Tag Archives: borderline personality disorder

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The Picture

I used to be obsessed with The Picture of Dorian Grey. You know, the Oscar Wilde book. The concept of a painting in an attic holding all your sins and mistakes gave me a sense of hope, I guess. A hope that all the ugly things that live in my soul that sometimes appear on my face would be kept somewhere safe. Where they couldn’t hurt anybody.

I live with Borderline Personality Disorder. BPD is a cluster B personality disorder, and by the definition of the DSM 5, is:

“A pervasive pattern of instability of interpersonal relationships, self-image, and affects, and marked impulsivity beginning by early adulthood and present in a variety of contexts, as indicated by 5 or more of the following:

  1. Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment
  2. A pattern of unstable and intense interpersonal relationships characterized by alternating between extremes of idealization and devaluation
  3. Identity disturbance: markedly and persistently unstable self-image or sense of self
  4. Impulsivity in at least 2 areas that are potentially self-damaging, for example, spending, substance abuse, reckless driving, sex, or binge eating
  5. Recurrent suicidal behaviour, gestures, or threats, or self-mutilating behaviour
  6. Affective instability due to a marked reactivity of mood, for example, intense episodic dysphoria, anxiety, or irritability, usually lasting a few hours and rarely more than a few days
  7. Chronic feelings of emptiness
  8. Inappropriate, intense anger or difficulty controlling anger, for example, frequent displays of temper, constant anger, or recurrent physical fights
  9. Transient, stress-related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms.”

I present with 8 of these factors. Years of Cognitive Behavioural Therapy means it’s mostly kept safe in the attic, as I make sure to distance myself from situations that my dumb ass brain can’t handle. I’ve been single for 8 years because that’s one area that my dumb ass brain gets really dumb about. My marriage – written about in excruciating detail on this very platform – is a lesson in how dumb.

So, I’ve stayed single. Single and safe.

Then I made the mistake of falling for a friend.

This friend, who I’ll call S, has been in my life for over 15 years and is a kind, generous, accepting person. He treats me with respect and deference, doesn’t judge my insane behaviour traits, and doesn’t treat me like I’m fragile. So, of course, over time, I fell hard.

Now, I’m desperately afraid of making myself vulnerable to people I like, so I just let it be what it was and enjoyed the friendship. I put my feelings and all the messy stuff associated with them in the attic, in the picture, where they were safe. Where I was safe.

But then I had a health scare (I’m fine now), and the picture started rattling in its frame. I ignored it, and it rattled harder. I started to pay attention to the picture, the one in the attic, where everything was hidden away and safe, and let it influence my everyday life. I convinced myself that something was there in my friendship, and the picture rattled and rattled and rattled.

I let it out. I let the painting’s colours run and I ran with my feelings and I told S that I was into him.

He rejected me. Gently, I guess, but a rejection nonetheless.

I did not respond in kind.

The door to the attic opened. The stairs creaked as my painting crept down them, vibrating with its spiky sickness. All hell broke loose as my picture, the one kept in the attic where it was safe, the one that held my ugliness and disordered thinking toppled down the creaky stairs and landed on me with a crash.

Overwhelming feelings of shame, humiliation, worthlessness and defeat settled over me like a weighted blanket of doom. I’m suffocating beneath it as I call my sister, desperate for air and some sense of calm. She does her best, asking me what happened, asking if he was mean.

I said no, he was not mean. His response wasn’t awesome, but, you know, he’s a lovely guy. He just doesn’t love me.

And that’s the crux of it. He doesn’t love me because I’m unlovable. I’ve been told that all my life in various ways.

My mother: “I love you because I have to but I don’t like you.”

My brother in jest: “I’ve been thinking and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re a bitch.”

My father: “You came to Australia and became my problem.”

An ex-boyfriend, succinctly: “Your dad is mean to you because you’re hard to love.”

The same ex-boyfriend: “I don’t want to have kids with you because they’ll get your mental illness.”

My ex-wife: “You’re too sick to love.”

