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How I Finally Came to Terms With Being ‘The Borderline Girl’

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Editor's Note

If you’ve experienced domestic violence, struggle with self-harm or experience suicidal thoughts, the following post could be potentially triggering. You can contact The National Domestic Violence Hotline online by selecting “chat now” or calling 1-800-799-7233. You can contact the Crisis Text Line by texting “START” to 741741. For a list of ways to cope with self-harm urges, visit this resource.

I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) in 2013, on my birthday. The diagnosis had been mentioned to me before in therapy, but I was never formally diagnosed until that day. It started out as a good day; we were getting family pictures done. I was living with an abusive man and our two babies. I’d often have to run around the house holding my son while he chased us and then I’d get to my room and lock us in. Things were never easy for me, but I thought today would be alright.

That day, he broke down our door. I called my parents and they came to pick me up with my sons. We went and got our pictures taken, without my husband. They turned out great and my day was turning out to be better than expected. Until I got the text.

“Happy birthday, come get your shit.”

I immediately drove over to our house to see what he was talking about. I thought maybe I could talk to him, because I was honestly only planning to stay with my parents for a few days until he cooled down; and I loved him, after all. When I got to the driveway, it was raining and beginning to get dark. I saw lots of stuff in the lawn, thrown everywhere. It was my stuff. I sat in my car looking ahead at all of my possessions broken and thrown out in the rain. I saw my clothes thrown across the flowers, my mattress getting soaked in the grass, my sewing machine cracked and upside down.

I didn’t know what to do. He didn’t love me. But I loved him. I had to love him, we had a family together. I thought I had to love him, I thought he was my world. No matter what he did to me, I could never dare leave him and break up our family. So how could he do this? I tried to knock on the door, but he wouldn’t answer. I started picking up my wet stuff and putting it into my car with tears streaming down my face. I couldn’t handle it. I called my family and they drove down to help collect my things. After they left, I sat there in my car. In the dark, in the rain, just looking ahead at the house we had bought together and planned on raising our family in. It was too much. So, I self-harmed severely. After I did it, I just started crying even more. What had I done? I have children. I can’t leave them.

I drove to the emergency room (ER) and told them what happened. They weren’t nice to me. They were judgmental as soon as they learned the wounds were self-inflicted. As I was waiting in triage to get my stitches, I heard the nurses talking: “Another borderline girl needs stitches.” I didn’t really think much of it. The doctor stitched me up and I was getting ready to go. They told me I couldn’t leave yet and I had to talk to a crisis counselor. I told them I was fine and wanted to go home, but they insisted.

“Did you want to die?” the nurse asked.

“Well, yes, but now I don’t. I’m not OK, but I’m not going to kill myself tonight. This stuff happens to me a lot, it’s just how I am.”

The crisis counselor came in and talked to me and decided I needed to be admitted to the inpatient unit. I reluctantly agreed. Over the next three weeks I stayed on the psychiatric floor and went to groups and therapies. I saw loads of doctors and counselors. When I was finally discharged, I read my papers.

“Diagnosis: borderline personality disorder, generalized anxiety disorder (GAD), panic disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), major depression, history of self-harm and self-injury (SI).”

Borderline. Borderline between what and what? Am I the borderline girl I heard the nurse talking about? How did they know? Why were they so mean? What is borderline?

When I got home, I started to research. Everything I read was like reading my own mind. There were other people who felt the same way I did! I was relieved, I was happy, I was OK. I was going to be OK. I looked at the symptom list online:

  • Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment by friends and family.
  • Unstable personal relationships that alternate between idealization (“I’m so in love!”) and devaluation (“I hate her”). This is also sometimes known as “splitting.”
  • Distorted and unstable self-image, which affects moods, values, opinions, goals and relationships.
  • Impulsive behaviors that can have dangerous outcomes, such as excessive spending, unsafe sex, substance abuse or reckless driving.
  • Self-harming behavior including suicidal threats or attempts.
  • Periods of intense depressed mood, irritability or anxiety lasting a few hours to a few days.
  • Chronic feelings of boredom or emptiness.
  • Inappropriate, intense or uncontrollable anger — often followed by shame and guilt.
  • Dissociative feelings — disconnecting from your thoughts or sense of identity, or “out-of-body” type of feelings.
  • Stress-related paranoid thoughts. Severe cases of stress can also lead to brief psychotic episodes.

This was my life. This was what I dealt with on a day-to-day basis and I thought it was “normal.” But it wasn’t “normal.” However, I wasn’t alone anymore. My thoughts and feelings had a name and I finally felt like I belonged. I attached myself to the label. I took my meds and I went to counseling and groups and partial hospitalization programs (PHP), and intensive outpatient programs (IOP). I looked for BPD groups and books and movies. Everything I could find. This was me. This is all I was. I was “the borderline girl.” And I was OK with that.

That is until the stigma came back. Every once in a while during groups or something, I’d hear the staff talk about “borderlines” or “borderline behavior.” I’d see comments online about people with BPD. I read an article about how people with BPD are bad parents. I started hating my diagnosis. I didn’t want to be “borderline” anymore. That wasn’t me.

Years later, I still struggled. But, I decided to work in a psychiatric hospital. I thought, well, I’ve been there. I can help these people. I also thought maybe I’d learn from the experience as well. My very first day came and I was so excited to start. We met in the morning to discuss who would do which groups. Here it comes. I wasn’t prepared for this.

“Who wants the borderline girls? Because I cannot deal with them today, I just can’t,” says the nurse.

I immediately look down and my face gets red. Someone got assigned to their group and reluctantly agreed. They asked me, since I was new, which group I wanted to shadow in. I chose “the borderline girls.” I sat quietly in the corner of their group. The nurse handed me each handout she gave to the girls. I carefully read them and did the worksheets. They were doing the stuff I do in my groups. These girls are just like me.

The staff couldn’t stand them. But I could. After that day, I volunteered to do their group whenever I could. People would always comment about how weird it was that I liked them. I didn’t dare tell them I didn’t like them … I was them. I only lasted a month at that job. It turned out I couldn’t handle it. I wasn’t stable enough. I couldn’t help these people when I literally was these people. The day I started wishing I could be a patient there instead of an employee, I knew I had to leave. I wasn’t ready. I quit and went back into a PHP.

Years later, I am comfortable with my diagnosis. I will always be “a borderline girl.” But it’s not a bad thing. I’m not just “a borderline girl.” I’m so much more. I have good days and I have bad days. I have really good days and I have really bad days. But, it pretty much evens itself out now. I struggle every day. I know I will struggle for the rest of my life. I’ll continue to take my meds and I’ll continue to see psychiatrists and therapists, and I’ll continue to work on myself as best I can.

But one thing I know is I’ll never be bothered by “borderline” comments again. Now, I don’t get offended, I don’t hide my eyes. I just smile. They don’t know. They don’t know our struggles. They don’t know what it’s like for us on a daily basis. They think we’re attention-seekers, they think we lie, they think we’re drama queens. They don’t know how we feel. They don’t know when we say it is the end of the world, we honestly and truly feel like it is the end of the world — and that’s not an exaggeration. They don’t know when we tell someone they’re our favorite person and we would literally die without them, we are telling the truth and that is how we feel.

So, if you have BPD … just know this: BPD doesn’t define you. You are you; you just happen to have BPD. You will do great things. And it may be hard, but you will get through this thing we call life. And you will be OK. And if you don’t have BPD, but you’ve judged “those borderline girls,” I hope you’ll do a little research and you’ll reconsider. I hope you’ll see we’re people, too. And we’re trying our very best, just like everyone else.

Original photo by author

Originally published: November 8, 2019
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