Ramblings of a Borderline

I’m free-writing right now. It’s something I do to cope.

I have a really hard time getting over losing friends. I feel guilt and shame, and a lot of anger right now… I feel like my emotions are out of control. I want to say to them what’s on my mind so bad right now, but I can’t. Part of me wants them to see me hurting and feel shitty for knowing they caused it. It’s some sick and twisted thrill.

I want friends who are going to love me no matter what and not unfriend me the second I fuck up. I want friends I can trust. Right now I don’t feel like I can trust anyone. I want to confront these people and say what I wanna say, but I know that won’t be what’s best for me.

I’ve been dealing with this internally for the past month now. Why can’t I get over it? Why do I keep on having toxic friendships? I feel so helpless. This is who I am and I’m never going to be any different. There’s no reason to even try. You wanna know what Borderline Personality Disorder looks like? Just look at me. It’s a nightmare I can never wake up from. It’s a daily struggle every day to not be like this. When I’m like this, I hurt the ones I love. Part of me wants to hurt them, cause then they won’t have a chance to hurt me first. But I love my friends. And it breaks my heart when I hurt them. There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t think about Tim and what I did to him. How can I expect people to accept me for who I am if I can’t accept myself? I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to do that.

I wish people would get it! Unless you have Borderline, you will never understand how much it hurts. And even though that’s hard, I wouldn’t wish this disorder on my worst enemy. Part of me feels dead inside. I let it die, cause I didn’t want to feel this way. Now that I’m dealing with everything, that part of me is coming alive again. But that means that everything surfaces. It’s like I’m this caged monster that desperately wants freedom, but as soon as that door is open, i go hide in the corner.

I guess I don’t know what I want. Well, I do. I want happiness! And yes, I know that life sucks and it isn’t fair and pain is a part of the human condition. But what I’m experiencing isn’t healthy or normal. I don’t wanna feel this way anymore. The only way to not suffer though, is to radically accept everything. Yes there will still be pain, but I won’t be suffering. I thought I had accepted everything. It’s easier to accept life when everything is going well. July hasn’t been going well, and so my BPD is flaring up big time! I feel like no skills can help me. I just have to go out into the world and pretend that everything’s okay. That’s the only way people will love me.

An Intense Moment

In this post is a lot of pain and candidness. Through this, I want someone to find hope. This is why I write.

It’s happened again. I’ve lost another friend. It’s really not like I’m surprised. It was bound to happen again sooner or later. I tend to use ineffective ways to cope with my intense emotions. Because of this I ended up hurting someone I care about. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I never mean to hurt anyone. It feels like it’s impossible to make others understand that. How can you possibly treat complete strangers better than your friends?

My thoughts are racing. I can’t shut them off. I know that thoughts are not facts or feelings, but right now it’s very hard to keep them separate. I feel like a failure. I feel worthless. I feel hopeless. When I lost Tim as a friend, I vowed I would never hurt the ones I love ever again.  I guess I’m not capable of doing that.

I have worked so hard the past three years to develop self-compassion and love for myself. And yet I continue to risk it all by continuing to do these behaviors. I use them to cover up intense thoughts and feelings. I know I always end up feeling worse after, but wanting a “break” from everything always outweighs the consequences when I’m in the moment. It’s like I’m addicted. I can’t stop. I can’t help it. And even now as I reread that I’m thinking that’s just a cop-out. I’m using my BPD as an excuse. No one likes excuses.

What’s the point of having friends? I’d much rather be lonely for the rest of my life than to continue to hurt the ones I love.

My Last Night

The night before I left the hospital was the most surreal night of my life. It had been a full 24 hours since I found out I had Borderline Personality Disorder. I still could not believe it. I had carried the handout the social worker had given me everywhere I went. I looked at it constantly. It was as if I had stumbled upon this perfectly written, inspiring bit of poetry. It had ignited a fire within me I thought would be extinguished forever.

