Wednesday 26 August 2015

The Breaking

Before reading the below, think carefully. The subject of this post is one that some might find distressing, and for others it might trigger unwanted memories. The purpose of my blog is not to upset people, but to show you the pieces of my life in the hopes that someone might find comfort in a shared thought, moment or experience. It is also my attempt to connect with myself, lost as I am, and hopefully to look back at my life with less judgement and to accept it for what it is, and move forward.

It is extremely difficult for me to remember the two encounters I am about to describe, one of them was of my choosing, and the other, was not.

I was eighteen, in college, and searching for validation, for acceptance from others. I desperately wanted to be wanted. I wanted to be the interesting girl; the pretty girl; the funny girl; the fun and carefree girl that boys picked. I was none of these things, still am none of them in my opinion. I briefly dated a few boys in the year ahead of me at college, but I felt awkward and unsure when alone with them. Up to that point I had very little experience with the opposite sex, I had never gone beyond kissing them and was acutely aware that I was one of a dying breed at that age: a virgin. As time went on, I decided that I this was something that needed to change. That if I could overcome the initial fear of sex, I would be less anxious and shy with boys. More importantly, if I couldn't offer them my body, how would I ever compete with the carefree, fun, interesting and pretty girls?

So I decided it was time to rid myself of my virginity, and after considering all the options available to me(none, who would want to see me naked?), I chose alcohol as my method. It was on a night out with friends from college, and after many, many snakebites and a game of 'I've never', I set out to entice my prey. At least that's what I told myself I was doing, that I was being an independent woman and taking charge of my body and sexuality. In reality I was a drunk, damaged girl looking for just another way to hurt myself, to punish myself. As inebriated, obvious and barely clothed(I cringe when I remember my night out ensembles)as I was, I unsurprisingly had little difficulty finding a willing participant. What followed was a quick and painful encounter in the men's bathroom. The deed is mostly a blur in my mind and if my partner in crime was standing right in front of me, I wouldn't know his face. Or any other parts. I made a vague attempt to clean myself up, pulled my skirt down and stumbled back out into the bar to drink myself into a stupor. As seedy and unhygienic as those five minutes were, there is nothing nefarious or outrageous about them. They probably seem entirely unimportant to you, and indeed they did to me that night. But they were important. At eighteen I thought so badly of myself, believed myself to be worth so little, that I chose to loose my virginity to a complete stranger in a toilet. And I did it because I thought I would then have something to offer men, because I knew I had nothing else, and without their advances I had nothing. I was nothing, I was worthless. The next day I was filled with a mix of relief, and shame. Shame that grew and grew, until the very thought of repeating the act repulsed me. I was ashamed of my actions, and ashamed that I couldn't just be 'normal' and glib about it. Either way, I had now had another piece of evidence to affirm my beliefs about myself. I could do nothing right, I would always be a failure.

A few months after the above, having shied away from dating completely, I went out with some old friends. We were going to a nightclub, the type of venue that was definitely not a place I would choose to spend time. A place where a girl in baggy jeans, a tank top and a tie(don't start) would be t turned away from without hesitation. But I went anyway, dressed up in borrowed clothes, a suitable sleepover lie in place with my mother. The night began at a house party, some rich, arrogant rugby player with too much of daddy's money burning a hole in his pocket. I stood awkwardly to one side of my friend for the entire time at the house. These boys were not like the mostly unassuming and good-natured ones I spent time with in college. My relief when we left for the club was palpable.

