BORDERLINE BOMBSHELL

Bombshell

noun

: one that is stunning, amazing, or devastating

: something or someone having a sudden and sensational effect

In a year that I swore labels would not define me, I find myself epitomizing the above definitions.

I could blame 2020. But the truth is this year only exposed what was packed in a tight metal casing that I’ve managed to keep a pin in as long as I could. I think I’m mixing my bomb and grenade metaphors at this point, but you get the picture - don’t be a prick.

In my 29 years I have done many amazing things. I purchased my home at 23, achieved career success, and have incredible decade-long relationships with some of the most down ass people you could ever hope would love you. If you’ve met my dog you know she’s the shit too. (Counter surfing excluded).

In social situations I can be sensational. I have key karaoke songs that can bring a gay bar to its feet; determination that everyone not only be included, but feel included in the moments they share with me; and a genuine heart that bleeds compassion to those I love. (Or those I have no clue who they are, but - by social media, news, or word of mouth am beyond grateful that they’re on this earth and want them to know it). And though I find it impossible to believe at times, my exes and a few people on dating apps find me stunning.

My best friend has many times described me as smartest person she knows, stubbornly self-sufficient (at times unnecessarily so), with mafia-grade loyalty. This past year, I even got ordained at her and her husband's request so that I could marry them at the home they bought 1.3 miles from me. The love is real and eternal.

I have nephews that call me Wobble because as babies I’d put them on my shoulders and and sing ‘Wobble Baby’, which they eventually started asking for the minute I walked in the door, and thus "wobble wobble" became my greeting.

For my little sisters 25th birthday I planned a surprise trip to Ireland, only giving her the weather and days to take off. I planned each day and location so she wouldn’t have to worry about a thing, and had one of her best friends meet her there (thank you, Katherine!). I even made her a Spotify playlist for her road trip.

When a loved one struggled with addiction, I visited each day there were visiting hours - at each time slot - because I didn’t want them to be the only one there without a person.

And last year, I juggled a full time job, house, and relationship without missing a single chemo appointment when my best friend was diagnosed with breast cancer. Can you call it “juggled” if you failed?

I’ve lent my home to friends, their extended family, and even switched houses for a day when my godsons mom just needed to get some fucking sleep. At 5’1 (okay, okay 5’ & 3/4), I would go chest-to-chest with Goliath for my people (I’d fuck him up too).

I also happen to be funny AF.

I say all this not to brag, but to remind myself that there has always been an essential goodness inside of me - even on the days I can’t seem to find it.

I am a bombshell in the best of definitions, but also the worst; and this year the pin dropped. I’m still trying to tally the collateral damage of my reach.

For the past two years I haven’t been able to recognize the person in the mirror. I mean, the wrinkles look familiar, but the person described above feels foreign. Almost as if I’m sending a body double out to keep up the act; hoping I can bring back the person people know and love before they notice she’s gone.

During this time I sought out counseling, trying to find the best ways to cope with the stress of work, relationships, self-care, loved one’s addictions, and a cancer battle no 27 year old should face.

I searched to find the balance of demanding justice and equality in a world where people can’t simply say Black Lives Matter, and a family that voted (twice) for the biggest bigoted crook ever to hold office. I thought if I just knew how to deal with the external bullshit, everything would be fine.

It will all be fine.

I’ll be fine.

As things continued to unravel, I held personal responsibility to be better, support better, work harder, and love fiercer. I tried to be good at so many things I wasn’t even decent at one of them. Like a kid with a hamster worried it will escape, I suffocated the things I loved most.

To me, this wasn’t simply an action, err of judgment, or matter I could reflect and improve upon. I was inherently damaged, incapable of being loved or understanding love and relationships, not even worthy of love, and certain the world would be better off without a person like me in it.

The decision to share the following was not taken lightly. I haven’t a vague idea of how to write this - never really considering I’d ever have to. First, I would say a trigger warning….

Though the swirling gossip of why I resigned from my job and rented out my house to drive across country have been comical, none have been accurate. To be honest, I’d take most of them over the truth.

I was (and remain) concerned for so many reasons:

- The social opinions and judgement on what’s considered the most stigmatized disorder (not a competition you want to win).

- Failure from multiple rock-bottom losses of a once successful & happy life; in a culture of voyeurs who enjoy a proper downfall.

- I worry it will be seen as attention seeking, desperate, and/or an attempt at making excuses for bad behavior.

- I don’t want others to weaponize this to invalidate situations that have merit.

- It confirms my ex’s dodged a bullet; my mind the hollow casing prepared to explode on impact, grazing innocent bystanders with a kill shot intended for me.

