Not Who But What

One of the nine symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder:

“Unclear or shifting self-image. When you have BPD, your sense of self is typically unstable. Sometimes you may feel good about yourself, but other times you hate yourself, or even view yourself as evil. You probably don’t have a clear idea of who you are or what you want in life. As a result, you may frequently change jobs, friends, lovers, religion, values, goals, or even sexual identity.”

I remember one evening, I was in my outpatient therapy group when I looked at some of my paperwork more clearly during a session break. I had already been admitted to the hospital twice. The first time I was persuaded to self-admit so I could take a 600 question psycological test to help determine my diagnosis. My psychiatrist did not think I simply had depression. He was guessing something closer to bipolar. I spent a week in the hospital that August of 2018, and then I was admitted again in September to “help adjust my medication.” Once again I was okay with going to inpatient, because they told me they could increase my medication quicker in the hospital while keeping an eye on me. That night, as I looked closer at my papers from those times, I saw “Cluster B Traits” which I had been told about but was under the impression that it was a small symptom. But under that was Borderline Personality Disorder. Officially.  I asked the therapist why that was written on my papers. No one had used those exact words with me before. She told me that she wasn’t the doctor and couldn’t answer those questions. 

During that week I had several evenings of anger during group therapy and unpredictable mood swings. I remember one night coming into group and before it started I told a few people I wanted to “walk into the psychiatrist’s office and flip his desk over.” Now looking back, I really have no idea why I felt that way. But one of those nights, which one I can’t remember, one of the doctors said he thought I should go back into the hospital. For the third time. I walked out of his office. I paced around outside for a bit and was met by one of the screening nurses. She asked me to come in to sit and talk a bit. Which I knew meant to be screened and admitted in again. I told her I needed to talk to the doctor. I went back to where his office was but the door was closed, and he was seeing another patient. While I sat in the chair outside waiting, the nurse came back and sat beside me. She told me that maybe I could come and talk to her for a bit, and then the doctor would be free. I knew what was happening, all of the sudden I was that patient they were worried was going to leave, and I need to be admitted. She was slightly tricking me. I knew the procedure well by now. After we talked she would call the head doctor and request for my admission. I wouldn’t be seeing the doctor I had walked out on. I followed her anyways. 

The next morning after I was admitted, I had a couple of med students come in and talk with me before the head doctor came. I answered their questions, and once they were gone I started reading Harry Pottery again. While I was lost in the story, laying on my side facing the wall and under the covers, I heard my name. He said it slowly, a question, almost like I was a child and we were playing hide and go seek. Him being the adult and knowing where I was hiding. I startled. It felt strangely intimate to have the doctor standing there while I lay in bed. I’m not sure why it felt different than being in the hospital for a psychical illness, when doctors come in and out all of the time. Maybe it was because there wasn’t an IV or monitors, it was just me lying in bed reading like I was at home. He told me he had heard that I had seen the diagnosis for Borderline, and that I wasn’t happy about it. I remember saying apparently I couldn’t cry in that other doctor’s office. I showed emotion and then was admitted. But there was more going on than that. I remember sitting up in bed watching the doctor lean against the wall and tell me all these horrible symptoms of Borderline and painfully realizing I had several of them. 

Symptoms like “fear of abandonment” and “shaky sense of self” stuck in my throat. Didn’t everyone not really know who they were? Or maybe we were all on that same journey of finding ourselves. Wasn’t I still young enough to be figuring it out? All I really knew was that I thought I had been redefining myself. I had lost myself in motherhood and was figuring out what I liked again. I had been painting, hula hooping, and reading so many more books than I use to. But maybe I had been redefining myself for years. At the time though, these were just blips of thoughts, fragments of what could be or what was, I really was too confused to know.

Looking back to different stages of my life I can see certain signs of a shifting self image. I remember telling my therapist in college that I had all different groups of friends.They were even at extremes. I had my art friends, old friends, new friends, drinking friends, let's obey the rules friends. The fact was, I needed all of them. They made up all the pieces of me. I wasn’t liberal or conservative, a partier or a rule follower, an unpredictable free spirit or a faithful friend. I was everything. I was who I was with. I was them. Or as close to it as I could be. 

I could go through the different times of my life and point things out, but the truth is that I am probably more of a what than a who. I am an adjective or verb not a noun. Others may not see me that way but it is how I view myself. I recreate myself all the time, and I often take on traits and hobbies of those around me. When I met Andrew, just a year before I had been in Europe and interested in fashion. I liked to wear what was in style and do my hair and make-up. But after dating Andrew for awhile, I slowly morphed. I stopped wearing make-up. I camped and hiked and bought the water bottles and sandals I had always made fun of earlier in college. I was “crunchy” yeah, that’s what I could be. One of the first things Andrew and I did together was dye v-necks, and I started wearing them all the time just like he did. 

I have been an art student, a charismatic Christian, a hiker, a homemaker, a southern baptist, a natural parent, a vegan, a poet, a homeschooler, a composter, a yogi, an Anglican, a painter, a reader, a runner, a writer. I do believe that these were interests, but in my mind they became who I was.

