. Sometimes all I want is something for myself. To check my messages, to work on a project, to read a couple chapters, to get out and go shopping alone. ALONE. I really need to be alone sometimes. But for about fourteen hours a day, I have these responsibilities. Take care of the lil dude, who’s in the terrible two’s and needs almost constant attention to avoid a nuclear explosion. Clean the house. Feed people. (My husband normally takes care of dinner, I mainly just focus on lunch)

I was able to steer clear of an episode this morning. Who knows, two hours from now, five hours from now, there might be another opportunity to have one. Which reminds me, I haven’t taken my medication yet this morning. I’ve been on medication for about five years give or take. I stopped taking it while I was pregnant and breast feeding but I’m back on it now. An anti depressant. I suppose it helps, I can tell because if I haven’t had it that day, I’ll start to notice that I’m even more irritable in the evening than I would be if I’d have taken it. That’s normally when I realize I forgot.

So I’m off, to face the day. To fend off toddler tantrums, boredom and anxiety attacks. It’s a never ending battle.




I’ve always been a do-er. I blame my parents. Ever since I was a kid, we’d go to arts and craft shows or see something we like when we’re out shopping and they would always say “Oh we can make that.” So I don’t buy crafts, I don’t buy handmade jewelry, I don’t buy any home decor. I make it. And I don’t buy new furniture. I get it used and fix it.

And I LOVE antiques.

Generally the antiques I get aren’t worth anything to anyone but a do-er. No real monetary value, but a good project and a sense of accomplishment when it’s done. And cheaper. WAY cheaper.

I have about five projects going on this week. One of them is this desk. It’s a Governor Winthrop Secretary desk from early turn of the century. Somewhere abouts between 1910 and 1930. My husband’s mum and dad owned a flower shop some twenty years ago and had a lot of antiques in it. Unfortunately, the desk got put in a milking parlor (glorified barn) and that’s where it’s been said twenty years since the shop closed down. It needs a lot of TLC.

My dad is helping me fix her up. My relationship with my dad is a story for another day. Pretty much all we have in common is that we’re do-ers, we like to fix old things.

Anyway, this is a picture of step one. Glue all the shelving brackets back in, and clamp the sides because they were bowed out a good quarter inch on both sides. I’m going to repeat the clamping process on the bottom, and again on the top of the drawer portion of the desk. Then a leg needs to be reattached, the drop down front needs to be pressed flat because it’s bowed (Which won’t be easy, it’s a heavy chunk of wood) and the veneer put back on it. Then I can lightly sand and finish it. Hopefully in about a month’s time she’ll look like new. It’s going to go into my work room, where I will be using it as my jewelry station. I’m so excited!


A New Motto

A New Motto

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. I’ve heard it many times in my life, my mom even has it as her signature in her email. Only lately have I really, seriously considered it. I’ve decided, these are indeed words to live b y. And I will.

As a teenager, before I knew I had an ‘illness’ (I still haven’t coined a better term yet, bear with me) I had a hard time thinking outside myself. I’m sure it’s just a teenage thing, where it’s hard to see the big picture. It’s hard to see everyone else when you’re so focused on yourself. We don’t learn in school how to view other people, how to treat other people, or even to consider other people all together.

As a teenager I would not have followed a mantra like this. It was all about me, how many problems I had, how much pain I was in. I didn’t realize, didn’t care, or chose not to acknowledge, that other people had problems too. My issues weren’t the typical teenage problems, as I would later find out, due to the personality disorder that was haunting me.

As an adult, having hopefully moved past the worst of my drama years, I can see the scope a little better. I can see that everyone is fighting something. Their battles are different, but no less monumental to them than mine are to me. It’s all about relevance. Their battle may not be relative to me but it’s important to them, therefore no less important in the scope.

Recently I’ve had ample opportunity to think on this phrase.