Tomorrow, I was being released to what I hoped would be a normal life; whatever that is. My suitcase was packed with almost all of my confiscated items, since Dr. Eaton had deemed me stable enough that I wouldn’t try to get drunk off of my shampoo. My shoes still needed laces, but everything else was in its place. In a lot of ways, being released this time would seem no different. Like before, I had gotten the annoying permission slip saying that I was stable enough to return to the college. I was a liability. With this note, they would not get sued had something happened. This sure made me feel supported; they were so concerned with protecting themselves. And like every other time I would be released only to my school counselor. This was always a bit awkward. I would almost have to fake that this deep epiphany had been realized; that God Himself had saved me. Some of the administration and faculty at the college totally believed I was depressed because my relationship with God was distant and fuzzy at best. So praising God never hurt.

This time, however, there was a huge difference. I was armed with a more accurate disorder: I have BPD. And there is hope for me. And more importantly, I would get better, so Tim and I could be friends again. ‘Okay, I will give him his space,’ I thought. ‘And then after Christmas Break, when we’re both rested and I’m “fixed,” he’ll see that I’m no longer annoying. Sure things won’t be the way they were before… But at least we’ll still be friends forever. He promised we would. I care about him and so I will do this for him.’ I would learn however that this was something I needed to do for myself, and that denial would be the first step in grieving the loss of our friendship.

I woke up more than once during the night, wet with sweat. I was nervous. I was scared… so scared… I had messed up so bad. I wanted to be able to say goodbye to Tim, and yet I feared he wanted nothing to do with me. I had thrown everything away that semester… I mean EVERYTHING! I wanted so desperately to be able to go back in time, do things differently, say things differently. There was nothing I could do to take the pain away. The pain I had caused Tim was unforgivable. I couldn’t graduate with my friends anymore. The college was making me medically withdraw. I’d be left behind. My mom had called me many times while I was in the hospital. She had no trouble letting me know what she thought of everything, how I was a loser, how she kind of expected me to fail. She was right. She was always right. I wondered if her opinion of me would ever change. I wondered if Tim would ever forgive me. I wondered if I would ever forgive myself.

I had just finished writing this all in my journal when the buzzer went off. It was breakfast time. I got dressed and sat in the line to have my vitals taken. ‘This will be the last time I’ll ever be in a place like this!’ I vowed to myself. ‘It just has to be!’ I knew today would be a difficult day. Being discharged always was. Not only did I have to wait until after 5pm for the college counselor to come sign me out, I had to find a ride. It was another one of the college’s liability rules – she wasn’t allowed to drive me. Since I was considered a patient until she showed up, I still had to attend all the required meetings. It was also the Monday before Thanksgiving. So a lot of my friends had gone home early since some professors canceled classes. Finding a ride would be difficult. I missed my cell phone. I don’t know how I ever lived without text messaging.

After breakfast, I had my daily meeting with Dr. Eaton. We discussed my discharge plan. My goals were always the same: 1. Be free of suicidal thoughts. 2. Respect others’ boundaries. 3. Be medication compliant. This time however, there was a fourth goal: 4. Find a Dialectical Behavioral Therapy Program. “A what?” I asked. My mouth couldn’t even begin to repeat the tongue twister. He chuckled, his eyes smiling. “This is a form of therapy”, he explained, “that involves meeting with a personal therapist, as well as group sessions. This form of therapy focuses specifically on treating your Borderline Personality Disorder. The cool thing about this is you will have the opportunity to meet others with BPD. It’s a great way to find support and to support others.” I would need proof of participating in such a program so I could return to school.

Finally, I was able to find a ride. My suitemates, who had supported me fully by visiting me, were more than happy to pick me up. They were even going to take me to Ihop to celebrate. I had the best suitemates ever! Hands down! After signing the piles of paperwork I was given the okay to leave by the counselor. I said my goodbyes and gathered my belongings. The night air was crisp and beautiful. Never had ozone and car exhaust been so comforting! At Ihop, we did a ceremonial cutting of my hospital bracelet while waiting for our pancakes. Our waitress happily provided some scissors and snapped pictures of the event. What she must have been thinking, I don’t know. The bracelet didn’t flash “mental patient” in florescent orange or anything, so she probably thought I had undergone some surgery that had prevented me from eating solids for a week.

