As the Shell Crumbles

Somewhere right around eleven years ago, I experienced a trauma that shook me to my core. It wasn’t the first major trauma that I’ve faced in my life… but it is the one that I can distinctively pinpoint as the start of my decline into serious mental illness. It was one trauma too much… the straw that broke the camel’s back. In the months that followed this trauma, a few minor breakdowns occurred and I tried my best to hold myself together. A new fear had formed, planting itself deep in my life and I tried with everything inside of me to hold it down and keep going, despite the cracks I could feel growing ever deeper in my mind, my heart, and my soul.

At twenty-three years old, I didn’t have the stability or support to acknowledge, let alone face any of this trauma… I didn’t even know that it was trauma. And I certainly didn’t know that working at a job, with direct ties to the trauma I had faced, was continually re-traumatizing me with every shift that I worked.

For the next year, life was busy… too busy. Already a mom of three, I would learn soon that I was pregnant once again. Money was tight, and our house was stressful. Along with financial concerns came the pain… hip and back pain that was beyond what I had experienced with any of my previous pregnancies had left me unable to work and on medical leave. Partial placenta previa had affirmed my decision to take time off of work, and left an additional fear on our shoulders as we waited for the all-clear – the knowledge that the placenta was no longer in the way of my cervix and a continuing risk factor for me.

Over the same year, our daughter who was two at the time; was facing an entirely different trial – her kidneys wreaking havoc on her little body. Trying to control her condition was not working, and as summer hit, we were booked into Sick Kids Hospital for her to undergo a fairly major surgery. Thankfully, everything went according to plan, and a few weeks later, our little girl was back… happy and playing and finally well.

I didn’t know that within two weeks of our daughter’s surgery I would face another health concern myself. Still only barely seven months pregnant; I woke up one morning in the worst physical pain, I’ve ever experienced and had my husband take me to the hospital. At first, my symptoms led them to believe that my appendix had ruptured… but an ultrasound soon disproved that theory and showed them instead that it was my gallbladder. Gall stones trapped in my bile duct were yet one more reason to worry, and the pain as my son consistently kicked the inflamed regions was excruciating. Off and on throughout August and most of September… I faced repeated incidences of the same symptoms. The stones usually dislodging and giving me a few days of peace before another flare up.

Finally in September, I arrived at the hospital; sick, tired, and in pain. Speaking calmly but firmly I told the doctor that they needed to take either the baby out, the gallbladder out, or both. I wasn’t leaving without something being done. Labour was induced that afternoon; and after only a minor allergic reaction to an IV antibiotic, my fourth and last child was quickly born.

Ten years ago this past September, our family was completed. A decade. 

And while I found joy in the small moments, that trauma that I experienced the year before had begun a chain-reaction in my life beyond what I, or anyone else could have predicted. 

I once had a wise person tell me not to think in days, or months, or years when it comes to periods in my life. (Okay, she told me this way more than once!) Instead, she advised me to think in decades… a concept that I tried to process and work with, but until recently had been unable to commit to.

But as this past year has floated on past me; it is a thought that has continually come back up.

Up until this past year, I could look back at my life and speak about the trauma that I have consistently faced with a straight face, a few tears, and an acknowledgement that parts of my life hadn’t been rosy. I honestly believed that I had worked through a lot more of what has happened, than what I have.

In a previous post, I mentioned that this past nine months or so, have been the most difficult months I’ve ever experienced.

For a long time, I’ve tried to right the situation.

Nine months. It seems like an incredibly long time to struggle with life – to experience depression and anger and a loss of focus, drive, and hope. Nine months seems like a long time to work on trying to change your life while you continue to hit brick walls. Nine months seems like a decent time frame to get it back together following another traumatic revelation, learn to smile, and actually push through the trauma and reach the other side… wherever that other side might be.

A couple of months ago I was trying to understand why I hadn’t gone anywhere in my recovery… instead I felt like I was spinning further and further out of control.

Over the past two to three months, I have had to learn that nine months was not an adequate time frame for my personal journey towards full healing, to even begin.

It seems kind of crazy. I’ve known about mental health for a long time… and I have experienced fluctuations, ‘aha!’ moments, and triggers. I’ve walked the walk, and I’ve done the work to learn and re-learn how mental illness has affected me, and the ways in which to not only manage it, but to treat it. The past four years, have been an intense and ongoing battle inside my head as I have worked towards acceptance and healing… as I have forced myself into behaving in different manners, and trying to understand where the uncontainable emotions come from.

