Note: It’s likely that I’ll need to write my posts in parts because…well, attention deficits, lack of motivation and such. I do just about everything in short bursts, if I do them at all. So if you find yourself at the bottom of this page and it kinda seems like I stopped mid-thought and didn’t finish, that’s probably the case and I’ll eventually add to the post or continue in a new one.
I am a 33 year-old woman. I live in a small house in a quiet suburb of Chicago. I have brown hair and brown eyes. I am 5’6″ and weigh 135 pounds. I have been married to my husband since June of 2017. I have 1 dog and 1 cat. I suffer from a severe mental illness that has devastated most areas of my life, including my ability to function academically/professionally, care for myself and maintain relationships in any capacity. Until very recently, no clinician (and there have been dozens by now) has been willing or able to give me any confirmation as to what that illness actually is. I guess I’ll get into that eventually. Anyway…
I created this blog after one of my “meltdowns”. That’s the best way I can describe these events. For me, a meltdown is when I’m triggered by something and the resulting surge of negative emotions is just too much to bear and, since I apparently lack the emotional skills to process/endure them…well, I go completely bat-shit fucking nuts. I’m talking “raving lunatic babbling/shouting obscenities on a street corner” kind of nuts. The kind of absolutely psychotic and terrifying behavior that would, for some, totally justify my being shot to death by police if they happened to show up during the episode.
I cry hysterically, scream so loud and so long that I lose my voice afterward, pace the house/room, repeat sentences/talk out loud to myself or to someone who may or may not be present. I shake and twitch, hit myself/smash my head into walls/claw at my face, destroy property, threaten/attempt suicide, threaten/attempt to physically harm others, hyperventilate/panic or become totally numb/listless. I get disoriented or forget where/who I am or who I’m with. I lose my short-term memory and cannot even remember things I’ve said/done in the last 1-24 hours. Imagine how you might act if there was an army of serial killers inside your body and they all suddenly started stabbing,slashing, burning, crushing and tearing you to pieces from the inside out and there was literally nothing you could do to stop them – and it can last for minutes, hours, or even days. I’ve had these episodes since childhood (my mom called them “rages”) and though they’ve become much less frequent as I entered adulthood, they continue to happen nonetheless.
So yea. That all sounds utterly horrifying. I probably sound like a fucking monster. No, I know I do. Everything in that last paragraph is objectively fucking awful. But here’s where it gets really insidious:
Like, only a handful of other human beings even know I behave this way or that I ever have. Somehow, despite all the chaos and insanity raging inside me and how completely out of control I feel, I am able to conceal all of it from anyone that isn’t my husband. This has always been the case; the disease only reveals itself to those I am closest to. When I was growing up, my immediate family with whom I shared a house were the only ones that knew anything was wrong with me. Friends, teachers, neighbors – literally every other human being that had any contact with me would have never guessed I was ever anything but the shy, intelligent, sweet and well-behaved kid they judged me to be. In fact, I was so adept at selectively hiding my true nature/feelings that I struggled (and still do) to even show strong emotion of any sort in the presence of another person, even my therapists and my parents. When something wells up inside me, I stifle it before I can even name it. It’s involuntary, instinctive even.
So that sounds like shame, right? Why else would someone go to such extreme lengths to filter themselves to that degree, even around those they trust the most? Yea, it’s definitely shame. I have a lot of that.
And then there’s the crippling depression, emptiness, alcoholism, self-injury, a sexuality defined by trauma…fuck.
So this has been my life. I’m just…existing. Trying to put out the fires in my brain by any means available (almost always drugs/alcohol or just total avoidance), trying to keep up appearances (without much success…), clawing my way out of the pit, then falling back in, rinse, repeat.
Well I’m beginning the process of applying for Disability. And in order to do that, my therapist has to give me a diagnosis. This is the first time anyone has ever told me face to face what they think my issue is. And I get it; they wanna focus on the symptoms. Labels are arbitrary. But it shouldn’t surprise anyone that she diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder.
shouting into the void 