Despite reading and studying mental illness for all of my adult life, I’d either skimmed over the topic of Borderline Personality Disorder, or I’d simply never heard of it. I suspect I skimmed it, because when I first heard the diagnosis, I instantly thought, oh shit, I have split personalities??? That’s not right!!!
Well, of course I now know what BPD is, and I also know that, had I ever read anything about the illness other than its name, I’d have realized immediately that this is me.
I could’ve written the book on this illness. I AM the book on this illness. How could it have taken this long?? How many counselors and doctors have I seen in the last 25 years?!?! And no one ever mentioned anything other than depression and bipolar ii (which I now know I do not have).
And with BPD, there is hope of learning coping skills and of improving. Somehow. It will take time. But at the moment, fresh into this diagnosis, eating up books on Dialectical Behavior Therapy and mindfulness, I’m still feeling frustrated, in and out of dark clouds of depression and anger. I am so lost in this time and place of transition, and have little sense of purpose, and no idea what my future holds. I have no job. I live in a tiny, isolated, insular community, to which I do not belong. I feel alienated from my husband because of my illness and because of my lack of income. I feel burdensome. Alone. Pathetic. Defeated. Confused. And I have utterly no one to confide in but this blog, lest I cause anyone any MORE burden. Other than raising my children, my life has been an absolute and utter waste. Cumbersome.
I’m not suicidal. I was, a few weeks ago. But not now. I’m just so intensely alone. And I don’t know what to do. I have a tiny, partially reconstituted faith in God. I pray a little, which for me is a huge change. But I could never, ever pray away the sadness. It just doesn’t work, and I’ve tried much harder in times when my faith was much stronger.
I do feel myself drifting into dark waters again, but I think that a long as I avoid alcohol and benzos, I’ll move through this relatively unscathed. But it’s a short walk to the pharmacy, I have one refill left, and sometimes my resolve is next to nil. With this diagnosis, I’ve learned benzodiazepines can lead to suicide in a person with BPD. Which explains a lot. No more little blue pills for me, unless I’m making a conscious decision to end it, which I vow not to do.
I just want to be normal. Well, I lie. I just want to be happy. Big difference.