Borderline Personlity Disorder in My Words

I suppose it’s no coincidence that I suffer from Astraphobia, which is especially common in young children. Some doctors say that those who suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder struggle to leave their childhood. They live in a young mind – sometimes even a make-believe world. A mind that cannot distinguish between right and wrong, fact and fiction. They struggle to find their independence. They grapple with various identities, trying to discover one that fits. Yet they must somehow find away to function in the adult world. This I suppose is where the chameleon like traits come into play.

I always learnt ways to pose as a member of a group. I could walk like them, talk like them, share the same interests and believes. Looking in, no one would no that I was any different. But I knew. Wearing my masks I stumbled forward. I somehow faked my way through life’s tasks. Continually having to pick myself up after tripping over self-doubt and feelings of inadequacy. The truth of my difference, or should I say my awareness of them, only made me feel more alienated. Why couldn’t I fit in? My sense of loneliness only grow stronger in the presence of others. I was always so fearful of exclusion or rejection.

Some days I wanted no part of the outside world. Others I wanted to destroy all societal structures. But most days I longed for my niche. Some sense of belonging. I was achieving well on the outside. So well that most people, often times including my doctors, presumed that underneath everything was okay. If you saw me in my work clothes or all dressed up, you’d think I was a highly functional business women. I suppose in many ways I was. The Monday to Friday work week gave me some sense of stability, predictability. I saw a beginning, middle and end to my projects. I was able to achieve some level of accomplishment. In that way, work was good for me.

However, the office politics only brought me further down. I was so aware of the negative energy. I knew who was on the inside and who was on the out. I was keenly aware of how others perceived me. I am extremely sensitive to my environment: things I hear, see or do…moods, colours, smells, sounds or perceptions. Gossip. An ugly game. A game I try to shy away from. I know the pain it causes. All to often I have been the one on the other side of it. As a general role of thumb I won’t say something about someone unless I have said it to them first. I won’t repeat things unless I was given permission. It’s a rule. Rules are made to be broken. I know this. However unless I was in the BDP realm, I stuck by it. I still do.

In my heart I live by the philosophy that everything happens for a reason, and that what will be, will be. However in my mind, anytime something goes wrong I find myself wondering why the world is trying to sabotage me, and I lose sight of anything good that has happened to me or that is currently around me. How can the two be so opposite? This war, for me, is between false self and real self, dysfunction and function.

I feared that I could not accomplish what was expected of me. (Many days I still do.) I was a lost soul. Uncertain about everything, but mostly myself. (If only that could have changed.) Average was not an option for me. I wanted success and popularity. In my search for this I raced from one thing to another. To the point of being half-dead with exhaustion. To the point of sacrificing my family. (Thankful I am slowly realizing that it's not worth it. I am now at home. I am putting my physical and mental health first. I am here for my boys.)

Then there is the rage. If only I could forget the rage. Move past it. Forgive myself. My anger often seemed out of proportion. If I dropped a pencil I would fly off the deep end, sputtering profanities. I would pick the pencil up and fling it across the room. Break it. Anything to get the anger out. Not the anger from dropping the pencil, but all my anger. I’ve found a way to control it, but I can still feel the beast lurking within. It was the anger that let me know I needed to get help. (That is a story for another day.)

I found myself wishing for a way out. I no longer wanted to live with myself. I needed to get out of the confounds of my mind. I didn’t want to die. I wanted answers. I wanted help. I wanted a break from myself.

Self-mutilation was a big part of my life. Even as a baby I banged my head against the crib. As I got older it turned into other things like scraping my arms, pulling out my hair, bending my wrists backwards, sticking pin in my arms, biting my lips until they bleed. Some of those I still do today. Old habits die hard. I think the worst thing I ever did was cut the inside of my thighs repeatedly. I started with one deep cut. The relief when I saw the blood. Then two…three…four…five on each side; alternating sides from one day to the next. It made me feel. You have no idea what it is like to feel something when for so long you’ve felt nothing at all. It made me real. It gave me an escape. Refocused my thoughts. It was something that I could control. It was a way to make my inside pain real to the world.

This is only part of the continuous battle that I face living in the realm of BPD. Then there is the ongoing self talk to stop myself from self mutilating; the constant nagging in the back of my head that I’ll never be good enough, that I don’t deserve to be loved, that people will eventually see through the mask…This behaviour is driven by fear and is designed not to hurt others but to protect my annihilated sense of self. Thankful it is not my life everyday. But it is something that I need to be aware of. Something that I need to watch for.

I’ve slowly been teaching my boys to recognize the BDP realm. I give them the details that I think they can handle. They need to know that I am sick, but that I love them. They need to know that it’s okay if they get scared. They need to know what to do.

This is a disorder that doesn’t get enough media attention and when it does it often misguided. Mainstream media is all but ignoring Borderline Personality Disorder. Why? The only times I've seen it reported at all in the media, sadly, are times when someone diagnosed with it has either committed a crime or killed themselves. This one-sided negative representation just continues to fuel the stigma that remains attached to BPD.

People with BPD should not have to fight to get help and to be heard, understood and treated with the dignity and compassion that we deserve. Nor should we have to suffer the shame of such societal stigma. There is stigma when it comes to mental illness and then there is the stigma perpetuated by many in the helping professions who still refuse to educate themselves about the reality that most of us living with BPD can get better if we are appropriately treated.

Speculation that the following people had BPD: Princess Diana, Marilyn Monroe, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Judy Garland, Susanna Kaysen (author of Girl Interrupted)