I’m not particularly smart, well-educated, or a good writer. I’ve read so many blogs since starting my own blog that beautifully put the experience of having BPD into words, words I could never express myself, hard as I try. There is, however, one thing I am an absolute expert at: my own story. So I’m going to stick to what I know with this one, and talk about my experience discovering I have BPD.

TW: Suicide, self harm, hospitalization

In my 21 years of life, I have had 14 suicide attempts, varying in degree of severity. I was diagnosed with depression when I was 15, but had been self harming for as long as I can remember, hitting myself, scratching myself, and even biting myself on occasion. One of the few distinct memories of my childhood that I have is from around the third grade, when I wrote on a blank sheet of paper “once this paper rips in half I will kill myself.” For every “mistake” I made, I would rip the paper a little bit more. I remember my sister finding it, chastising me for writing something so serious that I knew nothing about. I threw it away.

I always knew there was more than depression going on. I was extremely hard on myself, always beating myself up for every little mistake I made. I would go to bed at night and analyze everything that I did that day, every social screw up I had, every wrong answer I said in class. This was different from my peers who were also depressed. Along with the darkness that engulfed my life and constant sadness I felt, there was something about the core of my character that was messed up, something that was ruining my friendships, my academics, and my experience in life.

It got worse when I discovered cutting. I will never forget the rush I first got sliding the blade of a pair of scissors across my arm, the feeling of something inside of me stirring as I slashed my arm. I felt relief for the first time in a long time, like I was finally being adequately punished for my mistakes. I have been habitually self harming since. I was hospitalized shortly after for my first suicide attempt. I was 17. During that hospitalization, I was forced to come out of the closet by the doctor, which led to a string of trauma and some of the worst months of my life.

I was hospitalized again at the beginning of college, when I was 18. I had a short stay, my main goal was trying to get back to studying so I didn’t fall too far behind. After this hospitalization, I started DBT therapy, which ultimately saved my life. I became extremely close with my therapist, who helped me work through the trauma of my childhood, and helped me develop feelings of self confidence and skills in dialectical thinking. I would not be where I am today without her.

I stopped therapy about a year ago due to financial reasons, and suffered a major relapse back in October. I had my 13th suicide attempt then (my 14th one was late November), where I attempted to slash my wrist in my bathtub. If it wasn’t for my very persistent, loving roommates, I would have died. I was checked into a mental hospital the next day. I spent long days wondering what was wrong with me, why my depression was so aggressive, so different, so incredibly difficult. I had gone years wondering what was wrong with me, why I was the way I was, why I was on my 13th attempt on my life that countless combinations of medications and therapists couldn’t help.

Talking with a doctor during that hospitalization, we got into some of my specific symptoms: irritability, impulsiveness, dissociation, how I feel empty all the time, how I was cutting everyday, contemplating suicide everyday, constantly feeling like I wasn’t worth being alive. She gave me a diagnosis of borderline personality disorder, which was confusing to say the least. I had a couple of friends who had the disorder, but I didn’t really know much about it. The more I talked about it, the more it made sense, and the more my fragmented memories of past began to piece themselves together. I was reading about symptoms that I just previously attributed to being a flaw in my character. Now I realized that my anger, so vicious and self directed, was the result of a developmental of my personality under toxic conditions. With this new information, I was finally beginning to heal.

My diagnosis is only a few months old, and so is my knowledge of the disorder. My education on my symptoms, especially the more complex ones, has been vital to improving my mental health. The more I understand my disorder, the more I improve, and the more I can explain to myself what is going on inside my head instead of hopelessly thinking “what is wrong with me?” I still have rough days. I still self-harm. I still contemplate suicide, but now I am starting to be okay. I am slowly improving myself, slowly beginning to love myself, and slowly, slowly getting better.

Despite this diagnosis helping me discover myself, I now need to learn to separate myself from it. My disorder has haunted me for too long, and while I will always acknowledge that it’s there, I now need to learn to recognize that I am more than it. BPD will always be part of my personality, but I can and will cope with the symptoms. I am worthy of being able to cope. Despite everything I have been through, despite everything I will face, I am worthy of having a space on this Earth. I am worthy of being alive.

-Sam