Kathy Ewing

 

Kirsten behaving herself

The sexually voracious Kirsten Munk (1598-1658), consort of King Christian 4th of Denmark, was terrified that, first, her lover Otto Ludwig would leave her, and then that she would lose her beloved handmaiden Emilia. She was incapable of empathy and showed no love for her children. She threw tantrums when things didn’t go her way and veered from profound love and devotion to bitter hatred when her significant others disappointed her.

Remind you of anyone?

I can’t testify to the historical truth, but it’s how Kirsten appears in Rose Tremain’s Music and Silence (1999), an August book-group selection. The sort of historical novel I don’t often read, it concerns the intrigues of the Danish court. I couldn’t help noticing Kirsten’s fear of abandonment, addictive personality, rages, lack of empathy, difficulty with being a mother, and dichotomous and distorted thinking — BPD symptoms all.

Kirsten’s strength and devious intelligence are almost admirable, but by and large she’s wickedly selfish and salacious. A Renaissance Alex Forrest.

There’s no hope — and no real humanity — in Kirsten. Which is another way of saying that identifying someone, even a literary character, as having borderline traits is usually stigmatizing.

I take communion every week to a lady named Bertha. Although she can’t always remember exactly how old she is, she consistently cites 1912 as the year of her birth. So I feel confident that she’s 97 years old, soon to be 98.

“You know how old I am, don’t you?” she says every time I see her. I say I do, and then I say her age, yelling it into her ear, and she cackles with satisfaction.

Then she goes on to complain about her relatives who won’t let her use the phone, won’t take her to the hospital, won’t let her move into a nursing home, and whose names she claims not to even know. “They’re just trying to get my money!” she snarls, rubbing her fingers together. She spends pretty much all her days moving between her crowded bedroom with the TV turned up all the way, the dining room right outside her door, and the bathroom.

One would expect to feel sorry for Bertha, but I don’t, or not much. She has created a drama in her head, in which she’s made a part for herself and everyone else. She’s the good person (“I don’t care for no wrongdoing”).  I’m also a good person, in her book, and the people caring for her are the bad guys. Every week she tries to get me to take her to the hospital or sign her up for a nursing home. I have learned, however, that when you even begin to call Bertha’s bluff on these matters, she backs down.

She thrives on making trouble. She thrives on complaining, and she doesn’t seem unhappy at all (though sometimes her caregivers do).  She seems downright delighted with herself and the living theater with which she amuses herself.

The research is all over the place on this question. Though “lack of empathy” is a usual textbook symptom of BPD, some researchers believe that people with the disorder have a peculiar sensitivity to others’ emotional states. I don’t intend to examine all the research here but to share some reflections on BPD’s paradoxical nature.

Here’s my observation. People with BPD do lack empathy and are at the same time exceptionally empathetic, showing exquisite sensitivity to those with whom they identify. If they recognize a victim in another person – someone who’s not loved enough, who’s not appreciated, who’s abused, or underestimated – if they, in short, can make over the other person into themselves, they can be quite insightful, intuitive, and empathetic. Their empathy and self-involvement (paradox everywhere!) go hand in hand.  

I’d also suggest that the person with BPD does this better with a stranger or a character in a movie or book than with relatives or significant others.

For example, I perceived Olive Kitteridge (the main character in Elizabeth Strout’s fine novel by the same name) as a person with BPD or with borderline traits. And though I liked Olive, she reminded me of my mom, and so I identified with Olive’s son Chris. Though Olive loves Chris and wants the best for him, she seems utterly unable to understand the damage her criticisms and rages have had on their relationship. Within her own family, she can perceive only her own pain.

When she encounters “victims” outside of her family, however, she’s instinctively understanding and supportive. She helps prevent a young man’s suicide, and she takes a troubled runaway girl under her wing.

For family members, this “empathy-deficiency” at home can be devastating. You want your mom to feel for you, to be on your team, to share your joys and sorrows! But if your mom suffers from BPD, she’s desperately trying to get family members to recognize her suffering, to acknowledge her pain. There’s very little room for feeling yours. When I asked my sisters if our mother loved us, my oldest sister responded that she did but was so wrapped up in her own pain that she couldn’t show her love.  

I never witnessed my mom expressing the slightest empathy for my dad, who became a paraplegic at the age of 42. Instead, she’d refer to herself as a widow in his presence and never notice him flinch from the blow.