Around the age of twelve, death started to seem like the best plan B. If anything went wrong, if ever I felt trapped, if I made mistakes past the point of no-return, no problem: death would always be there, waiting for me. I remember sitting in the back of cars that drove too fast, and pushing away the fear, provoking the driver in my mind, ‘faster, faster.’
Along those years, I also had tremendous suffering in all my relationships. I had best friends that I saw alternatively as the greatest human beings alive, and the most hurtful passive-aggressive monsters. My mood was so unstable that the same teenager caught me crying outside school, on the pavement, and inside school, sitting hidden in the staircase. When he passed, I heard him tell his friend, ‘Oh, I saw her crying outside the other day.’ He didn’t mean harm. He was just stating the facts.
Every move any human made was either a caress or a blow. I did not perceive motives that could be unrelated to me. My mother called that self-obsession. That was the symptom, but not the motivation. From an early age, I had known that the mood of people around me could shift very fast, and consequences could be pricy for innocuous mistakes. I developed, as any animal would do, a radar system, that consisted in observing everything all the time, checking the signs of danger in the bodies of people surrounding me (irritation in a frown, a sigh that came out a little bit too loud, scratching of the skin, etc.), and finding creative solutions to bring them back to a lighter mood.
Life turned out to be exhausting, and that the joy didn’t seem worth all the work I had to provide in order to feel safe.
Recurring nightmares were of me being chased by enemies, either businessmen with briefcases, aliens, monsters, zombies, rapists. I had to escape. Running away was the plan A, dying was the plan B. Now, I don’t have those dreams anymore, because I have found solutions other than disappearing.
Last year, I met a psychiatrist for the first time in years. I was not doing too well and was ready to take medication if needed. I was expecting something along the lines of an anxiety disorder. Certainly not an acute depression. And even less to be diagnosed with borderline personality disorder. I remember my heart jumping in my chest, everything accelerating and decelerating at the same time: I am mentally ill, what the fuck!, this is the absolute worst; and: finally, finally, finally, finally, someone actually acknowledges that there is something very wrong, that I am struggling much too hard, that this cannot be the way life is supposed to be lived.
A week later, I met my therapist. She was specialized in Dialectic Behavioral Therapy. She was very pretty, well put together, soft, and her eyes gripped mine with an empathy I had rarely met before. I thought she was too clean. I thought she would be yet another one of those well-educated, well-bred, elegant therapists that I could bullshit my way through. The difference is: I was so desperate that I actually told her that. I also said that this therapy would not work, because I had tried everything. She made me promise to give it six months. ‘Just stick with the treatment, and it will work.’ I did not believe her, but I promised. I guess it was a better plan B than closing the curtains.
Week after week, I learned more about being borderline: almost no control over emotions; certainty that there is something wrong and incurable in you that makes you unlovable and even toxic to others; you can lie and fake your way through anything because you have developed acute survival skills; and with this combination, you don’t have the faintest idea of who you are.
That was the first thing that helped: putting words on it all. I met people in skills group who experienced the same thoughts and emotional rollercoasters. We could laugh about how we were sure that everyone hated us, that our romantic partners were with us for a long-term scheme with an agenda that they refused to reveal. We described the trail of thoughts that ordering at a restaurant would provoke, how we felt responsible for everyone’s attitude at the table, how we knew the waiter blamed it all on us, how we wish people would order faster, look the waiter in the eye, say hello, be polite. Being borderline often comes with a sponge-like empathy that made us feel not only our feelings way too intensely, but also everyone else’s.
I would have thought that the therapy would consist in teaching us to block emotions. That’s what everyone had wanted to show me until now: just let them go; it’s all in your mind; don’t make such a big deal about this; why are you always so dramatic. When you are having a panic attack, the thought, ‘Emotions are bad,’ does not help at all. And then, my therapist gave us a miracle: ‘Emotions are here to tell us something precious about ourselves, the world, and others. Sadness means that things didn’t turn out the way you hoped, and that you feel lonely, helpless. Fear means that there is a threat to your safety. Joy means that you love what is happening right now. All of that information is useful to build the best life possible. It does not mean reacting to everything in the instant, but certainly paying attention to the emotions, listening to them.’