As soon as we arrived I knew I had made a mistake. It was too loud, too full of people who sneered at my converse, and I quickly lost my friends in the crowd. I couldn't leave until the girl I was staying with did, I couldn't bear the atmosphere surrounding me, so I did the only thing I could think of: started drinking. After a few vodka and cokes I started to relax slightly, found myself a seat in a corner to perch on and watch the world go by. After a time, the rugby player joined me, and I had drunk enough that I was able to ignore his bravado and my shyness and talk to him. At some point a challenge was set, who could drink the most. I can feel your incredulity at my stupidity through the screen. How did I ever think I could out drink a 6ft something rugby player? Hey, I never said I was the sharpest crayon in the box. All too quickly the nightclub was closing, I had drank far too much and discovered my friend had left. Before you think badly of her, I discovered the following day that she had told me she was leaving, but my vodka filled brain obviously couldn't comprehend English by that point. Luckily, the rugby player still had plenty of money in his pocket and offered to share a taxi with me, my friends house was only a slight detour on the way to his house. If I had been thinking clearly I would have remembered that this was not the case.

If I had been thinking clearly I would have wondered why getting out of the taxi early and walking for a bit seemed like a reasonable plan.

If I had been thinking clearly I would have wondered why we stepped off the path and slid down into a wooded area.

I would have pulled back when he kissed me, because I wasn't attracted to him.

If I thought more of myself, I would have stopped kissing him, because I wouldn't have felt a tiny spark of pleasure that somebody wanted to kiss me.

If I hadn't led him on I wouldn't be lying in the dirt and wet leaves.

If I wasn't so drunk I would have said no louder.

If I wasn't so weak I would have pushed harder.

If I wasn't so pathetic I wouldn't have given up struggling and just lay there and cried.

If I wasn't so stupid I wouldn't be sitting in the bathroom trying to scrub blood and dirt off of my friends skirt.

If I wasn't so disgusting I wouldn't be sitting in a waiting room for an STD test.

Over and over I told myself all of these things, I told myself it was my own fault. Then I told myself that it was because he saw me for what I was, nothing more than a warm body when all the other options are gone. But at least that was something right? The worst thing that could happen had happened, I didn't need to be afraid of sex anymore. Sex didn't mean anything, it was just something people did to each other. Because if it means nothing, than that night means nothing, and I can forget it. It means nothing, that night meant nothing and most of all, I meant nothing.

What I know now, is that not one second of that night on that wet ground was a result of anything I did. It was not my fault. It was not my fault. I still only half believe it, although I want to believe in those words with every inch of me. Because they are the truth, even if I can't yet allow myself to accept them. After that night, something died inside of me. Some small vestige of self respect, crumbled and blew away on the wind. I would spend the next year proving to myself just how worthless I was by engaging in another charming BPD trait - promiscuity. Not that I am saying there is anything wrong with casual sex. Have it as often, and with as many people as you feel like. But not it if makes you feel like less of a person; not it if makes you hate yourself. I wasn't promiscuous because I was enjoying it, but because I was now able to use sex to find validation. Only it didn't quite work out that way, it never does.

Tuesday 25 August 2015

University - take 1

I started college when I was seventeen, studying science, a degree I had absolutely no interest in achieving. Like everyone else I was both excited and nervous about going to university, and despite my disinterest in my course, I thought perhaps I would at least manage a passing grade and keep my parents happy. On my first day, I was still self harming, had isolated myself both socially and at home, and my mood swings were at their most unpredictable and debilitating. The intensity of my highs had decreased, but the lows completely enveloped me, terrified me. Then you add in anxiety, anger, fear to the mix and I was just a big ball of neurotic fun. At this point I was keeping my problems hidden, so I had no idea what was happening to me. All I knew was that I was different from everyone else, that there was something fundamentally wrong with me, with my brain. I believed I was damaged in some way; and even though I already felt completely alone, there was still a fear that if my family discovered the truth that they could somehow reject me even more. I know, how can you be afraid of rejection from people you already feel rejected by? The human brain is a complex and wondrous machine, but it can also be really, really stupid.

I was pleasantly surprised by college; there was such a broad spectrum of people, all of whom had their own interest, backgrounds, opinions, desires...I quickly realised that this was the place where you got to be who you really were. And once you embraced your true self you would quickly find other people who shared some of your interests, whether it be a love of the theater or geeky jokes (Geology rocks, still a classic). Over time I made friends, I had people to sit with at lunch time and in lectures. People to be lab partners with and get coffee.