We finally arrived on campus. I nervously opened the door to my dorm room. It was a mess. There were piles of clothes strewn all over the floor. My bed was unmade. My computer was open on my desk, still on. My PS2 controller was uncoiled on the floor. It was as if life had completely stopped for a week. Was it all a dream? The only thing that was neat in my room was my beta fish tank. My roommates had taken care of them while I was away. They had even given them creative names that I wish I had written down. I had to get everything that wasn’t owned by the college packed up tonight. Tomorrow I would have to go to Admissions to get the paperwork, get signatures from all my professors, meet with the Dean, and be completely moved out of my room, all by 5pm. Only then would the medical withdrawal be official. Tomorrow was the beginning of Thanksgiving Break, and no one was gonna wait around for me. I looked at my alarm clock. It was 9pm. No way could I get all this done! Tomorrow I would have to say goodbye to my friends for who knows how long. They had been my family for the past four years! And besides, I had just been released from the hospital! I started to panic. I took a deep breath and thought for a minute. Surely they’d let me leave my things over the Christmas Break. I would be, I was convinced, coming back in January for classes anyways. So I left it all and went to the student center for what would be the last night with my friends.

We all sat in front of the TV, not really watching it, but not really saying much either. We all knew this wasn’t goodbye, and yet now I believe we all knew we wouldn’t see each other for years. Awkward jokes and laughs were exchanged as we reminisced about the semester. This was supposed to be a joyous occasion, in which we were grateful we had survived another round of classes and bad cafeteria food. And yet, we were somber. I was exhausted. Tomorrow would be a rough day. And so, reluctantly, I headed back to my dorm. I began to cry as I climbed into bed for what would be my last night on campus.

Five Words that Changed My Life Forever

My heart leapt out of my chest. I was so excited! No way did he call me back! Was this really happening? He cares about me! He’s not abandoning me! Everything will be all right! I stood up and ran to the phone, trying to hide my excitement from the other patients. Even positive emotions were not okay to show, or something might happen. I couldn’t grab the phone receiver fast enough. I took a deep breath.

“Hey,” I said, again trying to not sound too excited. “How are you?”

“Hi,” he said. It was him. “I’m fine.” He sounded sad. “Listen… I called you to tell you to stop trying to reach me. My mom’s getting mad. Plus I really need time apart. I need you to stop. I can’t come see you. I have a lot to do. So please… I need some time.”

Silence.

“Are we okay?” I asked, trying not to cry.

More silence.

“I just need some space… Listen I gotta go. I’m meeting my mom for lunch. Take care of yourself okay?”

All of a sudden I lost it. “God I am so sorry Tim! I’m sorry I’m such an emotional freak! I’m sorry I fucked up our friendship. I miss you! I care about you! I love you! Please… don’t abandon me…”

“Goodbye, Allyssa.” And with that, he was gone.

I hung up the phone. Everyone was pretending to look away, but I could tell that they had been listening. Why wouldn’t they? They were witnessing a live taping of As the World Turns or Young and the Restless. I smiled and walked to my room. I didn’t even bother closing the door behind me. I just lied down, facing away from the door, and sank into the mattress. I was numb, despondent, void of every emotion imaginable. Then, all of a sudden, as intense as the numbness was, so was the emotion. I began to sob. I don’t think I even took a breath of air for five minutes. I was alone. He was gone. Our friendship was over.

Buzz! “Allyssa, the social worker would like to see you now,” said the voice in the speaker. ‘Fuck,’ I thought. ‘Not now…’ I reluctantly got up and walked to the sink. I splashed some cold water on my face and looked in the mirror. My eyes were puffy and bloodshot, my chest blotchy, my skin on fire. I looked like crap. A couple deep breaths later, I was walking down the hall to her makeshift office. Of course I tried to look composed and put together. I took another deep lungful of recycled oxygen as I walked in.

“Have a seat,” she said, smiling. “Just wanted to ask you some questions.” The normal questions were asked about my family life, my college experience, life in general. When we came to the subject of Tim (she had a copy of my chart) I became so nervous I almost vomited. “It says here that you’re having a difficult time giving him space.” I lost it. I was done fighting it. “He’s my best friend! I want him to be there for me! I NEED him to be there for me! I am trying to give him space, but I just can’t! He’s my fucking friend!” She got up and crossed the room to get the tissues. I wanted to run. I wanted to just get up and run… go to the nurse’s station and demand they open the double doors and set me free. But I didn’t. She handed me the tissues and then sat back down. “I think we’ve figured out what’s going on,” she said. And with that, she said five words that would change my life forever. “You have Borderline Personality Disorder.” She handed me something. “I want you to go to your room and read this. It explains what BPD is and what we can do to help you.” She smiled. She might as well have told me I had cancer. BPD was a life sentence. It was proof that I was a freak. And now, the psychology world had confirmed it.

