This cruel diagnosis

Over the last fortnight I have spent a lot of time thinking about my diagnosis. After an appointment with the psych doctor about a new medication, I was sent the letter which was also sent to my GP, and written at the top was ‘Diagnosis: Emotionally Unstable Personality Disorder’ with some extra words and letters that I can’t currently recall. I knew I had EUPD, also known as BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder), I have known for about a year and a half officially but have had the symptoms for 6+ years.

To me it feels like a really cruel disorder because it is all grey areas. No two BPD patients will have the same symptoms, but we are characterised by a general total lack of mental stability. Fast changing moods, lack of logic, irresponsible and destructive behaviour, depression, anxiety, anger. We all have a flurry of these symptoms which represent themselves in different ways, with the shared factor of not having any stability within ourselves. I know many people would say that it isn’t a symptom of EUPD to be unstable and is in fact a symptom of life, but those people would also be able to describe who they are. They would be able to describe a day in one or two emotional mood states, and they would struggle to understand being euphoric one minute and wildly self-harming the next, and for that to be normal. I have a disorder which is defined by emotional instability. I have an unstable personality. I am not entirely sure how I am meant to accept that. What is my personality and what is a disorder? Is it ever possible to differentiate between the two, or am I going to have to spend my life accepting that because EUPD lives in the grey parts of mental health issues, I am stuck feeling like a horrible amalgamation of symptoms and crumbing human.

I don’t remember how it feels to not think like this, but I am aware that there were days before EUPD. When I was 14 I think I was fairly normal, a slightly odd sense of humour perhaps but which 14 year old isn’t a bit too giggly? I had a constant state. I had a ‘normal’, and I no longer know what my ‘normal’ state is. Most people seem to be able to function on what seems to be an autopilot emotional setting, where they are capable of getting on with daily tasks. They may sometimes feel said or nervous or happy, but they are also functioning. Yet with no stimulus I am rendered incapable of performing basic tasks purely because my mind randomly gives up, or randomly throws at me so much self-hate that it makes me genuinely believe I deserve to be physically tortured, then suddenly I am euphorically happy and laughing at how funny and lovely the world is even though I may still have blood dripping down me from the self-mutilation.

When I first took an overdose, I was beaming with happiness. I don’t remember many moments in my life when I was that happy, but that day I remember no fear, no sadness, just pure joy at the knowledge that within a handful of hours I would never have to experience my unstable personality again. I have since failed to take my own life more times than I can count on my hands, and it seems like there could be no other diagnosis to give me. I have an unstable personality, and it has such a prominent effect on my life that it is a disorder. My emotions have no stability, and no relationship or therapy or medication has yet managed to stabilise me, because it is deeper than that. I didn’t develop right, and that is difficult to be fixed. I am not sure how you fix a person who is chronically emotionally unstable.

I am constantly trying to come to terms with my disorder because if I can manage too for just a few seconds then I might be able to forgive myself for all the pain I have put myself through. Until that day I will continue to feel like the victim and the criminal at the same time; simultaneously desperate to look after the hurt, terrified human and wanting to punish the human who put me through that much pain, wanting to hurt the human who’s fault my pain is. Being both of those humans is constant hell, and for that reason I feel like EUPD is an incredibly cruel disorder. The harsh reality is that I may die by my own hand, with the other hand desperately reaching out for help and to be loved, because I have no idea how to save myself. 

Silver Lining

I’m weirdly happy. Its weird because the last week has been really, really tough. Today I had to go to work even though I’m ill and did a 13 hour shift yesterday. MY BPD has been so obvious and it feels like its holding the remote at the moment, but alongside that, I have also had an amazing week. I’ve laughed harder than I remember doing in months, laughed until I cried. I am falling further in love every day, with the most wonderful man I’ve ever met. Despite problems I am holding down my job, and I can appreciate the good parts of it alongside the parts I currently find unbearable. I started self-harming yet again, fairly badly, but I also stopped and didn’t inflict lasting injury. I’m still standing, I’m not in hospital, and ultimately I am still here and still able to smile.

