Borderline FUCKING Personality Disorder My ASS!!! -OR- They Didn't Listen

"She met the criterion for a major depressive disorder and has borderline personality traits." Axis II diagnosis, 799.99 ,deferred
"Per B____: Escalating borderline personality type behaviour." Axis II diagnosis, 301.83, borderline personality disorder.
"Primary axis II presentation." Axis II diagnosis: borderline personality behaviours noted.

They didn't really listen to me. Two different people from the same agency. I saw the first only once. He spent probably the longest amount of time talking to me. I saw the second one twice. After reading the records of those 'crisis calls' that I requested from Mental Health it was clear that, while she spent some time talking to me that after she consulted with the guy who came to the first 'crisis call' she had already made up her mind, she wasn't really listening, she wasn't hearing what i was saying.

It's just... I don't want to have a personality disorder (and btw, what the hell am I borderline between anyway???). And I honestly do not believe that I do. I cannot fully explain it right now (honestly I'm just too tired). Lets say I've got my fun little DSM IV (thanks Abnormal Psychology class, lol) and I just don't meet the criteria... at least, not enough of them to make mentioning it worth while. And I would bet money that these mental health professionals and I would disagree with the criteria we think I DO meet.

Sorry, this isn't a very good post... I hate that my writing has gone down hill... maybe I'll try explaining again, when I am not so tired.

Rejected

I got a call yesterday from the records office of the clinic I've been trying to get into for over a month now. It's in a town about 20 minutes away but none of the doctors offices in town are accepting new patients so this was my next best option. Unfortunately I missed the call as I was napping (I wasn't feeling very well yesterday and after getting up that morning found my way back to bed a few hours later and slept until 13:00). I listened to the message all the while knowing full well what I was going to hear. It was almost funny, the message reminded me of the 'thanks but no thanks' letters I've gotten while applying for work. Anyway it took me back to the letter I first got from them telling me they needed my file before they could say yea or nay to accepting me as a patient. The letter was worded something like "... accept or decline you as a patient". That's where the word 'Rejected' in my title came from. I remember thinking that the sentence was worded incorrectly, that it didn't flow right "accept or decline". It just struck me as more of a rejection. I suppose I thought of it this way: you can choose to accept or decline something that is being given to you, like a gift. You accept or reject something that is asked of you. I was not declined as a patient, I was rejected as a patient.

I was not really surprised to hear that I was not "accepted". I knew they had many files to go through and, after all, it would make much more sense to take on patients that are less of a "problem", a patient who did not have anything more than "regular everyday issues"; the cold, the flu, high blood pressure, etc. To take on a patient with my history would take more effort on the part of the clinician. There's more to worry about, more to ask after, more liability. But damn it how can you really make such a decision without talking to me? I've read my medical files, believe me, they are at times rather misrepresentative of who I actually am, what I am capable of handling, etc. And I'd like to ask what they think I am supposed to do. I'm going to run out of my medications. I've got two months left of one and four more of the other. I've got no one to tell that I've been inexplicably anxious recently, no one to tell me how much longer I'm going to have to put up with this anemia I brought upon myself, no one to tell me if I should be doing better at this point than I am (It's been a month since I last bled excessively, a month since I went to the ER to make sure I hadn't done something that needed more than just rest and frankly I am tired of waiting for the day when my heart rate doesn't go up 40 or 50 beats per minute after getting up and walking to the DVD player and back to the couch or when I get up in the morning and walk from my bed to the kitchen to feed the cat). Is it really too much to ask? Sure, the patient who is no more problem than a cold once in a while would be easier but which one of us can go without a doctor the longest?

Excuse me, I'm sorry. I'm so tired, so very tired. And it seems the only answer I get to anything lately is "too bad, so sad" or "thanks but no thanks". So I'm venting here, and sounding much less than my 25 years, I am sorry.

An Outburst

God, just make it stop!!
I can't stand it any more!!
I think of the future, of what might be... of having a job, going back to school or living till I'm in my 80s or 90s (OK so that doesn't happen all that often). It seems it doesn't really take much to get me thinking of suicide. Really. Something small, some feeling in my throat just... anything. I've said that I no longer see death the same, that I believe it will always be a viable option in my mind. I think because of this... Ugh, I don't know!!! It's always there!! I don't want it, ugh, I just want it to go away, to leave me the fuck alone!!!

