**Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

Living Borderline

Diagnosis

Looking back, I was very emotional growing up, with the tiniest of stimuli provoking a

colossal wave of emotions within me. Any type of criticism or change in tone and behavior: an

incorrect homework question, being called out on mistakes, imperfections, acting differently

towards me, would leave me feeling unworthy. The velocity at which my emotions alternate

would leave you stunned. It’s like I’m on a twisting roller coaster with no restraints, with brutally

fluctuating feelings of despair, abandonment, rage, and many others. The most insignificant

actions of others would render me a victim to my own malicious mind. I lived with confusion as

to why I was so emotionally sensitive and reacted so intensely, when others seemed to be

normal. I learned much later that I was, and still am, suffering with borderline personality

disorder (BPD).

“Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is a serious mental illness characterized by

pervasive instability in moods, interpersonal relationships, self-image, and behavior.

This inability often disrupts family and work-life, long-term planning, and the

individual’s self-identity. Originally thought to be at the “borderline” of psychosis,

people with BPD suffer from a disorder of emotion regulation (Jackson and Westbrook

vii).”

I began researching my symptoms and found a therapist that recommended me to a

personality disorder specialist. After a few sessions with the specialist, she diagnosed me with
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

BPD and explained what this meant. I felt relieved that there was finally a name for my struggles

that truly seemed to fit. At the same time, the overwhelming feeling of what comes next and the

possibilities of recovery made me anxious about my future.

Borderline personality disorder is one of the most stigmatized, misunderstood, and

misdiagnosed mental illness, only affecting around 2% of the U.S. population. A person must

suffer from the majority of the 9 main symptoms of BPD: frantic efforts to avoid abandonment, a

pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships, identity disturbance, impulsivity (in at

least two areas), recurrent suicidal behavior, gestures, threats, or self-mutilating behavior,

emotional instability, chronic feelings of emptiness, inappropriate and intense anger or difficulty

controlling anger, and dissociation. After many sessions, and more research on BPD, I began to

better understand the emotions and behaviors I struggled with throughout my life.

Fear of Abandonment

Kelsey was my best friend for a couple years and although there were rocky times, I

always had her by my side. During our friendship I had attached myself to her, thinking that I

couldn’t live without her. This caused constant paranoia and fear of the possibility that she may

leave at any moment, and I’d be left a hollow shell of a human. I struggled greatly with

depression during our friendship and my overall mood was bitter, dismal, and highly irritable for

the most part. The only time I felt a tinge of happiness was when we would hang out together.
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

**Kelsey and I would sit in her stark-white jeep in a parking space at my neighborhood

park, smoking and hanging out like we usually do. Although I constantly carried the heavy

weight of depression, I talked and laughed, absorbing the good feelings of being with her. She

told me earlier that day that we could hang until 6 before she had to go back to her boyfriend’s

house. It was around 3, and we had just started packing another bowl to smoke when she told me

that she had to leave in the next 30 minutes to see her boyfriend. The tiniest bit of happiness I

felt was replaced with paranoia and anguish. The thoughts in my head immediately bombarded

me with their damaging torment. She doesn’t like being around you, that’s why she wants to

leave early. She’d rather be with anyone else than you. She only hangs with you because she

pities you; she doesn’t really like you. You aren’t likeable. She will leave you soon and you’ll

have no one. My heart started rapidly beating in my chest and a hot, thick cloud engulfed me.

Staring at the blood red bowl in my hand, I shakily reminded her that she said we could hang

until 6, but she just kept defending her change of plans. Her attitude changed and she became

annoyed, as if I have no right to be upset that she was ditching me. Her tone was dripping with

irritation and the increased volume of her voice flooded my insides, suffocating me. The change

in her demeanor hit me hard because to me, it proved that every negative thought I had was right.

This terrified me, but instead of feeling upset, I instantly felt mad, not just a small twinge of

frustration, but intense anger. An electric bolt of vicious energy propelled through every vein in

my body, triggering an overpowering amount of adrenaline to course through me. My hands

shook and every muscle in my body went rigid while I clamped my teeth together, emanating

pain in my jaw bones. I stared at her with fierce eyes and snapped, spewing vile words that I

would later regret. I violently spun away from her and got out, slamming the door shut so hard
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

that it rocked the car from the force. I carried the rage that burned in my blood for the rest of the

day, snarling at anyone that tried to talk to me.**

Unstable and Impulsive behavior

** While I was abroad in France, I decided to excessively drink while on antibiotics. At

around 3 in the morning, I was running in wedged heels and tripped over the curb of the

sidewalk, falling down in immense pain. I had to be taken to the hospital and was told that my

ankle was broken. I was terrified; I have always hated hospitals, and the fact that I was still very

drunk, and the language barrier between me and the doctors, caused me to panic. I managed to

decipher what the nurse was telling me, that my friend, who had to wait outside, had left, and I

immediately went into a frenzy of emotions.

