January 23rd, 2010
|06:27 pm - disecting a diagnosis.|
I've been sick for many years. Not sick as in the physical sense; I don't have a chronic cough, I don't have any weird diagnosis, and I don't have anything webMD can diagnose me with. But I am sick nonetheless. Somedays my sickness eats away at me. Somedays I'm perfectly and pleasantly fine. Somedays I hide it. Somedays I show it. My sickness could potentially kill me. I just have to know how to beat it.
Six years ago I was at my worst. Six years ago I couldn't hide my pain. Six years ago my life spiraled out of control. Six years ago I was hospitalized because six years ago I tried to kill myself. I didn't just attempt to do the deed once, but twice. Six years ago I was abandoned on a psychiatriac ward. Six years ago I became a label.
I was diagnosed as having BPD, or borderline personality disorder:
Borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a personality disorder described as a prolonged disturbance of personality function in a person over the age of eighteen years, characterized by depth and variability of moods. The disorder typically involves unusual levels of instability in mood; "black and white" thinking, or splitting; chaotic and unstable interpersonal relationships, self-image, identity, and behavior; as well as a disturbance in the individual's sense of self. In extreme cases, this disturbance in the sense of self can lead to periods of dissociation.
These disturbances can have a pervasive negative impact on many or all of the psychosocial facets of life. This includes difficulties maintaining relationships in work, home and social settings. Attempted suicide and completed suicide are possible outcomes, especially without proper care and effective therapy.
I have had this label for six years. It has been a hard road. I thought that once I had children, things would be better; that having Madison and Elliott would keep me busy enough to keep my mind from wandering. I thought that they could be my rocks and keep me stable. And in the beginning, they were. They both kept me strong and focused. But as each day passed, I could feel myself slipping away more and more; becoming distant from them, from Mike, from myself.
I haven't cut myself in four years. But cutting is just like any other addiction. It's like smoking and cocaine use and heroin use. Cutting could kill me. Cutting still lives inside of me. Cutting is something I still think about. Cutting makes me feel better. Cutting will always be a part of me
I am failing as a mother, a friend, a sister, a daughter, a grandaughter, and a wife. I have let everyone who comes close to me down. I am not the picture perfect mother; I am a mother with deep, dark secrets. A mother who is screaming for help. A mother who just wants to be the best she can be.
I'm trying. I'm trying to let my true self peek out. I'm trying to do things differently. So far I have not succeeded. Healing will be a long process, one that I hope I will be able to stick out.
|Date:||January 24th, 2010 12:13 am (UTC)|| |
I want to help, be your rock. If you'll let me. If you want me. I feel like I'm in a strange, dark room. Feeling along the walls for the lightswitch. I'd fix it if I knew how. I'll be here.
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