I am Ruined OR Try as I Might... I Think I Hate Him...

I'm sure I would have had another one sooner or later. It seems I can't go too long before I’m plunged into another major depressive episode. My guess s that I was just at the edge of my next one when I met him. The intensity, though, the duration of it, and the aftermath... all that, I blame on him. And I... I think, maybe, that I hate him. I don't want to. Hate is so intense. It consumes a person. And Biblically its not right. I keep trying to tell myself that I don't actually hate him. But... I think that, as much as I don't want to... I do.

He was my second year American Sign Language instructor.

I cannot tell you where my interest in ASL came from. I taught myself to fingerspell when I was 8 years old (and drove my family crazy doing it all the time). I fell totally in love with the language when I took my first year of ASL while at University. It came naturally to me (I am pretty proud of the fact that I have been told by two Deaf individuals that I have a natural signing ability) and my instructor was great. he seemed genuinely interested in us as students and he made class fun. He was friendly and approachable and after I took a while to come out of my shell (it doesn't take long in an ASL class especially with a good teacher) he and I got on really well (seriously, I got away with everything short of murder in that class). Given my very positive experience during my first year of study it is not surprising that I was excited a the prospect of a second year.

I knew something wasn't right about him the first day of class. I don't know how I knew, I just did. Knowing how small the Deaf community is (and a few other cultural idiosyncrasies that applied) I emailed my first year instructor (who was no longer at the University) and asked if he knew anything about him. I told him something didn't add up but I couldn't put my finger on it. He wouldn't tell me much which was a bit odd as I had never in the past had a hard time getting information out of him, especially gossip, lol. He finally told me that this guy had worked at the University before but had been asked to leave. He wouldn't tell me anything else. He said he wanted to let me form my own opinion about him (once again, a little strange for him, lol).

My first real problem with this man was simply that he was a bad instructor. When he did bother to show up (which happened more and more infrequently as the school year progressed) he rarely had anything of consequence to teach. He spent the entire first quarter teaching us the same stuff we had learned last spring (which meant I spent the entire quarter wanting to scratch my own eyes out... not very conducive to signing). He told me this was because he had not yet received the materials he had ordered and (I suspect that he had not yet ordered them).

In spite of the persistent nagging feeling that all was not right as far as this man was concerned I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. I attempted (with varying degrees of success) to be patient. I told myself that winter quarter would be better... then spring quarter. There were, unfortunately, only a few rather insignificant differences between fall quarter, and winter and spring quarters. We did get new material (which we went through at a snails pace). He started to show up rather infrequently (by spring quarter we were so fed up that we counted the days he had missed that quarter... I don't remember the exact number but I do know that if one of us as students had missed even close to that many days we would have been dropped from the course). And instead of lessening my sense of unease, if anything, continued to grow.

ASL club, for which I was VP that year, was another part of the story but seeing as how this post is already really long I will only talk bout our attempts at raising money that fall as it is needed for a part of the story later on.

Bake sales. We did a lot of them all school year. Almost every week actually. And every week only a handful of us involved in the club ever baked anything (four of us, to be exact). At one meeting I said that I was not willing to be one of the only ones baking as I could not afford to do it every week (we paid for the supplies out of pocket). The instructor (who was also 'advisor' for the club) informed us that he had brownie mix. Alight. The other officers and I looked at each other ad back at him blankly. 'And...' I signed, half jokingly. He said he would get it to one of us and we could bake it. After a bit of discussion he decided he would bring them to my apartment for the logical reason that we lived in the same University apartment complex. Stupid as I am I told him what apartment I lived in and assured him I would be there when he came by.

