Living Borderline

”So you’re saying you feel fragmented?” The doctor asked me, looking as confused as I felt. I never understood what I was going through up until that moment, which was a relief. The only thing was, I couldn’t explain it. It was too confusing.

“Yes,” I began to respond, “I feel fragmented. I feel I’ve created more versions of myself and I’m constantly switching who I am, but the real me is trapped. The real me is stuck inside my body, begging to come out, but she can’t. The other me, the baby, won’t let her. And she wants to die. But the real me wants to live.”

I was very vulnerable in this moment, yet I felt so strong. I was finally able to speak on how I’ve been feeling for years. Years of guilt, years of insecurity, years of sadness, years of pain, yet also, years of confidence, and happiness. I’ve been feeling ambivalent for years. It’s the most confusing thing ever, but I finally was able to come out.

“She cares what other people think of her, and she hides me from the world. I don’t care what others think. I just want to be free… She almost killed us, doc. She took the pills and almost killed us. I had to rush to throw it all up. I’m scared. We need help.”

The crazy part of this conversation is that there was no “we”. It was me. I tried to kill myself. The baby in me was my traumatized younger self who never left. She stood around waiting to get what she always wanted: acceptance, love, and understanding. It’s upsetting because I created her. I felt the jealousy, the hatred, the negativity others had for me. I thought if I created her and changed, I’d be better off. I didn’t realize I was fine the way I was. I made myself sick listening to others. And finally, once I found out I was okay, and strong, it was almost too late. The baby in me had taken over, and it had been a living Hell trying to convince her she didn’t need to suffer or hide me anymore.

When my diagnosis came back as Borderline Personality Disorder, I couldn’t believe it. I’d gotten my Bachelor’s degree in psychology and remember learning all about it. I cried and empathized with the training videos my professor showed us when teaching us about Dialetical Behavior Therapy (DBT). Then, about a year later, I find out I’m that same girl shown in the video seeking therapy. Maybe that’s why I cried. Maybe, subconsciously, I knew I had it.

After getting my diagnosis, I thought everything would be fine — things would get better. Unfortunately, a year later I had another suicide attempt. I guzzled down a bottle of 100 antidepressants. It never got easier. It got harder. That dark cloud that followed me around for ages came back. The emptiness, regret, fear of the unknown future, dealing with a ton of toxic people, etc. all led me to want to end my life. I was back at that same hospital. “You’re going to be like this for the rest of your life,” I recalled hearing one of the nurses say. Gloominess overshadowed me. There’s just no way I could be like this forever. I’m a woman with goals and dreams. Hell, I want to be a mother one day. I looked at the scars on my arms from cutting myself. “No, I’m not going to be like this forever,” I told myself. It’s been a year since I’ve self-harmed, and trust me, I’ve thought about it. But I promised myself I would help others battling mental illness, and if I’m not okay, then I can’t. I owe my life to my clients. I owe my life to the readers reading this who can relate.