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So I’ll start a revolution from my bed

There is absolutely no point in forcing yourself to write a personal blog if you have more important things to worry about, and those worries have been the reason behind the long absence between posts. I have missed this blog dearly; although I knew it was helping me I didn’t realise quite how much until writer’s block hit and life got somewhat in the way. That’s not to say I haven’t had time – I’ve had plenty, more than I can begin to visualise – but that time has been taken up with difficult sleeping habits, medicine regimes, appointments, depression… I’ve experienced the full range of, well, everything recently.

Seronegative symmetrical psoriatic arthritis. Somehow, even the name sounds complicated.

Throughout the past couple of years I’ve often wondered how I would feel if it did all turn out to be real. For even though I’ve had very clear physical symptoms and (eventually) positive X-rays and an MRI, there has always been a small voice in my head saying, “but you lie. You always lie”. All the doctors who wouldn’t listen and the people who suggested it may just be overreaction on my  part… they were wrong, and I was right. It’s a strange feeling for somebody who isn’t used to being right.

 

wta3

Now feels like the right time to begin writing again. A month after my diagnosis, and I’m just about beginning to pull things together. There’s a lot to concentrate on – I’ve been put back on steroids (Prednisolone, this time) and have also been put on a course of Methotrexate, along with Fentanyl patches (which refuse to stick in this heatwave but otherwise they’ve been fantastic at dealing with the ankle pain) and codeine still if I need it. I have varying specialists dealing with my case, a nurse, and am also attending a pain clinic for physiotherapy, counselling and relaxation, as well as any medications/pain relief if needed. Everybody has been lovely, from the rheumatologist who diagnosed me to the occupational therapist I saw on Friday morning. The difference from simply changing hospitals has been enormous, and I’m so thankful to my GP for understanding why I no longer had any faith in our hospital. The time from first seeing the new rheumatology team to diagnosis was two months. My local hospital achieved nothing except further damage in over two whole years, all because they never scanned me.

I haven’t quite accepted the diagnosis yet; I suspect it’ll take while. Although I knew something was wrong and even though I considered inflammatory arthritis as a possibility for a long time, nothing quite feels real yet. However, I don’t feel the sense of hopelessness which has dogged me for months and months; a weight has definitely lifted, even if newer weights have been added at the same time.

I am trying not to look at the past year as a waste, but I must confess to feeling resentful; I spent a year unable to walk without extreme pain – and, over recent months, have been unable to walk at all and have spent my days indoors relying on crutches to get to the toilet) – and I do feel cheated. All it would have taken was an MRI. All they had to do was listen to my history. They didn’t though, and as a consequence I have lost a year of my life to pain.

It’s hard to know where to start rebuilding.

 

building-a-wall

 
22 Comments

Posted by on July 21, 2013 in Every day life

 

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My bed feels larger than when I was small

 

I’m tired of struggling through every day. Of pushing and pulling and forcing myself to at least seem okay. I’m tired of speaking and having the words come out jumbled before they can even leave my mouth. Of sleeping only when beyond exhaustion. Of making excuses. Of seeing the sunrise every single morning, having been awake all night. Of not being able to find a single bit of beauty in it.

Today, I broke all my personal promises and posted my feelings on Facebook. Oh, not the big stuff – that’s for here only – but I went into far more detail than I’ve ever felt comfortable with, and I’m still not comfortable with it now. I only did it because I can’t take unrealistic expectations anymore; I have never, ever been able to cope with being expected to act a certain way and, truthfully, I’m sick of pretending.

I was pulling myself out of it, with the help of antidepressants which have been proven to work for me. I was trying really goddamn hard, and I was almost there. I’d started eating normally again, and having showers. Things seemed to be on the up emotionally, even if they weren’t so great physically.

Then… just one little thing. That’s all it takes.

I don’t even know what that little thing was. All I know is I’m sitting on the sofa after leaving S in bed. I cried all day. I realised I just can’t take this. Everything. The pain. The sickness. The tiredness. Any of it.