I was left in a tiny clinical room at the hospital for what felt like hours, sobbing while my

panicking brain was yelling at me to get out. After peering outside the room and noticing the

empty corridors, I began to hop one-legged towards the exit. I braced as much of my body

weight against the walls as I could; my hands were plastered against the cool wall, desperately

trying to keep myself upright. My bad leg was bent at the knee, holding my broken ankle in the

air as it was too painful to walk on. With each hop, my hovering foot would rattle from the

movement, causing me to grimace and holler out in pain. Thick, hot tears cascaded down my

burning cheeks, blurring my vision and hindering my ability to breathe. Once the cool, fresh air

of the outside hit my skin, I fell to the ground. The tiny pieces of gravel cut into my palms as I
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

struggled to hold myself up. The nurses were running after me, trying to take me back into the

hospital, but all I could feel was pure fear of going back. A strange man, around 50 with a

balding head of grey hair, wanted to help me. He offered me a ride back to where I was staying,

and I took it, not thinking or caring of what this strange man could possibly do. **

** One night my depression was overbearingly strong, and the heavy feelings of sadness

and despair triggered dangerous thoughts. So, I started to eat and couldn’t seem to stop. I began

with eating a whole, shared bag of Cheetos. I leant back against my pillows as I repeatedly

shoved my hand into the bag and gobbled up fistfuls of orange sin. When the bag was empty, I

plucked out the thick pile-up of orange debris that was cemented to my teeth and sucked away

the orange stain on my fingers. I wanted to eat more, so I proceeded to eat three ham sandwiches,

mac and cheese, four turkey sticks, three cheese strings, and an entire box of chocolate digestive

biscuits.

Sometimes, I wouldn’t even realize how much I’ve eaten until all of the empty wrappers

were spread out across my bed, creating a display of sin. Once I got rid of the evidence, I rolled

into a fetal position on my side, clutching my aching stomach and closing my eyes tight, trying

to ignore the pain radiating throughout my body. My stomach would expand to an astonishing

size, straining against the tight material of my leggings. My esophagus felt blocked, as if all the

food I ate had piled up so high from my stomach that it clogged my throat. I could barely think,

solely concentrating on the painful screams of my body. I would always think that I could never

eat anything else and that I was done. Yet, once the pain started to ease and the overwhelming

feeling of nausea subsided, I started to think of more things that I’d like to eat. I’d then continue
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

to gorge myself further, until the excruciating pain returns, and I’m left immobile, begging for

the pain to go away.

The next day I’d feel terrible; my mind would yell at me that I’m fat and wouldn’t be

wanted by anyone. So, the next few days I’d barely eat anything, maybe a cereal bar or a tortilla.

I’d get migraines and ache all over, my body would feel weak, exhausted, and barely able to

function. The binging urge soon takes over, and thus, started a vicious cycle of binging and

restricting. **

Suicidal Behavior

One night when I was 19 years old, I made two of the worst decisions of my life; I

cheated on my boyfriend of 3 years, andreacting intensely to this mistake, I made the most

regretful, emotionally triggered reaction of my life.

** I was standing in my dorm room, staring into the endless bottle of my anti-anxiety

pills. My hands were sweating around the orange container, making the plastic a tad slippery

while I grasped it. Do it. You hurt him. You hurt him even though he loved you. All because of a

stupid drunken mistake. You’re a horrible person. You’re a disgusting human being. No one will

ever love you again.

The realization of those words in my mind startled me, and a murky, dense cloud

imprisoned me within its merciless arms. An embrace I’ve felt many times before. I parted my

lips and robotically brought the bottle to my mouth; barely a second passed before I threw my
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

head back, desperate to swallow as many of the dry pills as I could. They felt like condensed

chalk on my tongue, seeking all the moisture inside my mouth; they wouldn’t go down without a

fight. They stuck to the lining of my throat, as if clasping onto my esophagus to hinder their

journey into my system. Slow, ample tears fell from my eyes as panic radiated through my chest.

I noticed the glass of water I kept on my nightstand and ripped the lid off, guzzling as much

down as I could. I drank so rapidly that beads escaped my lips and dribbled down my busy,

gulping neck. The bottle was empty, but my stomach was full. I did it. **

I was hospitalized for a few days, bound to a bed attached to IV’s and monitors. I had to

have help to use the bathroom as the pills I took effected my motor skills. Throughout my stay at

the hospital I had to be watched 24/7, then I was moved to an inpatient psychiatric hospital for

10 days.

