A Cellarful of Nose - Future Shoes

People always say, wow, what a great thing to be able to
express yourself. But it’s not a great thing, if your expression
deepens your sense of pain and woe, by searing it into your mind.
I look into her eyes and see the flaky expression and I know
where the bipolar comes from, it comes from my own deep terror.
And God help me, I have never really learned how to use this
gift in a reliably positive way. I think, because of my childhood
experiences, I tend to zip to the negative side of things and adhere
to it like a remora to the flank of a great white shark. I dwell
there, imagining that it is safer there than in open water.
The Christmas play this year was about a decapitated head in
hell – Ted Williams' head, to be specific. That is how I feel these
days.
So this problem of my daughter’s BPD – borderline
personality disorder, an umbrella for all the other complaints I
have told you all about – you can sum it up as hysterical selfhatred,
or mental agony – switches on all my own worst impulses,
of forlornness, of negativity, of anguish – which is strangely egobound
– Lord, look at my suffering, and if you can’t DO
something – I know there are RULES where you are – at least
give me the satisfaction of being sorry you put me in this awful
position.
So I am Daniele’s advocate, and I am about this different
from her in terms of hysteria, self-hatred, and mental agony.
Physician, heal thyself.
And this morning I call over to her. “Daniele, if you give me
your landlord’s fax number, I can write him and plead to get you
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