 

world

I’ve been vomiting again, and the conclusion my mother and I came to is that it’s stress. Truthfully, I accepted this explanation because the idea of facing just one more doctor is too much to bear. I’ve thought about it throughout the day though, and I realise it’s probably true; even on days when I don’t feel like a total emotional wreck, I’m still terrified of what will become of me, and it’s like a ball of pure acid in my stomach to even consider the future.

Can I even see a future for myself?

Not really.

I’m relying on those closest to me – my mother, S, and a couple of people I’ve come to call friends – to keep me afloat, because if left to my own devices I begin to sink almost instantly. I can no longer talk to Z about any of this; it became apparent a while ago that we’re probably never going to be on the same page when it comes to life.

Just like last time, the vomiting has kicked off feelings I’d rather not have; feelings of calorie counting and tape measures. Truthfully I hardly need to worry about such things since eating has become incredibly difficult with the constant nausea and risk of sudden projectile sickness, but something inside decided to worry about it anyway. I’ve lost a lot of weight without even trying over the past few months, and you’d think I’d be ecstatic but instead I almost feel cheated because I didn’t do it myself. So, yet again, I grab for control.

I don’t even believe my own lies about having control anymore. I know nothing I do gives me the slightest safety.

 

 
15 Comments

Posted by on May 10, 2013 in Every day life

 

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Wrong way on a one way track

Can you help me remember how to smile, make it somehow all seem worthwhile?

How on earth did I get so jaded?

Depression is a cruel, cruel illness. It robs you of the ability to give a damn.

I find it incredibly difficult to write about depression with hindsight. It’s far easier to force myself to open the laptop when I’m feeling utterly sunk in misery and numbness, and explain it in real time. Otherwise… I can’t begin to describe how it feels to be trapped so far within myself that the outside world is just a whisper in the background.

For weeks – months – I have slept during the day and lain awake at night until the sun rises. Attempts at righting my sleeping habits have been pointless; the pain dictates what I do, and when I do it.

sleeping in black and white

So, am I free? Almost. Today, I managed to wash the dishes, tidy the bedroom, water the plants and do two loads of washing. That’s that most useful I’ve been in months. Strangely, I haven’t needed a single painkiller today up until thirty minutes ago. Last night, my foot was swollen to the point where the outline of the damaged tendon was clearly showing, so I don’t know why I’ve been granted a small respite today. All I can assume is that my plan of keeping my foot off the floor as often as possible (I’ve invested in crutches) is working. True, I hate having to stay on the sofa, and it’s horrible knowing spring is somewhat here but I can’t go for a walk or even down to the garden (too many holes in the pathway), but perhaps it’s paying off. It has to be better than last month’s buckets of ice water and boiling hot towels.

I’m trying everything. Which is… a good sign, I think. Over the past week I’ve started thinking about the future, and that’s something I didn’t think I’d feel happy feeling. I’d given up entirely, and I almost felt safe there. Does that make sense? Failure is… easier, somehow.

On Saturday, I had an MRI at Liverpool Hospital. The week before I had ultrasounds at the same hospital. In nine weeks, I see the rheumatologist again. Until then, my GP is giving me regular codeine prescriptions and, if I need them, I can ask for morphine patches. I’m wary of doing so; I don’t want to leave myself with no options. I get used to opiates far too easily.

codeine

So… the codeine. It’s going okay, actually. There have been a few days where I’ve taken more than the recommended dose, but that was purely through pain. So while I’m still not entirely responsible… I’m learning. I’ve learned a lot of lessons recently, and one of those is that painkillers are important. When you’re in so much pain that you could rip your own face off, the last thing you care about is abusing painkillers to escape the fear. You just want to escape the pain, and let them do the job they were designed for.

Oh, it’s not easy. I’m constantly on my guard, and I know it’s something I’m nowhere near over. Addiction is… well, it’s an addiction. It’s come back far too many times for me to ever say I’m over it.

They’re not perfect. Tramadol was much more effective, but I couldn’t be doing with the apathy and constant nausea. So I still have pain, it just becomes easier to ignore. That’s why opiates are so perfect. They don’t remove the pain, just stop you caring.

Like depression.

One day, perhaps this will stop happening. I’ll stop losing it, and life can run more smoothly.

