To Tell…or Not to Tell

by irenedavid

I can’t decide whether or not to tell my family of origin about being a borderline.  I’ve told my youngest sister, but no one else.  I’ve told some friends, but don’t think I’ll be telling any more.

When my BPD symptoms were at their worst, I, my husband and kids lived overseas and so my family of origin didn’t see much of my borderline behaviour.  They saw some, but they never knew about the gaping hole in my soul that made me hate myself and convinced me that God didn’t like me, either.  They didn’t know very much about the depression.  I don’t much talk to any of my siblings these days; haven’t for the last few years.

I keep reading how much stigma there is to letting it be known that I’m a borderline.  Now I find that a little strange because I read a ton and I’d never heard of BPD before this summer, or if I had, it didn’t register and I didn’t know the characteristics of it.  I’m thinking of renaming it Beelzebub’s Perverse Delight because, as a Christian, this disorder is especially frustrating because satan doesn’t have to work very hard to make me feel like crap–unlovable and unworthy by human standards or God’s.  I think my despair over not being able to make myself believe that God loves me unconditionally is the worst aspect of being a borderline.

Today, I asked my husband how many times in a day he wonders if God loves him.  He said zero.  He doesn’t wonder about God’s love.  Do you know how that just eats me up inside?!  I wonder if God really loves me numerous times every stinking day.  And, yes, I know how many times in scripture it says God loves me.  I read those verses over and over.  But another borderline will know just what I mean when I say I cannot make myself believe that in a real way.  We don’t feel deserving of love and there is a dark, scary place inside us that never seems to go away.  It’s horrible.

Wow, I’ve strayed from my starting point.  To make a long story short (yeah, I know; too late), trying to explain how this disorder affects me is painful to talk about and so I don’t want to try to make people understand what it is and how it cripples me.  I know that’s the coward’s way out, but I’ve got enough on my plate right now.

Before I was diagnosed, on the really bad days, I would tell my husband that I felt like I was demon-possessed.   The diagnosis helped me feel less nuts, but what I’d give for a 24-hour break from wondering if God loves me unconditionally.