Page 40 of Breathe Again

My cell phone rang, and I answered it without checking the number, not wanting the ringing to irritate Olivia.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Dr. Donaldson. Is this Mara?”

“Yes, this is me. How’re you doing?” I wondered why she was calling.

“That’s my line! I’m calling to check in with you, see how you’re doing in light of your past appointment with the psychiatrist.”

“Hmm, honestly? I’m struggling to believe it. Do you believe it?”

“It makes sense. Remember, it’s borderline personality issues, not the full-blown disorder, and from what you’ve been going through, and the things you’ve shared about your past and your family of origin, I believe it fits. Have you looked into it at all?”

My doctor had known me for over twenty years. I trusted her. If she thought the diagnosis was correct, it probably was.

“I haven’t, but I’m going to do it today. I have counselling in two weeks.”

“That’s good, you deserve the help. Keep in touch, Mara. Let me know if you need anything.”

You can either run from it or learn from it.

I needed to stop running and deal with it. I needed to at least see if I thought the diagnosis was correct. Curling up on the opposite couch to Olivia with my laptop, I typed ‘borderline personality disorder’ into the search engine and began to take notes.

I read that BPD involved problems with emotional dysregulation, something I apparently had in common with Olivia. It was ironic that I had been coaching her on that same issue for years. Emotional dysregulation strongly affects relationships, sometimes all, sometimes just one. Lucky Zale, it was all on him, although I worried incessantly that something would happen to Olivia, something bad that would take her away from me.

There were also problems regulating thoughts, and it could exist with other disorders like depression, anxiety, eating disorders, andother mental health issues. I fell into that category as the doctor diagnosed me with Persistent Depressive Disorder as well.

It declared in black and white print that environmental and genetic components contributed to the development of BPD. I had both of those. Child abuse was a great contributor, or what they termed adverse childhood events. I’d had a few scattered incidents, but other people had lived through much worse. I was not sure it should have been enough to qualify. Maybe that made me a weak person.

Prognosis was expected to be good with treatment. I wasn’t thrilled about adding on to my to-do list, but I wasn’t daft, I knew this was a must-do not just a to-do.

There were nine symptoms of BPD and you had to have five to receive a diagnosis. The first was having a fear of abandonment. I screamed at Zale, on numerous occasions, telling him he must call if he’s going to be even five minutes late. I remembered the tears and the feelings of utter devastation when he had to go away on business. I worried about plane crashes and car accidents, as well as attractive co-workers. I lived with the constant influx of thoughts that he could do better and one day he would realize this.

A history of unstable relationships was a hallmark trait. This was not a problem for me. I cut off all the relationships that were not good for me. Hmm. I guess that might be considered unstable. I wasn’t as worried about that one, but the next one cut me deeply.

An unclear or shifting self-image that leads to changing jobs, religions, values, and goals. Huh. I had sixteen jobs between theages of fifteen and twenty-four, then at least four more up until the time I had Olivia and became a writer. I’d been baptized three times but no longer went to church, although I did believe.

At least that hadn’t changed.

Impulsivity, or self-destructive, sensation-seeking behaviors, like overspending, risky sex, binge eating, drugs, and alcohol. I was a terrible binge eater when I was upset. I’d replaced that, eventually, with sex with Zale.

Suicidal behavior, including thinking about suicide, making threats, or an attempt. I had thought about it, not about doing it, just about not having to carry on, at points when I felt too tired, when I felt hopeless, when I got tired of feeling so low, but I didn’t want to leave Zale and Olivia. I didn’t want them left without me.

The next symptom, self-harm, gave examples of cutting and burning. Pulling my own hair and digging my nails into my flesh probably counted. At least it wasn’t as bad as burning or cutting. Although, I understood and experienced the urge to cut, and if I burned myself on the stove accidentally I had noted that it served as an excellent distraction.

I could relate to the extreme mood swings. I was hypersensitive to triggers that didn’t seem to bother other people. Bex was not easily riled, and Willa was always sunny. I admired that greatly.

I didn’t feel empty. I remembered the doctor asking me about that, although I did feel like a nothing and a nobody at times, and I wasoften bored. I described myself as being without substance, or like part of the background in my own life. I often felt invisible.

Explosive anger. Ouch. This I had. In the past it was directed outwards, then I was able to suppress it, but it was becoming a problem again. This was the problem that sent me to the doctor, which led to the terrible diagnosis.

The last symptom listed was dissociation, as well as struggling with suspicious thoughts about others’ motives. I couldn’t really wrap my head around the idea of dissociation. Although when I was under stress, I felt foggy or spaced out.

I did have that one instance where I was outside my own body, but that was under extreme duress. There were times I felt weird in my body, and the world looked hazy, but I wasn’t sure if that was what was meant by dissociation.

I gathered more information, and it made me think, and make connections to beliefs and behaviors I believed were normal or warranted. The suicide rate of eight to ten percent scared me. What if my condition deteriorated? With all that I’d read that morning, the worst of which were the countless articles counseling people about how to escape the clutches of my kind, I had to admit that the doctor was right about the diagnosis.

The one thing that stood out the most for me, and was quite validating, was the belief that BPD was the most emotionally painful mental illness. This rang true, and it rang loudly. In some small way I felt proud of myself that I’d done okay considering theconstant emotional pain I’d suffered, but mostly I was appalled. Appalled that Zale was stuck with me and appalled at the amount of emotional labor required by me to secure some sort of recovery.

---