I Hate You—Don't Leave Me (29 page)

Imagine personality as a series of intersecting lines, each representing a specific character trait (see Figure 10-1). The extremes of each trait are located at the ends of the line, with the middle ground in the center. For example, on the “conscientiousness at work” line, one end might indicate obsessive over-concern or “workaholism,” and the other end “irresponsibility” or “apathy”; the middle would be an attitude somewhere between these two extremes, such as “calm professionalism.” If there were a “concern about appearance” line, one end might exemplify “narcissistic attention to surface looks,” and the other end, “total disinterest.” Ideally, one's personality makeup would look like the spokes of a perfectly round wheel, with all these lines intersecting near their midpoints in the wheel “hub.”

Of course, no one is completely “centered” all the time. It is important to identify each line in which change is desired and locate one's position on that line in relation to the middle. Change then becomes a process of knowing where you are and how far you want to go toward the middle. Except at the extreme ends, no particular locus is intrinsically “better” or “worse” than another. It is a matter of knowing oneself (locating oneself on the line) and moving in the adaptive direction.

FIGURE 10-1.
Personality as a series of intersecting lines.

For example, if we isolate the “caring for others” line (see Figure 10-2), one end (“self-sacrificing over-concern”) represents the point where concern for others interferes with taking care of oneself; such a person may need to dedicate himself totally to others in order to feel worthwhile. This position may be perceived as a kind of “selfish unselfishness,” because such a person's “caring” is based on subconscious self-interest. At the other end (“don't give a damn”) is a person who has little regard for others, who only “looks out for number one.” In the middle is a kind of balance—a combination of concern for others and the obligation to take care of one's own needs as well. A person whose compassion trait resides in this middle zone recognizes that only by taking care of his own important needs first can he hope to help others, a kind of “unselfish selfishness.”

FIGURE 10-2.
The “caring for others” personality trait line.

Change occurs when one acquires the awareness to objectively place oneself on the spectrum and then compensate by adjusting behavior in a direction toward the middle. An individual who realistically locates his present position to the left of the midpoint would try to say “no” to others more often and generally attempt to be more assertive. One who places himself to the right of the midpoint would compensate toward the middle by choosing a course of action that is more sensitive to the needs of others. This position reflects the admonitions of the ancient scholar Hillel—“If I am not for myself, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, who am I? If not now, when?”

Of course, no one resides “in the middle” all the time; one must constantly adjust his position on the line, balancing the teeter-totter when it tilts too far in one direction or the other.

True change requires more than experimenting with isolated attempts to alter automatic reflexes; it involves replacing old behaviors with new ones that eventually become as natural and comfortable as the old ones. It is more than quietly stealing away from the hostile dog; it is learning how to make friends with that dog and take it for a walk.

Early on, such changes are usually uncomfortable. To use an analogy, a tennis player may decide that his unreliable backhand is in need of refinement. So he embarks on a series of tennis lessons to improve his stroke. The new techniques that he learns to improve his game initially yield poor results. The new style is not as comfortable as his old stroke. He is tempted to revert to his previous technique. Only after continuous practice is he able to eradicate his prior bad habits and instill the more effective and eventually more comfortable “muscle memory.” Likewise, psychological change requires the adoption of new reflexes to replace old ones. Only after persistent practice can such a substitution effectively, comfortably, and therefore permanently occur.

If a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, the borderline's journey through the healing process begins with a single limp. Change is a monumental struggle for the borderline, much more difficult than for others because of the unique features of the disorder. Splitting and the lack of object constancy (see chapter 2) combine to form a menacing barricade against trusting oneself and others and developing comfortable relationships.

In order to initiate change, the borderline must break out of an impossible catch-22 position: To accept himself and others, he must learn to trust, but to trust others really means starting to trust himself, that is, his own perceptions of others. He must also learn to accept their consistency and dependability—quite a task for someone who, like a small child, believes others “disappear” when they leave the room. “When I can't see you,” Elizabeth told her psychiatrist early in her treatment, “it's like you don't exist.”

Like someone with an injured leg, the borderline must learn to limp. If he remains bedridden, his leg muscles will atrophy and contract; if he tries to exercise too vigorously, he will reinjure the leg even more severely. Instead, he must learn to limp on it, putting just enough weight on the leg to build strength gradually, but not so much as to strain it and prevent healing (tolerating leg pain that is slight, but not overwhelming). Likewise, healing in the borderline requires placing just enough pressure by challenging himself to move forward. As Elizabeth's therapy progressed, cognitive interventions gave way to a more psychodynamic approach, with more attention focused on connections between her past experiences and current functioning. During this transition, the therapist's interventions diminished and Elizabeth became responsible for more of the therapy.