 

 
14 Comments

Posted by on April 29, 2013 in Every day life

 

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These wounds are all self-imposed

I fell apart yesterday. In hindsight, it was coming; there’s only so long I can keep things secret before I blow, and I just couldn’t keep it in anymore. I cried all day. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so much.

I’m not coping. There, I said it. Why has it taken me six months to admit this? I know I’ve admitted that things are hard at the moment, but not how hard – I suppose there’s still the fear someone I know will read this. You know what? Fuck them. This is my outlet, not theirs.

Depression

My Medicated Cartoon Life

I’m horribly, hideously depressed. There aren’t words to describe just how lost I feel, and I’m so worried about admitting this because I don’t want to be seen as an attention seeker. Things have… escalated, very quickly. I’ve stopped eating properly – avoiding food all day then binging at night – and the urge to self-harm over the tiniest thing is incredibly strong.

Yesterday, I had an appointment with a doctor. I’d been vomiting for three days, unable to take any medication and struggling to cope with the combination of disability and needing to run to the bathroom every five minutes. The anxiety was beyond extreme, and I could hardly speak without bursting into terrified tears. As soon as I got to the surgery I started panicking and crying, begging my mum not to leave me (she insisted on coming to my appointment because I was so on edge), and once I saw the doctor I became an absolute wreck. I explained how I hate being on so much medication, how my life had become a pathetic cycle of pills, sleep, and insomnia. It went… okay, I suppose. I have another appointment in a week – I assume to check I haven’t topped myself – and I’ve been taken off the anti-inflammatories because my stomach’s utterly destroyed, and been given a much lower dose of the anti-depressant to stop me withdrawing. Duloxetine simply isn’t working for me, so we’re going to try putting me back on Cipralex next week in the hope it’ll stop the panic, or at least control it a little. It used to work wonderfully, and I was useless without it.

Dylan Moran

It took until 1am for me to finally break down in front of S. I haven’t really spoken to him about my mental health – it’s something I’ve always wanted to keep separate from our relationship – but last night was impossible. I simply couldn’t stop crying. I tried to go to bed early, but just lay sobbing in the dark. Eventually, I wrapped a blanket around myself, walked into the living room, and said, “is it okay if I be an emotional wreck in here with you? I’m not keen on doing it on my own”.

He was amazing. We sat on the sofa, his arm around me and my head on his chest, and I told him everything. Not about the tablet abuse, but I think he knows about that anyway. I told him I couldn’t see a future; not just between us, but no future at all. I was too scared to even try looking forwards because everything fucks up eventually. Truthfully, I’ve given up. There have been times recently where, if someone had offered me a quick and painless way out, I’d have taken it.

Somehow, its harder now that I want to make something of myself. In the past, I wasn’t bothered because I didn’t believe I would ever amount to anything, but now… I want a life. I want to go out and see people and speak to other humans. I want to be able to use public transport without having to put mental blinkers on so I don’t panic. I want to be able to eat normally, and sleep properly. I just want to be something close to normal, whatever that is. I want to feel okay.

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9 Comments

Posted by on April 6, 2013 in Every day life

 

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A letter to my consultant

Current medications:
Propranalol Hydrochloride (80mg daily) – for anxiety and panic attacks
Lansoprazole (30mg daily)
Etoricoxib (60mg daily) – for inflammation
Pregabalin (300mg daily) – for fibromyalgia
Duloxetine (90mg daily) for pain, depression and anxiety.
Dianette – contraception and treating polycystic ovary syndrome

Recent medications:
Cipralex – for depression and anxiety
Celebrex – for pain
Omeprazole
Prednisone (12 week course to treat chronic eczema)

Past surgeries:
Four wisdom teeth removed
Laparoscopy (to investigate painful periods and bleeding) (2007). Laser ablation done at the same time to treat inflammation in cervix.
Cholecystectomy (2008)

Current diagnoses:
Synovitis in left ankle and inflammation of tendon at side of foot (originally misdiagnosed as achilles tendonitis 18 months ago), diagnosed approx. 6 months ago.
Pompholyx eczema/dyshidrotic dermatitis (diagnosed in 2012)
Polycystic ovary syndrome (diagnosed in 2001)
Fibromyalgia (diagnosed in 2006)
Irritable bowel syndrome (diagnosed in 2002-ish, originally treated with Mebeverine but currently under no treatment due to side-effects)
Depression and anxiety (first diagnosed at the age of thirteen) and Borderline Personality Disorder.