I had people to go to the student bar with. People to get drunk with during the day when I was supposed to be in a lecture or in work. I can feel your shock from here. That's right, all of my problems and pain didn't suddenly disappear because I had people to watch movies with. My self esteem didn't magically change, in fact I hated myself even more. There are two reasons for this in my opinion. The first, is that I had spent so long mirroring other people that I was struggling to find and accept my own identity. It is a slow process, and a confusing one, so while I was trying to figure out who I was, I still had to use other people to temporarily fill in the gaps. I was one part me, and one part whoever I was speaking to at a given time. Or more often than not, I was one part myself and one part a jumble of the multiple personalities in my vicinity. This was exhausting, and with it came a constant state of fear of discovery. The second reason, was that spending time with my peers, people I considered intelligent and interesting, made me even more aware of my inferiority and failings as a person. Everyone was smarter, funnier, quicker and quite simply, better than me.

So I tried to dull the growing pain inside me with alcohol, and going drinking was an easy way for me to socialise with my new friends. This behaviour rapidly spiraled out of control, to the point that I went to exams inebriated. But exams didn't matter to me, because if people wanted to go to the bar with me then they must like me. It was a misguided attempt at seeking the validation I so desperately wanted.

The other way I tried to find approval was with the opposite sex. Up until that point boys were something entirely out of my comfort zone. I was so self conscious and had my self esteem was so low that interacting with someone in a romantic or flirtatious manner was out of the question. The brief encounters I had with boys up to that point were short lived and awkward. By the time I turned eighteen, towards the end of my first year, I had kissed less than ten people. That ever present fear of rejection made me balk at the very idea of displaying any sort of interest in boys, but I knew that if I could get them to like me, to find something in me attractive, then I would be a worthwhile person. Once again I looked outside myself for validation, and as with drinking, it had disastrous consequences.

I have thought long and hard about discussing this aspect of my personality disorder so publicly. At first I was going to brush the surface in order to save my dignity, but I think there is a lesson to be learned from it, and that is what I want to do with this blog. Find a purpose to all this pain and hurt, and I hope by sharing my mistakes and experiences I can show someone what not to do, or show them that they aren't alone if they have gone through something similar.

However, due to the nature of the next part of my story I am going to post it separately, so that those of you who would rather not read about that part of my story can choose not to.

Saturday 22 August 2015

Anxiety and Loathing

My first experiences with anxiety and panic attacks occurred when I was fifteen. It all started with the Junior Certificate, more specifically with the intense pressure I, and most students, was put under to excel.

In school I wasn't one of the shining stars of my year, nor was I considered a simpleton. I would say I floated somewhere in the middle, with a above average aptitude for one or two subjects. My parents has always told me that I was highly intelligent, and I was expected to demonstrate my intellect through my exam results. At fourteen I had started to have difficulties with my concentration, and found the forty minute classes difficult to sit through. While teachers tried to fill our young heads with historical facts, poetry and mathematical equations I found my mind constantly wandering. My thoughts would drift outside the classroom, daydreaming about unlikely scenarios or ruminating on mistakes and negative experiences. As a result, I struggled to keep up with my studies. At the time I put this down to a lack of brainpower; my inability to focus was clearly an indication of my dull wit.

As the Junior Certificate exams approached, and my mothers expectations of me were mentioned more and more, my fear and unease rapidly increased. During revision sessions it felt as though a metal band was around my chest, tightening evermore, often to the point that I would struggle to catch my breath. I was still self harming at home, but now I started to do so in school - repeatedly racking my nails over the back of my hand until it was raw. Waiting for my oral french exam I managed to draw blood, and tiny scars dot my hands to this day. My exploits with the nail scissors was easy to conceal, but there was no hiding the assault on my hands. I have no idea what my mother said when she discovered what I was doing, but I have a sense of shock and dismay. And anger.

