The light no longer filters through the drapes, instead the shadows begin to fall into the room. The cracks remain, the ceiling stands, and still, here I am, torn. Torn between understanding and not, that what I thought would hold me afloat, tore, leaving all my weight to give way at the first gust that ripped through, with not a fibre left to lend a hand. The cancer ate through to the bone and the nurses and doctors left the room, with nary a fight, disgusted at the sight, repulsed. And so I lie, torn, wondering how this heart could still beat with everything else standing so still, a monotone landscape, dry and wide, watching, unmoving.
Stigma, torn open for all to see, charity is only for the pretty, when the beggars and lepers come forth, few stay to the end, willing to tear their hearts and gates open, embracing what they despise, finding the truth and goodness in their own humanity and that underneath the filth their is light. They are torn too, not given a choice, living the sins of birth, of circumstance, perhaps ashamed to reach out that hand, fearing that should they soil you, expose their crimes, disgust will make the hands that feed recoil. Maybe they too, lie on the ground, torn, watching the shadows descend onto their faces, tears tearing streams down their faces, self loathing spreading, bile resting heavy in their mouths for who they are.
I will have to get up and leave the shadows, tomorrow, the next day, perhaps the one after, before the world gives up on me and all charity walks away. Swallow the bitter words, that again, it is just Amanda and I, the only one that lives through it all, thick and thin, that when ugly comes to play, Amanda always stays. She loves the weakness, regales when the control slips away, when I lose the will, make the mistakes and become that leper that all abhor, who cut their facade of charitable nets and false understanding, leaving me, lying, naked, on the floor. Torn. Wanting to sink into the ground, feeling the dirt cover the shame that I could not hold, bury the side of me that is poison, let it seep away into the mud, free me from the weakness that keeps me alone, torn, again.
Splinters and shards, no one walks into fields of broken glass, we know this Amanda, they’re our pieces, they hurt everyone else, no one lies with us in the darkness, shards twinkling in the moonlight. Come Amanda, take my hand.
Dr. Marsha Linehan:
But the value of the therapy can be thwarted if patients return to an environment that misunderstands them. Thus, Dr. Linehan said, it is important for others to recognize that people with borderline personality disorder are genuinely suffering. “They are in excruciating pain that is almost always discounted by others and attributed to bad motives,” she said.
The idea is “to validate the person’s emotional reactions, to say, ‘I understand how you feel,’ to pay attention, not to the situation, but to the emotion behind it,” Dr. Linehan said.
Alan E. Fruzzetti, a psychologist at the University of Nevada, said that families have to learn how to “soothe themselves, to realize that though the situation is awful, not to blame or be judgmental of the person but to see the person as also suffering.”
Reacting in a nonloving way magnifies the trauma tenfold, he said in an interview, adding: “You may have to leave a bad situation, but you must come back in a loving way, maybe say something like, ‘That blowout yesterday, I really want to understand your experience.’ ”