Chris Blocker

Ten years ago I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. Since then, I have often been in and out of therapy. I've tried various techniques to regulate my moods. What worked best for me, however, were words. Words are important to me, and by reading and learning about BPD, I was able to articulate my feelings.

I've read many books on the subject, probably all of which were written by therapists. Some I stepped back in amazement from, asking how they knew so much about me. Others were clearly speculating how a Borderline feels and reacts, and were way off. I was excited to read Loud in the House of Myself because here was a book actually written by a Borderline. And, not surprisingly, Stacy Pershall knows my story.

Okay, so Pershall's life has been more extreme than mine. Compared to her, I'm a tame Borderline–my therapists always said I was “high functioning.” But the base of her actions and feelings are nearly identical. If you want insight into what it means to have BPD, this is the book.

On top of her BPD, Pershall struggled with eating disorders. Though I have many extremist behaviors that mirror the author's bulimia and anorexia, I have never had an eating disorder, per se. Though I'm not as versed in this field, Pershall's descriptions were vivid and made this side of her illness extremely real for me.

When I first started this book, my one worry was that–given the marketing of the book and its target audience (largely, young girls it seems)–that Loud in the House of Myself would be juvenile and poorly written. Quickly, this fear receded. Pershall is intelligent and witty. She talks often about her love of literature and her reading list is impressive.

Loud in the House of Myself is a frightening book. It's scary to get in the head of someone who is often irrational, someone who is seemingly normal one moment, belligerent the next, someone who swings from a belief that they are divine to a knowledge that they are worse than nothing. It's scary, but it's what it means to be Borderline. For whatever it is worth, I attest for Pershall's accuracy on the subject. Loud in the House of Myself is largely what it means to have been diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder.

There are so many things wrong with this book. Compile all the rants I've made about other books I didn't care for over the last couple years and you'll have a list of the things that are wrong with Nevil Shute's On the Beach. I looked forward to reading this book, but it's really not that good. Yet, I enjoyed it. I almost loved it. On the Beach is like that breed of old sci-fi that has few redeeming qualities, but is worth every minute of it.

So why is this book bad?

It's unrealistic. It's the end of the world. Not the kind of end of the world where you think the end is coming but it's averted at the last minute. Or the kind where a small tribe of people survive and must repopulate. We're talking about all life on earth obliterated. Most of the earth's population is already gone at the novel's start. South Africa as well as parts of South America and Australia are holding on, waiting for the radioactive winds to reach their lands. The novel focuses primarily on Melbourne, Australia. The date is set. And everyone is just a little too okay with their fate. Sure, I buy there is some denial. And I can understand that perhaps the author is trying to make a point about the way we live our lives. All in all, it's just not believable. Give me some rioting. Some insanity. Something besides tea and crumpets and brandy and walks in the park.

The language is repetitive and bland. “Honey,” the American said presently to the girl... I don't know that I've ever heard the word “Presently” in a novel. It's not a word that really does much. Shute must've disagreed as he used it every chance he could. I would estimate it pops up on nearly every page. Further, the main characters are rarely referred to by their names. Dwight is “The American”. Moira is “The Girl.” And since, to me, Mary is more of “a girl” than Moira, this is confusing. Don't expect much variety in the language. Or anything that will blow your mind. Lyrically, this novel is a snoozer.

The characters are as flat as the language No one does anything surprising or even interesting. They're all a bunch of cardboard cutouts playing their respective parts. Dwight Towers is the dedicated Navy submarine commander. Peter Holmes is the devoted officer and husband. Mary Holmes is the flabergasted docile wife. Moira Davidson is the wild girl looking for a second chance. John Osborne is the average civilian scientist with a hobby. That's about all you need to know or will learn about these characters. Their interactions with one another play out the way you expect, like a 1940s drama. And of course the women fall all over the men and don't know what to do without them. I guess that's expected for the time period, but it quickly grows annoying.

These are all big issues for me. The sort of problems that would normally drop a book to two stars with little hesitation. Still, I really enjoyed On the Beach.

For starters, the story is wonderful. The idea of it, at least. I love that the end is coming and people are powerless to stop it. Even the Americans are powerless for once.

Though the characters don't react how I think they necessarily should, there is still quite a bit of heartrenching moments and haunting imagery. Shute may have not gotten out much to see how people act, but he certainly knew human emotion.

Lastly, there is just a certain feel to On the Beach. I realize this is entirely ethereal reasoning and subject to personal tastes, but it has that presence that makes films like A Boy and His Dog, The Blob, or Them! classics forever. At times it's painful–like the neverending car race or the continual mentioning of pogo sticks–but there's just something about the book's atmosphere that makes these things bearable and the end product enjoyable.

From a literary point of view, the book has major flaws, but it's really quite good in the end. Sure that statement is filled with faulty logic. It's like planting a garden you'll never see. Or buying a pogo stick for a deceased child. Or learning a new job skill weeks before radiation from a thousand nuclear bombs invades your lungs and your blood and leaves you flopping around on the beach like a fish out of water. It's completely illogical, but at the same time it kind of makes sense.

There was so much I liked about The Safekeep, but believability is such a huge thing to me, and ultimately, that is where I found myself distancing myself from this novel. Setting up a story in a world that is the same as the one I live in, without any explanations for deviations, means I expect certain things. And I know this is my own flaw. When I was an MFA student, workshopping my own fiction, there was a scene I wrote that several of my fellow students got stuck on: This would never happen, they said. It's not believable. But that scene was semi-autobiographical, and what they were saying could never happen had actually happened exactly like that. Of course, in that setting, I wasn't allowed to correct them or tell them differently. Perhaps that is the same kind of scenario at play here; nevertheless, I find myself in disbelief.