Almost three months ago I was lying in bed broken. I literally could not move, let alone think straight.

I didn’t know if I had any fight left inside of me. I didn’t know why I was the way I was… and I hated myself. I wanted to run away… I almost did. A grown woman, looking to run away from everything… including her family and the life that she had consistently fought to build.

I’ve taken a lot of time over the past three months – a needed time of quiet… at first I believed I needed to force my brain back into functionality… to return to where it had been, so I could quite simply get back to living life.

But each step I’ve taken in that direction, has reminded me that it’s not possible.

Eleven years since the trauma that began to crack me down the middle… and I finally feel as though I’ve been truly broken - a truly odd feeling for someone who thought she was so much further along in her journey. For the first time ever, I can see the shell of what I was, in pieces on the ground all around me… a small and fragile centre huddled up and exposed where the shell used to shine. For a decade I’ve tried to mend the cracks and pick up pieces and rebuild the puzzle. I wanted the shell. I wanted the normalcy. I wanted the lies.

For the first time I see the real me.

And though my shell is broken – unfixable – the inside is there in one piece, naked and humiliated, and scarred, and terrified to come into the light, terrified of the world seeing the small and fragile person within.

It took a decade plus a year.

Nine months was nothing. Nine months was the final breaking away… the changes that I had made through my work on myself, the mental illness, and the way I lived my life… forcing the final breaking apart.

I’ve frequently spoke of my journey – and that’s the funny thing about being on a journey… you never know what’s around the next bend. What new revelation, breakdown, or stall will occur as you observe the world both around and within you.

And life is like that… built up out of moments – both good and bad – each pattern of events unique… each person’s journey incomparable to another’s – although the similarities able to connect us.

So often, we look at one event - or a short period of our lives, where it's been rough... or where we've been out of control and unable to manage. Sometimes it's a period, where life has seemed to pass us by, as we have just floated through - struggling just to hold on to some semblance of sanity. I've been there. I've done that. 

Now I'm taking a few steps back... looking at the big picture. Letting the shell crumble. Allowing the vulnerability to shine through and make way for true growth. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. It's also the most valuable.

For the first time in a very long time, I can look back over eleven years and let out the breath that had been suffocating me. I can breathe clearly now... my head beginning to make sense again. The calm that I generally feel as I look awkwardly around me different, scary, and unfamiliar... but nice.

I still struggle. But the picture looks better now... open... real... complete in it's in-completion.

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The Hardest Confession

By the time that I post this publicly, it will be four weeks and four days.

Like an addict trying to escape my prison, I count up the days it’s been since the thoughts took over my head… only my drug of choice isn’t chemical, herbal, or liquid. It isn’t gambling, sex, or pornography… it isn’t even really an addiction at all – or at least it’s not one that’s recognized, let alone spoken publicly about.

But like an addict, I also wait with my breath held in… watching myself, analyzing my thoughts, wondering when they will overtake me again. I’m constantly on edge, watching triggers, and making sure that I’m careful not to put myself into a situation where I’ll fall back down again.

Even though, for now, I feel strong… I’m doing my part, and putting things in order again… resetting my life one more time.

But four weeks and four days ago, I still had suicide listed as a viable option for my life… a way out of the pain and turmoil that I felt completely trapped inside of.

Four weeks and four days ago, I was not quite actively suicidal but I was close… and I thought about suicide almost daily, the thought always with me, no matter how stable I became or how wrong I knew it was. It’s been that way for at least ten years, and probably a lot longer than that… a daily battle, each and every morning waking up and feeling that presence with me – the voice that reminded me it was always an option, a way out of the chaos that has seemed to plague my life.

At least that’s how I saw it.

On my wrist sits a tattoo of a semi-colon, within a locket. For those unfamiliar with the semi-colon tattoo, the gist is this; an author uses a semi-colon within a sentence when they could have stopped but chose to continue instead. In life, we don’t have to stop the sentence… we can choose to keep going. I got this tattoo three years ago now, at a time in my life where I was still drowning daily in suicidal thoughts and intentions. At that point in time; it wasn’t a matter of if I was going to kill myself, but when.

It didn’t seem to matter how much work I did or who I spoke with, or even how ‘up’ my life appeared to be headed. I knew that suicide was wrong, and I knew it would hurt those that I loved… but the allure of an end to the pain was always glistening there in the back of my head, a way out… an escape – I was exhausted from trying to stay stable, and a part of me simply wanted to die.

