My mother is borderline. Just writing this sentence down makes me shake a little. I know it, I’ve talked to other people about it, but...what if she reads it? What if somehow she finds this anonymous piece and connects it? What kind of a horrible daughter am I for even putting this out into the ether? My mother is borderline, and I still never know what to do with it. How to navigate. It was something I didn’t even figure out or have the language to put to it until I turned 20. I suppose in writing this, my hope is that maybe just one person can find the language they need to begin healing. Or to feel some sort of validation. Because...it’s one of the most empirically confusing experiences. If anyone is reading this who’s borderline themselves, by the way, please don’t think of it as a condemnation. My mother is very unaware of her effect on others, and not particularly able to work on herself. Please understand I’m writing from a place of childhood scars, and perhaps in explaining them, it can provide us all with more tools at our disposal for creating positive relationships. I guess that’s another hope I have from this.