Breaking up with Borderline – Hannah Stehlin
Fear of abandonment is your complimentary gift on arrival to the wonderful world of Borderline Personality Disorder.
Commonly experienced in interpersonal relationships, largely of the romantic variety. It's BPD 101, it’s a dull ache that sits beneath your jugular and laughs at you for accepting anything - from a passing compliment to a confession of love. I've made friends with mine, but it's the kind of friendship that consists of bi monthly "we need to catch up!". Psychological DM's culminating in reluctant drinks on Tuesday that leave you hungover at work, emotionally rag-dolled, and pondering how long till the next obligatory hang out swings around.
Don't let the title of this piece fool you, this isn't an exhaustive trip down memory lane to hyper analyse every missing 'x' in your text history, or trying to determine why it didn't work out with that special someone, and how it is SO much worse going through a breakup when you have BPD. This actually isn't about a someone at all, it's about *it*.
The process of getting diagnosed with BPD was particularly long for me. A number of health professionals played musical chairs with various SSRI's and disorders and even at one point, concluded that there was actually no mental illness present at all. Finally the very sheer curtain of 'high functioning' was drawn, leaving behind a diagnosis, a pharmaceutical power couple and a clinical psychologist. Lucky me. No really, fucking lucky me.
I've done the painful rehash, I've shared my therapists eureka moments of navigating my emotional landscape. I self soothe, I follow the handbook that we spent years tailoring to cater for my self-sabotaging, absolute shit-show of a brain, so what's stopping me? I'm out here with all the skills and tools, but I'm almost actively refusing to use them. Why? Because I am my illness.
I've managed to find the perfect balance between gas-lighting myself, and tricking my brain into refusing to get well. My rational mind and my emotional mind have drawn the war and this is the final face off. Usually my identity crises begin and end with buying something like a blazer, then realising that despite my efforts I will NEVER be a polished woman. But, who am I without BPD and its extreme emotions?
Feeling the hollow weight of depression makes me feel warm. Blind rage brings me insurmountable joy. Misery is the only identity I have somewhat maintained. The ebbs make me miss the flows and I feel a deep but painful connection when I inevitably start drowning again.
It took me 6 years of therapy to realise that perhaps the biggest roadblock to managing my BPD, in order to have some semblance of emotional regulation, boiled down to that fact that I was actually scared to let the chaos go. Like a toxic relationship that leaves you perpetually disassociated, the on again off again kind, the kind that your friends support you through but are quietly chanting "I told you so" from the sidelines every time you find yourself back there. This is the relationship between self and mental ill-health.
We all know the tagline, it's not linear and it’s not the same for everyone. I'm certainly not at a fork in the road tossing up between 'all good' and 'not all good'. Despite the humorous moments and romanticising above, mental illness blows. And I am one of many who can only dream of the luxury of the other. But sadly it's not a choice. Sadly BPD just isn't a fuckboy you can block on IG and simply move on from.
Words — Hannah Stehlin