There was much that I especially enjoyed. The atmosphere is great. It's easy to get lost in this place and to see these scenes play out before your eyes. The suspense is really good, however, those looking for SUSPENSE will be disappointed. This is a subtle, literary story that creates an air of tension. There is not going to be a huge unexpected twist that involves the clone in the attic. And lastly, the writing was sharp and the characters were really well drawn (though to be clear, I found their actions to be sometimes unbelievable).

I won't go into much detail about what I found unbelievable as I think it has the potential to spoil the story for some. And it's not so much that the characters got to the places they did, but the fact that it happened in a single sentence. Does that kind of flash development happen in real life? Yes. Does it happen under the conditions that the story presents (considering the history of those involved, mental health, personalities, present circumstances, etc.)? I really, truly doubt it. So much so that I found myself angry and frustrated with the absurdity of it. I admit, I could myself be that student now, saying “this would never happen” while the author says nothing. Thirteen years from now I imagine she may shake her head, remembering my comment, thinking how truly ignorant other people can be.

Fifteen years ago I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. Like many similar diagnoses, I'd had the symptoms most, if not all, of my life, but had finally been given a name and understanding of what it was that possessed me. After my diagnosis, I studied BPD extensively for a few years and I got better. That's not to say I was healed from BPD, in fact, I was far from a “full recovery,” but I began to understand some of my behaviors and triggers. I also started individual therapy—this didn't go so well and eventually I quit. Somewhere in my studies, probably four or five years after my diagnosis, I first heard of Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT); it was touted as the best cure for BPD, but I had my doubts (and fears), so I continued with my self-therapy and studies. Along the way, I plateaued. I didn't want to admit it, but I did. All forward motion came to a stop. I'd done everything I could on my own and I still was an anxious ball of fear wrapped in a lovable fury. I decided it was time to check out DBT—and then I dragged my feet another couple years. Finally, things were so bad and I was so hopeless that I had only two choices: self-destruction or DBT. With some reluctance, I chose DBT. To celebrate my initiation into group therapy, I decided to start reading this book.

The Buddha & The Borderline is merely one person's story of living with Borderline Personality Disorder. As I've read other similar books about BPD, I've come to learn that while the symptoms and internal feelings are identical, the way they are manifested may be wildly different. Van Gelder's experience is very different from mine, but what drives her is very familiar. The thing I liked most about this memoir is that it really shows the progress Van Gelder makes. Other BPD stories and memoirs tend to place the focus on the illness, leaving a chapter to two for the “road to recovery.” Van Gelder's approach is show her gradual improvement throughout the book. Yes, she's still struggling in the end, but as soon as she receives her diagnosis in an early chapter, she is off and running, searching for help and being willing to take it.

If The Buddha & The Borderline failed in any regard to reach me, it was simply that I felt Van Gelder took out some of the magic from her journey. One chapter we see a broken Van Gelder enter therapy, we get an overview of what happens inside, and then months pass and Van Gelder is doing better. These jumps in the path of the author's recovery happen frequently. I wanted to know more about that internal struggles she faced. That's not to say Van Gelder completely glosses over her struggles, not at all, but there are certainly times I would have liked to have known more about her thought process and less about the people in her surrounding circles (therapists, boyfriends, etc).

Overall, The Buddha & The Borderline is a typical memoir in many ways and probably one that would only interest those concerned with mental illness. There are select chapters, however, where Van Gelder really shows her talents as a writer. When she's not simply regurgitating facts, when she's digging deep within her and bringing her darkest moments and thoughts to light, she is a very talented and magnificent writer. It is for these moments alone that this book rises above many other similar books.

Back in the 1980s, when I was a kid, one of my favorite reads was [b:True Stories You Won't Believe 15775712 True Stories You Won't Believe Don L. Wulffson https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1343564749l/15775712.SY75.jpg 21487281] by Don Wulffson. I was enthralled by the stories of alien invasion in Kelly, Kentucky, the man who appeared in two places at once, the boy who caused water to come up through the floor, and others. Some were just random coincidences or strange, but entirely believable stories (like Roy Riegels' infamous running the wrong way at a football game), but it's the creepy, paranormal stories that always brought me back. Looking back, these were just snippets from news articles, edited and compiled in this tiny volume, but my imagination ran wild with them.I was hoping Strange, Dark & Mysterious would scratch that same nostalgic itch. Unlike many other reviewers, I have no idea who MrBallen is. I went into these stories just looking for weird tales that would haunt me. I was hopeful that the added illustrations would stick in my brain and occasionally keep me up at a night. Unfortunately, neither the tales nor the illustrations did a whole lot for me. As a whole, I thought the stories were rather tame. I think a big part of this was the way they were told, very matter-of-factly without much color. And yes, that barebones style worked for me in the aforementioned True Stories..., but I was nine then. Now, I'd like to be pulled in more.Despite my lackluster response, I do think the first story in this collection, “The Valley of Headless Men,” somewhat succeeded at getting at what I was looking for. It was told in a believable manner, leaving me slightly spooked and curious about the mystery. After reading this story, I went to the Internet to learn more about the Nahanni Valley, a true measure of this tale's success. The rest of the stories in this collection I practically forgot shortly after finishing them. I wonder if my response was in part the medium: while the choice of using illustrations did add something, the lack of text took a big something away from the oral tale aspect one comes to expect from campfire tales.