Current symptoms:
Pain and stiffness in fingers, knees, upper neck/base of skull, hips, feet/toes, lower back and wrists. Fingers, knees and toes most affected, although neck is becoming much worse. Pain and stiffness much worse in morning/after sitting still, and takes at least 2-3 hours after waking to begin loosening. Gentle movements seem to help the pain in most joints.
Unable to bear weight on heels for 2-3 hours after inactivity.
Swelling in fingers, toes, ankles and knees after waking/inactivity, especially in joints closest to nails in fingers and toes.
Clumsiness, especially in morning. Unable to grip items with confidence, especially pens and cups.
Fingers and toes have become misshapen over the past 18 months.
Weight loss. This is a particular concern for me as I haven’t dieted, although my appetite has decreased dramatically, again over the past 18 months. Since September 2012 I have lost almost three stones in weight, which is very unlike me as I have always struggled with keeping my weight down and I love food.
Recurring cold sores.
Itchy eyes and very dry mouth, which seems unconnected to medications.
Lack of temperature control. I have suffered from this for a number of years, but only at night. Recently it has become an issue throughout the day also, leaving me either far too cold, or far too warm. Fingers and toes always feel painfully cold regardless of weather or environment.
IBS has become much worse in the past 18 months, with constant diarrhea, cramps and loss of bowel control.

I have been referred to orthopedics, physiotherapy, rheumatology at SDGH, and to the local mental health team all regarding my symptoms. Because the pain and swelling in my left ankle was misdiagnosed as achilles tendonitis, they have only concentrated on that area of my body, and not taken the whole range of symptoms into account, which I feel are connected somehow as all my symptoms either appeared or became worse around the same time.
Emotionally, this has had a huge impact on me, and my life. I am no longer able to live independently as I need somebody around to ensure I have help with basic tasks (like cooking, taking a shower, and walking), as co-ordination and balance are something I struggle with a lot now. I am no longer able to go outside on my own in case I fall or am unable to bear weight on my heels. As a result I am now almost entirely housebound and even though I have bought a walking stick (after physiotherapy claimed I didn’t need help with walking), this only causes pain in my hips and neck as I try to balance with it.
I feel that if I could at least have a name for what is happening to me, I would cope a lot better, and possibly find a treatment which may help. Currently, I have lost all hope of ever leading a normal life, of being able to work. My hobbies all involve movement (walking, sewing, knitting, photography) and I am no longer able to do these things, and the rapidly increasing pain in my joints leave me unable to do the most basic tasks such as hold a pencil (I am also a writer) or comfortably type on a keyboard without wrist pain.

 
16 Comments

Posted by on March 22, 2013 in Every day life

 

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My little empire.


“My little empire
I’m sick of being sick
My little empire
I’m tired of being tired”

 
3 Comments

Posted by on February 16, 2013 in Every day life

 

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I confess

The drugs just aren’t doing it for me,
chemical sleep has lost its appeal
and I confess, I considered tonight
that it might be easier just not to feel.

To slip away, to take a bow,
Admit defeat and fall from my grace
and would you miss me, would you notice;
how long would it take to forget my face?

You forgot me once, you can do it again,
after all, this is only a release
breaking free from the prison we built together
in the hope, of maybe, one night of peace.

I confess, this is serious,
and if I had the strength I would leave tonight
I wish I was brave, that I wouldn’t miss you
that this time I could really give up the fight.

An empty bottle in front of me,
and pills I know I’ll never take
just further proof of my personal failings
evidence of the depression I could never shake.

Another scar to my collection,
a canvas I paint to remind me of you
to prove this reality was never a nightmare
but a waking hell, which I’m still going through.

I confess, it would be so easy,
Just a slip of the hand, just one step too far
but I’m not brave, I feel too afraid
to let myself go, to reopen these scars.