Trying to write all this out has felt confusing to me. I'm trying to make an identity out of not having one, haha. I know there are whole parts of me, but maybe the truth behind it all is that there are many parts of myself that are always changing. I am more unsure of myself than I want people to know. Maybe a person doesn't have to have Borderline to be confused about who they are or who they want to be, but having an actual diagnosis that says something is off with my identity and ultimately my personality is a hard thing to accept. This is why I go to therapy, haha. I am trying to do more of the work of understanding myself so I can know more of who I am, for my own benefit and for those around me as well. 

Holding So Many Pieces

*I originally wrote this post about my experience with mental illness in November of 2017. I wrote it all out and then couldn't publish it. I hadn't written anything on my blog in over six months at that point, and after writing this and not posting it, I stopped writing for almost two years. When I wrote this I thought I had walked through the hardest part. I had been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, and in my own thoughts had honestly had a complete breakdown. Maybe though it was just the beginning of mental illness. Here's what I wrote, and I believe is the first step for me to begin writing again, to post what I was afraid I couldn't.*



A couple weeks ago I moved one of the house plants to my bedside. I had thought the plant was beautiful when I first bought it, but it never grew like its sister plant I bought the same day. I was even shopping at the store I bought it from not long ago and saw a girl trying to return a dead version of it. So, I knew that this plant was going to require a bit more attention than the others. Maybe it was going through something. I figured my bedside was a good new home; the plant could hear my voice at night and in the morning, maybe we'd share dreams occasionally. If that sounds too earthy and bohemian, then maybe the extra sunlight from my large bedroom windows would be enough. That and the fact that two year old Foster loves to water the plants in my room. They all sit on a table low enough that he can reach them with the spray bottle. After a few weeks of giving this plant a bit of extra attention, today I saw new growth. Those delicate baby leaves, fragile but filled with hope. I like plants because I can pretty quickly see if I'm doing something wrong. Unlike humans, plants tell me pretty quickly if I'm doing a good job.

So I guess this one baby leaf gave me the hope of enough words to write publicly again. Maybe it has little to do with hope and more to do with inspiration. And the fact that we have internet again. I stopped writing online mostly because we stopped paying for internet for a few months. Thank you Google Fiber for your more affordable rates. So, thanks to baby leaves and Google Fiber, I'm back.

It has a been a bit surreal, having a nervous breakdown. I would say Wikipedia has a pretty good definition of the last five to six months of my life.

"A mental breakdown (also known as a nervous breakdown) is an acute, time-limited mental disorder that manifests primarily as severe stress-induced depression, anxiety, or dissociation in a previously functional individual, to the extent that they are no longer able to function on a day-to-day basis until the disorder is resolved. A nervous breakdown is defined by its temporary nature, and often closely tied to psychological burnout, severe overwork, sleep deprivation, and similar stressors, which may combine to temporarily overwhelm an individual with otherwise sound mental functions."

Its weird that Wikipedia could know my life so closely. And I'm not being dramatic. I sort of wish I was. I have had some well meaning people tell me or text me things like, "Some people take medicine, but I believe what you are dealing with is a spirit of fear" and "Yeah, there are lots of medications but ultimately you have to give it to God." Oh Lord, I think I may have a demon of anger or annoyance over fear. I don't mind people bringing God into life situations. Because I think God cares a lot about my life. But I don't appreciate God talk as the triumphant answer over medication. Almost exactly a year ago I asked a guest Priest at a retreat to heal me of depression and anxiety. And I think maybe God is healing me, with 60mg of Prozac a day. 

I guess thats kind of a high dose. Like my insurance needs prior authorization and won't cover three 20mg pills a day. But you know, I think I'm over the shame. Because there's no fucking shame when a person takes Amoxicilin. Why does an imbalance in the brain, temporarally or permanently, make people so nervous? Why does it suddenly involve spirits or demons and science cannot be the answer? I am not sure, maybe too many people have used antidepressants as a silver bullet. And I have learned and am walking a path that I understand its not the complete answer to all of my problems. But so far a higher dose has given me the ability to start learning how to manage and control my own emotions better. Learning how to walk through those lows that I have written about it the past. My medication is also helping control my anxiety enough so I can function. I don't owe it to the internet to explain all of what has happened, but make no mistake, the definition above saying, "unable to function on a day-to-day basis" was true for me. Andrew had a period of time where he didn't work for almost two weeks? I barely remember those days. 

I don't know why I'm sharing what I am. I got online to write about something and pictured it being symbolic or metaphorical but all I am doing is processing. Maybe I have to begin to claim it as my own story to heal myself. Maybe if I admit that I was that houseplant, barely hanging on, needing so much more sun and water and love then I was allowing myself to receive. Andrew and I saw the movie "Lady Bird" last night. Not about the First Lady, but a coming of age story that I loved. In the movie a nun is talking with the main character. She states that giving attention to something is basically loving that thing. Undivided attention shows love doesn't it? I thought of Andrew and the many times he has helped me plan my coming days hour by hour. Putting my pills in the right box each week. Knowing what I need before I need it, attention and love.

So, maybe thats where I am. I wrote the title before I wrote this post. Which is maybe backwards. But I just have this picture of something beautiful and important breaking, and that at first I didn't even know where all the pieces were. And maybe I still don't have all the pieces, but I am holding a lot of them in my hands. I am still not sure what I was before I broke or what exactly I will be once I put all these pieces back together. But slowly, piece by piece and color by color, I am starting to remember.