Treatment

I was discharged from hospital at the end of September 2014, after 8 weeks. During my stay, I had discovered the addictive high of starvation, self harmed repeatedly, and attempted suicide. At times my despair reached such devastating levels that I took to hiding in the tiny wardrobe in my room; this happened so often the consultant had to issue a note to the ward staff that I was allowed to use the wardrobe to manage my distress. At one point he suggested I purchase a cape, to offer comfort when I was out of my room; thankfully I had just enough sanity left to decline the recommendation. Sobbing in wardrobes was one thing, creeping around a psychiatric wars in a hooded cape was a bit to Phantom of the Opera for me.

When I was discharged, I was not 'cured'. My depression hadn't lifted and my eating disorder was stronger than ever; but as is often the case with BPD patients, they simply ran out of patience and solutions to my problems. In my experience there are two reasons why this happens. One is that the doctors and nurses begin to suspect you are lying about, or exaggerating your symptoms. The idea that lying is a characteristic of BPD is not universally accepted by professionals, and it is my biggest problem with my diagnosis. I have never exaggerated about my emotional state, thoughts or destructive urges. In fact the only time I have lied about my depression, is when I want to leave A&E and avoid a psychiatry referral. I have lied because I know the nurse sitting opposite me thinks I am a nuisance; or to stay out of hospital. Certainly not to seek attention or acquire a ticket to a mental hospital. Disclaimer: when it comes to my ED, I lie more than a banker at a tribunal. More on that later.

I returned home, back to the very kind and tolerant embrace of my local mental health team. Over the next few months I attended a day hospital as an outpatient, ended up in A&E six times for serious self harm injuries and more suicide attempts. I barely slept, barely ate...time kept moving but I remained rooted in the same painful spot. Large portions of my life during that time are lost to me, perhaps because I didn't have a life to remember, I just existed. Moving reluctantly from one day to the next with no destination. The only thing I had in my life that I could cling to was my new friend, restriction. That's what I remember most from that time, restricting all day until my boyfriend came home, and then throwing up after dinner. I structured my days around what I could eat, what I would purge and perfecting the art of lying so that nobody knew the full extent of the problem. Because it wasn't a problem, it was the only thing that got me through the day. If it wasn't for my eating disorder I would have been dead already. It was the only thing I had that brought me any peace, and I felt fiercely resentful of all attempts to take it from me. As I've said before, it became my best friend.

Sure my new BFF came with some downsides; I was cold all day, everyday. My joints ached, my skin and hair was dry and my gums throbbed from all of the acid. Then my white blood cells started dropping, and dropping and dropping...when it was decided that my immune system was compromised, my doctor took charge. I was once again referred for treatment of my eating disorder, but this time it was to a private residential facility.