TO her credit, she brought me to see a psychologist. I was hooked up to monitors and asked a series of questions. First a baseline was established, what age I was, my address etc, and then we discussed school and the upcoming exams. Unsurprisingly whatever she was measuring (heart rate? sweat level? To this day I have no idea) spiked when she brought up anything to do with my education. Her diagnosis was Anxiety, and she recommended breathing exercises and walking. The mere notion of going for a walk while I could be busy cramming a years worth of information into my head was...anxiety inducing. As for the breathing exercises, well lets just say I wrote a lot of awful poetry as a result of sitting in silence with my thoughts. At fifteen I had no understanding of how to quiet ones mind, hell I still struggle with it now. The mere thought of Mindfulness makes me shudder. The whole thing was an exercise in futility, I continued to dig furrows in my hands and the sense of impending failure grew and grew.

In the end I did okay in my exams, not quite up to standard, but good enough to satisfy my mum. I was relieved that I had done better than expected, but ashamed that I had not done better. Shame was something that I was deeply familiar with at this point, but more on that delightful emotion later. But overall I believed all of the stress and fear was worth it. Colour me surprised when I returned to school(skipping transition year in order to escape school faster), to discover that the Junior Certificate means absolutely nothing. In the fifteen years since I sat those exams not once have I been asked about my results. The pressure I had put myself under, and had put upon me by others, was utterly unnecessary. All of the tears, nightmares and sessions with my trusty scissors counted for naught. The Junior Cert is brushed off as soon as those results are placed in your hand, and if like me you went straight into fifth year, you start a new, and even more grueling journey to evaluation.

My final two years in school were the worst of my entire education. Worse than being spat on, worse than having my head slammed into walls, worse than being called a freak. My attention span became shorter and shorter, I struggled to complete course work and with every passing day I felt like more of a failure. Clearly I was stupid and utterly useless. My home life was turbulent, to put it mildly, and I had lost almost all contact with my old friends, and had very limited contact with girls in my year. Not only was I weird, awkward, acne riddled and unwanted; now I was also an imbecile. To me these were facts, and unchangeable ones at that.

Anyone who views themselves so unfavourably is going to feel bad, or at least unhappy for a while. Most people's teenage years are difficult at one time or another; I have yet to meet someone who didn't doubt or dislike themselves at some point. The difference for people with BPD, or anyone with self esteem problems, is that we don't just think bad things about ourselves for a while. Our core beliefs about ourselves become entirely negative; at the most basic level we believe we are unworthy, unlikeable, unlovable and that we are entirely to blame for this. You can't hate yourself and attribute your deficiencies to another person, because you believe you are the problem. If you have low self esteem, or no self esteem, you are always at fault.

Have you have ever done something wrong, and felt guilt or terrible afterwards? Or tried something and failed, and felt incompetent or inferior in some way? Unless your Donald Trump you probably have. Try to imagine feeling that way about yourself every second of every day. Everything you do is predicated with crippling self doubt, and a surety of defeat.

I completely cracked under the pressure of the Leaving Certificate. I knew I was going to fall short of what was expected and I cried over my textbooks everyday. I sat in evening study and stared blankly at the pages in front of me. I started walking at the weekends, winding my way up to Killiney hill and sitting as close to the edge as I dared. This was the first time suicide entered my mind. I was sixteen. I cut and cut and cut just to keep myself afloat. The pain no longer served only as a punishment, now the sharp bite gave me relief. It stopped the endless cycle of vitriolic diatribe in my head. I had graduated from a nail scissors to razor blades, and the razor became my most trusted companion. Bad day at school? Slash. Fight with my mother? Slice. Overwhelmed by loneliness? Hack. My only knowledge of the life of a sixteen/seventeen year old comes from my own memories, or television. But I'm pretty sure that being best friends with a Gillette 'Safety' Razor isn't the average experience.