S said none of this. Of course he said none of this. But the picture, the one kept in the attic where it’s safe, the picture shows me all this, plain as can be on its mottled, mouldy canvas. And because it’s there, paint and blood and tears all smeared together and startlingly obvious, I believed it.

Google tells me that “Romantic rejection for individuals with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) often triggers intense, volatile, and devastating emotional reactions due to extreme abandonment fears.”

It’s entirely accurate. It is extreme. Unreasonable, even, to feel what I’m feeling right now. I wish I could switch it off, get over it, stuff it back in the painting and put it back in the attic where it’s safe. But I can’t. Even after 30 years of therapy, it’s the one thing I haven’t got a handle on.

Let me be clear, I know there is nothing wrong with having feelings for someone. I also know there’s nothing wrong with expressing those feelings to that someone. People do it every day and the world doesn’t end. There doesn’t need to be this drama and chaos and calamity. It’s all fine.

But, unfortunately, for me it’s not all fine. It triggers something in my brain that is viscous and vicious and gross and I don’t understand exactly why. Psychiatrists aplenty have told me why over the years, and I get it intellectually. But emotionally? Well, that’s a different monster. A monster that I pour into a picture. That I keep in the attic. To keep it safe.

But now, it has affected a friendship that is extremely valuable to me. Not because of his reaction, but because of mine. Well, maybe because of his, too. I made myself vulnerable and now I’m paying the price.

So, I’ve pulled away for now. I’ve rejected him back, even though he tells me our friendship is safe. It’s not safe for me anymore because I’ve made it not safe. I showed parts of myself that I don’t show many people. And now I’m exposed.

I don’t want pity. There’s nothing to pity. That picture of me that holds all my disease and discomfort isn’t pitiable. It’s dangerous and violent and unfit for human consumption.

So, I’m doing what I do. I’m retreating to tend to my wounds. I’m trying not to think I ruined it, but maybe I did. This thing I live with – my personality – tends to ruin everything.

I’ll put it back in the picture.

That picture. The one in the attic. Kept there to keep it safe. To keep it hidden from the world, hidden from you so I can go on pretending that I’m a fully functioning human being.

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Special

The world feels entirely impossible to live in right now. The war in Ukraine. The ongoing conflict between Palestine and Israel. US politics, UK politics, Australians voting no to our First Nations people having a voice, and let’s not forget Jacinda Ardern stepping down from being one of the most influential world leaders we’ve ever seen. Some of us are still reeling from that.

Then there’s stuff closer to home. We’re in the middle of a housing crisis here in Melbourne. It’s truly fucked. I’ve only ever been rejected from a new home maybe twice in the entirety of my renting history, but in this month alone I’ve had four rejections. I already have problems with rejection (and I’m an actor. Go figure) but this is ridiculous.

Everyone I know is hurting in some way, including myself. It seems that there’s an increase in diagnoses of neurodivergence and mental disorders, and many of us seem happy to use these as excuses or reasons not to try anymore – myself included. That’s not a criticism by any stretch. The first time I noticed it happening in someone else (and was irritated by it) was a bit of a smack in the face as I recognised it in myself. And it’s never fun to realise that oneself is just as much of a jerk as another.

See, there’s this pattern. I am let down by someone I care about, but then I let down someone else I care about, then they let their friend down, or me, or their parents or whoever, and it’s this never-ending cyclic doom swirl of people hurting each other because they’re hurting themselves, and now everyone’s pissed off and hurt and no one’s apologising because no one understands how hard it is to live with [insert diagnosis here].

Myself included.

Then there are those with no diagnosis (they do exist), and life’s hard for them, and they’re like, “well shit, I can’t complain about anything, can I? I guess I’ll just go sit in the corner and eat worms because everyone is caught up in their own tar pit.”

Yeah. We are. Because we live in an impossible world with impossible standards and hoops that only a certain percentage can jump through, and the rest of us are left standing with our proverbial dicks in our hands asking, “what the fuck just happened?”

