2024.11.25

┳ Caution! ┳

Today's entry references self-injury, suicide, abusive relationships, and psychosis. (I'm not having a breakdown though. I'm discussing my breakdowns like an adult.)

There's obviously something wrong with me. Many people in my life— friends, family, doctors, internet strangers— have guessed at what it is, and the recurring suggestion from laypeople is Borderline Personality Disorder. If you're blessed enough to not know what that is... basically, it's Crazy Bitch Disorder. Ouch.

But once upon a time, this label was seen as charming and desirable. In fringe online communities obsessed with mental illness, people diagnose themselves to fit the latest trends. For a while the coolest thing was schizophrenia, with its trademark symptom: auditory hallucinations. Remember those edgy jokes about "the voices?" By the time I became active on social media (specifically Tumblr and Vent), the limelight had shifted to BPD and personality disorders in general. Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) roleplay was also on the rise. I might've joined in on that one, too, but I couldn't muster the energy to live a pathological lie.

Instead, I decided I must be... a narcissist! My egoistic, individualistic outlook seemed to fit. By the time I was three, my dad had convinced me I was smarter than everybody else. When asked why I refused to attend preschool, I said they "had too many meetings." Because I could already read, write, and count, the curriculum offered me nothing but an opportunity to show off. Because the other kids couldn't do the same, I decided they were boring and dumb. This perception of my peers persisted into high school, at which point I was reading the DSM-V for leisure.

"Self-perception of being unique and superior..." Yep. That sounds about right. I also got it into my head that narcissists are secretly self-aware, that their posturing only poorly disguises their misery. Like pretty much every teenage girl, I hated myself and my life. I was sad, lonely, and suffering severe parental neglect. Even if my grades were good, even if I had a way with words, it wasn't enough to get me what I needed: love.

It wasn't enough to overcome my depression, either. Do you know the pain of bursting with passion and potential that you're too tired to use? Years upon years I've been exhausted by my own thoughts. It looks like I'm only laying in bed, but I promise, untold efforts are keeping me docile— docile and alive. How often have I talked myself out of self-injury and suicide? Often enough that I've had little time for anything else.

That's how I got my official diagnosis: depression with psychotic features. The psychotic features referred to my Truman Show type delusions and fixation on shadowy stalkers. (I never saw the Hat Man but I swore he was there.) Nowadays my psychosis manifests less frequently and with way more insight. I usually stop them before they start, but when I can't the episodes last for a day at most. I'd describe my current condition as contentment with sprinkles of insanity.

I'm satisfied with my diagnosis now, but when I first got it, I was convinced it wasn't enough. As a kid, my main experience was suffering and my sprinkles were numbness. To deal with my loneliness, I chased after people who abused me. For my depression, I shut myself inside, stopped drawing and started vent-blogging. Against the psychosis, though, I felt completely powerless. Every experience came filtered through a lens of delusion. In less than a year, the innocent "what if I'm being watched?" transformed into "there are bugs in my blood. Gotta cut them out." I went from winning poetry competitions to practically dropping out of school.

So when the doctor said I was "just" depressed, I wondered... why couldn't I be outright schizophrenic? Why didn't anyone see my narcissism? I still believe the adults around me underestimated my suffering. Mostly because I didn't trust anyone and intentionally hid the worst of it...! But I should also mention that, in my maladjusted circle, a bleak prognosis and devastating trauma translated directly into clout. The sickest of us would be the most interesting, the most deserving. I envied the kids who had it worse than me.

Only recently have I begun to soothe my survivor's guilt, the mix of gratitude and regret that what happened to me wasn't as bad as it could have been. Doesn't it need to be worse to justify my intense reaction? Don't I have to suffer more for someone to care?

I associate suffering and sickness with love. For a while, catching a cold was the most reliable way to get my parents to remember I existed. Even now, my happiest memory is the day I spent in my dad's bed, too sick to eat or move. We were supposed to go for a bike ride, but when I stumbled into his bedroom and said I was hurting all over, he said, "okay. Let's just chill out today."