The stress and pressure of exams however, is perfectly normal so I'm hoping you can all understand that part of this post. I'm also hoping you had a better way of dealing with it than me. Or at least a less destructive one.

Tuesday 18 August 2015

Smells Like Teen Angst

I'm going to skip forward a bit, age thirteen was more of the same; misery in school, misery at home and when it all got too much for me, I self harmed. Oh and at some point in there throw in some hormonal changes and just in case my self esteem happened to grow above rock bottom - acne.

Age fourteen is where I found my next milestone on the BPD path - self destruction. If you were a teenager(and I'm guessing you were), a some point you likely made friends will Rebellion. Whether it was smoking, staying out late or even just doing you best Kevin and Perry impression for a while. The kind of things that you might reminisce about in later year; or of you have children of your own you might find yourself uttering the dreaded "When I was your age...". But then there are the other kind of teenager, that girl your parents disapproved of because she was a bit too wild. The boy who made your parents 'thank their lucky stars' that all you did was get caught smoking. The one person in your group who always went one step too far; voted most likely to pass out in her own vomit at a house party. Not all of these ruffians have BPD, but in the case of this miscreant, I did.

When I started second year in school it wasn't all bad. I managed to find a group of friends, a strangely diverse group of girls who ranged from Westlife fans to Marilyn Manson worshipers. And yet, it worked. From what I remember of that year in school it was the most enjoyable out of them all. I wish I could regale you with humorous anecdotes, but at age fourteen I decided that the self harming was no longer enough to hold back the pain inside of me. So I started drinking, with gusto. I stole spirits from the house, topping bottles up with water. I discovered which shops would serve me alcohol without asking for ID. When my mum and stepdad had dinner parties I would search the table for half drunk glasses of wine, and dregs of whiskey. I was desperately trying, and failing, to dull the ache, when everything shifted.

Even now, looking back at that time of my life as (somewhat) mature adult, I struggle to with what happened next. Regardless, will do my best to try and explain it. At fourteen, although I was unaware of it, I was exhibiting many of the traits associated with borderline personality disorder - self harm, substance abuse, mood swings. I had spent so long feeling unwanted, feeling that I was damaged in some way that I had almost completely isolated myself. So when I found myself welcomed by this group of people, people who didn't seem to notice that I was broken; people who all had unique, interesting personalities; I realised that I didn't have much of a personality. MY sense of self had become so distorted that I had no idea who I was. I was terrified that these lovely people, my friends, would quickly realise how dull, and empty I was and leave me(that would be the fear of abandonment trait).

I don't think it was a conscious decision, and even if it was, there was no malice behind it. It was almost an automatic response, to simply start picking up pieces of other people and sticking them to myself. It was easier with one person, but in a group it was harder. I either shrunk myself down or pulled in too many bits of everyone and became too loud, too much. Even the clothes I wore were a costume, a t-shirt to match girl A, the trousers girl B would wear, the dog collar girl C would wear. I talked about the Backstreet Boys with one, and Marilyn Manson with another. I watched them interact with outside people, trying to mimic the social skills I innately lacked. I was a living patchwork doll, made of stolen fabrics and sewn together with a jagged stitch.

This is behaviour is called the chameleon effect, or mirroring. It occurs regularly in normal life, for example in an interview, the job applicant will often subconsciously mirror the body language of the interviewer. In my case, I was trying desperately to ensure that my new friends didn't reject me. I had felt so lonely for so long that I would have done anything not to be abandoned again. I made myself into the person I thought they would like, and everyday was like stepping into a body suit. I'm sure it any of these women read this they would have no idea what I was talking about. Although perhaps one or two would nod their heads knowingly. While I meant to harm to anyone, in fact the opposite was the case, my deceit is still a hard pill to swallow.

At the end of second year my mother and stepfather decided to move house, and with it I moved school. My depressive episodes were occurring more frequently, and more intensely. Miserable, alone and once again in unfamiliar surroundings, I didn't have the energy to try and fit in with a new set of people. I held onto the persona I had created, dragging myself through the weekdays until I could slot back into my group of friends at the weekend.