I walked to my room and sat on the bed. Borderline Personality Disorder… Even the name sounded judgmental. Borderline? What the hell is that supposed to mean? I’m almost what? I began to read the handout. It began with the history of BPD. Apparently it was given to patients who weren’t quite schizophrenic and weren’t quite psychotic, but something in between. It was a ‘wastebasket’ diagnosis, and those given this diagnosis were considered untreatable. Over the years however, the diagnosis was given credibility, and in the 1960’s it became an official, recognized condition. It is now widely accepted and the stigma has decreased dramatically as education increases. Thanks to the work of Marsha Linehan, a therapy program was developed in the 1990’s specifically designed to treat BPD. This program, Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, would be the first 100% research-based form of therapy, and would be my salvation.

I stopped reading and began to think. Was this really an okay thing to have? Is there a possibility that the social worker could have been wrong? I continued reading. The article went on to describe nine dimensions which a person with BPD possesses:

1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment – I am afraid of Tim abandoning me.
2. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation – My relationship with Tim was definitely unhealthy. And I would often tell him I loved him and then that I hated him. This was a definite yes.
3. Identity disturbance – I don’t really know who I am…
4. Impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating) – Sex and substance abuse were my two.
5. Recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior – I had had suicidal thoughts before… and I have cut myself…
6. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood – I do have unexplained mood swings
7. Chronic feelings of emptiness
8. Inappropriate, intense anger
9. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms – I am paranoid about what others think of me…

‘Oh my God,’ I thought. ‘This is me.’ It was as if the psychologists themselves had observed me and developed this handout about me. The description fit perfectly. And now, for the first time, I wasn’t messed up. There was a reason why I couldn’t leave Tim alone. There was a reason why my emotions were so intense and unpredictable. It wasn’t cause I was a freak, it wasn’t my fault. And there was a program designed to help me. I had found the answer. For the first time, I had hope. For the first time in a long time, I knew I would be okay.

Innefective Habbits Die Hard

I awoke the next day totally in a haze. I had a hangover feeling with no awesome, epic story attached to it. I was in the hospital. They put me on a mood stabilizer. Yeah, that’s really cool… I can imagine getting a standing ovation from the frat boys. I stumbled to the restroom and noticed it was dark out. Having no clock in my room I had no idea that it was actually 7pm. When I came out of the bathroom one of the other patients saw me.

“Morning, sleepyhead!” she joked.

“You can’t sleep?” I asked.

“No hun. It’s 7pm. You slept all day; slept like the dead.”

I slowly made my way to the common room. I was starving, having not eaten anything since the night before. Unfortunately they had already closed the kitchen, so I’d have to resort to the usual peanut butter and graham crackers at snack time. We would have three snack times a day – one in the morning, one in the afternoon and one an hour or so before bed. And every time, we would be offered peanut butter and graham crackers, and a soda, milk or water. It was quite a comforting snack, but it quickly got tiresome. After filling up on as much snack as I could, I went to take my meds. Again I was given Trileptal, and again Family Guy was more amusing than normal. I decided to go to bed early. And surprisingly, I slept through the night without the help of a sleep aid. To this day, including when I am sick or drunk, I have never slept so much in a 36 hour period, and I doubt I ever will again.

Tim was sitting next to me on my bed. He listened to what I had to say with such interest and his stare was compassionate. He told me that he was here to pick me up and that I was invited to his house for a while. We hopped in his car and arrived at his house ten minutes later. His house always was so warm and inviting… his mom however, was not. I entered the house with him and we sat around the island in his kitchen. His mom offered me coffee, mainly cause she felt she was required to, and sat down across from me. All of a sudden, the compassion that was in Tim’s eyes was gone… he was vacant and distracted. This was an intervention. I was warned that if I ever so much as thought about Tim she would do whatever she could to see that I’d be punished for it. She didn’t like me. I was this emotional basket case who would doom her son to failure for the rest of his life, and she wasn’t going to have it.

