Dad had a violence that was frightening. His emotions were unpredictable, swinging from extreme euphoria to uncontrollable anger. I never knew what would set him off, an off-hand comment telling him to turn right while he was driving or asking him what was for dinner. He was explosive when he became angry, and violence seemed to be his only outlet to play out the rage. Our walls were full of holes where dad’s fists had unleased their anger. He could be violent with me as well. While he was never one for an out-right punch, there were many times he would choke, smack, kick, and push me. If he became angry while driving, he would speed, dodge traffic, all the while yelling that he was going to kill us all. As I got older, around twelve, I started to exhibit some of the same emotional outbursts as my father. One minute I was laughing, out of control with happiness, the next minute I’d be in hysterical tears, the minute after that back to elation. Like my father, the extremes of emotions where unpredictable, often over what most people would consider trivial matters. This trait of the emotional roller-coaster I would later learn is one of the key signs of borderline personality disorder. It wasn’t until I was diagnosed, began therapy, and started my medications that I began to think that maybe dad was borderline as well. Some of the traits of borderline personality disorder that I exhibited I had always attributed to my father because of the values he raised me with. I was sexually promiscuous from a young age, indulging in drugs and alcohol. These were things I knew about my father, that my father even encouraged me to partake in. We both shared the habit of cutting and engaging in what most people would consider risky behaviour. Neither of us could control our impulses. If we wanted something, in that moment there was nothing more important, dam the consequences. No money, steal it. Want to get high, do it even though you are at work. Want to have sex, then go off with that stranger. When I was fifteen our two strong, out-of-control personalities hit the breaking point. I was no longer the obedient daughter who worshiped my father without question. I spoke back to him, argued with him, didn’t want to hang out with him, wanted to spend time with my own friends. He didn’t mind me drinking alcohol if I was with him in his studio, but he would rage if I took a bottle out of the house to drink with friends. Our clashes were becoming more frequent, and his violence was ramping up. When I was sixteen I had a weekend party at my parents’ house while they were out of town. I cleaned everything after, but still confessed to my parents, mainly because all the alcohol was gone. Dad grew upset that people had been in the house, had seen his stuff. But what pushed him over the edge was that someone had played with his golf putter, a toy he had in the living room. He exploded and he kicked me out of the house, threatening for me to never come home again. However, the next day, he phoned me at my friend’s place, knowing that I had probably gone there. He told me to come home, that I had to come home. I could hear the anger in his voice and feared that going home would only mean more violence. I refused. According to my mother, he was crying when he hung up the phone, saying he was hurt by my actions. And then it turned to anger. My father burned almost every picture of me saying I was no longer his daughter. My mom was able to save a couple of the photos before they all burned. Unfortunately, like my father’s paintings, I have lost most of them. I worked hard on reconciling with my parents when I was nineteen, even moving back home for a year to finish high school. I was feeling alone, tired, and wanted parents, family. My dad was up and down emotionally with me once I was back home, one minute allowing me in his studio, the next minute yelling at me, waving his fists at me. But despite the difficulties, I was happy to have my parents back in my life. There was a security I was used to, that I understood and could navigate. I understood what to do when dad became angry. I was used to dad’s emotional outbursts, had lived with them all my life. And now I had a roof over my head, food to eat. I just wanted to finish high school. I wonder what life would have been like if dad had sought assistance for his mental health. Or even admitted that he needed help. Would the violence have been under control? Would the drinking, the sexual promiscuity, the cutting have stopped if he got help? Would I have gotten help before my mid thirties? Would my relationship with my father had been better? Dad was always too proud to seek help though. I can remember times when he would cry after an outburst, saying that he felt out of control, that there was something wrong with him. Sometimes he would even say he needed help. As an adult, those same words would often come out of my mouth after my own emotional outbursts. I think I can understand his fear in getting help though. It took me a long time to get help because I didn’t want to change who I was. Despite feeling in pain, out-of-control, misunderstood, I was scared to death that dealing with it would have destroyed who I was and what little bit of creative drive I still had left. I believe my dad thought he wouldn’t be able to paint if it wasn’t for the extreme emotions he felt and put on the canvas. A year later I finished high school all the while working two part-time jobs. I moved out of my parents’ house three weeks after graduating with the money I had saved. My dad expressed his surprise that I was moving out so soon. In my mind I couldn’t move out fast enough. The past year had been hell. Not because of all the arguing, but because the arguments never dealt with anything from the past. I had hoped that my dad and I could have worked things out, could have discussed the past and everything that happened. But when I came home it was like nothing terrible had transpired between us. Life just picked up where it had left off and continued as if I hadn’t been living on the streets for two years. He never apologized; he never even brought up his side of the story to justify his actions. Like his outbursts of violence, when something was over, it was never brought up again.