Over time I shed my false skin and slowly my own personality emerged. I think due to the combination of spending my weekdays mostly alone, and slowly loosing touch with my old friends. There was no need for me to pretend, as there was nobody to pretend for. That isn't to say I liked the person I became, just the opposite. But that's for another post. Or fifty of them.

I can't say that I never mirrored anyone again, of course I have. But no more than anyone else does, and completely unintentionally. As Dolly Parton said
Find out who you are and do it on purpose

Friday 14 August 2015

Origins

I am not going to go into too much detail about my early years; I have no desire to upset the people I love with past mistakes, and also it would bore you senseless. However there are some things you need to know for my story to make sense.

I am the oldest child in my family, and in the beginning it was just me and my baby sister. I was not popular in primary school, nor unpopular. I was just one of those kids who landed somewhere in the middle - I was never excluded from games and parties,but I preferred the company of a book. When I think back to being in primary school, the strongest image is of the small library. A place of endless worlds to crawl into, they were and still are a wonderful escape from reality.

I have few memories before the age of seven, and their reliability is questionable, given how future experiences can colour our recollections of the past. But there is never a sense of my parents being happy and in love. I know there was love in my life, my parents loved me, my grandparents loved me and by all accounts I loved being a big sister. But my parents always exist separately in my mind. When I was six they separated, and thus began the worst dissolution of a marriage in recorded history(with the exception of murder, beheading, and child abduction of course). Perhaps your parents marriage crumbled too, and you would argue that my experience was nothing in comparison. But that's the thing, our experience of these events is relative to the world as we see it. So for me, in my world at that time, I can say it was the worst divorce ever. I remember being afraid, worried, confused, and a lot of the time it felt that I was being torn in half. My world was a place of anger, of instability, and most of all it was a place where I had no control.

This turbulent and volatile situation continued for years, and although nobody would know it at the time, it would forever change me. By the time I was 11 I had picked up a half brother(from my dad), a step-sister and a step-dad(mum). This time I'm not going to pull any punches; my step-dad did not want me. I will never believe otherwise, no matter what anyone says. By the time he came into my life I was definitely a little bit weird. I did not have the bubbly and loveable demeanor of my sister. I was sullen and withdrawn, my universe was growing ever darker and it was starting to show. Along with my new home came a new school, and I went from drifting in the middle to the bottom of the pack. In both of my parents homes I felt unwanted; in school I was unwanted. There is only one conclusion I could come to: I was the problem.

Upstairs bathroom. Soft cream carpet. Nail scissors. Relief.

That's all I can recollect from the first time I self harmed. I was twelve. I don't know where I got the idea to try it. I can't remember what prompted it, why I locked myself in that bathroom and scratched those tiny scissors across my arm over and over. All I know is that I did it and just like that I was hooked. As I sit here typing this, I want to reach back through time and rip the scissors from my hands before the ever touched my unblemished skin. I don't know what I would say to soothe my younger self; eighteen years later and I still don't have right tools to cope when I feel like I am drowning in my emotions. But that day, that moment was the beginning of something that I can never escape. Even if one day I reach a point where I can say I will never cut, scratch, burn or hit myself again, I can never really move on. I can never forget that I hated myself so much, that I felt so low and so beaten down that I continually assaulted my own flesh. Some of the scars have faded with time, others I have been able to cover with tattoos - desperately trying to reclaim my body, to hide my shameful acts - but there will always be those that will never heal. They will stare up at me every day, elicit inquiring or repulsed glances from others. For the rest of my life I will be marked, damaged. For the rest of my life I will see that cream carpet.