Yet I fantasise of how easy it would be,
for you to live your life without me there
I confess I think of setting you free
sometimes it’s the only way that ever seems fair.

If I left today, would you notice?
Would you realise, I did this for you?
If I slipped away past an exit sign,
would you see it as failure, or something I needed to do?

I try to remember every word you ever said,
the times you loved me, the times you were sweet
I confess, I want to forget
to make this easier for me to leave.

But how can I go when you hold me like that;
when you whisper so quietly only I can hear?
I confess, you keep me from dying,
from collapsing under the weight of my fears.

(c)

“Suicide” is a word I don’t like typing. It’s such a final solution, and the word itself makes me feel uncomfortable about the actions I’ve taken in the past. I may occasionally mention my flirts with causing my own death, but I try not to go into much detail because, in truth, I’m ashamed.

I’m ashamed to know I even tried, mostly over such trivial things. New colleges and threats of break-ups. Arguments with my mother. They seem such petty reasons but back then I couldn’t judge whether an incident was serious or minor, and everything felt like a horrific attack on everything I am. The panic and psychosis (for there was psychosis; hallucinations and imagined conversations) drove me into a ball of fear and confusion and, somehow, I decided that suicide was the only logical answer to a world of horror. 

Last week, a man lay down on the train tracks between my house and Z’s, and killed himself. I heard the sirens and saw sketchy details appear on Facebook, but I still can’t let myself accept that somebody was in so much torment that they felt the only way to solve it was to climb over the barriers as traffic waited at the crossing, and wait for the train to hit; somebody just a couple of roads away from where I was sitting was going through something most people never – thankfully – have to experience.

I find myself wondering what he was like; why he felt he had to take that step, and do something so damn final. I wish I’d had the chance to know him, somehow.

 
10 Comments

Posted by on January 23, 2013 in Every day life

 

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It will be sunny one day

6918814422_f3942a23d8_o

Image from Crystal

 
8 Comments

Posted by on January 11, 2013 in Every day life

 

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Me, I disconnect from you.

“I’m only going to say this once; will you stick by me?”

sad-woman-black-and-white-facebook-cover

Sometimes there’s no controlling it. That outburst; the rush of fear and sadness, the pressure you’ve been keeping safe inside bursting out and smothering everything around you, leaving you breathless, unable to make sense of the words, unable to do the most basic tasks without messing up and descending into a spiral of unnecessary apologies.

Breathe.

You forget to breathe.

This afternoon, I buried myself under the duvet. Breathed in the lavender-and-chamomile linen spray on the pillows and the slight scent of S’s hair where he’d slept earlier. We woke late; by the time S whispered and nudged me into consciousness it was past 3pm. He lay in bed in his pyjama bottoms and blue jumper, reading and chatting to me as I tried to force myself out of an uncommonly deep sleep, wandering from bathroom to kitchen, making coffee and wrapping myself in my still-damp dressing gown. The coffee didn’t help. Encouragement from S achieved nothing. I just wanted to stay curled up, as though I could hibernate right through winter and spring, only surfacing when the world didn’t seem quite so dull.

Sleep didn’t come last night; when I finally crawled into bed next to S and snuggled into his armpit, daylight was coming through the blinds. I’d been thinking, and smoking. And thinking a little more.

sad-woman

For almost a year, I’ve been saying I’m ready for the bad news on my heath. I’ve wanted to know why my body has failed me, and I’ve craved, begged, pleaded for a reason behind it all. In this blog, I’ve gone from “I have fibromyalgia” to “something’s not right”, and now… now things really aren’t right.

Six days ago, the pain in my ankle and foot came back, worse than ever. A stabbing, searing, ripping pain which took up all my energy. I had a mild cold, so that became the culprit for a while; it was easier to blame a virus than accept what the pain returning probably meant. However, the cold is gone now but the pain remains. Co-codamol doesn’t help. Dope only does so much to relax my ankle. There’s no way of distracting myself, no dissociation I can use to find relief; it feels like somebody is twisting a knife in my foot, and each movement, each millimetre my toes twitch, they dig the knife in a little further.