So we did. We just... laid there. Sometimes we'd watch TV. Sometimes he'd turn it off to read by himself. It was quiet and comfortable. Once or twice, I dozed off. There was no pressure on me to say or do anything, much less say or do it well. Without proving that I'm smart, funny, or interesting, or allowing myself to be hurt and used, I could enjoy the company of a loved one? Really? Absolutely no expectations??? Amazing!

That said, my dad made zero attempts to bring me food or water, check my temperature, or at all deduce what was wrong with me. Stupid, useless old man. Thankfully my mom was still around. Appalled by his failure to care for me, she brought me a tangerine and a slice of buttered toast. When she helped me sit up to eat, I screamed in pain. My dad criticised her for this, like it was better for me to starve all day than suffer some momentary discomfort.

After she left the room, he invited me to join in on the snark, and I probably did. Recalling this, I realise his alienation tactics started even before they separated. Stupid, useless, evil old man... I'm not surprised that my years under his exclusive "care" were the years in which I first went insane.

My point is that I had good reasons to want to be sick. Or... to want people to notice that I was sick. Or... to have recognisable names for my sicknesses. Because that's what this entry is about, right? Everybody and their dog telling me I have BPD.

Okay, not everybody. I can actually count these accusations on one hand— the ones that actually matter, anyways. Considering my tendency to ignore the opinions of internet people, I don't accept armchair diagnoses from anyone who's only spoken about me, never to me. But if everywhere I go, people near and far smell the Crazy Bitch Disorder, then I owe it to myself to look under my shoe.

Accusation Number One was less accusation, more curiosity. It was my sophomore or junior year, the era when I was already missing school but not yet hiding from my friends. A friend of mine had recently broken up with a girl who I never met but, based on the stories, I now suspect was a munchie psycho. BPD was in vogue, so she may have used that diagnosis to excuse the suffering she heaped onto my friend. I think that's what was on her mind when she turned to me and asked, "hey, do you have BPD?"

Thrilled that someone was taking an interest in my mental health, I smiled and said, "no, actually. I have NPD." Then I totally misinterpreted her intentions and said something like, "Why tho? OMG, do you have BPD? Cool! Cluster B solidarity!" And then I'm pretty sure I made her do the double ✌ Moirail handshake thing. (It's okay if you can't forgive me for being cringe. I forgive myself...)

Later on, I realised her face was pinching like that because I'd just proudly proclaimed I was crazy, suggested she too was a psycho, and honestly believed this was great news for our friendship. I don't blame her for dropping it and moving on.

"Cluster B solidarity" was something I picked up from my then-bestie and emotional abuser. Just as I'd read some .PDFs and decided I was a narcissist, she self-diagnosed as borderline... But her behaviour actually matched her label. I spent a couple years fielding her threats of suicide, unprovoked emotional outbursts, and the neverending push/pull of toxic codependency in which BPD-chans specialise.

After escaping her, my ex-girlfriend treated me to the same abuse, now 10x worse due to her drug addictions. She might have been genuinely evil, too. I hate to tell people what she was really like, the horrible things she did to me and others, because I'm ashamed to have ever excused her actions. I saw past her destructive behaviour to the desperation that fuelled it. The more she hurt me, the more determined I was to love her.

My compassion, among other things, is a magnet for abusers. Until recently, these were the only kinds of relationships I'd ever had. I spent years isolated with people who did nothing but manipulate and scare me. They were fun sometimes, occasionally gentle and helpful, but "the good times" encompassed about 5% of my overall experience. In short, it sucked.

At least neither of these people had the audacity to tell me that I was the borderline. My ex-bestie was content with my supposed NPD and my ex-gf convinced me I had autism. Neurodivergency is still trendy and "cute," so I didn't take offense, but I'm sure it was an insult with how often she called me a sped. She learnt all the best ways to hurt me, and top of the list is any insinuation that I'm stupid.