The borderline's view of the world, like that of most people, is shaped by his childhood experiences in which the family served as a microcosm of the universe. Unlike healthier individuals, however, the borderline cannot easily separate himself from other family members, nor can he separate his family from the rest of the world.

Unable to see his world through adult eyes, the borderline continues to experience life as a child—with a child's intense emotions and perspective. When a young child is punished or reprimanded, he sees himself as unquestionably bad; he cannot conceive of the possibility that mother might be having a bad day. As the healthy child matures, he sees his expanding world as more complex and less dogmatic. But the borderline remains stuck—a child in an adult's body.

“There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets in the future,” wrote Graham Greene in
The Power and the Glory.
In most borderlines' childhoods, the responsibilities of adulthood arrive too early; the door opens ever more widely, but he cannot face the light. Or perhaps it is the unrelenting opening that makes facing it so difficult.

Change for the borderline comes when he learns to see current experiences—and review past memories—through adult “lenses.” The new “vision” is akin to watching an old horror film on TV that you haven't seen in years: the movie, once so frightening on the big screen, seems tame—even silly—on a small screen with the lights on; you can't fathom why you were so scared when you saw it the first time.

When Elizabeth was well into her journey in psychotherapy, she began to look at her early childhood feelings in a different light. She began to accept them, to recognize the value of her own experience; if not for those early feelings and experiences, she realized, she would not have been able to bring the same fervor and motivation she was bringing to her new career in law. “Feelings born in my childhood,” she said, “still continue to haunt me. But I'm even seeing that in a different light. The very ways I have hated I now accept as part of me.”

The borderline's greatest obstacle to change is his tendency to evaluate in absolute extremes. The borderline must either be totally perfect or a complete failure; he grades himself either an A+ or, more commonly, an F. Rather than learning from his F, he wears it like a scarlet letter and so makes the same mistakes again and again, oblivious to the patterns of his own behavior, patterns from which he could learn and grow.

Unwilling to play the hand that is dealt him, the borderline keeps folding every time, losing his ante, waiting to be dealt four aces. If he cannot be assured of winning, he won't play out the hand. Improvement comes when he learns to accept the hand for what it is, and recognize that, skillfully played, he can still win.

The borderline, like many people, is sometimes paralyzed by indecisiveness. Various alternatives seem overwhelming, and the borderline feels incapable of making any decisions. But as she matures, choices appear less frightening and may even become a source of pride and growing independence. At that point the borderline recognizes that she faces decisions that only she is capable of making. “I'm finding,” Elizabeth noted, “that the roots of my indecisiveness are the beginning of success. I mean, the agony of choosing is that I suddenly see choices.”

One of the borderline's primary goals is to establish a separate sense of identity and to overcome the proclivity to merge with others. In biological terms, it is like advancing from a parasitic life-form to a state of symbiosis and even independence. Either symbiosis or independence can be terrifying, and most borderlines find that relying on themselves is like walking for the first time.

In biology the parasite's existence is entirely dependent on the host organism. If the parasitic tick sucks too much blood from the host dog, the dog dies and the tick soon follows. Human relationships function best when they are less parasitic and more symbiotic. In symbiosis two organisms thrive better together, but may subsist independently. For example, moss growing on a tree may help the tree by shading it from direct sunlight, and help itself by having access to the tree's large supply of underground water. But if either the moss or the tree dies, the other may continue to survive, though less well. The borderline sometimes functions as a parasite whose demanding dependence may eventually destroy the person to whom he so strongly clings; when this person leaves, the borderline may be destroyed. If he can learn to establish more collaborative relationships with others, all may learn to live more contentedly.

Elizabeth's increasing comfort with others started with her relationship with her psychiatrist. After months of testing his loyalty by berating and criticizing him and threatening to terminate therapy, Elizabeth began to trust his commitment to her. She began to accept his flaws and mistakes, rather than see them as proof of the inevitability of his failing her. After a while, Elizabeth began to extend the same developing trust to others in her life. And she began to accept herself, imperfections and all, just as she was accepting others the same way.

As Elizabeth continued to improve, she became more confident that she would not lose her “inner core.” Where once she would squirm in a group of people, feeling self-conscious and out of place, she could now feel comfortable with others, letting them take responsibility for themselves and she for herself. Where once she felt compelled to adopt a role in order to fit into the group, she could now hold on to her more constant, immutable sense of self; now she could “stay the same color” more easily. Establishing a constant identity means developing the ability to stand alone without relying on someone else to lean upon. It means trusting one's own judgment and instincts and then acting rather than waiting for the feedback of others and then
re
acting.