I try not to be ashamed of my scars; they are a part of my story, a part of me. And yet, if I had the chance, I would wrap my arms around that twelve year old and tell her that she is not broken. That she does not need to hurt herself on the outside to try and quiet the chaos inside her. There are other choices, a different path to trod down. It may not be an easy one, but that moment of release will be just that, a moment. It will not stop whatever is causing the hurt inside you. That sense of control it gives you is a lie, you will be a slave to those sharp edges. I am thirty now, and sometimes, when I am looking at the destruction written across my arms with regret, I will be holding a razor blade. That is the sad truth of my life, I am always one bad second from that cream carpet.



Tuesday 11 August 2015

Before we begin...

Call me Ishmael.

Sorry, couldn't help myself, terribly cliched I know.

Before I ferry you up the river Acheron and into the depths of my mind, I need to reveal some basic information. As per my profile, I am a 30 year old female, and I live with my boyfriend and our two dogs. I am currently on long term sick leave from my job, in a bank, and when I was 18 I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.

The use of the term 'Borderline Personality Disorder' is debated by mental health professionals, and in recent years a new name for patients who meet the diagnostic criteria for BPD was introduced - emotionally unstable personality disorder. There is plenty of literature online about the history of the term BPD, and the reasons for a move towards EUPD. I have no psychiatric training so I can't tell you which is correct, but what I can tell you is that in my opinion as a patient, it makes absolutely no difference. They are just words, the name of the disorder has no bearing on the person diagnosed with it. But to keep things simple I am going to stick with BPD on this blog.

Another problem that surrounds BPD is whether or not it actually exists; many psychiatrist and psychologist insist that it doesn't. That in fact people diagnosed with BPD are just your average narcissistic fuck ups looking for an excuse for their bad choices. Some argue that a symptom of BPD is being a liar, thus making diagnosis even more difficult. I can't speak for anyone else but to the best of my knowledge I have never lied to my psychiatrists or psychologists. I have definitely omitted a few details, usually in the interest of getting out of hospital, or staying out of it. But since I was first diagnosed 12 years ago, and on the occasions I have had my diagnosis re-confirmed, I have spoken nothing but the truth about what happens in my brain. Well, the truth as I see it.

So I have borderline personality disorder. I have over the years exhibited all of the criteria/traits of the disorder, and continue to experience many of them today. I won't list the 'symptoms', as I'm sure you all know what Google is, but let me assure you I am a textbook case(of course I am, god forbid I be even 1% less troublesome - oh how I love my inner critic). So what does it mean to have this diagnosis? Nothing, it's just words. Words that doctors can write on the front of my files under 'Diagnosis'. For me, my diagnosis is only valuable for two reasons:

1) Because of those three words I have had access to therapies that help me with my particular problems. Cognitive behavioural therapy, dialectic behavioural therapy and more recently I have been linked in with a cognitive analytical therapist.
2) I know now that while there is nothing wrong with my brain, I process information and thoughts differently to most people. For example, if a friend cancels plans, you might be annoyed or disappointed, but you will probably not think much more of it and will continue on with your day. I might also be disappointed, but I will then spend hours wondering why they cancelled, and all roads will lead back to me. They don't really like me, they find me boring, I'm not worth their time, I am a terrible friend so of course they cancelled. Or I will decide that because this friend has let me down once, they will always do it again - there are no shades of grey in my world.

Other than that, my diagnosis is not important to me. Don't get me wrong, I am in complete agreement with it, I just don't think it matters what its called or how may doctors agree with its existence.

You might be wondering how my disorder came about. Google can fill you in on the multitude of theorised causes, and it is generally believed that someone with BPD has several contributing factors. In my case, I don't if I have a smaller hippocampus or if my cortisol levels are elevated, but I do know that experiences I had as a child are at least partly to blame. Stay tuned for 'Tales from Lisa's Crypt' at a latter date.

Okay, so I've given you some basic details on BPD and the Gods of Google can fill in the rest - prepare for big words, a lot of maybe's and even more contradictory studies. I could copy and paste all of the data into this post, but I don't think it will help you to understand me, or other people with BPD(or EUPD, whatever works). Sadly the technology to transfer consciousness from one brain to another hasn't been discovered yet, so I'll just have to do the best I can with words.