A little over two years ago, I had my last admittance to the psych ward at our local hospital… a major milestone in the maintenance aspect of my mental health, and I am proud of the fact that I have for the most part managed the symptoms of my health to keep me home and able to pull myself out of any ‘dips’ that I’ve had. There were days, where a hospital stay would have most likely been the correct course of action, and which I fought… thankfully able to still level out following those backwards steps.

I’ve learned to manage those thoughts… the bursts within my head that remind me, that soothe me, and that trouble me. I’ve learned to keep them quiet or when they really get strong, transform them into a form of anger, directed at people who I love, to push them far away from me. But still, those thoughts were always there and hiding just below the surface… an end, an escape, a plan.

Four weeks and four days, seems like a short time – a blip in the continuum of my life – a period of little relevance.

Until it’s put into context – a bright yellow bar on the darkened graph of my life, where it hasn’t ever existed before.

Four weeks and four days is worth celebrating.

But it’s also worth talking about, because I know that it was talking, that helped me quench those thoughts and remind me of who and what I am. It was the people who checked in, who chatted, who failed to judge, and who saw through my anger and my frustration and my exhaustion. It was the people who cheered with me when I said, I’m okay… I’m actually okay today… and who checked in the next day anyways, open to hearing the truth – whether it was good or bad, or whether they agreed with me or not. It was the people who encouraged me to speak fully and honestly and who allowed my experience to be real and heard and valid. It was those who heard the words, made the time, and who stuck with their words to stay by my side. It was the voice I was given by friends, family, and even acquaintances.

It was the ability to confess without fear, or stigma, or shame attached.

Four weeks and four days is a lifetime… it’s a lifeline.

Talking about mental illness – especially the unspeakable thoughts of suicide, self-harm, and an inability to ever feel free from the chains of whatever disorder has been diagnosed – is hard. And as much as I talk about it… I still find myself whispering at times, wondering ‘can I tell this person?’ knowing that I might one day say too much, to the wrong people.

And so, as long as stigma exists, as long as fear of judgement exists; I know that it will continue to be hard to talk about openly – to discuss over coffee, or in public spaces, or with people who ask ‘how are you doing?’

So for now, I’ll continue to share my story. I’ll continue to let you in on the bits and pieces of me – one step at a time, one dark confession at a time. Because I know I’m not alone… and I know I’m not the only one who struggles. Because I know, I can offer that ear for someone else who is too afraid to speak out, or too unsure of how to say it. I’m hear… I’m listening.

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World Suicide Prevention Day 2018

Sitting within the depths of my personal files, on a memory card I no longer use, buried in my basket full of storage devices, cords, and chargers; sit several letters, written in some of the hardest moments of my life.

These aren’t just any letters… they are letters for the future – one for each of my children, and a couple for other people who have impacted my life. People who I felt the need to explain myself to… to say goodbye, to leave a thought for.

In that basket, buried and hiding – are my suicide letters. Letters written with the intent to be left aside, not necessarily opened immediately after I died… but in the future, when necessary, to explain my actions – the pain, the turmoil, and the chaos. Letters written from a distorted, exhausted, and painful perspective.

Throughout my life I’ve contemplated suicide more times than I can count… some days, it was each breath that I took that reminded me, forced me to survive, and left me hating life. Some days were worse than others, and suicide became my only thought… my only desire. The thoughts developed life of their own, taking control, and leaving little room for rational thought. Even on days where it wasn’t necessarily a thought… the idea of suicide never fully left the back of my mind – an option, an idea always viable.

Recently, I had taken a break from blogging and writing out my thoughts on mental health, and in general I’ve pulled back from people. For a while, I felt lost again – not necessarily depressed, but lost. In writing, there was a period where I couldn’t call up a topic that felt whole, honest, and truthful.

In my personal life, I’ve been facing challenges that have left me reeling – spinning in many different directions, each and every day. Spending time focused on myself and putting together some of the shattered puzzle pieces, has been exactly what I needed to do - realistically, it was my only option. But it has also left me feeling just a little bit empty… and a little bit like a fraud.