BPD Accusation Number Two came from the first person to ever call me stupid! I hate him so much, I don't even wanna vent about him on my blog. If there's a Crazy Bitch between us, it's definitely him. But he is someone who has known me (and tormented me) all my life... so maybe he knew a thing or two about my personality, right? He definitely knew me better than my school friends, and at that age we could both maturely discuss our mental health. That didn't stop me from rejecting his diagnosis and immaturely stomping away...! But I did add it to the list of times people suggested I'm a Crazy Bitch.

Now that I'm trying, for the first time ever, to write this list in detail... it's way shorter than I thought. Over the years, various friends have agreed that BPD sounds like a decent fit for me. I bring it up and they shrug their shoulders like, "yeah, I guess." I'm sure their assessments are coloured by my jokes about "having BPD moments" and generally unhinged comportment. And when I say I'm unhinged, I mean that there's some credence to these allegations. The most recent person to "accuse" me presented me with an essay laying it all out.

Breebree and I have been talking everyday for half a year. I'm not sure when we achieved mutual bestie status, but it's official now. I love her with every bone in my body and I'll kill anyone who looks at her wrong. Unfortunately, the price of this love is enduring my tantrums. I suspect they're related to my period and I know they're worsened by stress, but the fact is that every month or so, I have an 18 hour meltdown. I refuse food and water, cry so hard my face swells, lapse in and out of psychosis, entertain thoughts of suicide, and generally stay paralysed in bed.

The cure? Attention. I want Bree to give me compliments and listen to me ramble about my interests. She already does this everyday, but when I'm in tantrum mode, my memories of her voluntary kindness disappear. I convince myself that the solution is manipulation. I have to be sick. I have to act out. My upbringing conditioned me to expect and accept emotional neglect. A string of soul-crushing relationships not only reinforced a necessity for low expectations, they proved that, by causing some kind of catastrophy, you can command undivided attention from even the weariest soul.

Now that I've managed to forge an intimate connection with someone who is not actively abusing me, it's my turn to be on the aggressive end. I'm not proud of this— I'm actually quite concerned— but I think I finally understand why BPD-chans boast about manipulating their favourite people. Their forgiveness and endurance proves that they love you. That's the machination at the heart of borderline antics: tests of devotion. They are terrified of losing people, especially as a result of their own actions, so they behave deplorably and then see who sticks around. (This is also how abusers choose their victims. So.)

It's counterproductive, assuming that the BPD-chan could believe someone loved them without going to extremes to "prove it." But the whole point of a personality disorder is that they are wired this way. Self-sabotage is not a choice. It's a reflex. Everyone who meets them can tell they are a walking emotional tornado. You're either gawking at them, fleeing from them, or in their path of destruction— usually at no fault of your own. Their abhorrent behaviour colours every aspect of their life. It does not colour mine.

Typically, nobody sees me acting a mess. When I'm upset, I prefer to disappear, and because I'm perpetually anxious and depressed, I kinda just... stay gone. If you're reading this and I've ghosted you, I'm so sorry. It's not you, it's me. There's obviously something wrong with me!!! It's just not BPD. If it was, I wouldn't be ghosting people. I would be provoking them— perhaps with insults or threats of self-harm— then ghosting them, then coming back with an apology, then provoking and ghosting them again. All that in a unending cycle, again and again, the same song and dance with everybody I've ever met.

I confessed to being abused by family, friends, and partners alike, but just like the times I've been accused of having BPD, I can count those toxic situations on one hand. And besides being flighty and anxious, I get along well with everyone else I've met. I'm kind, agreeable, thoughtful, and fun. Borderlines are out here threatening to kill people and actually attempting to do so. The worst I'll do is ignore your message for 6 months and feel guilty for it the whole time.