I feel like I’ve been asking this question for decades. See, I have just realised that I have a certain outlook on my life and its place in this world. I believe (yes, present tense) that because of the traumatic bullshit I experienced as a child and then as a 20-something lost soul, then as a married 30-something that I deserve to have the life that I want. I deserve success in my chosen field (acting) because I got smacked with the trauma stick, but I picked myself up and pulled up my big girl socks and got therapy and help and therefore I’m Special™. Idris Elba should rock up to my doorstep and offer me a part in his next project, not only because I’m a Good Actor™ but because I deserve it. I’ve worked for it. All the underpaid/unpaid acting jobs I’ve done, all the underpaid/unpaid music I’ve written, all the meditation and soul searching I’ve undertaken allows me to claim that I’m Special™ and I should have all of the good things. Because, you see, if I’m successful, all the stuff I went through would have led me to that point. It will have all been worth it. If I don’t reach that goal, then, well, it’s tragic. And it means I’m not special.

I mean, that’s dumb, right? Like, it’s actually dumb, because my belief system is such that the Universe has no ego, therefore it has no care, therefore it doesn’t actually owe me or anyone anything and it just gives you shit because you actualise it, so being Good™ is a choice and not a requirement, unlike traditional religion that believes in sin and Hell and all that fun stuff.

I have been given a lot in my life. I’ve achieved near impossible things and manifested desires out of nothing. Not because I deserved it. Not because I’m a Good Person™. Not even because I worked hard for it. I got them, simply because I asked the Universe for them. So why haven’t I achieved the thing I want most?

Because I’m an idiot.

No, seriously. I’m an idiot. Despite my well-read, well-researched and well-lived belief system, there are still some things that I don’t believe I’m allowed to have. Maybe that’s the Borderline Personality speaking. Maybe it’s my Mum, or my Dad. Maybe it’s society. Maybe it’s because I’m a woman. Maybe it’s White Guilt™. I don’t know, but it’s a sticking point to any of us who are Good by choice.

Being Good essentially makes no difference in the quality of one’s life. Not really. Screaming assholes like Bezos and Trump get everything they want (except maybe true self-respect). Cardinal Pell pretty much got off child sexual abuse charges, only spending 405 days in jail before he was acquitted. Then he died! The only saving grace is that he didn’t get a state funeral, but I digress.

Conversely, people like Jacinda also exist. Chadwick Boseman also existed. Pedro Pascal, I’m pretty sure, is real. Niloofar Hamedi and Elaheh Mohammadi exist – imprisoned for their goodness, yes, but still here. Ghandi was definitely a dude. All is not lost, is it?

A couple of weeks ago, I got this message in my Instagram inbox. It was from someone I don’t know, there was no name, no handle. Just this message. I probably don’t deserve this small kindness, but that’s not the point, stupid BPD brain, you shut up!

Anyway. I’m paying this forward. To you, dear reader.

A small voice in my head tells me, “see? You are special.” No, I’m not. Shrug. That’s okay.

Prioritize your mental and spiritual wellness. Do things that make you happy. Take time to nurture yourself. Don’t rush the process. Don’t judge where you’re at or where you think you should be. Just be kind and patient with yourself. Things are unfolding for you.

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I’m Still Here

CW: Suicide.

I called the CAT team tonight. There are a couple of reasons why I did that. Firstly, because I really, really wanted to die. Secondly, because I wanted to die but I didn’t want to disrespect the people whose house I’m staying in by ending my life in their home. Thirdly, because I made a promise to my friends that I would reach out if things got bad. Fourthly, because I didn’t want to burden my friends with another night of me sobbing on the couch.

I’m on a ridiculous amount of anti-depressants, and they’re probably going to go up in dose this week. I see my therapist regularly. I have wonderful, supportive, amazing friends who love me and tell me so all the time. I have a talent – many talents, actually – that I’m proud of and work on constantly. I have moments of awesomeness. I have moments of being babin’. I’m fairly intelligent, I’m quite funny, I’m fun to be around. But I consistently seem to fall in love with people who don’t believe I’m worth fighting for. And right now, I’m very, very alone.

I’ve never really had a problem with being alone. But now, it looms. It’s crushing. My family, whom I adore, are away from me in other countries and on other plains. There is nothing more lonely than being surrounded by incredible people, but only wanting the company of one. And when that one proclaims that they no longer have love for you, that in essence, you’re not worth the fight, suddenly the world seems very large and expansive and empty.