Fast forward to a night during early spring quarter at 11:00 pm. Our apartment was dark. My roommate ad gone to bed and I was in my room working on (ironically enough) my ASL homework. Out of nowhere I heard a thunderous pounding on the door of our apartment. I got down stairs as quickly as I could in the hopes that the sound would not wake my roommate. When I opened the door it was to find my instructor, noticeably intoxicated and visibly distressed. After a few words I asked him if he was drunk. He laughingly confirmed what I had already known. He stayed for nearly four hours (to this day I don't know why I let him) during which time he revealed to me the cause of his distress( a story I will not recount here as it is not mine and involved a fellow student). Additionally he told me that one night at a bar he was talking to someone and said something about asking his girlfriend. "She's hearing" he said, and proceeded to give them my name. He admitted that he had told this person tat I was his girlfriend twice that same night.

At one point during all of this I tried to get him to eat some bread (to soak up some of the alcohol) which he refused. I also offered him some water to try and lessen the hangover he would have in the morning. At that point he told me he was planning to go home but that he would be back. I thought he was going to get some of the bottled water he always drinks during class. Instead he came back with a backpack full of beer. I told him several times he had had enough but he continued to drink.

At some point during all this a guy who said he was my neighbor (though I had never seen him before) came up to us. He did not sign so I interpreted. At one point the instructor informed my neighbor that he wanted to smoke pot. He made this observation several times until my neighbor said that he did not have any, but he did have some 'resin'. The two drank some sort of liqueur that the neighbor had with him.

The instructor was very touchy (he had been all night and had already 'accidentally' grazed my breast with his hand) and hanging all over the guy. At that point the three of s were standing in front of my apartment. I was commenting t my neighbor on the differences between Deaf and hearing culture and the instructor was nodding his head vigorously. He then began to pat both of us up, hitting me on my chest and groin areas whereupon I jumped back and away and angrily told him to sop (he also groped the neighbor boy several times despite my telling him to stop). The evening finally ended with both men heading to the instructors apartment.

After 'the incident' I received several emails from the instructor all but one of which said that he was coming over (the one asked what I was doing and said he was 'just curious'... I didn't answer)... I told him not to.

I have tried several times to convince myself that it was no big deal. Never the less, I can't shake the feeling that his behavior that night, the weeks that followed (after a while he became angry with me and it was noticeable in our interactions), and probably the week sand months before only seemed to worsen the depression I had already begun to notice before everything came crashing down around my ears. I've argued this point here before. I began to cut on a more regular, almost daily basis and more severely. I bean drinking to get drunk and often did it aloe in my apartment while my roommate was out. I had sex for the first time (which I really did out of a feeling of 'obligation' as I had changed my mind but didn't think it was fair to the guy). As has already been described in previous posts my depression was worse than ever. I stopped socializing, following through with my responsibilities (though I had already given up a good many of those). I stopped attending classes like I should (even one taught by y favorite Psych professor whos classes I made a point of never skipping no matter how I felt) and called in sick several times to work (one time I actually asked to go home in the middle of a shift) preferring to sleep or, if not that, to stare vacantly at whatever surface was in front of me. I withdrew from one required course twice (I had to request a hardship withdrawal for the second one). It was only the grace f God an understanding instructor, a dedicated therapist, and probably the 'chemical help' I now take every day that got me through it so I could pass it the last quarter and graduate. Actually all of my instructors needed to be patient (and bless them, they were) because even when I did make it to class I very often stared vacantly ahead despite y efforts to focus on the task at hand. I began experiencing chronic suicidal ideation where the thought flitted through my mind several times a day. I actually made it to the point where there really was nothing left that could have kept me from killing myself. I was almost hospitalized twice in one week (once after cutting through a vein in my wrist that then had to be tied off). And when I finally, finally made it out of that darkest pit (I didn't stay out as long as I wanted but have not come close to where I was last) I was forever changed.

I cannot adequately explain how I have been changed. One thing is, I no longer see death the way I used to. It seems that now death will always be a viable option. Other than that I cannot get really specific. My world, my life, my dreams seem to have come crashing down around my ears in tiny little pieces and, try as I might, I cannot seem to mend them.

I want it all back: the dreams, my confidence, my life, the last two years or so, everything. I want to be alright. But...
I am ruined.

I lay most of the blame on his shoulders and despite wishing I did not... I think I hate him.

