I stop by the self-help section, every time I take a trip to my local bookstore. I run my fingers across the spines of the same few books… Big Magic, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck, You Are a Badass… the same covers that have been churned in and out of my social media feeds since the books went viral.
I flip through the pages and skim the books, carrying them with me, as I move onto the cookbook aisle… the business aisle… the craft aisle. After a while has passed, I’d abruptly and shamelessly shove the books into the closest shelf and storm out without buying a thing.
My mind tends to stay open, considering different types of self-help options to couple with talk therapy and other methods of living with a personality disorder. The professional diagnosis says I have Borderline Personality Disorder with a touch of Histrionic Personality Disorder, topped off with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
When people ask me what that is, I flash them a picture of Harley Quinn from the recent Suicide Squad movie and they go, “Ah….” as their faces twist in a pained grimace.
“Let me write you a referral” after “Let me write you a referral.”
Naturally, the only option is self-help.
I write this blog as someone who has been diagnosed and treated for my disorders for over a decade. If you are reading this with a fresh diagnosis, I do urge you to seek professional help and peer support, at least until you feel comfortable with living day to day and managing moments of crisis.
The realization that I’m an uncomfortable person to be associated with, has long sank into my bones. No book on mannerisms and charisma can turn me into the docile daffodil that charms people like nectar to honey bees. No amount of chastising and scolding me to watch my mouth will prevent the impulsive snark from flying from between my teeth.
Because I don’t want that kind of help.
I’m no daffodil.
I’m not polite.
Braided into my DNA is my personality disorder that includes speckling my language with words like Fuck and Douche and Twatwaffle. I’m okay with being an acquired taste that fails at making healthy friendships than to actively exhaust myself daily to make other people like me.
I’m not broken. I don’t need to be fixed. Surely, there’s a little more to living than just coping and surviving while pretending to be a well-adjusted member of society.
It took me over a decade to reach the bare minimum of living well with other people, outside of mental institutions. I’m no longer violent (violence was my first method of self-defense as a response to triggers) and I’m no longer manipulative (manipulation being another survival tool for personality disorders).
I’ve done my part.
It’s very telling when I search for resources regarding Borderline Personality Disorder. Oh yes, I see the books that are written on how to leave us and blog posts on how we make dangerous, violent, absolute worst mothers.
“How do you handle a relationship with a girl that has BPD?”
“You don’t, dude… Run!”
No, friends. This isn’t on me or anyone else that suffers from a personality disorder.
You don’t get to have us on the days where we’ll bow down to every need you have because we tearfully only want to see you happy but then desert us when you catch a glimpse of what splitting looks like.
You don’t get to lavish in the unlimited adoration we’ll shower you with and then call us crazy when we catch you in a lie.
I know we might be painted as monsters, and truth be told, it’s pretty accurate. There’s a monster that looms over me as I’m kissing a person I think I’m falling in love with. Remember… they’ll run away. They. Always. Run. I’m tugged to the deepest love that you’ll never have the honor of feeling, and dragged to the most devastating heartbreaks that you couldn’t handle.
I live in two worlds… one where I see the ugliest, most shameful parts of myself. The other, where I am fawned over and I think I am the baddest bitch that has ever graced this part of the earth. You’re welcome to one world or the other… where I’ll put you on a pedestal and put my life in your hands or I’ll disgrace you and piss on your grave.
There’s no in between. (Just in case you were curious what ‘splitting’ is.)
Take me to a party and I will tell stories that will make a dominatrix blush and a sailor spit out his beer, from the atrocious words that fly out of my mouth. I’ll be the best friend that gets you laid from that boy you’ve been eyeing all night, but you’re too shy to talk to.
And when I swing low, I am devastated. I am physically here but my mind is in a different place. You can pretty much consider me dead.
Everyone will eventually leave me, especially if I can’t adjust to living a “normal life.”
If they don’t, give it time.
They all run.
I shatter myself, over and over and over, and rebuild myself with pieces of gold. My identity is forever changing. You call it hypocrisy or inconsistency but hey, asshole, it’s called a personality disorder for a reason.
Gosh, is this twisted? Does it sound like an abusive relationship or mental delusions and perhaps should I be committed into the hospital again?
That discomfort is not on me.
I completely accept and love who I am, with every skeleton I keep in my closet, and this gigantic monster chained to my ankles.
My days are no longer filled with regrets, shame for what other people judge of me, or toying with the idea of electric shock therapy to make me forget myself. I don’t need another self-help book or a person that will act as my filter before I speak to others.
I embrace myself as the theatrical, loud, foul-mouthed, walking contradiction and with a dramatic flair. My monster is a part of me and I love myself for it.
Borderlines have permission, nay- the RIGHT- to be ourselves, within the limits of the law of where we live. I’ll swing my hair in ecstatic dance and then cry my eyes out 5 minutes later because I spilled something on the floor. Am I taking up too much space? Get used to it. Think my healing process is too erratic and not linear enough for you? Well, go away and let the next person come along.
And then the next.
And then the next.
And those that love this insane world I live in, will stay, until they can’t.
And then the next.
And then the next.
This is the reality I live in. This is my normal. I don’t want to live any other way. I embrace the monster inside of me.