Every moment of our lives, our brain is processing data from the world around us. What we see, hear, touch...and that data passes through an invisible filter, composed of your experiences, memories and your beliefs - about yourself and others. Our thoughts, feelings and new memories are what come out of the other side of the filter and in they affect how you interact with the world. Because this filter is unique to every individual, we all have a different perception of reality, but for the most part our realities are not too far apart. However some people, for many different reasons, have a completely different filter. As someone with BPD, my filter is riddled with automatic, negative thinking styles that are different than most people. In general this means that my reality is dark, and cold and full of self loathing and doubt. In my world, I am nothing and I believe that everyone else feels the same. So everything you say to me I will twist, until it validates my existing beliefs, until it fits in with my reality. It is not intentional; your filter is just on different settings and most of the time you aren't even aware of it. I know you can learn to identify your dodgy filter settings, and then you can start to adjust your thoughts and see the data from a different, more balanced perspective. All of that takes time and a lot of work, but recovery is possible. And yet, you can't replace your filter. You will always have to be vigilant, scanning for those rogue BPD thoughts.

The final thing I want to tell you is that lifetime co-morbid conditions are highly likely in people with BPD. Only a minority of BPD patients have straightforward clinical presentation with no co-morbidity. I fall into the majority category(typical me *sigh*). Which leads me to the end of this fact finding essay; My name is Lisa, I have Borderline Personality Disorder with co-morbid mood instability, recurring clinical depression, anxiety and eating disorder not otherwise specified. Oh, and I'm a self harmer with a fondness for suicidal ideation and attempts.

And if you've made it this far, I applaud your tenacity and thank you for sticking with me. Now that all the boring stuff is out of the way, I can tell you some probably boring insights into how I came to be me. Fucked up, Insecure, Neurotic, Emotional me. Hands up how many people are sick of hearing that when you tell someone you're fine? It means good, that's all. Or if you are American and referring to the opposite sex, it means attractive i.e. 'Damn b*tch you is fiiiiine*

Until next time boys and ghouls x

Monday 10 August 2015

Recovery

Good Morning cyberspace,

Apologies for the lack of posting, I have been back home for just over a week, after spending 60 days as an inpatient on an eating disorder program. Luckily, they managed to correct all of my negative coping strategies, change my outlook on life and make me an all round happier person.

I know, sarcasm is the lowest for of wit. Shame on me.

If I am honest with you, the main thing they did while I was in hospital was to feed me. Three meals, three snack and two deserts a day. Plus glasses of juice and milk. The aim was for me to gain 0.8-1kgs a week, and they accomplished that. My blood work is all back to normal and my BMI is just at the healthy limit. All good things, but how do you keep up with such a regime when you are back home? Back home, and in my case, alone for the majority of the day. It might seem to you to be simply a question of wanting to get better; I sought out treatment for my eating disorder so I should want to keep going forward, keep eating.

The reality is, my eating disorder is a powerful thing. It has overpowered me regularly over the last 8 years, and for the last year it has been in complete control. And totalitarian dictators do not relinquish their thrones gracefully, or without one hell of a fight. So unfortunately, after completing my second ED program, I am not suddenly 'cured', and for the present time I have been left on my own by my psychiatric services.

But the way I look at it, I have two choices: I can give up entirely right now, let the ED and BPD go back to running the show and watch my body and mind crumble away again. Or I take a breath, do what I can to push back the ED, and try and figure out where this all came from. Because maybe, just maybe, if I know why I ended up this way, I can change the outcome.

There is no guarantee this will work, but life itself isn't a guarantee. The only thing we can be sure of in our lives is that at some point, it will come to a stop. So I have nothing to lose by trying.

I am going to try and post every second day, to begin with these posts will be about how I got here, followed by some pseudo psychological introspection, and all going well, we will come to the present. To my recovery, in the hopes that someone will see this, see how many wrong turns I took and make a different choice.