A Pattern of Intense and Unstable Relationships

I have two dads, one had adopted me when I was nearly 3 with my mom (I call him

papa), and the other I grew up with when she remarried (I call him dad). Papa didn’t spend much

time with us, and when my mum remarried and wanted to move us to England where our dad

lived, papa made a deal where he didn’t have to pay much in child support so that we could go.

Once we moved, I didn’t see papa much, maybe once a year, an occasional phone call on special

holidays and my birthday were about it.

 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

While growing up in England, my dad travelled a lot for work, going on business trips to

Hong Kong, Chicago, Australia, New Zealand, and many others. When I was in my early teens,

he grew to be distant, cold and almost isolated from us; he would pick fights with my mum, and I

would always defend her. After my adoption, I quickly became attached to my mother and have

always felt overly protective of her. She is so easy going and hates confrontation, so I knew that

she wouldn’t argue back. This urged my protective instincts to fight back for her when I felt that

she was being wrongfully attacked. I hated the way he would talk to us, especially my mum. He

soon learned that I could also be dominate and powerful and showed him that even though she

wouldn’t argue back, I sure as hell would.

** The air was dense with tension as my dad and I began our usual bickering. He spewed

his words out with power, expecting the waves of dominance he emitted to intimidate me. I

immediately fired back at him, radiating my own strength to show him that I’m unafraid. As a

last attempt of control, he advanced towards me with his 6’2, broad frame with a look of pure

rage. He was so close that I could see the deep creases in his face, a result of a constant, scowling

mask. I hated that he was looking down at me, making me feel small, so with fisted hands, I

stepped onto the plush cushion of the armchair behind me, allowing me to be of similar height to

return his unwavering glare. His shoulders were tense, and he clenched his jaw as he held back

what would probably have been regretful words. The adrenaline coursing through my body was

thrilling, yet terrifying. I held back unwanted tears as my fisted hands vibrated with electricity

and strength; begging me to use them. **

 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

Over the years, I could see the love he once had for my mother slowly diminish, and his

desire to be around his family grew thin. One summer, he decided to leave us and move to

Portugal, without even telling us goodbye. I don’t see either of my dad’s much, maybe once a

year, if that; besides the occasional phone call on my birthday, we hardly speak.

Chronic Feelings of Emptiness

Depression usually comes hand-in-hand with BPD and I am no exception. I have had my

fair share of depressive episodes, or “pits” as I like to call them. It’s as if the only emotions I am

able to feel are worthlessness, sadness, despair, and anger.

**I constantly wore a thick blanket of misery, carrying it around for so long that it started

to become a part of my skin, latching onto my body and never letting go. During one of my pits,

I’d spend days lying in bed, unbathed, binging or restricting, and having multiple episodes of

uncontrollable sobbing. I’d lie on my side with dirty, ratted hair and grimy clothes that I had no

energy to change. A colossal wave of sadness would hit me and take control of my mind and

body, causing a flood of tears to fall. I’d squeeze my eyes shut so tight that stars would break out

behind my lids. I’d take fistfuls of a blanket and crush it between my palms as immense sobs

wrecked through me and my body would convulse with each devastating wave. My face would

redden and get hot which caused my whole body to break out in a sweat. I’d sob for so long and

so hard that eventually no sound came out, and I just rocked myself back and forth on my side in

silent torment. My head would throb with pain after a while and I’d struggle to breathe through

my nose, so I’d occasionally take deep exasperated breaths to feed my lungs with oxygen. I’d
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

chant out loud all the negative thoughts I had about myself: you’re worthless. You’re unlovable.

You’re broken. You’re stupid. You’re ugly. You don’t deserve anyone or anything.**

Intense and Uncontrollable Anger

** I remember waiting for a doctor’s appointment and sitting there for 15 minutes after

my appointment time before being called and put in one of the rooms. I was waiting there for 30

more minutes; my irritation grew rapidly with each minute that went by. Why haven’t they seen

me yet? Why hasn’t someone come in to let me know what’s going on? Do they even know I’m in

here? Did they forget about me? Do they not care about me? All those negative thoughts fed my

anger further, building up a ball of rage inside my chest. I fisted my hands, digging my nails into

the palms that sparked a pleasurable pain. I started swinging my legs back and forth, kicking the

bed with my heels to cause a loud bang with each blow. I got up off the bed with a growl and

started ripping the paper sheet I was sitting on, destroying it and throwing it on the floor. I threw

the pillow against the wall and began to search through the cabinets and draws, taking out

various medical equipment and either stealing or breaking them. The adrenaline that was

rushing through my veins spurred on my destructiveness for a little while longer. I ended up

storming out of the doctor’s office before seeing anyone. It took a couple hours before that

bubble of rage inside my chest shrunk, reverting back to my normal level of anger I carried

around with me daily. **

 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

After this particular incident, I found out that the doctor I was supposed to see that day

made a request to not see me as a patient anymore. A reminder of my unstable behavior.

