I’ve lived with borderline personality disorder (BPD) for as long as I can remember.
I can remember being in kindergarten and standing under the great white oak trees on the playground and thinking, “There’s something different about me. I don’t belong here.”
I can remember middle school, feeling a deep depression none of my friends could understand.
I can remember high school, spent with a burning anger towards the world.
I can remember being borderline.
This photo was taken on a day I couldn’t get out of bed. My cat, Felix, kept me company as I sobbed into his orange fur, feeling the oceans of depression washing over me. I had already been in the hospital twice because of my BPD — the times I thought the world would implode on me. I was failing classes and giving up on everything. It all seemed so hopeless.
“My life is over. It’s ending. This is it.”
My life didn’t end that day.
Rather, my life began.
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Because of my borderline, I took a medical leave from school and spent the semester at my aunt’s house, caring for her children and struggling in silence.
Because of my borderline, I attended an intensive outpatient clinic for three weeks.
Because of my borderline, I lost friends and family because I couldn’t convince them to stay.
Because of my borderline, I am stronger than I was before.
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My borderline gave me push and pull relationships, where I push away the ones I love and pull toxic people closer to me.
I overcame this.
My borderline gave me loads of empathy, causing me to take on the conflicting emotions of every person in the room.
I overcame this.
My borderline gave me an intense, burning anger that ate me up inside.
I overcame this.
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Today, I live my life to the best of my ability. I take medications to help stabilize my mood and engage in therapy both one on one and in a dialectical behavior therapy (DBT) group. I control my emotions — my emotions do not control me.
