Thank You, Jane Siberry

There are no borders here. That’s a line from a Jane Siberry song called, appropriately, No Borders and, as such, should have quotation marks surrounding it but, as it is also the story of my current life, I own it … no punctuation required.


I know it’s clichéd to talk about boundaries, my god, you can’t throw a cat without hitting someone talking about boundaries. Perhaps that’s because they're so important. Abraham Maslow talked about a hierarchy of needs, from food and water to self-actualization, but he missed a bet on boundaries, because friends, at this moment, the need for boundaries, borders, whatever, is at least as important to me as the need for sustenance. Come to think of it, I’m hungry, but am I preparing food? No, I’m writing about boundaries.

One of my cats just came to try to sit with me on what is, no doubt, the best seat in the house. It’s a loveseat from Room & Board, well built and upholstered, and positioned to see out the best window in the house. Even my cat, notoriously known for ignoring boundaries, took one whiff of my mood and knew to make his exit. He’s now across the room from me, perfectly content grooming his paw on the second best seat in the house. That’s how strong the need for a boundary can be; even a cat “gets it”. So why don’t people?

“Boundaries” come up in recovery programs on a fairly regular basis (i.e., every four seconds, to be exact), second only to “serenity”. A serene person has, knows, respects, owns, values, protects and embraces boundaries. That’s why I love people in recovery. But what about the world full of sickoes (not sure how to pluralize sick-o) who think a boundary is just something to separate Irant from Irate (also known as Iran and Iraq) and who look at you quizzically when you say that you’re “having issues with the lack of boundaries in your living environment”. I mean, it so clear what that means.

In my case, I need a home where my stuff (and here I mean my actual, in the George Carlin sense, of stuff, and not the recovery program sense of stuff) is respected as mine. Mine as in “leave it alone, stay out of it, it’s mine”.   As in, "don’t look in my closet, don’t wear my clothes, and most of all don’t look better in them than I do."  Mine as in “oh darn, am I going to have to put a lock on my closet door?” Mine as in “oh my, you are so clueless about boundaries that you  now I have to wonder whether you also raided my computer, my financial statements, and my stash of old love letters, if I had any?” Wow.

It took me quite a while to learn boundaries, both my own and other people’s. It’s so much easier now. This is mine. This is yours. It’s OK. I can have something that’s mine, and it’s not about you. And vice versa. It can be a sweater. It can be an idea. It can be a feeling. Whew. Mine and yours. Not mine and not yours. I wish someone had taught me about boundaries a long time ago, but that is the beauty of recovery. It is never too late to learn what you need to know.

Thank you Jane Siberry.

All that, and a martini too. Happy Thanksgiving.