Borderline Personality Disorder Blog. Bipolar Disorder Blog. BPD. DBT. Cleveland. A Fragment in Orange.


When a confused or demented patient gets agitated we give them a big pile of raggedy wrinkled washcloths and ask them to please fold them neatly into a stack. Given a task, a way to help out, to feel useful, they fold away, happy as clams. When the task is completed they proudly hand us the stack of folded washcloths. We say, 'Oh, thank you SO much. I really appreciate your help'. And they beam. We leave the room, out of sight, and turn the neat stack into a big pile of raggedy wrinkled washcloths for the same patient to fold again. And the cycle goes on.

I need a big pile of raggedy wrinkled washcloths.


This is something I wrote a while ago. It's not nice, but it's important.

I want someone to take care of me as I fall apart. To make decisions for me. To tell me what is wrong and what is right. To tell me not to worry. To tell me that I am special. To tell me that they will never ever leave me. To make a promise and keep that promise forever and ever. To tell me that one day I will be the same person that I was before.

I want someone who will not let me push them away when I am scared.

One guy, not important enough or lasting enough to mention by name, listened to my story, THE story, saying nothing, just listening, and when a lone teardrop rolled down my cheek, he wiped it away with his thumb and just kept listening. The most tender moment ever.

One guy, slightly more important and longer lasting, punched my spine, punched my kidney, and rammed his hand into my pussy until I bled.

“Punch me,” I had said.


“Anywhere. My face. Anywhere.”

“I’m not into giving pain.”

“Please, just hurt me.”

And he did.

One guy told me he loved me the first time we met. Later, he was on top of me, his sweat dripping onto my face. I kept my eyes open for the salty sting. “Cum on my face,” I said. “Really?” “Yes. Please.” And he did.

One guy wanted to use a condom. “No condom” I said. “Are you sure?” he asked. “Yes.” And he didn’t. Two weeks later I needed to take penicillin.

One guy tried to get me drunk. He kept handing me my glass saying “you’re not keeping up with me.” I laughed and said “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck you whether I’m drunk or not.”

One guy said “I’ll fuck you, but only if we keep it on the down low.” Fine.

One guy whispered poetry in Arabic as we lay together in the dark. Then he took off his clothes, kneeled over my face, and fucked my mouth, going so deep that semen oozed from my nostrils when he came.
I’ve always needed quiet to be able to think. Let’s try it this way for once. Music so loud I feel sick in my gut. Thinking hasn’t done much for me lately. Just do. Do it like this.

It rained all day. Cool breeze through the house until the rain stopped and rose from the hot ground in steam, streaming through the open windows, laying damp on the wood floors, sticky under feet, laying damp on the bed sheets. Sticky, swelling, unclean. Humidity opening me up.

Homework for the weekend is to have a pleasant experience. Some of the options listed in the book: take a bubble bath, have sex, go shopping, take a long walk, dine out, play tennis, read a book, paint your nails. My pleasant experience is music blasting, so so super loud. Only louder. No one to turn the music down for. No interruptions. I jump on the elliptical for a while to get my heart going, my lungs screaming, my pulse pounding at my temples and in my eyeballs. Then I lie in bed with the dog and kiss his head. Then I smoke a half-smoked joint on the floor of the living room, my legs hanging out the screen door onto the back patio, breathing in the humid pine tree air and thinking of New Hampshire and my great aunt who is now dead and I watch for the slow movements of deer meandering through the woods. I light a candle and watch it flicker on top of the fireplace mantle. I eat a piece of key lime pie, and not a small piece either. I try on a blouse I haven’t worn in years, fingering the buttons that I could never do up, tie the fabric belt in a tight bow at my back, cinching it as tight as it will go and still having too much room, too much fabric. Parts of me slowly melt away – I see a different change in the mirror every few times I look. As there becomes less of me, there becomes more of me.

I’m looking back today. Years back. Years and years and years. Split my current age in half. More even. I’m told I shouldn’t look back so much, but there’s a satisfaction in comparing the past to the present. This is not what I’d expected. Not the me I imagined myself to become. A different version. No better, no worse. Maybe more neutral. I’m throwing out the extremes of me. Finally seeing the shades of gray. Accepting the shades of gray. No more good, no more bad. I do miss the intensity though. The roller coaster ride. The ecstasy and the agony. Ebony and ivory. One for you and one for me. Wha?


unconditional love: an experiment

Throw your significant other and your dog in the trunk of your car. An hour later, open your trunk and see who is happier to see you.


indian summer november night. a fragment in orange. the agora too loud and the whiskey too cold. my hands crammed into the pockets of my jeans -- palms hot and sweaty and fingers minty from the pack of gum that kept changing hands. a fragment in orange.

good times. unusual friends. i'm glad to be back home, alone. sat in the lawn chair out back, listened to the dog piss, and stared at the stars. stare long enough and they shoot all over the place.

this is the new mindfulness. finding the big thing in the now. minute by minute. the new mindfulness. a fragment in orange.