A short time ago I got news that someone I had been close to once, briefly, had taken her own life. I didn’t realize right away how much this would crash over me like a tsunami. Of course getting news like this is hard to take at first. But the more I thought on it the more it devastated me. She and I had a falling out, of rather large proportions, while I was in the drama stage. I didn’t make friends easily, I pushed people away, I caused dissonance where there was none. Apparently that’s what people with borderline personality do, as I found out later. She and I hadn’t spoken in four years.

But she had two little girls.

I keep going over and over in my head; “How could she do that to them? How could she leave them?” I knew she’d had some problems, on and off, throughout her life. She was after all married to an abuser. I didn’t know where their relationship was at the time of her passing, but I’ve been told her family is pointing a big fat finger right at him, so it must have still been ugly. She was fighting her battles, every day she fought. She fought for her girls, I’m sure that’s what kept her going.

So what happened? Why did she stop fighting? Maybe someone hadn’t been kind. Someone didn’t see that she was fighting a battle, a war that had been beating her down for a long time. If everyone she met was kind, would she still be here?

The thoughts invading my mind after her suicide have caused a change in me. People might not understand because she and I weren’t friends anymore, hadn’t talked in four years. Why does it affect me so? Because as much as I ask myself “How could she do that,” deep down, I KNOW how. I know WHY. Because she and I are the same.

When my rage hits, the anxiety, the disorder rears it’s ugly head, I KNOW what she felt. For a split second, when the last bearing thread snaps and I shut myself away and bang my head into the wall, I feel it too. I feel, ‘this is it, I can’t do this anymore.’ And for that split second nothing else matters. Not my husband, not my friends, not my son. And that’s how she could do it. Fortunately for me, and my loved ones, that time hasn’t come where I can’t snap myself out of it. Deep breaths, stay way from sharp objects, more deep breaths. The ringing in my ears stops, my vision goes back to normal, and my head is clear again. All of the reasons for living come flooding back.

But there will always be that fraction of a second. The same fraction of a second that happened to her, that she just couldn’t get past. If she’d had more kindness in her life, if people had recognized that she was fighting a war, she might have been able to get past that split second. Her little girls might still have a mother. They wouldn’t have to go through their lives wondering why mom left them.

They would grow up being kind, for everyone they meet is fighting a battle.

Moths are fun

Moths are fun

There were three moths in the screen this morning. We’re learning not to hurt the bugs. But of course, blowing spit bubbles on them to prompt them to fly isn’t hurting them, so it’s acceptable.

Motherhood Vs. Introduction

Some women are just born to be good wives and mothers, it’s in their genes. Some have to work at it, in which case some succeed and some fail. Some choose not to work at it, or are indifferent, or motherhood was thrust upon them and want nothing to do with it period. I’m none of these things, I’m something different. 

Parenthood comes with it’s own challenges for each individual. Not one challenge is the same, not one person’s challenge is greater or less than another’s. They’re just different. My life comes with a unique set of challenges, I have a personality disorder that directly affects my role as a parent every single moment of every single day. 

I have borderline personality disorder. This disorder is in constant conflict with motherhood. life with BPD is challenging enough on it’s own, then it gets more and more so when you start to add a husband, an extended family, a child. I have to work very hard at being a good wife and mother. I wouldn’t say I’m the perfect model of motherhood, but I’m not a bad mother. I think I’m probably about average, which I think is doing very well considering my situation.


So this isn’t a blog for perfect housewives. It’s a blog for average housewives, and we need to see more praise for the average housewife. We can’t all be the perfect example of motherhood with perfectly pressed clothes, a clean house, polite children and dinner on the table at six every night. It’s not the fifties, and society doesn’t demand it of us anymore.  

This blog is a journey of understanding. Generally speaking people don’t understand why we can’t all be perfect. After all, my only job is being a wife, mother and housekeeper. Surely I have enough time in my day to go above and beyond. But I have to work every bit as hard, if not harder, than the average housewife. I’m hoping this blog can shed some light on the lives of stay at home mothers with personality disorders, or any other mental illness. I can’t possibly be the only one. 

We need to be understood. We need to be accepted for what we are and how hard we work at it.