They explained this at my last orthopeadics appointment, that the cortisone injection was a diagnostic as well as a pain reliever (yeah, because that bit worked well), and if the pain returned in around two weeks, there would have to be an operation. Just an outpatient one, to remove the synovial tissue in my ankle. That doesn’t bother me; after the needle from Hell they injected the cortisone with. What bothers me is that the pain returning means that it’s not as simple as a bit of arthritis and a damaged tendon; it means that something’s happening in my body to cause an inflammatory response.

It’s sort of the final nail in the coffin for RA.

synovitis

synovitis

This is my foot now. I’m not bragging when I say I used to have beautiful feet; sure, my toes have always been a little too long, but they’ve always been slim and well-shaped. Now… my toes curl under. The effort of keeping them straight is too much now, and too painful. I have bumps on the sides of my toes, and when I’m relaxed they curl together. Sometimes I have to reach down and untangle one toe from behind another, because I can’t straighten them. They’re fat and misshapen.

It’s a strange day when you no longer recognise your own feet. Before moving in with S, I threw out a lot of my heels; I couldn’t comprehend ever wearing them again, and seeing their shiny patent leather and little bows and hearts and pointed toes… it depressed me. I live in knee-length boots now, with a low wedge heel and orthopaedic inserts. If I’m feeling brave, I’ll put trainers on… but I can’t walk far in them.

It’s such a simple thing. Footwear. And I feel cheated by not being able to choose anymore.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on January 7, 2013 in Every day life

 

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I always find someone to bruise and leave behind: the personality of BPD

Trying to access my blog has been a nightmare today; it’s almost as if I’m being punished for putting off writing. I sit in the living room or the kitchen, staring at my laptop and willing the words to be there, but they just aren’t – I don’t particularly want to think about the negative side of things at the moment – and not being able to log in to my account all day has driven me half-crazy. Finally, I have the words… and the fear that I will never get my blog back. Similar issues have been had across WordPress according to their support forums, and my natural cynicism makes me wonder if they’ll ever fix it, or if I’ll be in blog limbo for the rest of my life, unable to download my content or ever update. It’s frustrating.

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I’m going to write anyway, because I received email notification of a comment from one of my old posts – Borderline Personality Disorder – and although I try not to put too much pressure on myself to respond to negativity, it was too tempting to reply, rather than let it go.

I can’t stand people with BPD!!!!!!!!, My soon to be ex-wife has ruined or should I say destroyed everything i built for the last 21 years. I’m retired military, she put me into 25k debt, sold my retirement gift (1972 Plymouth duster), took money from me, calls, texts, emails, hoovers, threatens, plays the victim, has filed PFA’S on me to hide her lies, told a judge she tried to commit suicide 3 times, told that crap to my youngest daughter, lied about 6 surgeries, accused me of killing the dogs when she had possession of the dogs, sold items of mine, harassed county attorney, hide my cell and car keys, twice told my daughter she doesn’t want to be her mom, called and emailed my family members about our sex live, hates my other kids, took all parental rights away from me with her son while we were leaving together, called child protective services on me for child abuse, lied about receiving taxes (my taxes 3.5k) and spent it all, gave her 4k for my daughter’s ortho and she never paid it, keeps getting into my retirement account and changing crap (it’s a federal crime!), every three days would be arguments until i apologized or caved……and so much more……..you people with BPD SHOULD ONLY BE ALOUD TO MARRY EACH OTHER!!!!!! The total destructiveness you bring into peoples/family/loved ones lives is just criminal!!!! Now I have to pick up the pieces; my daughter cuts herself, oldest daughter is on depression meds, claim bankruptcy, and start all over again age the age of 44. You BPD!!!! should never be allowed to date/marry/have kids……I feel so sorry and sick to my heart for all of your next victims…..GOD help them so they won’t be put through this hell I’m going through.

Wow. Where to begin.

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It’s difficult not to take such opinions personally when somebody says that the likes of myself and many of my readers should never be able to date, marry, or have children. Attempting not to take such comments to heart is nigh-on impossible. Those like myself already live with ridiculously low self-confidence and constant snipes from society and the media, without being told these things in shouty capital letters on a blog which – I like to think, judging by many comments I’ve received – has become a safe place to discuss issues like BPD and mental illness without being judged. Although I know there’s no way to stop such comments – and I wouldn’t want to, as everyone is entitled to an opinion – I don’t like to respond to them, as it makes me feel like a victim. The very act of explaining why I behave the way I do gives more ammunition, and I’m not always sure it’s possible to change somebody’s mind on mental illness when their beliefs are so set in stone.

