Boundaries Persistently Disappearing (or BPD)
Happy Borderline Personality Disorder Awareness Month
Hello,
This is a heavy piece about mental health and Borderline Personality Disorder. Please read if you feel like it. If not, please skip.
I thought it would be nice at least to read this very harrowing piece about mental health while listening to music, so here’s a song that really feels like… this piece of writing, I guess.
And if you think someone could benefit from this newsletter, please send it to them.
Thank you for reading. <3
I haven’t written in a while. I’ve been going through the motions.
My therapist told me I needed to give myself time—time to recalibrate, time to figure out who I was, time to breathe, really. The last couple of months have been hard. Blaming Mercury Retrograde, the energies, and the intensity of the past year, the Eclipse won’t change anything. I could even decide to read my tarot — which I’ve been doing, and The Devil’s card keeps coming back and again and again — and it wouldn’t change anything.
I saw a friend on Sunday. We drank tea and ate cherries and strawberries. We’re both going through it lately, so we’ve been spending time together, talking about everything and absolutely nothing for hours on end. Sitting on my front balcony, they said something that struck me. My Compadre confided about how their feelings changed every moment of the day. One moment, they’d be happy and feel free. Then, in a fraction of a minute, they’d think everything is an illusion—anxiety ensuing.
I was eating a strawberry, staining my lips with its juice like a kid, while looking at them, explaining their current state of mind. I smirked.
“Are you sure you’re not borderline?” I asked teasingly
“No, believe me. I did all the testing years ago, and Borderline wasn’t it.” They answered.
I know they aren’t either. Going through life’s rollercoaster isn’t an easy walk through the park. It makes you experience things you wish you never had to live, such as the constant ups and downs of emotions, emptiness, and the suffocating feeling of rejection or abandonment. I’m familiar with them—the up-and-downs, emptiness, and fear of rejection or abandonment. In a minute, I will feel confident and happy; the next, I’m down bad in a metaphorical ditch, trying to collect myself.
See, I’m the one who’s Borderline. I suffer from Borderline Personality Disorder. I am branded with its hot iron down to my psyche, making it hard for me to process my emotions. I don’t know why I am like this. It could be biological — my brain makes connections differently than others — as it could be environmental — I learned it…? But lately, because of things I won’t mention here, my symptoms are back, trying to help me cope with the current state of my affairs the only way I know how to cope: self-destruction, fear, isolation, pain.
“Why am I not like normal people?” - Marianne, Normal People
I’ve been reading Sally Rooney’s Normal People for the fifth time lately (Fifth, sixth, eight… I don’t know anymore) to better understand Marianne, her fictional ingenue.
[Before continuing, I want to say I’ve never watched the series. Y’all have ruined it for me. You’ve romanticized the fuck out a story that shouldn’t be romanticized. Continuing.]
When I read Normal People for the first time (June 2019), I read it in two days and cried my heart out, not because of a love story that DOESN’T EXIST. No, I cried because Connell and Marianne were going through the motions of life and not communicating their needs and feelings to each other, fearing what the other would think. It was a deeply sad read. But then, I read it a second, third, fourth, and now, for a fifth time. Every time, I try to understand the characters and the relationships better.
[Little pause: I will passionately argue that Connell isn’t an asshole. He’s the product of a patriarchal society that doesn’t encourage men to get in touch with their feelings, go to therapy, or even embrace more creative routes in their lives. The way he acted with Marianne in high school is extremely horrible and downright cruel, but isn’t this the result of a heteronormative/traditional education based on mainstream Westernized machist expectations? I could go on and on, but my focus here isn’t Connell. I actually like Connell and his anxiety, point-blank.]
