People with BPD often experience intense attachment to a single person: they determine our mood, our identity, and our self-worth. They are called our Favourite Person.

I remember my first favorite person. She played the part of Dorothy, in a local Little Theatre production of the Wizard of Oz. I was maybe four years old? I played the part of a dancing flower. She carried me around and told everyone how adorable I was… I would have followed her anywhere.

Later it was a nurse who was especially nice when I spent too much time in the hospital… or a teacher who noticed something special… later it was a best friend, a crush, a lover, a spouse… It was always someone else outside of me. Always and for as long as I can remember, the most important favorite person was my grandma.

But before I can move into the next point? I have to mention God. God was the most important person, but far from a favorite. God was the Alpha and the Omega, the end-all, be-all, everything, pinnacle of every point and yet… in spite of all our pleading and prostration.. He remained in hiding… like my father who left when I was five… so very much NOT a favorite very important person… but the one I spent agonizing hour after tormented hour.. On my knees, in my head, laying in bed….. Praying and pleading for help, protection, an early exit from this miserable existence.. A mournful cry to be brought home .. to a missing parent…

I envisioned this need, this attachment issue to look … uh.. not unlike Pepe Le Pew … or a giant baby with my umbilical cord in hand looking to attach it like a vacuum cleaner hose .. to some poor and unlucky sap who dared get too close… but damn, if I didn’t enjoy the chase, the challenge, the experiments to see if I do I have the power …??

To make you stay?

To bring you back If you try to run or walk away…

I love the romancing, I’ll dance to see a smile, I’ll joke to hear a laugh…

Ooh, I learned the strings I can pluck… a way to touch… to cause a ripple across skin …

the way to summon a moan, a scream,,. a cry…

I loved to hear the way you said my name.

But that moment..

When you stopped running and you turned around …

and you thought you saw me as …

i dunno..

Perhaps someone who can maintain that supply??

Which, disclaimer ..

I CAN NOT…

because on down the river aways away…

there’s always a new bright shiny to fascinate my gaze…

And lord knows I love to play.