Unless, of course, your name is Bridget Snowibunni Landers. Then you'll be treated to my bi-monthly melties. I love her dearly and we depend on each other's emotional support, so when I need attention, she's the first person I think of, and when I'm freaking out, she is the only person I think of. Even on my better days, I'm too scared to talk to anyone else. (I'm finally making progress on that front... but if I ghosted you, don't expect to hear from me anytime soon.)

So she's been studying me like a bug for six months. We've had about four "altercations." Apparently she connected the dots between my jokes about BPD and my poor attempts to manipulate her, and got curious enough to write a whole dissertation on the weird ways I was acting. This is BPD Accusation Number Three, and it's not even a proper accusation! But I took it seriously because Bree sees the best and worst of me. If anyone (even without a psych degree) is qualified to diagnose me, it's her.

The Accusation goes as follows: I don't know how to ask for anything, especially not positive attention. I need a lot of it, like all people do, but at my most vulnerable I'm terrified of my own needs. Instead of making a direct request for reassurance, I'll freak out, inpsiring guilt and pity. A compassionate person like Bree will feel compelled to attend to me.

But because I'm hypersensitive and my emotions are intense to the point of pain, I'm overwhelmed even by the love I desperately crave. I just spent an hour crying for it, but now that the attention's arrived, it's too much! I shouldn't have something this nice!!! I push it away before I've gotten what I needed. And because the hurt wasn't properly soothed, I lapse right back into my meltdown.

This repeats until I'm so exhausted I fall asleep. Throughout, my psychosis comes and goes, and my delusions center on whatever is currently scaring me. By confessing my fears in the most outrageous way, people can very easily say "um, that's obviously not true. Don't worry, you're fine."

Take my last (unfortunately) public breakdown, for example. I made a complete spectacle of my suffering. Total strangers felt compelled to reassure me that I'm not a literal demon from Hell. And I needed to hear that, I did, because I truly believed I had no right to live. You'll have to forgive me for all that— I didn't have any close friends!!! Now Breebree shields the world from my insanity. Be grateful.

Sounds exhausting on the frontlines, huh? I used to pride myself on the distance I kept from others. I don't want to wear anyone out with my neediness. Even during my tantrums, I'll ask Bree a thousand times, "aren't you bored of this yet? Aren't you tired?" and insist she doesn't have to engage with me or care about me at all. Of course, "leave me alone" is code for "please don't leave!!!!!" LOL. She sees straight through it— through all of it. It wasn't exhaustion that compelled her to study these patterns of mine, but curiosity and concern.

I've always known I'm highly sensitive, a poor self-advocate, and desperate for attention. And once I get that attention, it makes me so anxious that I can't even enjoy it. Plus, people keep telling me I'm a Crazy Bitch. So when my best friend wrote me a 5,000 word essay to say, "Flonne, sometimes you act like a Crazy Bitch," I didn't deny it. I accepted it. Then I started catastrophising about my poor prognosis and demanded she get away from me because I couldn't stand to hurt her the way my own BPD "besties" had hurt me.

Once I calmed down— quicker because Bree reassured me that even if I'm a Crazy Bitch, she still loves me— we discussed the condition in more detail. I argued that I don't do many of the things borderlines are known for. To start, I'm adrenaline averse. I don't do drugs, drive fast, or talk to strangers. I won't even go on rollercoasters!

I don't feel "empty." I'm irritable, not explosively angry. And I've got piss poor self-esteem, but I've never tried to solve that by changing my whole personality. I don't adopt and abandon new identities or vacillate between extreme opinions. When I was being abused, I had to shut down to maintain the fantasy that suffering was synonymous with love, but once I got away from those people, I returned to the same things I've always believed in. Freedom, individuality, creativity... as I've grown up, those values have matured on the expected timeline.

I've been making these same arguments for years. Someone would say I had BPD, I'd double-check the diagnostic criteria, and without fail think, "um, no." But, at my worst, I have enough in common with borderlines— and people keep insisting I'm always like that— that it's become an inside joke. Bree admitted to me that if I had never insinuated I'm a Crazy Bitch, she wouldn't have come up with it on her own.

