DO I LOOK LIKE A JAR?... Then don't give me a label! (Borderline Personality Disorder)

Member Name: amandaaspinall

Product:	Borderline Personality Disorder
Date:	19/02/02 (363 review reads)
Rating:

Advantages: Release, comfort, control

Disadvantages: pain, scars, labels

I remember the first time I was sent to see I Child Psychiatrist. I had smashed my hand through a window and not been able to explain why I did it. But there were a lot of things in my life that I had no explanation for at this time that was when I was given the label ‘Personality disorder’, They gave me other labels as well but this one seemed to stick like glue. There aren’t many people that I’m now friends with that know the kind of skeletons I have in my cupboard. If you have read the opinions that I posted before I joined the site myself you will no a bit, and I stress ‘a bit’ about my background.

I had spent most of my years as a child being subject to one form of abuse or another, and it went on for a great many years before any adults knew the truth.

I was desperate for attention as a child from my mum, the only person whom I generally didn’t get it from. Instead all the attention I got was from people who only wanted to hurt me and use me for there own needs. My granddad, my biological dad, babysitters, mums boyfriends, mums friends, strangers. The number of unhappy memories I have being a child far outweighs the happy ones.

From being very young I threw myself into my schoolwork, I pushed myself really hard in the hope of some recognition from my mother. It was wasted. She rarely went to my assemblies or my parent’s evenings and when she did she was usually intoxicated. I remember having to ask her all the time ‘how did I do mum?’ ‘Did I make you proud mum?’ It was hardly ever spontaneous.

I found it difficult establishing relationships with others, I would try really hard to be the friend they wanted, or the pupil they wanted, the daughter they wanted, the granddaughter they wanted, sometimes too hard, and I eventually would get either used, abused or rejected.

The emotions I felt as a child grew stronger as a teen and my frustrations, whic
h had been kept silent for years, began emerging as scars all over my body. Starting with the hand through the window, which had just been out of rage, the relief I felt when I saw the gash and the blood turned into my only escape. I don’t know exactly what is it that makes it so comforting, it might be the bodies naturally defense mechanisms and the chemical that is released from the brain when the body is inflicted with pain. It might be that the pain I felt inside that was becoming intolerable and it made it easier to deal with when I could see it. It might be the release I felt each time I cut into myself. It might be that it was something I had control over in my life and no one else could interfere. Whatever it was it worked for me. I would smash bottles and light bulbs and I would have different pieces of glass in secret hiding places throughout the house. There were certain special ones that did the job efficient lee so I would keep them safe, in an old jewelry box actually. I also had my own first aid box after a while because I got fed up with the A & E department looking at me as though I was a ‘nutter’ and judging me. Other things I did included drinking myself into a stupor, and banging my head of walls until I couldn’t see any longer. Pulling my hair out in clumps, biting myself. I know that none of this will make sense to anyone else; it didn’t to me for a long time.

After years of being in psychiatric care, having drugs of all kinds including Paroxetine, Prosac, Triflouperazine, Larazepam, and others that I don’t remember the names of, ‘trial and error’ with the drugs they said it was, usually a mixture of an anti-depressant and a mood stabilizer, designed to stop me getting anxious and agitated apparently. Hours and hours of counseling and therapy, self help groups and being shipped from one consultant to another.

I would sit with a consultant and It would really annoy me the way he
just sat there looking at me, asking the same questions each week. ‘How are you sleeping?’ ‘How is your sex drive?’ ‘Do you think about harming yourself or others?’ Do you hear voices?’ I rarely responded honestly to him, instead I would ask him questions like ‘How is your wife?’ ‘What’s your hourly rate?’ ‘Have you ever hurt yourself?’ He never responded, instead he would send me home with more useless medication and a return appointment.

I tried counselling a few times but I didn’t find it useful. I would sit there with a really ‘smiley’ woman and begin talking about my experiences, I’d just start feeling comfortable and then she’d look at her watch and say ‘I’m just aware of the time…’, then I’d remember it’s just her job, she’s not really interested in my problems.

It didn’t matter how much I talked anyway because as soon as I stopped it was as though it was ‘reeled’ straight back inside. It was stuck inside me, eating away at my life – well that’s how it felt anyway.

The occupational therapist that came to see me was lovely, Kirsty her name was and after 4 years of seeing her I began to trust her, her aim was to take my focus away from my problems, and find me ways of relaxing. I feel like a fool now for trusting her because she too disappeared eventually.

The self- help groups were okay though, they were for other people who struggled through life with similar problems and we often exchanged coping mechanisms with each other. Suggestions such as screaming, throwing tomato sauce on your arms, writing things down, drawing, punching pillows, jogging. They didn’t do me any good though I just liked the idea that I wasn’t alone with this.

What started off being something that I had the only control over, eventually became som
ething I had no control over.
After years of pain and anger, I have managed to gain control, and although it’s hard I just take one day at a time and it has been nearly three whole years since I self-harmed in any way. I haven’t seen the doctor for about 6 months either now, but if I need to I will.

I haven’t written this opinion so you will all feel sorry for me either, I have written it because I hope that just like me, someone out there might read this and know that they are not alone.

The point of my opinion was to stress that if a person is diagnosed with any mental health problem, they have a tendency to carry that label round with them for the rest of their lives. I chose not to let that happen. I didn’t want to get lost in that vicious circle. I don’t know how but I found the strength I needed within myself and I broke out of it. I wasn’t going to be a ‘label’ for the rest of my life.

I don’t need a label to know who I am thanks; I’ll find it out for myself. Eventually.

Summary: