“I
have this illness called Borderline Personality Disorder. I hate that label. What border am I about to cross anyway? Insanity?
I would rather call my problem something like emotional intensity
disorder. That sounds more humane to me,
and it describes closer to what this illness feels like. That label that professionals use,
“Borderline,” strikes fear, disgust, and a series of degrading comments hidden
within the nervous laughter of those from whom I seek help. They think I don’t know or can’t see the
anger I bring out in them. They call me
manipulative. I think they really don’t
know what to do with me and that makes them angry. My illness forces them to deal with their own
fear of not knowing what to do.
Let
me tell you about my illness, what it feels like to be me. First, I really like calling it an illness,
instead of a disorder or some other label.
For me calling it an illness takes away some of the shame. It’s like diabetes or asthma. When I look at it like that I don’t feel like
it’s my fault or that I could change if only I wanted to, or if I wasn’t such a
horribly bad person I wouldn’t be this way.
Calling it an illness makes me feel equal with others only I have to
manage symptoms of my illness just as others do. I believe a part of my brain is broken. I believe it’s that part that regulates my
emotions.
It’s
like a floodgate at a dam that holds back a raging river. A floodgate can range from being completely
open to three quarters open, to half open, to one-quarter open, and many, many,
many, many various and minuscule positions in between. Depending on the position of the floodgate,
the water floods out or trickles out or seeps out, etc. Well for me, my emotional floodgate is
broken. My floodgate only has two
positions, either completely open or completely closed. My emotions come flooding completely or not
at all. I don’t know which is
worse. When my emotions come flooding
out I seem to destroy everything around me.
I say horrible things to people I really care about. I scream, I rage, I go on and on. It’s so horrible for those around me, but not
nearly as horrible as it is for me, because I see the pain and cruelty that I
pour out on those I care about, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I just watch in terror as all the vile,
angry, black inside comes out and destroys everything it touches. I cannot keep friends, my family doesn’t want
anything to do with me, and I can’t keep a job.
Worse, I hate myself so much that I become hopeless and depressed.
At
other times, when the floodgate is completely closed it’s unbelievable. The powerful river wants out. I become anxious. Then the river’s intensity starts to build
and build and build and it begins to beat at the floodgate walls. But the floodgate doesn’t budge and I don’t
have a key. The river’s raging, pounding
and screaming inside. I have to let it
out but I don’t know how. I panic. I don’t know what to do. I need help.
I start calling for someone to help me.
Now the pounding is so intense I can’t hear myself think nor can I hear
what others are saying to me. It just rings
in my ears, it courses through my veins, it plunges through my heart, it wants
out. I have to let it out. I see a knife
or a match. It’s no good. I have to cut. I cut.
After a few minutes it’s over.
The river is quiet once again.
The
quiet times of the river are at times the sweetest and at other times the
cruelest. When all is quiet I start to
live again. I begin to build
friends. I get a job. I talk with my family. Things seem to go along. People start to trust me. Or they think I’m just doing what I’m
supposed to be doing. Or that I’m
behaving myself and being good. Others
make a devastating assumption about my illness.
They assume I can control it. I
have news for them. The river has a mind
of its own. It’s like a possessed demon
that I neither fight nor ignore. I have
to learn to live with it.
The
river episodes come and go. They can
last from just a few moments to several hours.
The damage that can be done in such a short time is absolutely
devastating. I feel like I’ve been raped
over and over by a demon that lives inside.
When the river is active, my thoughts become so distorted. I interpret situations so negatively. Then this negative distortion becomes my
truth. Those trying to help do their
best to explain and rationalize with me.
This only makes me feel discounted and invalidated because my perception
of the truth. So I become frustrated and
angry and begin to doubt everything about myself.
I
don’t remember when the illness started.
My parents seem to think it was when I was quite small. They feel like it just became worse as I
became older. They, of course, think
this is their fault. They blame
themselves. They want so badly for me to
have my own life and for them to have their own. They just feel so badly about my life; they
feel like they still need to take care of me.
They don’t know how. Of course,
in the river times I have been so very cruel to them. My brother won’t even talk to me. He just doesn’t seem to care anymore. He’s angry because he believes I’ve messed up
my life and mom and dad’s life. I don’t
really have friends. I don’t trust
others easily. I seem to want to adopt
the professionals as my family and friends.
I know that’s because they think they can help.
The
doctors try to help with medications.
Actually, nothing really ever works for me. When the river is quiet I don’t look as if I
need medication. When the floodgate’s
closed and the river’s trying to get out, the doctor medicates my anxiety with
an anti-anxiety medication. After I’ve
released the river I become depressed so I get an antidepressant. Since the river comes and goes on its own,
and I go up and down with it, doctors think I am bipolar, so I get lithium.
I
believe what I have found to be the most helpful with my illness has been to
find some professionals who understand that the river is going to rage. They know I can’t do anything about it, and
they know they can’t do anything about it.
They understand that I act the way I do because I need relief so
badly. They understand that I call and
try to keep them on the phone forever because in the midst of the raging river
my thoughts become distorted and I once again believe someone can relieve the
pain of the river. They know that during
that phone call if I become afraid that they just don’t want to help me (my thoughts
being distorted again) I’m going to talk about cutting or killing myself. They understand that I will say or do just
about anything to relieve the pain.
My
relationships with professionals are pretty amazing. (I can say that now since
the river is quiet.) See, when the
floodgates open and I’m spewing all over them, as with all my relationships, I
say cruel, hurtful things. I think this
is hard for them because they feel they are not supposed to let clients hurt
them. But I do. Partially it hurts so much because I build
some professionals up. See, when my
perception is distorted, I say they are the best therapists I’ve ever had. Then when the floodgate is closed and I’m
again trying to get someone to relieve my pain, I call and of course, they
can’t relieve it, but I just want to make the professionals like me. So I tell them and I believe others can
relieve my pain, I call and of course, they can’t relieve it, but I get so
disappointed and angry and think that they just don’t want to help, I tell them
they are the worse therapists in the whole world, and I’m worse now than I was
before I started seeing them. Then I add
the name of another professional that is “better than they are.” (STEPPS, 2013)
I
don’t work well with professionals who set limits on themselves. Who know what they can and cannot do for me
and relentlessly remind me that it’s an illness. What professionals can do for me is to teach
me tools to handle my life during the quiet river times. They can also teach me tools to prepare
before the river rages and after the flood.
They can help me to prepare for the least amount of destruction
possible. The can help me find some
balance in the everyday parts of my life.
They can show me how to develop a support system outside of the
professionals; to meet others who have this illness. They can give me hope. Not hope that illness will ever go away, and
not hope that they can make me feel better, but hope that with practice I can
manage the symptoms of my illness.”