“I’m trying the best I can!” I plead, my words falling on deaf ears. I look at him and he looks away.

” We can’t be friends,” he says. “I just can’t take it anymore. You’re so dramatic and needy… You’ve become so annoying. I can’t stand it.” My heart is crushed. Could this really be happening?

“This isn’t fair!” I protest, sobbing. “You said we’d be friends forever! You said you’d always be there for me! You said you loved me! Why are you abandoning me? Why are you abandoning me?!”

“Allyssa… Allyssa… hun, you’re having a nightmare.” The nurse gently shook me awake. “I could hear you from the nurse’s station.” I sat up, my heart racing, my forehead drenched in sweat. It was just a dream… no… a nightmare. It didn’t happen. We’re still friends. He still loves me. It’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. The nurse offered me a glass of water. I guess all the 3rd shift nurses weren’t so bad. I set the cup on my night stand, laid back down and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning I awoke with the buzzer above my head. This time, I hadn’t slept for 24 hours. The initial side effects must be wearing off. “I had a nightmare,” I told Dr. Eaton. I told him about everything, about Tim, about his mom, about me. I was so afraid that the damage done to our friendship was irreversible. I had to call him. I had to fix this. I just had to. So during my first break, I called him. My hands were clammy as I held the phone in my hand. Why was I so nervous to talk to my best friend? It went straight to voice mail. His voice was soothing, “Hey this is Tim. Leave a message.” Oh God what do I say? I don’t wanna say the wrong thing… “Hey, it’s me,” I said nervously. “Just calling to see how your day is going and to tell you I miss you. I’m sorry for being so fucked up. I’m sorry for treating you the way I have. I really wish you would come and see me. It would mean so much to me. I know I don’t deserve it, but yeah… Just please call me okay? I’m worried about you and I wanna know if you’re okay… if we’re okay… Are we okay? I know you want space and I’m trying to give it to you… If you don’t wanna talk to me I’ll understand. Have a good one. And remember, even though it doesn’t seem like it, I care about you.” I hung up the phone. I felt sick to my stomach. Damn it what the hell is wrong with me? How hard is it to just give him some damn space?! If I really cared about him I’d be able to give it to him. Tears were streaming down my face. I can’t do this anymore! I can’t stand it! I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was one of the older male patients.

“You okay?” he asked. I wiped my face and forced a smile. ‘No I’m not,’ I thought.

“Yeah I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Wanna talk?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We headed to his room and sat on his bed. I told him about how I had called Tim even though I knew I shouldn’t How could I have been so damn stupid? What the hell is wrong with me??

“It’s okay,” He said. “You’re here now. If he really cares about you, he’ll understand.” All of a sudden, without even realizing it, we began to kiss. My brain had completely checked out. It was all about surviving the moment and doing whatever I could… whatever it would take… to not feel this way anymore. I didn’t want to feel this way anymore! Our hands started to wander to carnal places. My heart was racing. Was this happening? All of a sudden something in me snapped and I pulled away. What the hell was I doing? We apologized profusely to each other. I couldn’t believe it. I would never in a million years do this drunk, and yet I was doing it completely sober. I got up and left the room. To my relief, he would be discharged that evening. Neither of us told anyone what had happened.

I went out in the common room after the steamy encounter and sat on the couch, trying my hardest to look composed. Football was on TV, it being a Saturday, and I distracted myself by asking the other patients how the game is actually played. I hadn’t known then, and to this day, I still don’t really understand it. I was obsessed with looking one-hundred percent normal. The phone in the common room rang. One of the other patients got up and answered it. “Allyssa,” she said, “it’s for you. I think it’s Tim.”

My Rip Van Winkle Experience

I woke up the next morning to the buzzing of the intercom above my bed. It was time to check vitals, something they did twice a day. I groggily walked to the common room and sat down. I was now the center of attention among everyone. Since I had been admitted at three that morning no one had seen me sign in. It was similar, I would guess, to the initiations new prisoners would go through. “What’s your name? Where you from? What you in for?” My turn came quickly, which I was grateful for. I’m not much of a talker first thing in the morning, especially given the current location. I sat in the chair, rolled up my sleeve and opened my mouth. I was a trained gorilla. Upon confirming that I was indeed alive, I retreated back to my room. I got dressed as best I could, lacking the essentials such as a brush, my deodorant, my shoe laces and my bra. All had been confiscated the night before. I flopped back on my bed and looked to the bed next to me. My roommate of the moment tearfully asked the normal initiation questions.