As I’ve muddled this journey through mental health, trauma, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and suicidal thinking; I’ve tried to grow, learn, and change as I’ve researched, worked, and discovered the many aspects of the disorders that I struggle with. Combined with situational circumstances, I’ve tried to live this mental health journey with transparency and a desire to try to do my part to end the stigma associated with mental illness. It hasn’t been easy. In the past I’ve revealed thoughts and feelings that I never previously knew could be shared. I wrote blog posts from the Psych ward. I met with friends, family, and counselors and I let people in… I let them see at least some of my triumphs and some of my setbacks. Sometimes it worked out… and sometimes, I ended up hurt and left vulnerable – my struggles, my actions, and my words used against me.

But the one thing that I’ve held close, is the situational aspect to my disorders… the stigma attached to my experiences (and specifically, talking publicly about my experiences), has left me hesitant to share… to reveal some of my specific triggers, and the situations that send me spiraling.

Several months ago, I wrote out a series of letters.

It wasn’t eight years ago – the first time that I was determined to end my life – the first time that I spent time in the psych ward.

It wasn’t (almost) four years ago, when I tried to jump off of a waterfall.

It wasn’t two years ago… the last time that I was hospitalized for suicidal intentions and planning. 

               

It was just several months ago.

Right now, is not the time for me to talk about why I felt suicidal, or what those triggers were.

Right now is the time when I tell you why I didn’t kill myself… why those letters were never left out to be found and distributed.

Right now is when I tell you that I spoke about the situation that I was in, with people who genuinely cared for me. I spoke with honesty and transparency. I revealed the depth to what I was struggling with, and the pain and suffering that I was experiencing – without judgement, without feeling stigmatized, and without feeling like a failure. In safety with those I spoke with; I was allowed to feel, and express without being rejected or told that what I was feeling was ridiculous.

Recently, I’ve found myself repeating phrases such as ‘people think’ or ‘I can’t talk about this, because it’s not something that I’m allowed to talk about’ or ‘I try to explain but people don’t get it’. And each time I say these things, I find myself disappearing a little further into myself, wondering why I’m so afraid to speak the truth – to reveal my secrets, and to allow myself to admit my faults, failures, and fears – so that I can actually begin to heal.

And yet… I’m sitting here alone tonight, typing these words… and still so afraid to speak out publicly.

“You’ll sound like you’re trying to play the victim.”

“Let the past stay in the past.”

“Sharing your story, is sharing my story too… I don’t want that going public.”

“Why do you feel the need to air your dirty laundry for the world to see?”

“Can’t you just get over it and be happy?”

“You need to take responsibility for yourself and stop blaming/wallowing/bringing up things that happened in the past.”

“You need to work through it and move on (but not talk about it openly!).”

“What does this have to do with your mental health?”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“You need to practice gratitude/thankfulness/happiness/finding joy.”

“You need to ­­­_______."

Several months ago, I wrote out suicide letters, because those words above, were the words that were spoken to me by the people that I tried to talk to (and sometimes even spoken BY me as a reminder to stay silent). Not just once. But repeatedly throughout the years.

Several months ago, I started talking anyways. I started re-assigning my thought patterns. I began the process of changing the way that I think about my life, my experiences, and especially the challenges that I have faced over the last several years.

Today I want to reach out. I want you to know that I am here. I am ready to listen without judgement. I am ready to have the conversations that nobody wants to have. I am ready to hear your situation, and the choices that you have had to make to survive. I am ready to be here for you.

And tonight. I challenge you. Be real. Reach out. Share. End stigma… not just with mental illness… but with all the taboo topics.

Don’t jump to conversation to judge the other side, or to tell them what they’re doing wrong, or what they should do next.

Talk. Listen. Be there. You don’t have to understand their side… but try anyways. Tilt your head. Cover your eyes and pretend to be them. Walk in their shoes. Feel their pain. Hold their hand. Let them share their secrets, and most of all: let them feel their pain.

Today is World Suicide Prevention Day 2018.

This year, I’ve felt a pull to continue to not only share my story… but also to encourage those around me to share parts of their story as well. Only with open and honest conversation between friends, can we even begin to understand the fight that every person who battles with mental illness faces. Only then can we know how to help those who are struggling just to stay alive.

So today, in recognition of World Suicide Prevention Day, I challenge you to reach out to a friend who is fighting a battle inside themselves. Maybe they are isolating themselves – pushing you away in either a quiet, or what appears to be a nasty way. Maybe they’ve been missing work or school, or maybe they are filled to the brim with anxiety – panic attacks striking more often than usual. Maybe you’ve stopped to visit and noticed that the dishes are piled higher than normal, or that their hair hasn’t been washed in days. Whatever it is, reach out to your friends. Don’t wait for them to reach out to you.