It is hard to describe how strange it is to be incredibly happy and massively struggling, but somehow I am. It’s as if this week were impossible, but my boyfriend has stood beside me reminding me that he believe in me and that he loves me for everything that I am….and somehow it makes me strong enough to be better than I would have been without him. I don’t need another person, I can do this on my own. Yet having another person so close really does make my world brighter; suddenly my future has a far bigger smile in it. 

Exhaustion.

I haven’t written anything for a few weeks, and honestly it’s because I don’t know what to say anymore. It is exhausting being the human that I am; I understand that life is hard, I get that, but for the last few weeks my borderline symptoms have got worse and I’ve hand multiple mental health episodes every day. By that I mean constantly cycling between euphoric happiness, overwhelming anxiety, complete dissociation (feeling numb, no emotions), inwards anger, and overwhelming suicidal feelings. There is no normal, there is no rest. Currently it’s the anxiety, which doesn’t mean I’m nervous, it means my heart won’t slow down, my head feels like its being squeezed, my breathing is shallow, and my head has been pumped with fear so that anything I actually need to process seems like too much, too confusing and hard, and nothing quite makes sense. I would have to put a lot of concentration into upholding a normal conversation, and each of the sentences I type I have to re-type because of how many words I am repeating without noticing it.

I’ve barely slept for more than an hour at a time, I keep waking up shaking or terrified, I’ve relapsed with self-harm and I am almost constantly shaking. I worry about any time I have to spend on my own because I can’t trust that I won’t hurt myself or worse. I am never sure where my day is going to take me and how long it is until I fall weakness to complete self-destruction. These things are all my ‘normal’; this is the base off which I have to deal with the other daily stresses that all humans face. Money problems, hating my new job, needing more hours in a day, worrying about the people around me, trying to eat properly and exercise enough, whilst training for 2 national competitions and a performance. I don’t have a solid floor off which to deal with these things so it feels like all of it is toppling, its all a balancing act which I am very bad at, and even though everything is falling out of place I still need to look like I’m holding it all under control.

So I have barely written anything recently, because honestly, I’m exhausted. By the end of last year I was ready to fight, to turn up to events that I was terrified of, ready to leave my comfort zone behind and be the human that I have worked so hard to be even though I have barely got anywhere. Yet now I feel like I’ve gone back in time 6 months. I haven’t given up, there is just a very long way to go, and if it weren’t for my incredible partner, it would be impossible, but I’ve got him and I am not quite done with this planet yet. Though in another hour, everything may have changed. I am exhausted. 

Cruelty

It’s a harsh moment, when you are reminded that you have absolutely no control at all. I thought if I tried hard enough, spent enough hours, did enough writing, enough hoping, enough self-care, enough hours looking at the darkest, shittiest parts of my personality and life, then I would be able to come out of the other side alive. I thought, for a few weeks, that I was the one in ultimate control.

But I am not and this is all some stupid, and incredibly evil joke. Why don’t you imagine a future for yourself, sweetie? Imagine yourself with a job you might actually be passionate about? Let yourself have a bit of time where you ACTUALLY BELIEVE that you are going to get out of this life naturally rather than your own hand? Oooh, this will make it fun; why don’t I let you start falling in love again?

Then nothing is going to change apart from a tiny reminder that you are a poisonous, manipulative, horrible, piece of this world. Maybe I didn’t manage to die by my own hand because I deserve so much worse than death; I deserve the torture of living like this until I finally still end up killing myself and leaving the people around me to deal with that. Well I hope the torture is quick and the end is soon. 

A moment of calm

I don’t want to die anymore. I mean really, honestly. I am not saying I have a sudden overwhelming rush for being alive, but calmly, quietly, seeping in through little cracks in the sides of my thoughts and conscience, is a desire to not be dead. I have a desire to distance myself from death, to walk away and to not go into its arms, not for decades at least. I have spent about 6 years of my life being overwhelmingly obsessed by death. When I see writing about grief, about people who they have lost, my head automatically connects me to the person who has gone. I have always felt like I am already gone, clinging onto a body and a beating heart but desperate to be elsewhere.