In the same essay that prompted all this, she actually walks the accusation back. The last two or three hundred words are all about how well I'm managing this apparent personality disorder. How rarely I act out, how positively I respond to therapy, how effectively I can self-soothe (thank you, Sans │).... She described me as "the most hopeful case of BPD ever due to her sheer determination to help herself."

If I'm gonna brag about anything— and I do love to brag— it's about how hard I've worked at my own recovery. I woke up one day and, with nothing but pirated self-help e-books to guide me, decided to fix my life. It's been a bumpy couple of years. I'm still pretty fucked up. Just last week, the breakdown Bree endured prompted her to share this tentative diagnosis. I'm proud to say that since then, I've been taking her advice and communicating better. When I worry that I'm bothering her, I just ask her about it like a normal person. That's what usually happens as I exit my tantrum phase, but I dunno. I feel extra self-aware.

And because the best person to consult about my mental health treatment is my therapist, I asked her yesterday if she thought I was borderline. She looked at me in disbelief and gave an emphatic no.

It's as I said before. When you meet a BPD-chan, you are immediately swept up into their drama, and the drama never ends. They can get depressed sometimes, and everybody needs to rest, but after a day or two they're right back on their bullshit. I spend far too much time inert— inactive and unseen by anyone— to count. My therapist also pointed out that I don't spend our sessions complaining about other people. In her experience, BPD-chans show up every week with a story of their latest tragedy, some fight they were in that they most absolutely did not provoke. Meanwhile, I quietly do my EMDR and leave.

She reassured me that high sensitivity and intense emotional experiences are not exclusive to BPD. They may be known for their disproportionate reactions, but a lot of traumatised people have subtle triggers and dramatic emotional outbursts. That's my problem, basically, if I wanted to write ten words instead of five thousand. I'm sensitive. If other people have leaky faucet emotions, then I have rushing waterfalls.

And it's not like I'm oblivious to my sensitive nature. I've always been a crybaby, bothered by things nobody else would notice, moved by things others consider mundane. I don't say this as a condemnation, either. I love being this way. My life would be soooo boring if I wasn't thinking about and feeling everything all the time. I like my dials turned up to the max. And perhaps because I love being so sensitive, I never thought it was a problem to correct, manage, or reduce.

Which brings me to the other thing I sometimes joke about being: an empath. Funnily enough, way more people have suggested that one. Scouring a lifetime of memories, I can think of only three half-qualified BPD Accusations. But the empath accusations?? Countless. It's a much more accurate assessment of my personality, a more charitable view of my struggles.... I think because it's such a compliment, I reject it as "hokey," for comedic purposes only. God forbid I get a crumb of self-esteem, right?

That's the real joke. I'd love to have a healthier view of myself. And now that I've finally beat the BPD allegations, I'd like to find a better label. My therapist affirmed my diagnosis of depression with psychotic features and tacked on some good ol' fashioned PTSD. (And lemme tell you, a professional person validating my trauma felt sooooo good.) But that doesn't account for my high sensitivity. Not everyone with PTSD feels as deeply as I do, and depression is associated with numbness.

After telling Bree what my therapist said, she reminded me that I could be an empath. Everything my best friend says about me, I receive with the utmost seriousness!!! So on my way home, I started to do some research.

Are You an Empath? 20 Question Self-Assessment Test

This quiz comes directly from Dr. Judith Orloff's website. I haven't read her books, but I'm guessing she herself is an empath. Her work has brought empathy into the cultural consciousness. It's the first result when I search "empath questionnaire" on Ecosia. A fine place to start, no?

As you read through my results, keep in mind that "answering yes to more than fifteen questions means that you are a full blown empath."

1. Have I been labeled as “overly sensitive,” shy, or introverted?

Yes. My introversion is obfuscated by my charisma but yeah, definitely 100%

2. Do I frequently get overwhelmed or anxious?

Yes, all the time! I can get overstimulated by the subtlest things.