Suicide is preventable.

My life was saved by people who simply reached out... checked in... and shared their stories, willing to listen mine.

**Adapted from a previously un-shared post.

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Weaving Words

Recently it came up in my life, that my words were something to be ashamed of once again.

It wasn't tangible... more so a feeling as I continued to navigate a downright messy place in my story.

Several weeks ago, I was hit with that familiar feeling as I sat and listened to a loved one who had recently discovered my blog. As I listened to the feelings that this person experienced as they had read through my words and processed some of my thoughts; the instinct was to huddle up into a corner and pull a blanket over my head. I wanted to hide.

As I heard about this person's second hand experience with my journey... the thoughts morphed from anger (how dare they judge my story!), to sadness and a feeling of loneliness, and back to this deep-seated root of shame, regret, and guilt.

For a while, I changed my settings so that my blog was private, and contemplated deleting every entry I had ever written. I wanted the words gone. I wanted to not be this way. My journey... it was stupid. I shouldn't be airing out my dirty laundry for the world to see... and besides... I should be better by now anyways.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've once again tried to make sense of the world around me. I've spent time diving back into a myriad of questions and problems and traumas... trying to restore some semblance of sanity to my life. In the process I came to realize that writing here... sharing my story is far more important than I had previously given it credit for. A safe place to share my thoughts, encourage others, and end the stigma, only the beginning. The shame that I was feeling, exactly the reason that I should continue to not only write about but to share my journey. Shame, stigma, and feelings of instability, are all fed by continued silence and secrecy.

Last week I restored my blog to a public setting and I worked through some of my own feelings of shame. Right now, it is a chaotic and tumultuous time in my life. I've been dealing with facing my own failures, unraveling a further depth to my trauma than I ever before realized was present, and working hard to set, maintain, and enforce my own personal boundaries.

In the process, I've begun to once again open up and my goal is to continue to share with honesty and humility... for myself, and for others; because our stories are not something to be ashamed of.

This week I faced another moment in the quiet. Alone, I faced the revelation that my posts... my public words and the journey that I have shared in an act of healing; might one day be used against me. A place of safety, healing, and comfort, once again filled me with the deepest sense of shame and regret. This very blog felt like an anchor weighing me down.... evidence in any future case against myself. Look at her! She admits her guilt! There is no question, that she is unwell!

And once again, I choose to halt those thoughts.

Once again, I choose to reach out and take a leap and believe that it's okay to share my story and my struggles. Once again I feel the shame as it lays it's heavy burden upon my shoulders and I reject it. Not today.

This morning I shared a post on Facebook, and I'm going to share it here today. (I do not know who to attribute this meme to, and although I wish I could credit it appropriately, I can't.)

I've been sharing my story for a while now... bits and pieces as thoughts need to escape my head. To talk to me in person, I'm pretty open overall and will gladly answer (most) questions about my journey through not just mental health, but these rough patches in life.
Our stories weave the world in which we leave... strand by strand; coming together to form a beautiful picture. Sometimes we are being woven in the same pattern as the person standing next to us... and though we may both feel alone and unable to see the similarities, a simple conversation could be all that it takes to make things snap into place, so that both sides may realize that they are not alone after all.
Stigma, shame, and instability are all fed in secrecy.

Weaving words into stories. It sounds fantastical... like a fairy-tale author creating new worlds and new lives... a work of fiction. But the reality is that this is our life. Each person has a story... and though the details may differ from one of us to the next, it consistently amazes me that there are so many people that I know who experience similar struggles to me; and yet we oftentimes feel so alone. Unimportant. Filled with shame, guilt, or regret; our own words, admissions, failings, and struggles so often used against us... that we expect nothing else.

And so instead of opening up and sharing our journeys, we hide our experiences and our own unique story under the pillow, close to our hearts; guarded... afraid of the repercussions.

And shame and stigma grow stronger with each whispered word, or hidden struggle.

Today, I'm weaving my words into a single page of my story. Each page is being woven into a chapter, and each chapter a unique experience along my journey. And today I am standing up and speaking out against the shame associated with sharing my trials and my successes.

It is not a weakness, but a strength to be able to open up. To be honest... to show your vulnerabilities, your trials, and your failures. It takes courage and strength to say that I have struggled with suicidal thoughts, mental illness, and general rough patches in life... it takes strength to say I'm not okay, but I'm going to keep trying anyways.

