Back here again. Seems like it’s a never-ending cycle for me, and now it finally makes sense why: I just got diagnosed with borderline personality disorder.
Now, now, I know your initial reaction is probably like, “I hate this manipulative bitch already,” because face it, when I got over my surprise and tried researching it the word “manipulative” was on every site. People who have borderline are not usually looked at with empathy or kindness; we’re labeled as crazy, harmful, abusive.
I’ve always used humour as a coping mechanism, much to the chagrin of the majority of my loved ones. This time was different, though; for the first time, I felt utter despair and I couldn’t mask it. You see, BPD has a really negative effect on the person with the disorder. I always thought I “felt” things more and I chalked it up to me being overly emotional. I’ve always held grudges. I grew up feeling like nobody liked me, that I didn’t fit in, and this had a huge impact on my friendships. Hint: I didn’t have many. But on the flipside of that, the people that I did have I treasured deeply, some more than others. But it seemed to me like I had a ridiculous attachment to a couple of them – my mom, my first real best friend. Because I was so insecure about myself, I always felt sure that their relationship with me meant more to ME than to them. That feeling has never gone away, even though now I’m 29 and significantly more rational than a child (I hope!). And it wasn’t just people that I got overly attached to; things that I loved, like books or video games, I’d throw myself into wholeheartedly, obsessively. I’d play the same video games over and over again, and devoured any additional information I’d find online about the characters or storyline. I loved anime, and I’d scour the internet looking for decent streams or torrents (different times…). But when I finished a series a deep sadness would come over me, which I obviously hated (being sad sucks, duh) but also made me feel even more alone…I knew it was ridiculous to feel so upset about endings. Normal people didn’t feel like that. They didn’t feel a crippling sadness because there were no more episodes, no more pages to turn. My family thought it was weird that I rewatched shows over and over, that I’d play the same video games again and again. The only thing that was never commented on was me reading the same books repeatedly, and I guess that’s because reading was an activity my parents encouraged us to do. I have the ability now to recognize that doing those things brought me comfort, for whatever reason. Maybe it was knowing how everything turned out. Maybe it was because I loved it so much. I’m still not really sure.
Relationships of any kind became even harder for me than before. I was never the social butterfly, and I think a lot of the time I came off as awkward and weird. Because of that, the friends I did have became even more important. I was loyal to a fault at times. But I was also very hard for them to deal with – anything I perceived as criticism or as a slight (and there were lots of things) was met with anger. Calm anger, but anger nonetheless.
Which is why after reading all the symptoms of BPD, it made sense. I understood it. But it put a whole new fear into my heart that I’ll never be able to have a successful relationship. I used to dream about having a family, having someone that loved me the way my parents loved each other. I had a very fairytale-esque view on love. And despite my small circle of friends, I figured eventually I’d find someone. That made feeling lonely more bearable. And I think my misguided ideas about love and devotion is why I was stuck in a dead end relationship for 9 years, and then another for nearly 5. Don’t worry, I’ll spend quite a few posts going over how terrible they were. But that’s for later. Anyway…
Have y’all seen Tyler Perry’s “Diary of a Mad Black Woman”? It was the inspiration behind my blog name, because I relate to Helen’s (the main character) anger way too much. If you haven’t seen it, you should go watch it because it’s hilarious.
And I guess that’s my way of finishing off this post. I dont know what the fuck this blog is, or if I’m going to abandon it the way I do most of my projects, but I’m thinking maybe it’s good for me to let it out. Let others with BPD know they aren’t alone. And let everyone else know that we aren’t all completely terrible fucks.