“You are so lucky,” she said, “that you are getting help at such a young age. You’re such a beautiful, young woman. You have your whole life ahead of you. What’s someone like you doing in here, hun?” The buzzer above my bed went off again. It was time for breakfast. Thank God.

The food here was surprisingly good. It was definitely better than the undercooked or overcooked crap they served at the college, depending on the day. Breakfast usually consisted of bacon and eggs, toast, orange juice and a cup of coffee. Coffee would become my companion for the rest of my stay, as it had my other three stays. I quickly made friends with the other patients. Being in a setting such as this, one tends to form a very close, loving family, the kind of family one wishes they really had. These people would hear the deepest, darkest parts of my soul. They would become the ones who would pass the tissues across the table and give side hugs as we walked down the hall. These complete strangers already cared for me more than my mom.

After breakfast I fled to my bed. I knew the first group was next and I was in no mood to participate. When the buzzer went off I just ignored it and rolled over, putting the pillow over my head.

“Since you’re not going to go to group I might as well give you the aspirin you asked for.” I followed her to the room where meds were administered. There were two young ladies sitting, waiting, observing. They were med students getting their field observations. Of course they had their lives together. I wonder what they thought of me… “You really should go to group,” the head nurse lectured. “Don’t tell me you’re in here because of that boy. That’s such a stupid reason to be depressed.” I saw the med students staring at me. I knew the nurse was trying to make me feel better, but she was so invalidating. Didn’t she know how stupid I felt that this thing with Tim and I was stupid and that I felt stupid for it bothering me?

I just decided to go to group. I wasn’t gonna give that nurse a reason to judge and embarrass me like that again. I entered the room and all eyes were on me. “You’re back,” said Jerry, one of the many therapists I had come to know and trust from my other three visits. “Can’t say I’m glad to see ya to be honest. Nothing personal, you just seemed so much better when you left last week.” The topic du jour was on being assertive as opposed to being passive, aggressive or the ever so popular passive-aggressive. I pulled out my journal and pen and began to copy the notes on the dry erase board. On the left was the list of words we were not allowed to say in group. These words had been on that board since my first hospitalization three years earlier. I imagined if I went over and tried to erase the marker it wouldn’t come off.

Group was over and it was time to see Dr. Eaton, my psychiatrist. He had been my psychiatrist last week and was this time as well, so apparently I hadn’t scared him off. “So this thing with you and Tim is still bothering you?” he asked compassionately. I liked him. There was no judgment or scolding in his voice. If he was judging me, his many years of work had taught him to hide it. “The nurse at the college suggested I try a mood stabilizer,” I told him. “She thinks it’ll even me out.” This made sense of course, since my emotions were seemingly out of control all the time. I’d much rather be a robot if it would save my friendship with Tim. He smiled. “Okay. We can try that. I’ll start you off on Trileptal and we’ll see what happens. Usually it’s given to people with Epilepsy to prevent seizures, but one can take it for mood as well. It’s a fairly new medication, but it doesn’t cause weight gain. Seems kind of silly to give a depressed woman something that would cause her to gain weight, don’t you think?” Did I mention I liked him?

The rest of the day was full of groups and free time. No one came and visited me during visiting hours. I wasn’t surprised. I was very tempted to call Tim. I wanted to talk to him so much, beg him to come see me. He never did of course. Why would he? I had scared him off. Who could love an emotional freak? At bedtime I took Trileptal for the first time. I was sitting in the common room watching Family Guy with a couple other patients. I began to feel drowsy and almost high. I could get used to this! Never had Family Guy ever been so amusing! After a while though the cloud 13 feeling turned into extreme dizziness, so I stumbled to my room and went to bed. Little did I know that I wouldn’t remember waking up until  after supper the next day. I wouldn’t even remember getting up to get my vitals taken or use the bathroom.

