The Two Truths I Live With as Somebody With Borderline Personality Disorder


It was 5 a.m. and I was thinking; it was Borderline Personality Disorder Awareness Month, and I should write something.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I have a son. I think he’s perfect. He loves me, he trusts me, he knows I’ll always protect him.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I am a daughter. I miss my father who’s proud of the woman I’ve become. I miss his newborn daughter, my newborn sister. Though I’ve only met her once I’d do anything for her. I have a beautiful mother who I worship. A mother who turned her life upside down to protect her daughter and grandson. She’s like a goddess to me.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I am a sister. I have my newborn sister who’s beautiful. I have younger brother. A strong and sensitive brother. A man who’s proud to be my son’s uncle. I have a younger sister. A sister who I’m sure is the prettiest girl in the world. A woman who’s helping to raise my son while I am not able.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I have family. I have aunts and uncles who treat me as their own daughter. I have another aunt who treats me like a sister because she’s only four years my senior. I have two grandmothers who adore me and only want my life to be a success. I have cousins who treat me like their sister. I have second and third cousins who do the same. I have family who were married in or brought in by a family member who would kill for me.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I have a best friend. She’s been by my side since we were children. Fourteen years to be exact. She fed me and cared for me when I was ill. Both mentally and physically. She bought my groceries when I drank my money away. She slapped my face when I considered going back to that man. She’s so proud of my writing talents, she shows off any piece of my work she can to anyone who will listen or read for themselves. She loves me dearly.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I have friends. Close friends. I have a fabulously flamboyant friend who swears I’m going to rule the world one day. I have a beautiful friend who only yesterday told me I inspire her above all else for my courage. I have friends I don’t get the chance to speak to every day, but who tell me as often as they can they’re proud of me. I have a friend who’s an up and coming star, but she still remembered my birthday. I even have friends in other countries from childhood who take the time to tell me they’re proud.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

I have admirers. I have people tell me all the time that I inspire them. A couple days ago, someone told me more people should be like me. I have people tell me they are envious of my gift of being so passionate. I have people tell me they wish they had the strength I do. I have people tell me my writing inspires them, that I should do more, publish more, say more.

But it doesn’t matter, I’m not important.

Did that make any sense to you? Don’t worry, it doesn’t make any sense to me either, but I have to live this way. You see I live with two truths. One, the truth the part of my brain that is broken has deemed definitive, and the actual Truth.

Having borderline personality disorder is like living in a debate. Sometimes (as we’ve seen recently in politics) evil wins. But not always.

The truth is; I don’t always make the right decisions because sometimes it’s hard to fight hearing, “It doesn’t matter, I’m not important” every day, but I fight nonetheless. I hear too often that I’m wrong, or that I’m broken, or that I’m “fucked up,” but the only one who’s “wrong” is the one telling me I am. I may be different but I try, and next time you call someone a “spaz,’ or “the r-word,” or a “loser,” you should remember they might hear this every day from themselves. Having a mental health disorder isn’t “attention seeking” or “cute” — all too often, it’s life-threatening.

I only want to be me.

That’s my truth. That’s borderline personality disorder and it does matter, I am important.

Follow this journey on Daniella’s blog.

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Getty image via Grandfailure


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