Hey. It happens. End of article.
Just kidding. Just like with Mary Poppins, I find that humor can be the spoonful of sugar helps to help the medicine go down, and this is some very, very bitter medicine indeed. But first a little good news.
Borderline Personality Disorder is totally treatable, possibly even curable. According to one study, as many as 94% of us can receive almost total remission of our symptoms. But only if we get treatment for it. So figure out a way to shuck out the bucks. It’s a long, hard road (years, baby, years) but isn’t your happiness worth it?
Now… let’s look at another percentage. If you choose not to get treatment, you have a 1 in 10 chance of killing yourself. And who knows how high the percentage of us is that at least tries.
My first serious attempt was June 1st, 2013.
I had been working at tough job, teaching 9th grade in a city with the second highest crime rate in America. I had turned in my resignation, and had yet to find another job. Not only was I stressed from not knowing where my next meal was coming from, but I had genuinely fallen in love with some of the kids at the school, and now they were all going away and I was never going to see any of them again. Abandonment!
And to top things off, while all of this was happening, my girlfriend decided she no longer wanted to be in relationship. That’s two, big double whammies of abandonment piled on top of each other.
Now, I’ve made “cries for help” in the past. There have been points in my life where I would cut or burn myself as either a way to seek nurturance from someone or as a way to feel something, anything again (2the Empties.” We’ll talk more about these later). But this time, I just gathered the things which meant something to me—the art my ex had given to me, all our pictures and memories—place them on the bed in the spare room, and started washing down pills with alcohol.
Now don’t laugh at me. It was red wine, not whiskey, and the pills were over-the-counter. Enough of both would have worked. I asked my doctor. But here’s the problem…
I only had so many pills in a bottle, the rest were in blister packs, which I got too drunk to open. So the next time you wanna complain about how hard it is to get into those pills, just remember that they make them that way for a reason.
Anyway, the pills and booze took effect and I wound up passing out. I woke up a few hours later because my body was telling me I had to go to the bathroom. I wanted to die, but I sure didn’t want to be found in a puddle. I dragged myself to my feet somehow, slumped into the bathroom, and saw myself in the mirror.
Every muscle in my body was slack. My mouth hung open. My eyes drooped. My face was basically hanging off of my skull. I barely looked human. And the thing in the mirror scared me.
What if I didn’t die? What if I was stuck this way for the rest of my life? It was a distinct possibility, but one I couldn’t think too hard about. I managed to pee, slump back to my bed, and pass out again. I stayed there for the next fourteen hours.
When I woke up, I still had trouble controlling my muscles. I felt and moved like a newborn giraffe. I made it into the living room, flopped onto the sofa, watched some TV… and started drinking again. No pills this time. I didn’t want to die at the moment. I didn’t feel anything. And that’s what we’ll talk about next.
Your brother in arms,
Borderline Personality Disorder is totally treatable, possibly even curable so it`s no need for suicide and self-harm!
Read more from Bruce Anderson here: How I Became the Freak in the Corner
(A page that tells his story from the beginning and has links to several of his articles)