It took me weeks, months even, to make peace with that idea. The hardest emotion for me was shame. I was constantly certain to be a burden, an intruder, and I hated it. I hated that feeling that made me awkward around people, sometimes too affectionate, sometimes too quiet. It threw off my social balance, and it made everything so painful. My therapist recommended Brenee Brown. I heard her TED talk, and read two of her books. I also read every single book about borderline. I went through essays and memoirs. I cried. I underlined. I slept. I started all over again.
Shame is still the emotion I struggle the most with. It is what we call my triggering feeling. When I feel like I made a mistake in a group, it becomes obvious, in a terrifyingly fast chain, that they will never want to see me again, because I am obviously a failure and a freak, and I shouldn’t be around anyone, but since I don’t want to be alone forever, then I’d better run away in the mountains by myself, or, easier, die. Because of that, I have to be extremely careful in a social context. I must find ways to remind myself that I have worth just because I am a human being, that my identity does not depend on the way people will react to me, and that sometimes I am just giving the wrong interpretation to a yawn or a back turned.
I practice skills every day, and I always will. These are a few favorites.
‘Observe’ is a sneaky, hard-to-get, skill, but God is it worth it: observe is feeling the emotions in your body, and not describing them or doing anything about them. What is there? Thanks to observe, you learn the specific ways your skin and muscles express sadness, anger, fear, etc. I used to be confused, ‘What am I feeling? I’m overwhelmed. I will never be able to calm down.’ Now, I can say, ‘Wait. Lump in the throat. Clenching of the stomach. Slight headache. Sadness. I’m feeling sadness.’
‘Self-soothe’ and ‘distract’ are some of my best friends this year: when the emotions run too high, do not try to solve the problem, because you are unable to reach your wise mind. Instead, treat yourself to a nice shower, be delicate, watch a movie. Pamper yourself to bring yourself back, with love, to wise mind. This can replace self-harming behaviors that people with borderline tend to display.
‘Please’ and ‘Build mastery’ teach me every day to build the life I want for myself. ‘Please’ is all about taking care of your body, with enough sleep, food, and not too many narcotics, so that you can keep your emotions in check. As for ‘Build mastery’, it’s setting up challenges every day, to keep growing, getting better, and achieving your goals – in my case, it means: writing, writing, writing, writing, and also reading, reading, reading, reading, but also taking classes, watching old movies and complicated TV shows, doing research on my favorite screenwriters and directors, etc.
Finally, the gorgeous ‘Dear Man’ has prevented many, many fights. I had no idea I was supposed to describe the situation and express feelings about them, before asking for a clear and specific solution. I thought people could guess. I thought it was obvious. I thought intentions could never be misinterpreted. I am so happy I learned to communicate my needs. It has truly saved the magnificent relationship I am in right now.
A couple of months ago, my therapist and I went through the list of criteria for borderline personality. I did not fit any of them anymore. I was cured. I sort of knew it already, but saying it together, with this woman who had saved my life, changed everything. That was it: I was free to build a life worth living, and I knew how to deal with the crisis moments that would arise regularly.
That is what I have been doing ever since: developing my writing craft, working out old issues with my family, getting to know the man that will become my husband, displaying love without shame to my friends, and, most importantly, keeping in touch with myself, my body, my emotions, and my dreams, every step of the way.
I have chosen to make this public, because I can only wish the people with borderline to be diagnosed and receive the proper treatment. There are people who can see us and understand us. They won’t call us selfish, manipulative, and dramatic. They won’t believe the lies we tell them to pretend that we are fine. They won’t be annoyed by how many times we tell them that it is clear that they don’t like us. These people are trained therapists, who slowly, will teach us to lead a happy life. Because, yes, as astonishing as that was to discover, we do deserve it.
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Anna is a 25-year-old vagabond, born of a Mexican Catholic mother and a French Jewish father. Raised in Paris, she has travelled since I was a child. Most recently, she has lived in New York, Buenos Aires, and Los Angeles.Anna creates to celebrate human beings – their differences, similarities, stupidities, unusual behaviors, infinity of possibles, and infinite beauty.
Photo: Lina Trochez