This time around, I wanted to delve into Marianne. She gets little time or focus in the book. Her point of view is often — if not always — romanticized. She's this young woman who suffers from an unnamed mental health issue, who becomes "pretty in college" (Classic me! she tells Connell when they run into each other at a party in Dublin)—Marianne and her bangs, oversized knits, skirts, black bérêt, and intelligent demeanour. Men taking pleasure in romanticizing Marianne to fit their narrative. Someone saying Marianne needs male validation by flirting with every man in the room. Marianne and her "shameful" kinks. Marianne and her destructive behaviour. Marianne…
Maybe Rooney is borderline and knows well what she’s doing. Perhaps she’s not, and it’s a coincidence. But the pain, the violence, the constant inner monologue of not being worthy of respect or love is revealing. Marianne pushes her boundaries for Connell or every man or person she meets — even her “best friend” Peggy. Marianne is going through what she thinks is BDSM when it’s just violence. Marianne and her inner child project onto Connell her insecurities.
She’s weird. She’s damaged goods. She’s not worth it.
Marianne hits me like a punch to the gut. I can tell everyone I don’t like Normal People, but the truth is I’m obsessed with it. I’m obsessed with Marianne because I don’t want to be Marianne. And yet, I am Marianne. I read the book, and I’m scared. I read Marianne’s inner dialogue, and I hear mine. I’m made of extremes; I fall, cry, and ask whoever wants to hear.
Why am I not like normal people?
This new read of Rooney’s Normal People made me come to terms with being borderline. I suffer from a disorder. I don’t process feelings like other people. I have to take religiously my antidepressants to avoid a relapse, and I see a therapist every two weeks to make sure I’m okay. I have to take breaks from work or life in general more than the average person. I sleep a lot to calm down my emotions. When something comes and troubles my hard work, I’m always on the verge of a relapse. But there is some good in all of this.
On Sunday evening, I smoked a j, took a bath, and finished Normal People for the fifth, sixth or eighth time; I’ve lost count. I closed it, got out of the tub, put on my sleepshirt, and lay on my couch, high as a kite. I let music play in the background and closed my eyes.
I want to believe Marianne, in her thirties, got better. She may be a journalist or a teacher. She probably has to take pills and goes to a therapist every two weeks. She gets triggered, but she manages to calm down. She probably smokes a j while reading in her bath. She has a strong support circle and friends, but when she isolates herself from everyone, her friends call her out. But mainly, she doesn't save anyone from their misery or accept other people's projections on her. She listens to herself and doesn't want to save people.
And maybe she finally says what's on her mind to Connell instead of letting her boundaries disappear.
Maybe I can hope this version of Marianne is more like me.
Conclusion et Fin
I’ve been thinking a lot about BPD lately. Sometimes, I completely forget I have it. Other times, it is so obvious — to me, at least — that I want to crawl under my covers and sleep. It’s funny cause today is one of these days when anxiety attacks from behind. I’m trying to keep maintain what feels and looks normal. Everything is on the verge of crumbling down, falling off a cliff, or imploding like a house of cards. I dissociate for 10 minutes, thinking of what’s on the other side because I cannot even picture the other side.
I might be borrowing the words my Compadre said, but everything feels like an illusion lately. I’m trying to ground myself and breathe slowly. Every breath reminds me that my feet are on the ground, that I’ll be ok. But at the same time, my chest tightens with each inhale, my throat closes up, and my heart beats faster, knowing that there’s an unknown path in front of me where I have to trust people, get vulnerable again, and try again and again to learn who I am. Maybe my boundaries should stop disappearing for others. Maybe, for once, it’s about me.
My therapist told me I needed time. And all I have is time. This and an extraordinary power: my overly sensitive mind.
A little bit of statistics (if you’re curious)
1 to 2% of the population has BPD, and yet 10% of them will die from the disorder. We are 40 times more at risk of killing ourselves. And this is without counting deaths from overdoses, alcohol poisoning, a sexually transmitted disease, or financial death. Deaths from risky behaviour don’t count in statistics.
75% of people diagnosed with BPD are women. This disparity is often associated with gender bias towards women and men. Men with the same symptoms are usually diagnosed with PTSD or depression instead of BPD. (Medical Sexiiiiiiiism.)
84.5% of people with BPD have two or more mental disorders.
If you got there, you’ve read it all, and I really appreciate it.
I’m really trying to get back into writing. It’s been a challenge, but sometimes it’s worth it. Like today.
I promise I’ll try to write more. :)
D’ici là, à la prochaine.