A week ago my life was tipped upside down and given a good shake. Sitting in a doctors office, the sweat from my ice coffee leaving a terrible, wet ring on my jeans, I was politely shaking my head no while listening to Dr. What’s Her Face describe my behaviour as borderline. Borderline fucking what? My brain quits listening as I imagine myself stuck, one foot in the crazy and one foot out. Through the fog of my day dream I hear the words Borderline Personality Disorder. I resist the urge to pull out my phone and give this new term a quick google while she rambles on about seeing my GP and getting myself medicated. See, it feels like just yesterday I was making an appointment to be medicated for anxiety. Or was it post partum depression? And I was signing up for a new group, social anxiety something or other. How could I possibly be more fucked up than that?
With a polite “take care“, I’m ushered out of her office and I step onto the elevator. Borderline Personality Disorder. I pull my phone out. I type it into Google and the elevator grunts to a stop. I press enter as I’m walking out of the building and I’m immediately assaulted with support groups for loved ones affected by someone with BPD. Erase. I have borderline personality disorder. Press enter.
Chronic emptiness. Fuck. Impulsive behaviour. Double fuck. Extreme emotional instability. Well shit.
And there, standing at a bus stop on a busy street, everything clicked into place while simultaneously falling apart. My over analytic brain began questioning my very existence, if this is what I am, who I am, what is my reality? Am I this person? The pavement starts to tilt. I lean against the bus stop marker. My mom isn’t picking up her phone.
Where are you? I need you! My Mom calls me back. I have borderline personality disorder. Of course you do. Everything clicks, “well when you were a teenager..”. My brain hurts. Why didn’t anyone know? God, I’m so evil. I’ve been so evil. This is why I don’t have friends.
I’ve created a realm in which I’ve never mattered. I remember all the accusations. I remember finding comfort in raging, belittling the ones I hold dearest. My brain wants to resist the idea that I was responsible for it all. They abandoned me, not the other way around.
Everything on the World Wide Web states that I’ll be okay in ten years. Mass amounts of CBT and DBT therapies and I can turn this around.
If I can come to terms with my diagnosis.