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

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.

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

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.

Fear

I have been in hospital now for several weeks, on an eating disorder programme. My insurance runs out in 11 days and I will return home, to continue my recovery journey on my own. Being in hospital, eating is not a choice. There are nurses that sit over you, making sure you way every meal, drink every glass of milk, limit physical activity and keep you away from the bathroom after eating. In the real world, I will have to do this work myself. I wish I could tell you that I have been reborn, that I no longer obsess of every morsel that passes my lips. That I don't have nightmares about weighing scales and clothing labels.

But that is simply not the case.

I am still repulsed by food, repulsed and yet obsessed by it. Rationally, I know it takes a certain about of madness to be afraid of a piece of toast. To want to run from a potato. To feel a stab of pain as the numbers creep up at every weigh in. When I look down at my thighs, I swear they have doubled in size already. I have taken to hiding my body under loose tops because I am ashamed of how plump I look. Because if I don't hide myself away, I will spend the day pulling and pinching the flesh on my hips and sides, providing myself with 'evidence' of how fat I have become.

The simple fact is, that I hate the body I live in. I can't remember a time that I didn't, and there is no quick fix for that. There is no word, no pill, nothing anyone else can give me to change it. The very notion of loving my body, or even accepting it, is alien to me. I feel at times like a petulant child, throwing a tantrum because I cannot have the toy I want. Except instead of a toy, I want a different body. I want one that looks like women in magazines and movies, to be long and lean and yet still have perfect, voluptuous breasts. I want recovery from my eating disorder, but I want a full body make over to go with it.

The hardest thing for me to accept is that my body is the way it is, and it is not long and lean. Starving myself did not change that fact, because I cannot change my basic physiology. How do you learn to accept yourself when you have spent your entire life wishing to be someone else?

My friends and family are happy with my progress, they are every kilo as a victory. For me, every kilo is a defeat. Not because I am gaining weight, although that voice in my head rages everytime I step on the scales, but because I am still waiting for the penny to drop. To wake up one day and realise that my body is okay, and I don't want to take a scalpel and carve out the excess flesh.

So yes, I can eat. I can chew and swallow and keep the food down. But I hate every second of it, and some days it feels like that will never change. That I will always be eating against my will, that this is my life now. I will never be happy just the way I am

And that scares me more than toast.

Sparks

Apologies if this post is somewhat disjointed or rambling, but I need to get these words down while they are still fresh in my mind. Five minutes ago, while speaking to a nurse, I said 'Life is too short for this'

I have whittled my life down to nothing but numbers and scar tissue; numbers on a scales, clothing labels, food packets consume my days. In darker moments it's sharp edges and torn skin, or handfuls of pills. That is my world now, to the detriment of all else. I have let relationships fall away; interests and pleasures dissolve into nothing; and worst of all I have almost allowed myself to completely disappear. The emptiness inside me had grown so big that I felt there was nothing left for me but death. As recent as two days ago, that void nearly pulled me in. But it didn't, I fought back. At the time I didn't know why I was doing it, I cursed myself for my weakness. The voices howled at me, raged inside my head. Even as I type this, the thoughts are trying to push their way in, as I knew they would. Because I realised something this afternoon, something important, something they will try and take from me.

I have nothing to lose by trying one more time, but everything to gain

I am not happy as I am, counting and starving and cutting haven't made me happy. Reaching 50kgs did not make me happy, and reaching 49 won't make me happy. It is possible that I will give my all to this programme, and fail. I will most certainly stumble along the way. But if at the end of it, nothing has changed, then I haven't lost anything. But what if, at the end, and understand that I believe my recovery will be a lifelong challenge, there is no easy fix. What if I can make my life more than numbers, what if I can make my life anything I choose it to be? What if I could be someone who has amazing days, bad days, nothing days, average days, fat days, comfort days? What if I could have a lifetime of days, each different from the next in some way, each one a day lived. In trying, there is possibility. Maybe some days all I will achieve is to get out of bed and get dressed, and I know there will be plenty of days ahead like that. But there are so many other day's that I could have.

I have given so much of myself to my illness, I have let it rob me of so many moments that I can never get back. But maybe, just maybe, I can take back what is mine and use whatever time I have left on this earth as best as I can. The good, the bad, and the really fucking ugly.

Tomorrow I might not feel so sure of myself, but I will know that I have chosen to remain in the fight for a little bit longer. I can look back at this post and know that somewhere, buried beneath all that pain, is a spark.

And that's all I need. Just one little spark to light the way.

One is the loudest number...

I have spent most of the last four days in hospital alone, even during those rare times when I am in room with other people, I have been completely alone. Alone with my own thoughts, and my longest standing companions - the eating disorder voice and the borderline/emotional voice. I have been alone with them before, many times; but here, in this place, this now I am in, I am actively trying to distance myself from them. Push back those dark thoughts and sinister whispers, not find comfort in their familiar, safe notions. Every murmur from one or the other must be silenced, their cold caresses must be turned away. I can feel them there, prowling the borders of my conciousness and searching for a weak spot. They still find me in my dreams, but during waking hours I must reject them despite the loneliness that fills me.

In that loneliness, I wish I could tell you that I found my own voice, or some hidden reserve of strength and determination. Instead I have found a nothingness that scares me more than any cruel taunts from my old friends. I have had nothing to do but search for that one friend they say you should always believe in, yourself. Is it as I have long feared, that the creature that used to own this body is lost forever? That without my eating disorder, and my self loathing and hatred there is nothing left of the girl who once was. Who laughed easily, who loved deeply, who joyfully buried herself in books and film.

The longer I spend with myself, the more certain I am that I died long ago. I dig deeper and deeper, desperation clawing at my throat and clenching my heart until it seems to stop for a moment. As if it knows that if I loose my dark playmates, there will be nothing left to run this wretched, scarred shell it pulses inside. Here and there I find pieces of broken thoughts, breadcrumb trails that lead to old hurts now long forgotten and cold memories best left where they lay, in the past. The longer I am left to wander my own mind, fruitlessly, the harder it is to stand against that gentle caress of escape. If I keep looking and finding nothing, I don't think I could bear the knowledge that I had destroyed myself. For the quick kiss of a razor, or numbers on a scale. To have thrown it all away for such valueless things; to have allowed a life with its endless possibilities to become an existence; to have hurt myself more than any other. It would indeed be too big a burden.