It’s an odd feeling to know that I’m worthy and deserving of love and happiness and all that entails, but feeling so lost and hollow that that knowledge seems meaningless. I, once so independent and fearsome in my knowledge of my place in the world, am now directionless. Without a home, without my beloved cats who are not doing well without me, without my family, I’ve been very, veeeery slowly hauling myself up a very steep hill, all the while impatient to be settled again, to be over and done with her, to be happily single, living the life of my dreams. Unfortunately, the realisation of that dream seems to be moving further and further away, like when you try to run down a hallway in a nightmare but it keeps stretching on away from you.

I don’t feel like this because my marriage ended. That hurts, yes, but it’s not the reason I am teetering at the edge of the pit. I feel like this because I never saw it coming. I trust my intuition keenly, it’s never steered me wrong. But this time it gave me no warning. I had relaxed – maybe a little too much, but I finally felt safe.

And then I wasn’t.

I feel like this because it all seems so cruel. I didn’t deserve any of what has happened to me. I’m not blaming anyone, because I’m tired of that pointless circular game. I’m usually the type of person who will cry and wail when I’m hurt, but then I’ll pick myself up, dust myself off, acknowledge the part I had to play in why things fucked up, and with that acknowledgement, things seem to move on naturally. Awesome things happen, and suddenly I find myself not grieving anymore. This time, though, it’s different, and I’m struggling. I’ve acknowledged and acknowledged and acknowledged, but I still feel so very lost.

I was doing fine. I actually was doing really fine, and then something happened and I rolled back down the steep hill, bumping and grazing myself along the way. I didn’t fall down as far as I was when I started, but it’s a significant drop. I don’t have the energy to start heaving my way back up that bloody stupid hill, but I can’t stay here. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t know where I’m going. I’m relying on other people so much that I feel like I might forget my own autonomy. I don’t trust anyone. I still have a lot of love, but my wall is getting higher and thicker and I feel myself hardening and cracking like cheap paint in the sun. This feels bad. It feels so bad, and nothing I’m doing seems to be helping, and I’m really, really scared.

I had made peace with suicidal ideation just before everything fell apart, and then it’s like the Universe went “okay then, let’s test that theory.” Fucking Universe and its experiencing itself through me in a way that’s not starry and delightfully magickal. Fuck it.

Do I really want to die? Obviously not completely, otherwise I wouldn’t be here to write this. But the desire to be with my mum, to be away from this endless darkness, to be free from this sticky, sickening pain is so great that sometimes I have to call the CAT team. And that sucks.

I’m sharing this because writing about it whilst in the thick of it helps, and also because a friend of mine once told me that she had spent an afternoon reading every single post on my blog and it helped her to feel less alone. I know I’m not the only one out there in the pit.

We’re okay. We’re still here.

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The Child Who Knew Too Much

So, another Catholic priest has been arrested after police investigated an online child pornography ring in Sydney. The FBI has just freed 105 children from a child prostitution ring in the US. There is an increase in sexual abuse of indigenous kids in rural and outback Australia. Every day there seems to be more and more reports of children being sexually molested by people in positions of power, by priests, by neighbours, teachers, uncles, fathers – you name it.

Studies say children who have been sexually abused can experience depression, anxiety, guilt, fear, sexual dysfunction, withdrawal, and acting out. They can suffer from sleep disturbances, eating problems, and non-participation in school and social activities. Some kids stop trying at life. Other kids try too hard.

Adult victims of child abuse can suffer from high levels of anxiety which can result in alcoholism, drug abuse, anxiety attacks, borderline personality disorders, insomnia and depression. Victims can go on to engage in high risk sexual behaviour, including prostitution.

Let me tell you what happened to me. I became extremely depressed as a child, but was unable to articulate what had happened until I was 12. The disclosure was not met with a great deal of acceptance by my family. As a teenager, I began to display borderline tendencies and started to cut myself. I developed bulimia. Simultaneously, I became an over-achiever at school, committing myself to several extra-curricular activities at once in an effort to occupy my mind until I burned out at 17 and almost failed Seventh Form.

