in the hope that there's a heaven

It's been eleven days now since Little J has spoken to her mother. She's refusing to talk to her because she was kicked out of rehab again and because they had an ugly phone conversation in which Little J confronted her mother with one of the most awful of her psychopathological lies. And unsurprisingly, her mother denied having ever said it in the first place, although she said the same thing many times to me in the past.

It's demented. It's demonic.

Now C is losing her mind, calling here every day bawling to speak to her child who won't pick up the phone.

The stupid thing is that if she admitted her mistake and apologized for it, Little J would probably accept that and try to work on their relationship again. But C's brain doesn't work like that. And as always, part of me is so sad for her because I know that it is partly her Borderline disorder that makes her think this way, and another part of me is incredibly frustrated that she just won't do the right thing, no matter what she loses by choosing not to.

Tonight when I was tucking Little J into bed I was trying to remember me at her age, twelve. When I was twelve there was rarely a day that passed that I didn't have some kind of tearful emotional breakdown. The family was in turmoil. Little J doesn't cry every day. So in that way we're already doing better by her. I hope she grows up to feel more self-assured than I did. I hope she feels confident and competent and loved.


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