And with each admission of a fight within myself; I feel the power of secrecy and silence dull down. I feel the strength inside of me grow stronger when I whisper those dreaded words of 'I'm not okay', and someone reaches back and says 'It's okay. I've been there. Let me tell you my story.' With every word woven into another part of my journey, I find freedom. No longer trapped by stigma, fear, or judgement, the story becomes just another part of my life; a part of who I am... a human.

For me, this is my safe place. For you, it might begin with a single friend or an anonymous post in a support group.

Shame keeps us a prisoner, a black smudge across the page that we wish we could recant. But sharing our journeys brightens up the page... and brings our stories together. Words woven into beautiful tapestries that show trials and resilience and a fight to not only heal the wounds, but to thrive despite the struggles.

Sharing is not shameful. It is our strength.

* I am currently beginning work on a project that I've been planning for quite some time (details to be announced), if you live in Ontario and would like to find out more and possibly become a part of this journey into sharing our stories; feel free to contact me through either Facebook or Email and I will gladly discuss the opportunity to participate in this amazing project.

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Borderline Truth

Your truth. My truth. THE TRUTH.

It always amazes me how people see the truth as such a subjective matter that can automatically invalidate another person's experience. Being a person who has struggled with big emotions for a long time, it hasn’t always been an easy concept for me to grasp – the difference between my truth, your truth, and the real truth.

Once my Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) was diagnosed – it became impossible for My Truth, to ever be even close to THE TRUTH again.

It’s not that it wasn’t truth… in fact, more often than not, the BPD that I have felt weighed down by, has in fact made things more clear and concise; my fear of not being heard or properly understood, ensuring that I analyse everything that I say repeatedly before I ever actually speak… with only a few selected people allowed in to see more than what I allow to pass through the filter. Unfortunately though, the truth does not always set us free… and being labelled as a ‘borderline’, has crossed my thoughts and emotions into this territory marked ‘over-emotional’.

Over the last couple of weeks specifically, this label – this assumption has plagued me with self-doubt, unease, and a familiar depression; as I was slammed emotionally into a darker place. Speaking out at first was not an option… and when I did speak out to a few friends, it was filled with self-pity, self-loathing, and full on fear – fear of not being heard, fear of abandonment, fear of them taking the ‘other side’, fear of a lack of understanding, and fear of not being articulate enough – of going too far, or exaggerating, or straight up making things worse. But my biggest fear was simply being told that my experiences weren’t the truth.

Because for the past four years, that was what I was told that borderlines did. They lied, manipulated, exaggerated, blew up, had a lack of emotional regulation, and destroyed the lives of those around them. Those in my life have said to me in the same sentence – ‘don’t blame your BPD’ and ‘that’s your BPD talking’. It’s a double edged sword, that really has no merit.

Because along with the BPD diagnosis – I did something else - well several things actually -  over the last four years. I have received counselling, I have worked through DBT (a therapy program specifically for BPD), I have built an understanding and emotionally stable support system around me, I have attended for a time a recovery step-program, and I have continued to implement and put into place those skills, the knowledge, and the analytics to know and pinpoint my behaviour better than ever. I’m not perfect, and I have moments – hell, sometimes I even have days, where I slip up and I feel defeated - like I will never gain freedom from this diagnosis… but I can honestly also say that I have never been at the place of self-awareness I’m at now. Mistakes happen. Emotions can still get the better of me at times… I have hurt people in anger or pain, and I have allowed them to hurt me, because I’m not perfect. Because I’m human.

And where I’m at now is angry.

This week I was told once again, ‘that’s YOUR truth, not THE truth’… another hint at the BPD, and a history of unstable emotions. Another sentence made in anger, so that I would doubt my experiences – not as a BPD sufferer, but as a human. Automatically, because I was hurt, because I refused to allow another human to determine my fate, and because I am in the midst of a painful experience; my thoughts, emotions, and words were automatically considered invalid because of my BPD.

I’m angry, because for a long time – I didn’t know that they were wrong. I couldn’t separate the fact that just because another person disagrees with me, that it doesn’t make the truth any less true. I have been convinced for so long, that because of the BPD, my voice did not deserve to be heard in the midst of trauma or pain. 