Outside of working in the sex industry, which you all know about, I would occasionally have indiscriminate and sometimes unsafe sex with random men and women. It’s actually quite amazing that I didn’t catch a sexually transmitted infection. That behaviour, together with the borderline traits and obsessive compulsive tendencies continued well into my adulthood, and still exist in much less severity to this day.

My parents live with an undisclosed sense of guilt that they couldn’t prevent the abuse from happening to me. We can’t really talk about it, simply because I don’t want them to feel that I’m making them responsible, and they don’t really know what to say. My brothers are the same.

My self worth and value is rooted firmly in my sexual attractiveness. I tend to use sex as a bargaining tool; as a weapon; as my armour. I have been working to offset this for a number of years. It’s hard, but I’m much, much better than I was.

Today at rehearsal, there were some child rape jokes thrown around. I am not angry at those who perpetrated these jokes because it occurred in a context that is difficult to explain. Needless to say, I had to walk out of rehearsal because it broke my head. And finally cemented home a realisation:

I will never get over being sexually molested as a child.

I have healed immensely and have worked very, very hard to not let that trauma impede on my everyday life. I am a very functional member of society, and my experiences have provided me with a very thick skin most of the time. I do not dwell on it, or cast myself as a victim in life’s drama. But it’s there. All the time, whether I acknowledge it or not. Today it’s very much at the forefront of my mind. And it hurts.

Child abuse destroys lives. It’s a topic that is drowning in shame and outrage and guilt and pain and it has to stop. Of course, it never will, because humans can be cruel and sadistic and nasty and apathetic of what impact their actions can have on others, so we have to be prepared to nurture and comfort and support and help heal those who have suffered this horrible, horrible experience.

My love and my heart goes out to all survivors of child sexual abuse. I’m feeling your pain right now because it is also my own.

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The Animal

If I’m honest with myself, there’s one true reason why I act. It’s not for the accolades, or the applause, or the eventual AFI award, it’s really quite a simple reason. I act so I can be someone else.

You see, I have a pet. It’s a shitty pet. It varies in size depending on the day. It stinks to high heaven. It won’t heel, sit or play dead. I can’t let it off the leash, because it just runs amok, causing havoc wherever it goes. It sniffs people’s crotches, dry-humps legs, scratches the couch, leaves ‘gifts’ on the bed, yowls all night and keeps me awake. It won’t come when it’s called, it’s not micro-chipped and it’s certainly not registered with the local council.

black dog

I can’t get rid of it. There’s no euthanising this sucker, or leaving it at the pound. I can’t give it away to a good, loving home. It’s mine. To keep.

This pet gets in the way. It sticks its stupid nose into everything, jumps up onto my lap at the most inconvenient times, and it pushes me into predicaments I can, at times, see no way out of. It can sometimes make my life a living hell. It has, in the past, made it impossible to live normally.

There are many names for this pet and I could rattle them all off now, but really they’re just words to describe an animal I acquired a long time ago through no fault of my own which is now here to stay. I have to live with it every day. Some days are easier than others. Some years it has been medicated, so it behaved itself, but it’s been drug-free for a few years now. I’ve been training it, but lately the training has slipped because I’ve been tired and busy and distracted, and a couple of weeks ago it chewed through its lead and ruined my good relationship. The one I’ve put a lot of investment in. The one that counted.

Some may call this pet an excuse. Try living with it for a while, you’ll see it’s no excuse. There’s no choice involved, no willing signing of adoption papers. It’s attached to me, and I constantly apologise for it, but it’s not going anywhere. I just have to learn better ways to live with it. Don’t feel sorry for me. The last thing I want or need is pity. I am who I am in spite of this sneaky, manipulative creature; this thing who pushes me to the edge of the world and then feigns ignorance when I fall off.

blackdogproject

So, you see dear reader, sometimes it’s just too hard to be who I am with this pet wrapping itself around my neck. So I act. Because then, at least for a while, I can forget it exists.