When I was first diagnosed with borderline personality disorder, I felt really validated. I didn’t necessarily want to have BPD; no one does. It simply gave me a reason as to why I acted how I did. For years, I had been questioning what was wrong with me. Depression didn’t cut it. Why was I so irrational and reckless? A professional diagnosis gave me just what I needed — an answer to my questions and a label to latch onto.
I’ve always loved labels. When it came to relationships, I hated having that grey-area where you’re definitely more than friends, but he still won’t commit to you. I needed clearly defined boundaries, a boyfriend who wouldn’t introduce me to his mom as his “friend” after we’d been seeing each other for months. Like my relationships, my mental health was all over the place. I constantly researched disorders I could possibly have, checking off symptoms from the DSM. My research was thorough; I self-diagnosed myself with BPD, and my psychiatrist confirmed it. That confirmation gave me something to cling to whenever I was unsure of myself.
A lack of identity or fluctuating sense of self is one of the symptoms of BPD. I don’t really know who I am as a person, and I’ve accepted that it’s okay to not know at this point in my life. The problem was that once I was diagnosed with BPD, I made it my identity. Not only would I romanticize the disorder, I made it my entire personality. I didn’t know what a real personality was because mine was a disorder.
Last semester, I had a breakdown in the middle of my Middle Eastern politics class. Sitting in the back of the room, I zoned out as my professor droned on about oil prices and Western imperialism (it’s an interesting topic, but my professor was an insufferable neoliberal). While texting someone I was seeing at the time, the topic of BPD came up — we both suffered from it, but our symptoms expressed in entirely different ways.
“What if I’m not more than my BPD? I don’t feel like a real person. I don’t think I am a person.”
They tried to reassure me that this wasn’t the case, but I wasn’t convinced. I broke down, tears streaming down my face. I hid awkwardly in the back of the classroom, covered in snot and streaks of mascara. Luckily no one noticed, but at this point I felt defeated. I had no sense of identity; all I knew were my symptoms, and in that moment I knew that they defined me. I was BPD and nothing more. There was nothing else besides my mental disorders that distinguished me as a real person deserving of love and respect.
Over the months, I became very open about my BPD, especially on social media. I’d tell random strangers about my awful mental health, not realizing how uncomfortable it could have made them if they barely knew me. After my breakdown, I’d gone back to my “normal” self, which wasn’t much better. I was the Borderline Princess, the queen of abandonment issues, the manic pixie dream girl softboys had always wanted me to be. I told myself I was just trying to reduce the stigma against BPD, spreading awareness about what it was really like to have it. I didn’t realize that in the process, I was embodying the borderline stereotype and actively working against recovery.
Since I was so open about my BPD, I would frequently have random people messaging me about it. One girl from my school sent me a message I distinctly remember; although I appreciated her concern, it still managed to upset me. I didn’t know her very well personally, but she was a senior from the Women’s Empowerment club who I admired. She told me how she had been diagnosed with BPD a few years before, and that she recognized her younger self in me. She had constructed her whole identity around having BPD because she lacked a stable identity, and although it felt good at the time, it ended up being destructive in the long run. She noticed that I was doing the same thing she did — I was making BPD my identity because to do otherwise would be to erase who I was entirely. It was standing in the way of recovery, and although I acknowledged it, I continued to cling to the label. I was scared of recovery because it necessitated change. Recovery meant that I wouldn’t be able to engage in my maladaptive coping mechanisms, some of which are so toxic, yet so fun. It meant that maybe one day, I would no longer fit the DSM criteria for BPD. I convinced myself that if I no longer had BPD on a clinical level, then I never actually had it and was instead lying to myself about who I was. I wasn’t ready to let go of something that I felt literally defined me, because it would mean that I was no longer a person. I knew I needed treatment, but I couldn’t bring myself to commit to it.