The first truth is accepting responsibility that I made my bed.

To be fair, I didn’t know until after it was made; but like an Ambien sleepwalker who wakes up to a brand new Fiat in his garage — I know it was me.

I made my bed. I pissed in it, ripped the covers off, and wore it in with a depression so heavy the memory foam would now spill a glass of wine — if there were any left. 

I tried to flip it over, hoping that by hiding the wear I could salvage its integrity. Hoping I could once again recognize the comfort that held me without question night after night. 

Instead, I sunk deeper. The memory foam, like myself, refusing to forgive the past; accept the current; or pretend I would find comfort I wouldn’t soil the same.

Over the past two years, as if I were out of body, I watched everything I’ve loved and built slowly catch fire; running around fruitlessly to save what I could, yet helpless to stop it. Daily, my mind forced actions and thoughts that burned everything in their path - my wellbeing always the primary target.

The hardest part to stomach is that it wasn’t until only ashes remained, I was able to realize I was holding the ignitor that started it all.

I may never understand why Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) onset full-force in my mid 20’s. There is no sense in why, after decades of normality, I was chosen to carry a burden that requires to only be laid down in a coffin built for two.

In ways, I wish I’d never known what it was like before my diagnosis - when I wasn’t broken. Before I knew the damage I’d done and my responsibility for the destruction. When ignorance was bliss, my career and relationships were thriving, and before a psychiatrist confirmed I was inherently and eternally damaged. Maybe then I wouldn’t simultaneously miss and hate myself so much.

The mirror reflects only fragments of my former self; now an “other,” functioning in a world I no longer understand the point of participating in. Why rebuild when Godzilla lives stronger than ever within me?

At some point, when the tide is retreating to the ocean, you learn not to run toward the tempting shore. We are fully aware that beauty does not stand a chance against the tsunami of demolition is on its way. All the beauty and majesty of the shore is not worth the risk.

Of the myriad symptoms present in people with BPD, I have every single one. All of which came out in 2019 like the Monstars in the final game of SpaceJam. An unstable self-image, idealization/devaluation of close relationships, and fear of abandonment are the hallmarks of BPD that ripped the floorboards from the court and beat-up anything that tried to stop them.

I also experience difficulties with emotional regulation, paralyzing anxiety and depression, suicidality (which was the biggest surprise), problems with impulse control, and chronic feelings of emptiness.

Described as emotional 3rd degree burn victims, the emotional skin of people with BPD is thin and the pain experienced in normal situations feels unbearable. Our brains switch between fight or flight within an instant and we seek anything to reduce the pain - such as self-harm, substance abuse, and even suicide.

While causes of BPD aren’t fully understood, researchers have found brain abnormalities in the hippocampus, amygdala, and orbitofrontal cortex. Paired with a genetic predisposition, environmental stressors such as childhood trauma are common.

Though I cannot make sense of the situation I’ve found myself in, I have to have faith that this burden puts me in a unique position to help others struggling with something few-to-none can understand. To directly combat a largely misunderstood mental illness that has the HIGHEST RATE OF SUICIDE of all mental illness. One that affects more people than Bipolar Disorder or Schizophrenia combined, yet goes unspoken out of shame and stigma.

An illness that led me - a person who always believed there was another option - to start my car in a closed garage last year.

Over 75% of people with BPD attempt suicide multiple times in their lifetime, and 10% are successful (which is 50x the rate of people in the general population). After becoming the former statistic, I remain committed to never becoming the latter.

I’ve described BPD as the Upside Down from Stranger Things. A parallel universe that looks similar to reality, with a darkness that permeates everything, making it inhospitable to humans. You struggle to breathe from the ash floating around the air; a symbol of all that remains of the burned destruction.

Surviving the Upside Down means you must hide from the shadowy, terrifying creatures lurking to take you captive. Each moment stuck in the Upside Down feels like suffocating with an oxygen tank just out of reach. You know if you get there you will be safe, you will survive, it will all be okay - but you can’t reach survival.

The pain is unbearable, exhausting, and try as you might - you fear you’ll never get out. Giving in begins to feel like the only option. In ways, giving in begins to feel like the most compassionate end to your insufferable hell you live in, and unintentionally set on the doorstep of the very ones you love.

Borderline Personality Disorder distorts perceptions, interactions, and makes the world incredibly confusing to navigate. The pain and terror of abandonment and feeling unwanted/unworthy are so great that suicide feels like a better option.

I believe it was Nietzsche that warned us not to become the monster’s we’re fighting.

Whoops.