Now I don’t feel like I’m clinging to anything. I’m not swimming upstream anymore, instead I just feel like a person. I am lucky to be alive, lucky to be supported, lucky to be loved. When people talk about grief and death, for once, I feel like I am on the side of the person grieving. I am one of the millions of people left on this planet after the horrible impact of death taking away the people we love. I know life is really hard but for once, I don’t want to quit. I am sure I will cry, probably a lot. I will scream, I will feel totally helpless. I will dissociate, I will probably fail to recognise people I love, and I might even hurt myself. I am not ignoring my issues; I know that they are still there, and that I am not yet in control of them. That doesn’t mean I can’t accept them a little bit, and accept that life is going to sometimes feel impossible, but it is still my life. It’s the only one I am going to get, I can’t change my brain, but I can let myself survive it. On a possibly bigger scale, I can stop the people I care about from having to deal with losing someone. I may not understand why they would rather keep me around, but that part is not my choice to make.

I want this to go away, but I don’t want it to go because all of me is gone. I think part of me is worth an entire life. 

Deadly elephant in the room.

Trying to recover from a mental illness with heavy suicidal ideation feels a bit like having a man with a gun sat next to you, having to ignore him constantly. Sometimes he just sits quietly, gun in his pocket. He might as well not be there because you are used to this presence.

Tonight it feels like he has his hand on the trigger and the gun pushed against my head, but the only thing I can do to not die is carry on with my life, try and distract myself from the threat, try not to think about it. It is an impossible thing not to think about yet still I have to stay calm and pretend it doesn’t feel like I will be dead by morning.

It is nice when people ask how I’m doing, I mean really ask, as if they care rather than out of politeness, because when there is a man with a gun to your head it feels good to have a friend care. It is a bit like the elephant in the room to me, but it’s the man with a gun instead, and if everyone ignores him then it is hard for me to ignore him because he demands attention. If other people mention him then they give me an outlet and I can use up my mental capacity on a thought other than how close his finger is to the trigger.

I used to be scared all the time, and nowadays I am scared 40% of the time not 100%, which is great. But when I am scared it is no less terrifying, and in some ways the danger is no less present. I am doing better, I can see that, but in the moments where suicide is breathing down my neck, he is as close as he has ever been and the rope still feels like it’s by my fingertips.

I hope one day I can live a life where I get through entire days without the man putting his finger on the trigger and the gun to my head. I have come so far, but I still have a long way to go until I feel safe from the risk.

Improvement.

Recovery is strangely difficult to see sometimes. We are all aiming for perfect; physically, mentally, socially, and sometimes I think we forget that recovery doesn’t mean becoming perfect, it means becoming who we are meant to be without the disorder. It means becoming safe and a bit more capable. It means being less ill.

At the beginning of this year I was incredibly unwell, mentally. There was a period of time where I tried to take my own life multiple times per week. There was one 48 hour slot where I overdosed, was hospitalised, tried to throw myself off a cliff, self-harmed, tried to suffocate myself, physically beat myself up, and tried to knock myself out. Now it is strange to think back to that; it was a time where I actually wasn’t okay 100% of the time. Every minute of every day was unbearable and impossible, and I legitimately wasn’t myself for a long time. Between January and April I was barely recognisable to myself, when I look back at things I wrote back then in notes and emails to myself they don’t even make complete sense. I could structure a sentence but everything I was saying was based on twisted and disillusioned thoughts rather than my reality. I lost myself at the beginning of this year.

I am not saying I am better, I am aware that I am far from it. But today, looking back at the last 3 months, I am more myself than I was at the beginning of this year. I have tried to take my own life twice in 3 months, only one of them ended in hospital, the other ended with the police. I have self-harmed but only for one awful 48 hour period, and not before or since. In three months. That, actually, for me, is fairly incredible. I am proud to say that I have tried to take my own life twice in 3 months because that is far fewer times than it once was in 24 hours. It’s not perfect, but I am not aiming for perfect, I am aiming for a bit of stability. One day I will be able to write a post about how I haven’t tried to take my own life for three months, then years, perhaps one day 3 decades. And it is amazing that I believe that one day I will be able to write that, because 8 months ago I truly didn’t believe I was capable of any sort of future.

Well today I am here, I am safe, I am loved and cared for, and I am capable of having a future. In my own little way in my own little world, that is a massive step towards recovery.