After being in therapy for a few months, I’ve come to realize that I wasn’t getting better because I wasn’t trying to. I’d ignore my friends who were looking out for me, because they didn’t really understand what I was going through. Their concern invalidated my identity and I didn’t need that kind of negativity in my life. My borderline friends were the only ones who truly understood me, and we’d validate each other on our toxic habits. It felt good; it felt right. We were self-aware of our irrational thought patterns and impulsive behavior, so it didn’t make it harmful. We knew perfectly well what we were doing and anyone who criticized us was in the wrong.
At times, I’d feel a sudden urge to do something absolutely reckless. I didn’t always know what, but I felt the need to engage in it or else I would continue feeling empty. My life had no meaning otherwise, and I would enjoy getting fucked up with my borderline friends. I could be myself around them and they were the only ones who didn’t judge me for my poor life decisions. I was tired of neurotypical people acting like they knew what was best for me, as if they knew what it was like to live with this disorder. Part of me knew that I was hurting myself, but it didn’t matter because I was having fun. I wasn’t ruining my life, because I knew when to stop before it spiraled out of control. Still, it managed to harm me in ways I didn’t comprehend until months later. I didn’t realize how unhealthy it was to put myself in the way of danger, just to give me an adrenaline rush and a sense of purpose.
Two months ago, I told my therapist about how I clung to my BPD diagnosis in order to establish a clear sense of self. Whenever I was unsure of who I was, or felt like a fake borderline, I would go back to the symptom list to tell me who I was. 8 out of 9 symptoms; I was my fear of abandonment, my self-harm, my rapid mood swings, my drug usage. BPD became my identity, and although I recognized how maladaptive the mentality was, I was scared to let go. Labels were comfortable for me, and my therapist understood that. She didn’t push me to do anything I wasn’t ready for.
A few weeks later, after lots of introspection, I came to the realization that I am more than my BPD. I told my therapist and she smiled as I told her I felt like I was finally one step closer to recovery. Although it was something people had been telling me for months, that my mental health didn’t define me, I never truly believed it until that moment. It wasn’t something I could force myself to believe; it had to occur naturally. I had to want to change and it had to happen at my own pace.
I still don’t know who I am. I’m a 20 year old college student struggling with her insecurities and relationships, trying to survive junior year. I’ve managed to get through most of finals without killing myself, with surprisingly good grades. I don’t really have any hobbies, but I do have a lot of aspirations and things that I’m passionate about. I’m a strongly opinionated person and I do have some core beliefs which help to define me as a person. I’m still dealing with the repercussions of familial emotional abuse built up over the years, which directly affect the way I interact in romantic relationships. I’m working to overcome my trauma, increase my impulse control, and challenge my irrational thoughts and behaviors. Although I had never believed it could actually happen, I’m in a healthy relationship with the love of my life, who helps me manage my BPD symptoms and supports my path to recovery. He was actually the one to help me overcome my obsession with BPD as my identity, and he did so without forcing me in any way. He continues to validate me and provide me with the emotional support I need. A strong support system is pivotal to overcoming emotional difficulties and aiding treatment. With the help of my boyfriend, my best friend, and my therapist, recovery seems possible.
It’s okay if I don’t know who I am at this stage of my life; my therapist tells me it’s normal for someone my age. There are still days where my self-worth fluctuates between two extremes. Some days I feel like I’m worth nothing and am better off dead. Other days I feel like the most beautiful person on the planet who deserves to be treated like a goddess. There are some aspects of my personality that seem to contradict each other, but human beings are meant to be complex rather than fitting into a single category. My BPD may manifest through my actions and contribute to many of my characteristics, but there’s more to me than just my disorder. It’s even reflected in the way my symptoms present; every borderline experiences BPD in their own unique way. I can be my own person without trying to fit myself into the narrow criteria defined in the DSM. I’m still borderline, but most importantly, I’m me. My inherent value as a person isn’t defined by my diagnosis. I’m more than my disorder, and accepting that has made my road to recovery so much easier.