3. Do arguments or yelling make me ill?

Yes. They make me cry, ruminate, and lose my appetite.

4. Do I often feel like I don't fit in?

Yeah, but I value individuality. I feel anxious over real and perceived rejections, but at the end of the day I prefer to be eccentric.

5. Am I drained by crowds and need alone time to revive myself?

Yes. I need alone time to revive myself from EVERYTHING. Things much smaller than crowds. Things like eye contact and greetings and short conversations and... everything.

6. Am I over stimulated by noise, odors, or non-stop talkers?

Yes. Thankfully I can't smell. Otherwise I think I'd have lost my mind by now. But I'm hypersensitive to noise and unwanted conversation.

7. Do I have chemical sensitivities or can't tolerate scratchy clothes?

Yes. I'm very strict about my fabric choices and cut all the tags out of my clothes.

8. Do I prefer taking my own car places so I can leave early if I need to?

Yes. I love leaving early! So early, I don't show up at all!

9. Do I overeat to cope with stress?

Kinda? I don't binge but whenever I eat, I like to eat a lot so I feel really full and sleepy.

10. Am I afraid of becoming suffocated by intimate relationships?

Yes? Maybe? I isolate myself a lot, and it's partly because I'm overwhelmed by ""the demands"" that others put on me. In reality, there are no demands. I just want to give everyone the best of myself, I know people thrive when I do! But... my mental illness prevents it. I guess you could call that suffocation, but I know that I'm the one holding the pillow over my own face.

11. Do I startle easily?

Not really. It used to be worse. Does it still count as startling if I don't physically flinch? Because I've cut down on that but I emotionally flinch all the damn time.

12. Do I react strongly to caffeine or medications?

No clue. I dont drink caffeine or take any medications. Almost like I can tell that I'm sensitive to them and naturally avoid them...

13. Do I have a low pain threshold?

Yes, both physically and emotionally.

14. Do I tend to socially isolate?

YES. My biggest issue ever holy shit.

15. Do I absorb other people's stress, emotions, or symptoms?

Yes, especially anger. I have to consciously remind myself that their feelings don't belong to me. And when people are in physical pain, I find myself going totally numb because I know that if I don't, I'll feel it, too. The numbness makes it harder to respond with empathy (no shit!), but at least I'm capable of responding at all.

16. Am I overwhelmed by multitasking and prefer doing one thing at a time?

Yes. I especially get overstimulated by social interactions. I cannot carry multiple conversations or focus on a task if someone is talking to me.

17. Do I replenish myself in nature?

I should! But I don't because of my agoraphobia... Still, the ocean, flowers, trees, and sounds of birds and bugs heal me.

18. Do I need a long time to recuperate after being with difficult people or energy vampires?

Yes! I need a long time to recuperate after being with ANYONE, including people who love me and treat me well.

19. Do I feel better in small cities or the country than large cities?

Yes, 100%. Even small cities are tough on me. No matter where I am, I always want to go home...

20. Do I prefer one-to-one interactions or small groups rather than large gatherings?

Yes. Do people actually like large gatherings? Just one other person is enough to overwhelm me.

So... that's "yes" to 18 out of 20 questions. The remaining two are "maybes" and they're also leaning yes. According to Dr. Judith Orloff, I am a full blown empath. And what really gets me is that I can't imagine life being any different. I'm amazed there are people who can say "no" to even one of these questions. Extraverts exist? You guys can multitask? You don't hear the ants walking around outside and feel some type of way about it?? Couldn't be me.

No matter what we call it, I've still got to regulate my emotions and learn self-advocacy skills. And right now I'm advocating for the end of this diary entry because dear Lord, I spent my entire day writing. 14 hours! I'm exhausted!!! I've already had minor melties over it and you know what? I'm done. I've had enough. I'm publishing everything. Goodnight!!!!!