Wednesday, June 24, 2009

The Private Investigator--Twisted Reality

When I was dating the BPD, I traveled on business quite infrequently. Before the relationship was 1 year old, I had to travel to Orlando, Florida for business. She was not happy at all about it, and accused me of everything under the sun -- like I was going on this trip for some type of rendez vous with another woman.

Looking back at these things, they were so ridiculous, so downright goofy. With that said, they were the reality of the BPD, whether I like it or not.

So, I went away and did my business. I called the BPD regularly and spoke with her when I could. Overall, things were going okay -- just okay -- for the first two days. I was scheduled to leave on the morning of the third day, and suddenly things fell apart at 11 pm the night before I left.

I spoke with the BPD at 9 PM and she said that she needed to call me back -- she and the neighbor smelled natural gas and had the gas company investigating.

I never heard back from her. I got worried that she was okay. I eventually called the police and told them that I was worried. They called me back and said that they checked out the situation, and that she was there and fine.

More games. I went to bed.

I woke up to my phone ringing at 2 am. She was in a rage, telling me that I was having phone sex the night before and talking with African American prostitutes on the phone. She told me that she "knew everything," then proceeded to fire off question after question about the night before.

All that I did the night before was speak with the BPD (she went to a concert so I spoke to her before she went and while she was going), speak with a lifelong friend and leave a message for an old co-worker. That's it.

We were up the entire evening, discussing the goings on the night before. She kept accusing me of doing things, which I continued to defend myself. I did not get any sleep, then had to fly back home.

I arrived back home to accusations of I don't know what, being hung up on repeatedly, and the locks changed in the place where I lived--with her. It got so bad that I told her that I was being so truthful that I was willing to take a polygraph test. She proceeded to try to find someone who would administer one.

She really believed I was lying to her so much that she wanted me to take a polygraph test. Again, her perception was that twisted.

For the wise, if you're required to take a polygraph by your partner, leave the relationship. There's no trust and little love in such a relationship.

Her sister called me at one point, then told me, "she wants to have a clean break." Game over, I guessed. I called my parents and had to stay with them. There was a bag of my stuff on the porch of where we lived. She had changed the locks, so I couldn't get anything else.

I drove to my parents, such a wounded soldier. I felt terrible. I never -- never -- want to feel that way again. Like I had done something wrong. No person deserves to feel the way that I did then.

The morning after she kicked me out, I went to a counselor that we both had seen together. The counselor was the first person that told me that she was a borderline. That's when I started figuring it all out.

It took me a year to get fully out, but this was the start.

I learned what happened after we reconciled, which took two days (she sent me a text message asking me to get my stuff, and when I stopped there, we reconciled). She told me that she had hired a private investigator. The investigator sat outside my hotel room, listened to my conversations (and transcribed them poorly), followed me out when I would go outside and smoke (I smoked back then -- they say smoking is anxiety -- I've stopped since then, thank the Lord -- I always hid my smoking, particularly in a professional environment), and that's about it.

The night that she flipped, she got the transcripts back and made them into some type of bad thing, which they weren't. My conversation with Chris was suddenly phone sex. She questioned me about who was this person, and who was this person. This interrogation would periodically re-appear throughout the relationship: "Who's Rhoda? Who's Fred (there was no fred)?" It was like she had the transcript and would periodically go back to it.

The shame of the matter is that she never had to do such a thing. The bigger shame is that I let it happen. This is a great example of having to give the BPD boundaries. The problem is that she had her family involved--she distrusted me so much that she told her sister, who recommended the Private Investigator.

That's all fine (not really), but the worst thing is that she was able to make something not bad into something bad.

They call that the BPD twist.

1 comment:

  1. Thank you for your blog. I've been out of something similar (and at times, frighteningly identical) to what you've written about for about 7 months now.

    I have good days, I have bad days, and, frankly, I have suicidal days. Yet, if I were to chart progress, I'd see that there's an overall improvement.

    It's comforting to know that others have been through this (and get through it), but also painful to know that there are others like my ex (or your ex) out there to be avoided.

    Good luck to you. And again, thank you.


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