Bartenders and BPD
If given the option, my husband and I prefer to sit at the bar when we eat out. It feels more relaxed, and there’s always the chance of striking up a conversation with a fellow bar-sitter, or with the bartender.
One recent evening, we went to a local place we like, thinking if we showed up early on a Saturday evening, we’d have our pick of bar seating. Instead, the bar was full, except for a couple of seats with coats on them. I’m not one for squeezing in between folks, as it kind of defeats the relaxed vibe, at least for me.
So on we drove to another place we knew, one we hadn’t been to in a good long while. When I saw how full the parking lot looked, I thought for sure we were out of luck. But it turns out the bar seating was totally unoccupied. We got those cherished corner seats, so I didn’t have to swivel to my right or left to have a conversation with my husband. The seats were padded, another plus for us tired, older folks.
The menu at this place is small, but as long as it has fish and vegetables, I’m good. I ordered the artichoke soup, and we split a pasta dish and a fish dish. I passed on wine, but had a very refreshing and pretty strong tequila, grapefruit, and other stuff I don’t remember cocktail. We chatted with the bartender about our choices, and somehow got rather far afield from eating and drinking when I asked her about the tattooed phrase on her inner right arm. It was a quote from Charles Bukowski about handling hardship. That turned into a conversation about mental health, mental illness, and the long, trying, confounding journey of getting from unwell to better. Not to perfect, not to cured, but to better.
Teresa told us that her twenties were her worst years, and that things have gotten better since then. She mentioned some kind of eye-focused therapy called EMDR, which a woman sitting to my husband’s right also endorsed. That woman was wearing a black knit hat and a sweatshirt that read: IDK IDC IDGAF. I told her that I loved it and probably needed to get one.
Turns out she was dog-sitting for her mom down the road, while her mom was visiting her brother in Boston for his birthday. When not up visiting her mom, she’s a happy new resident of Greenpoint, Brooklyn doing what, I have no idea. I generally don’t ask, because the “what do you do” thing is just not of that much interest to me. I’m much more interested in people as people, not as workers, as professionals, as doers of this, that, or the other thing. Or maybe it’s just that I dread being asked that question in turn.
Our conversation with Teresa continued, and we learned how grateful she was to have supportive, loving siblings, something we treasure among our own kids, but know is not a given. Not by a long shot. We talked about the scars of trauma, the crevices and worse on the road to better, the frustration of there being no magic bullet for something like BPD, which attacks everything: your sense of self, your belief in the stability of any relationships you might have. It beats you up with fears of abandonment and has you losing control of your physical self, often leading to eating disorders, which bring a whole new level of anxiety and self-loathing to the fore.
Seeing this lovely tattooed woman doing her thing, planning a visit out to Utah to see family, followed by a first-time visit to Italy to visit other folks, made me realize that while the climb might be steep, and the detours along the way miserable — perhaps even life-threatening — there can be light. Maybe not always where you can see it in the moment, but maybe if you can get up, keep going, lean into and on the people who love you in spite of everything you believe about yourself at your worst, maybe there is a life worth living. Even without the struggles Teresa has faced, life can be challenging. But when you get to the other side of such deep suffering, the feeling of triumph must truly be magnificent.
Chatting with a stranger at the bar turned into an unexpected evening of shared empathy and inspiration. And reminded me of the one lesson I’ve learned over and over and over again: pain takes many forms, as does struggle. Everyone just wants a dose of human kindness. Everyone wants to know they matter. And maybe those of us looking out from the depths, or remembering when we were trapped in them, are most able to find each other, and to connect over what it means to walk through this world over shards of glass, knowing that cut feet can heal, and harden, and that we can walk again. Hearts can heal too. The trick there is not to let them harden, not to let the muscle that powers everything that matters calcify, and lose its capacity to feel. A heart can break and be made whole again. But a heart that forgets why it’s a heart to begin with is too lost to be found again.