My Nightmare

I wasn’t a stranger to the eighth floor at AnMed Hospital in South Carolina. The drab decor, the smells, the nurses; none of it had changed since I had been here three years ago. This time, I was a veteran. I had packed a suitcase, making sure that I had my journal, a ball-point plastic pen and my name on every item that would be confiscated and locked up. I had a list of my friends’ phone numbers, knowing that I would call them and beg them to come visit me. They were my family; my support system. I didn’t have to write his number down though. I had it committed to memory. How could I not, with the obsessive amount of texts I sent him everyday?

Yesterday was my 23rd birthday. I received so many happy birthday wishes from everyone from my family in Maine, to people I had friended on Facebook just because we took a class together two semesters ago. I didn’t get one from him though. His was the only one that would have mattered. Again I wasn’t completely surprised. He wanted time apart; distance; room to breathe. For some reason I had been unable to give him these things, even though I desperately tried to. He was trying to abandon me and push me away. I wasn’t going to let him. I loved him. He was my best friend. I was not going to lose another best friend.

The familiar feelings of mania and nervousness overwhelmed me as I rode the elevator up to the eighth floor. I had been in the emergency room for at least four hours with the college counselor. At the time she was all I had, and school policy dictated that she remain by my side. I looked down at my arms as we ascended. They were red and swollen from the exacto knife I had taken to them earlier that day. In some surreal way they looked beautiful, and it scared me. The elevator stopped and we buzzed the nurses’ desk. We said our goodbyes as she went back to the elevator. I walked through the double doors and up to the desk, hearing the familiar click-click of the doors behind me. This was it. I was here again. And damn it, this time better be the last!

Thus began the invasion of my very essence; both physically and mentally. I stripped down to nothing and donned the very fashionable hospital gown. I felt like I was checking into drug rehab as I watched the nurse search my belongings with gloved hands. She confiscated things such as my shampoo (apparently it had alcohol in it), my hair elastics and my underwire bras. Anything that could be used to harm myself was fair game to her scrutiny. She then probed me with questions. What year is it? What city are we in? Who’s the president of the United States? And then came the part I hated the most – I was to tell my life story. Again. I had been in here not even a week ago. Do they not keep a record of what people say during these interrogations? After the grilling, she handed me the plastic cup for the urine test. I had smoked pot two nights ago. I’m fucked, i thought.

After my inspection I was allowed to put on my pj’s. It was time for me to get my medication so I could go to bed. All I wanted to do was sleep. But I had to stay awake and wait for the pharmacy downstairs to send it up, even though I had brought my own. The head nurse was unsympathetic to my plight and wasn’t going to put up with any attitude I may have. I could tell she hated her job, and was forced to work this floor, which was her least favorite. She herself had her shit together. She had probably slept through all their psychology classes. This is what I hated about all the third shift nurses. Finally my meds were sent up, and I was able to go to bed. As I walked away from the nurses’ station, she yelled after me, “You tested positive for marijuana by the way. You really shouldn’t do that crap.” So much for confidentiality.

I climbed into bed. I didn’t even bother turning down the covers. It was 3am and I just didn’t care anymore. I tossed and turned all night, waking up frequently. Each time I awoke I would walk to the reinforced window. From my room one could see the blinking lights on the radio tower that was on my college campus. All I could do was picture him sound asleep in his bed, not having to worry about me and my freakish emotions. He finally had the peace he wanted. I was locked up from the outside world. It was happening again. I was losing yet another close friend because I was fucked up. I was crazy. An emotional freak. There was no hope for me to change. Little did I know that there was indeed help out there for me. And this time, I would find it.

Borderline Personality Disorder: An Overview

What is Borderline Personality Disorder? According to WebMd.com, it can be defined as “a mental illness that causes intense mood swings, impulsive behaviors, and severe problems with relationships and self-worth” (1)

There are ways that Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD, is diagnosed. Psychiatrists follow a guide called the DSM IV which lists every mental health condition, their criterion and their treatments. According to the DSM IV, BPD is characterized by: (2)

A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts:

1. frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment. Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in Criterion 5.

2. a pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation.

3. identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self.

4. impulsivity in at least two areas that are potentially self-damaging (e.g., spending, sex, substance abuse, reckless driving, binge eating). Note: Do not include suicidal or self-mutilating behavior covered in Criterion 5.

5. recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behavior

6. affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood (e.g., intense episodic dysphoria, irritability, or anxiety usually lasting a few hours and only rarely more than a few days).

