Guess What…I’ve Been Behaving Like a Borderline!
All weekend I spent time processing the implications of being a borderline. Now, that’s kind of screwy because I’ve been living with it for 40 years, but now that I have a name for it, I view it differently. Right now, it is classified as a mental illness, but in May 2013, new guidelines will be published regarding what is and isn’t a mental illness. BPD will not be classified as a mental illness anymore.
I wonder if that’s because many therapists don’t like working with borderlines. Anyhoo, if you’re a borderline, live it up because in three months you won’t be “mentally ill” anymore. I’m betting that doesn’t decrease my feelings of inferiority one bit.
I have gotten woefully off-track with what I had planned to write. I decided to tell a very close friend, and my younger sister that I had been diagnosed with BPD. I thought they were the two most likely people to be supportive outside of my immediate family (although my kids have made no response to my email telling them about it.) I’ve heard nothing from my friend or my sister.
No response from these people who mean so much to me has, of course, made me start running all the scenarios through my mind. They’re tired of me, they don’t want to deal with me, and they never cared that much anyway. I mean, there’s nothing lovable about me, right?
To compound my insecurity, I have been reading articles about the treatment for BPD and ran across one article that described to a T what my therapist has been doing. So, he hasn’t meant anything positive that he’s said about me as a person–he’s just following the protocol for treatment.
My mind is my worst enemy. It’s horrible to have one part of your body that works so hard against the rest of your body. I have so many self-inflicted defensive wounds; years’ worth.
So I won’t be telling anyone else I know about my BPD. I don’t need anymore rejection. When I told my husband all this today, he said, very kindly, “You’re responding just like a borderline.” What he doesn’t realize is the torment that puts me through.
Some scientist created a pair of glasses with tiny little speakers that he could program to simulate how he felt during his schizophrenic episodes. It was eerie. I wish I could create something that would let someone know how a borderline feels during a 24-hour period.
The phrase, “walk a mile in my shoes” has never been more apropos.