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I will be the first to say that living with someone suffering from BPD must be a nightmare if they are experiencing the fully-fledged out-of-control side of BPD. If they refuse to take their medication, won’t or can’t accept help, or have attempted to get help but the system and/or friends and family have let them down, as is so common with borderline personality disorder. I will never deny that my past behaviour has been controlling and has caused pain to those around me; to lie about that would be to lie about my entire life from puberty onwards.

However, that controlling behaviour has never been out of malice, or acted out with any intent to hurt or cause distress. Describing the BPD mind is an impossible task; but, like everyone else, we have our own distinct personalities. Although outwardly we may appear incredibly bitter and resentful, hell-bent on causing mayhem wherever we go without a single thought for the consequences, inwardly can be an entirely different story. Inside there could be somebody who simply has no control over their actions, and who is lashing out because it’s the only way they know how. It may not be the right way, but it’s their way, and it’s the only thing they have at that moment because their entire being is consumed by all-enveloping fear.

BPD is not a free license to abuse people; when I was first diagnosed, I noticed a lot of resentment around the internet regarding relationships with BPD’ers, and their ability to destroy everything within sight; emotions, furniture, families, friendships, affairs… to the non-BPD partner it seems that everything their boyfriend/girlfriend touches turns to shit. That they get off on controlling others, and seek attention at every available opportunity.

This is a myth.

I have never, ever enjoyed having BPD. Since my symptoms started in puberty, my life has been an uphill struggle to find some form of sane balance. To connect with others without clinging to them. To know who I am, and why I think the way I do. It’s been hard; heartbreaking at times, and a nightmare for everybody around me. I’ve sprinted through life like a whirlwind, grabbing onto others for safety and leaving chaos in my wake. I’ve said and done terrible things. Threatened to harm myself when I had no intention. Lied. Cheated. Stolen. Caused undeniable pain and, yes, abused others.

Of this, I will never be proud.

However, I have made every effort to change, and gain control over the tangle of self-abuse and denial. Comments like the one I quoted above, and many I have read online, seem to suggest that abandoning those with BPD is the only solution. When I was first diagnosed, my mother bought Stop Walking On Eggshells by Paul T. Mason and Randi Kreger. After she read it, her suggestion to me was that I didn’t look at the book, as there were heavy hints that walking away from somebody suffering from BPD is an easy option. I haven’t read the book myself, so she may have been exaggerating, but it wouldn’t surprise me. BPD is a mental illness like any other, but it seems acceptable to cast suffers off with “they’re a cruel person” or “it’s not worth it”. Or, as above, suggest that we should never marry or even date.

I have worked hard to get this far. I’m twenty-eight in ten days, and there was a time when reaching eighteen seemed impossible. Admittedly, I find it difficult to recognise any achievement, but I know my life is massively different to how it used to be. Medication has the anxiety and panic attacks mostly under control, and stops me going too far into depression. Without the anxiety, I don’t overreact, I don’t convince myself that everybody I love despises me. I don’t believe that the world would be a better place if I were dead.

So, people with BPD can change. They can grasp some control, if they work at it. We’re not hopeless cases.

I called this post “the personality of BPD”, because the comment above angered me. It totally disregarded any of his partner’s personality, and attributed all her behaviour to borderline personality disorder. Just like anybody else, people with BPD can be cruel, regardless of their condition. They can also be kind, although sometimes the kindness is muffled under sheer panic. Somebody living with BPD is not the whole of the condition; they’re still the person you know, with all that person’s foibles, beliefs, experiences and knowledge. BPD may be a massive part of their lives, but it doesn’t entirely consume; they’re in there somewhere and not everything they say or do is dictated by BPD.

I don’t know if this post makes much sense; my head is everywhere right now. There’s a lot to write about.

 

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Posted by on November 29, 2012 in Every day life

 

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