Psychologically, I’m facing a major trauma that I should have dealt with many years ago. When I tried to place it… to change things within my life and work through it; I was told ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, but that’s YOUR truth, not THE truth’; simply because the person involved didn’t like what I had to say. When I pointed to supporting evidence, it was ignored – as though my BPD mind, simply made it up… poof.

The past week has been brutal. The previous couple of days, darker than some of my others as I allowed someone else to convince me that I was broken – not good enough, unstable, and incapable. I allowed myself to nearly make a major decision, based on another person’s opinion of how difficult a person I can be due to my mental illness. I doubted myself, because I’ve been taught to doubt myself and question every thought, emotion and word.

Today I did a quick google search on BPD. Clicking through some of the links, I was amazed at some of the references to ‘surviving borderlines’ – aka, how to tolerate someone with this diagnosis. As though we are somehow less human, less than capable of loving and being loved. With a focus on the instability of our emotions, we are labelled as difficult to treat, difficult to love, and difficult to even be around.

When I scrolled through some mental health groups that I belong to, there was a stark contrast between those with the disease, and those who love someone with the disease.

I saw the patterns emerge and I was in awe that they seemed to replicate my life. BPD’s have mood swings – intense and unstable mood swings. Until we manage to figure out ways to begin to manage them – they never really disappear, but we learn coping strategies to deal with constant fluctuation. The difference is, that when something big happens (positive OR negative) our reactions can seem to the outsider, extreme. Trauma is especially bad. But the commonality in all of it, was that it continued to get worse – the stigma strongest against this specific diagnosis, as we are taught to doubt every thought and feeling before it’s allowed to be ‘truth’. And unfortunately, in my specific case,  the more work that I have done to combat the 'out of control' nature of the disorder, the more it upset the balance in life. Where once, my BPD could be used as an excuse, a distraction, or as evidence of instability... I now have changed viewpoints, perceptions, and an incredibly strong sense of self-awareness (most of the time anyways).

On the other hand, I saw loved ones talking and sharing about their friends or family who had been diagnosed. I saw an interesting trend (in my mind you, quick scroll), that seemed that at first diagnosis, the loved ones felt a sense of relief…. Finally answers. But as the diagnosis aged… every emotion, every problem, every trauma that the BPD sufferer faced was too much for the loved ones to deal with… the BPD was blamed for everything from general anxiety, to feeling hurt over betrayal, to crying over a sad movie. When the loved ones made a mistake or hurt the BPD - it seemed like the instability of the emotions was a scapegoat. Even when the BPD emotions happened as a direct result of the trauma inflicted on a person, they were blamed for having the disorder in the first place. 

It became a mindset. A case of this is what happens in BPD… I better look out for that at every turn. Nothing is real.

As I scrolled through old threads of conversation and examined my own life a little deeper, I felt the anger grow stronger. I remembered the small comments and the sideways glances. The calm and collected talks that became nightmare fights, because everything became a part of my mental illness... even on days where I was in control and doing well... I couldn't escape the weight of it. It’s the stigma  that has existed within my own home.

One of the environmental factors that is a key indicator of developing Borderline Personality Disorder, is a continued pattern of invalidation in childhood/early teenage years. And yet, as soon as someone is diagnosed with BPD, it seems to begin a new cycle of invalidation – it’s all because of the BPD.

Your feelings don’t matter.

Your instincts can’t possibly be accurate.

Those emotions? Too strong.

Your personality? Too much.

Your pain? Not real.

Your experience? Twisted and corrupted by the Borderline Mind.

And so we manage the emotion. We learn to doubt ourselves… our heads. We carefully construct our sentence, our fear of being called overly-emotional, or exaggerated, or outright liars; always keeping us on high-alert… keeping us from speaking out, from being heard.

This year, I made a promise to myself to try and live a more authentic and honest life. It has led me down some interesting paths – I have had anger and resentment cast towards me over the silliest things, and I have hurt some people with my lack of social etiquette in breaching certain topics. I have failed at times to be as real as I want to be and as real as I still aim to be. I hold secrets within my heart, and I sometimes share too much. I’m still learning how to be real and true… in a healthy way.

But this. This is a start. Because I am tired of being told that my experiences aren’t real, just because they are told from my perspective. My truth, is not any less valid than YOUR truth. And if, my truth at times does become distorted – it’s most often not from any disorder that I might struggle with… most often it’s from lies that I’ve begun to believe, because for so long I was convinced... I have BPD… I can’t trust myself.

But the truth is… I can. And I will.

I am not my diagnosis.

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