Borderline

By the time I had my first appointment with the college psychiatrist, my mental health had declined to the point that every area of my life was affected. I was failing all of my subjects in college, I no longer attended lectures and struggled to focus on even the simplest aspects of my coursework. Sitting down and reading a text book was impossible - after about five minutes my mind would drift away and I couldn't even remember the paragraph I had managed to read. At home I had completely isolated myself, spending most of my time alone in my room, a stranger in my own family. I was self harming almost daily, having graduated to scalpels and burning myself. Whenever possible I would drink myself stupid to quiet the thoughts that slammed angrily inside my head, and dull the constant ache in my chest.

I had no expectations as I sat in the waiting room that day, my last encounter with the counselor had left me convinced I was a lost cause. I remember very little of what happened that day, I know I answered a seemingly inexhaustible supply of questions, posed by a smiling man with a calm voice, and colourful socks. Don't ask me why the socks stood out to me, I assume it's because they were the focal point of my permanently downcast gaze. I remember leaving with nothing but a time for the next appointment, but it's more likely that I was also started on medication that day. An antidepressant(Effexor), a mood stabiliser(Lamictal) and Xanax for my anxiety. I returned to see the psychiatrist several times and my dosages were slowly increased, as my symptoms showed no signs of abating. At one of these appointments I was told I have Borderline Personality Disorder. Like most people, I knew nothing about personality disorders, although the words immediately brought to mind the film Girl, Interrupted. My behaviours(promiscuity, impulsivity, mood instability, self harm to name a few) were all explained by this diagnosis, but I was cautioned to do no research into it, as apparently this can lead to patients developing more negative aspects of the disorder. Amazingly, for once, I did as I was told.

I wish I could tell you that I felt a sense of relief, having a name for all of the pain and torment. That finally having someone listen to me, and try and help me gave me a sense of hope. But it didn't, in fact it had the opposite effect. I kept waiting, and waiting for these magical pills to work. But they didn't. Up and up the dosage went, and down and down I went.

I was home alone the first time. Sitting on the bathroom floor, I pressed the blade as hard as I could to my right wrist and dragged it across. There was a split second, a pause in the fabric of time, and then there was blood everywhere. I remember worrying about the mess, that my mother would be cross if I stained the floor, so I crawled into the shower. I took a deep breathe, and took the scalpel with my right hand. But my fingers couldn't grip the handle properly, and my hand was weak. I was frantic, desperately trying to stab at my left wrist and failing to cut deep enough. The scalpel slipped from my bloody hand and I started to cry. I hadn't cried until then, until the moment I knew I wasn't going to die. I had done my research, it was unlikely one slit wrist would bleed enough to kill me, and I was physically unable to tear open the other one. When you try to kill yourself, most of the time you are very calm. It's as if making the decision to end your suffering finally quiets the noise in your head. It is usually methodical, and sometimes accompanied by a sense of relief. It isn't always that way, but it was for me that night. SO when I realised my plan wasn't going to work, I crumbled. I lay curled on the shower floor, sobbing, bleeding, and feeling more broken than ever.

Then the strangest thing happened, like a switch had been flicked, everything stopped. I felt nothing, I was still, my mind was silent. I know now this is called disassociation, and over the years it has become my favourite party trick. Calm now, I wrapped a towel around my right wrist and stepped out of the shower. I took off my bloodied clothes and walked to my wardrobe and dressed. I checked my purse, and then called a taxi. I asked the driver to take me to the nearest A&E, as I had cut my wrist. He politely asked me not to bleed on his seats. I laughed.

In the hospital they saw me quickly. Yes, I had tried to kill myself, but my hand wouldn't work so I couldn't finish the job. Oh I nicked a tendon?

I laughed some more.

Yes, I am on medication. Yes I have a psychiatrist. Of course I will ring him tomorrow. No, I have absolutely no plans to hurt myself again.

Stitches in both wrists. The nurse, scolding, shaking her head at the patchwork of cuts up and down my arms. I watched it all from a distance, nodding occasionally. I'm too pretty to be doing this to myself? I laughed some more. Then, suitably chastised and bandaged I was free to go. I walked home. When I got there I immediately cleaned the bathroom, removing any trace of my failure from sight. Clothes and towels were washed. Then I climbed into bed and that was that. My first suicide attempt was done, and nobody would have to find out. Everything was fine.

Until tomorrow turned into today.

I was home alone the second time.