7. chronic feelings of emptiness

8. inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger (e.g., frequent displays of temper, constant anger, recurrent physical fights)

9. transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms

It is important to mention that someone may possess one or more of these nine criteria and not have Borderline Personality Disorder. These would be the result of other conditions. A person diagnosed with BPD must, as the DSM VI states, have a “pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts.” (2). This is what makes BPD harder to treat than other mental health issues.

In my experience, BPD can be very scary and almost euphoric. I can think back to many relationships that I’ve “messed up” and for the longest time I didn’t know why. My moods were always up and down; always intense and hard to control. I felt out of control. In my worst moments, it was almost as if I was having out-of-body experiences where I wasn’t myself. It was more than not thinking before speaking; I knew exactly what I was saying and thinking, and at the time, the most horrible things seemed more than plausible. I would be the most vicious with those I loved the most and were closest to me. I deeply loved them one moment, and hated them the next, most of the time because I felt abandoned. This abandonment was imagined, and yet I was without a doubt in my mind being abandoned. I would do anything I could to avoid this abandonment, which seemed unavoidable.

There was something wrong with me. I was feeling worthless and helpless. How could anyone love an emotional freak? I did everything I could to change who I was, but nothing seemed to work. There was something wrong with me, but I didn’t know what. I turned to things like pot and sex to cope with my emotions. I also was trying to be someone else. I was trying to be the person others thought I should be, or at least what I thought they wanted me to be. Then the pot and sex turned into unhealthy ways to cope with everyday life. I knew that these things weren’t effective. I even felt worse after doing them. And yet they offered the temporary relief I so desperately wanted.

I’ve been in the hospital four times total, as a result of suicidal thoughts. I didn’t really want to die; I just wanted a way out. At the time I had already been diagnosed with depression, but I knew there was something else seriously wrong. No one would help me. They didn’t want to help me. I know now that this wasn’t the case. On the fourth and final hospital visit I was talking with the social worker. I remember trying to explain the reasons for my actions. And yet I didn’t even know what they were myself. She then told me that I have Borderline Personality Disorder. I was scared at first. BPD for many years has had this stigma attached to it, simply because we have only just learned how to treat it in the past 20 years. People with this disorder were labeled untreatable in the psychology realm, and were considered outcasts in society. When the social worker handed me some information however, I became extremely relieved. I read the DSM IV, and for the first time I wasn’t a freak. I knew what was wrong with me and that there was hope. I would be okay!

I enrolled in BPD-specific therapy known as Dialectical Behavioral Therapy, or DBT. This was developed by Marsha Linehan, a professor at the University of Washington. It consisted of one-on-one therapy with a counselor and group therapy. I was in the group portion for about a year, and have been seeing my counselor now for three years. She is a blessing in my life and I don’t know what I would do without her! I will be starting up a more advanced version of the group therapy in September.

This is just an overview of what I have experienced over the past four years. I will continue to post more experiences and daily accounts as a way to cope with my BPD, educate others and offer comfort to others with BPD.

~ Allyssa

Note: I would like to thank cbtish of cbtish.wordpress.com for reading and commenting on my post. She pointed out that I had missed an essential component in the definition of Borderline Personality Disorder. According to the DSM IV, in order for one to be diagnosed with BPD, they must possess all nine of the criterion. This is important because if someone were to have one or two of these nine, they would be caused by other conditions which are easier to treat. Thanks again to her contribution! I would also like to give a shout out to her blog: http://cbtish.wordpress.com/ She blogs about mental health in the UK and offers very interesting incite. ❤

Bibliography and More Info on BPD:

(1) http://www.webmd.com/mental-health/tc/borderline-personality-disorder-topic-overview

(2) http://www.borderlinepersonalitytoday.com/main/dsmiv.htm

Reader’s Note

Reader’s Note: This blog is a personal account of my life with Borderline Personality Disorder. I am writing to educate others and give others hope. It is not intended to diagnose, treat or cure anyone of any mental illness. If you think you or a loved one may have a mental illness, or you or a loved one are having thoughts of self-harm or suicide, please contact your primary care physician, or go to the nearest emergency room.

Some names have been changed to protect anonymity.