Recovery

Once I was diagnosed with BPD, I began dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) every week.

DBT is a cognitive-behavioral psychotherapy, it underlines the psychosocial component of

treatment. It utilizes a method for teaching skills to help handle the sudden and intense waves of

emotions. The four modules of DBT are: mindfulness, interpersonal effectiveness, distress

tolerance, and emotion regulation. I didn’t want to be so emotionally sensitive all the time, or get

so unnecessarily angry, or behave unstably. I felt this powerful need to get better and change my

lifestyle, so I committed to recovery and realized there was a lot of help for people like me.

I began by having to fill out a diary card for my emotions and behaviors during the week

so that my therapist and I could discuss it. She’d have me explain the reasoning behind my

thoughts, emotions and behaviors for that week, but only using facts. I couldn’t explain it from

an emotional place, I had to only use the facts of the situation to see if my emotional reaction and

behavior was justified. I found this difficult; I struggle to decipher between what thoughts are

rational, and what thoughts are the BPD.

I learned that my thoughts may sometimes be uncontrollable, but the way I feel about

them, and how I react to them, is completely under my control. By using the fact checking skills,

I was able to assess whether my emotional reaction is warranted or not. I did this on the doctor’s

appointment situation, and began by stating the facts: Medical appointments are never on time,
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

they know you’re waiting because they checked you in, everyone’s appointments were pushed

back, etc. Once stating all the facts, I decided that my emotional response and behavior was not

justified. After doing many of these, I began learning to fact check in the situation, instead of

after. If my mind is being bombarded by negative BPD thoughts and causing a turmoil of

emotions within me, I stop and analyze the facts. If it isn’t justified, I repeat the facts to myself,

rationalizing my mind and pushing out the negative BPD thoughts.

I started doing things I normally wouldn’t, talking to new people, raising my hand in

class, hanging out with people, eating three meals a day, going to the gym, etc. At first, I had to

force myself to do these things, having to fight the negative voices that are telling me that I’m

worthless. Even though I still have times where I struggle to do these things and I sometimes still

stay quiet in class and refuse to go out or talk to people, I recover from it quicker than I used to. I

began to think more rationally and with a ‘wise mind” rather than my ‘emotion mind’. Analyzing

situations and possible outcomes that help me process things that I normally would be triggered

by.

A proud moment in recovery for me was when I had this urge to reach out in some way

to my old best friend after we had a bad falling out and haven’t spoken in months. I would check

on her through her Twitter page and had an impulse to like one of her posts. Before doing so, I

asked myself, will I be okay with whatever response I get? Will I be okay if she decides to block

me, ignore me, or even message me to leave her alone? Usually I act without thinking, having

this sense of hope and expectation of the outcome and when it isn’t what I hoped for or expected,

I get triggered. This time, I analyzed all of the possible outcomes and decided that I will not

reach out to her if I know that I will be triggered by any of the outcomes. This kind of thinking is
 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

something new to me, it astonished me when it happened, and I am so proud to know that I am

capable of thinking in a rational and wise mind.

One thing that therapy has helped me with so far, is knowing that even if people do leave,

I’ll be okay. That even though you may lose a friend, or loved one, it doesn’t mean there is

anything wrong with you, or that you’re a bad person and destined to be alone. I learned that

when people leave, it doesn’t mean everything good in your life has left with them; that your

happiness, goals, confidence, and accomplishments don’t just disappear because of it. Everyday

I’m learning to handle the intense negative thoughts and emotions better. Every bad situation

doesn’t seem as hopeless as the last, and I find myself being able to control my emotions and

behaviors better each time.

I have researched many articles, books, and websites, with my therapist confirming that

BPD can be treated to the point where you no longer fall under the diagnoses. With motivation

and passion to get better, along with consistent therapy, the symptoms of BPD can dissipate. This

has given me hope that one day that I too, can no longer fall under the diagnosis of BPD and can

live a healthy, stable life.

 **Warning: Some content in this essay is sensitive**

Citations

Jackson, Marian H., and Westbrook, Linda F. Borderline Personality Disorder New Research.

Nova Science Publishers, 2009.