Perhaps a Strange Memory to Have Affect You...

but it does me none the less.

I am not sure how it even came to mind really. I know that I had just remembered a comment my older cousin made a few months ago '... but he's your dad'. It got me thinking about what that means to him compared to what it means to me.

My dad is not in any way the worst dad in the world, I know that. Certainly he was abusive both physically and verbally (toward me more than my sister and brother... pretty sure I was the only kid in the house subjected to his verbal abuse and I certainly got the worst of the physical abuse). He was not, however, as bad as he could have been. I have often told myself that, as far as abuse goes, mine was relatively minor. Now having said that I have also had to remind myself several times of something I tell others who try and minimize their experience: you should try not to compare yourself to others and say 'Oh, well 'so and so' had it so much worse what in the world am I whining about'. The fact of the matter is that if you are having problems dealing with it than it has had an affect on you and that is really all that matters.

Having said that (see, I can be logical when I want to) here's the memory. As I said after recalling what my cousin had said I began to think of the difference between what 'he's your dad' means to me and what it means to him. Somehow this caused me to recall a memory from my childhood. It is by far not the worst sounding memory that I have (and certainly cannot hold a candle to some others may have) and yet as I have reflected on others both voluntarily and during therapy (boy that was fun... have you ever had a therapist keep asking for information you just didn't have -or at least, have access to-?) I have never really had the same reaction to those as to this one.

I can't remember how old I was when this happened only that I was rather young (at least, as 'rather young' as one who is only 25 can get). I can tell you that it was Christmas eve. That year I had found one of those round tins with popcorn in them (you know the ones with caramel, cheese, and regular popcorn?) that I thought was so pretty... it was practically all I could talk about, one of the things I wanted the most that year. It showed a winter scene, probably somewhere in Alaska or northern Canada. It was night time and you could see the aurora borealis. There were lots of Arctic animals on it, reindeer, polar bears, wolves, that sort of thing. All I really wanted was the tin; didn't care much about the popcorn at all). I was really excited when my grandparents (my dads parents) gave it to me for Christmas... I had plans to keep the tin forever (as small children plan such things,lol... I actually did have it for years). At some time during the night (I am not sure if it was sometime right after I opened it or some time later that night) my dad looked at me and asked if he could have the tin after I was done with the popcorn. Something else I can't remember is exactly how I answered, my tone of voice, though I would guess that it was as incredulous as a child can get. I can remember that I told him no. His response (I can't tell you his tone of voice either) was to become rather upset, almost angry, and ask me why not. I remember being confused by his reaction even as I tried to explain to him why I had told him he could not have it. I do not remember exactly how I was feeling (other than confused) but if those feelings were the same as what I come up with when I remember it now I was confused and hurt. That's all I can come up with. I suppose even then I did not understand a father having such a reaction to his child, to something so silly.

As I grew older I came to realize that my dad really grew up; he has remained as ego centric and selfish as is expected out of teenagers (to those of you reading who may be teenagers, sorry, it just happens to be something within that stage of development that happens to be pretty standard). He has always been selfish and immature which in a way I think can account for much of his behavior (though I do not believe it in any way excuses that behavior). Still, this knowledge does nothing to soften the effect of such memories, I don't know why. I cannot fathom why this memory has more of an emotional effect on me than other, seemingly more traumatic, memories. I do know that I hate it, I hate thinking about it, I hate having even the ghost of the memory in my head. And I hate that it seems such a silly thing to be affected by.

Is 'Out of Your Mind' Really Such a Bad Thing?

For some reason the thought that I had already been 'out of my mind' ran through my head the other day (I am sure there was something that brought the thought to mind, something on TV, something I was reading... I cannot, however, remember what that might have been). I chuckled over this thought for a second before the thought hit me: is that really such a bad thing?

Let me explain.

I have several times told folks (moestly in a joking manner) that a persons mind is a dark and dangerous place. I suppose I am mostly talking about my own mind when I say this. Also I seem to have this conversation with folks with problems similar to my own so I suppose in that I am not far off. But as I got to thinking about it the other day it struck me that there was some possible truth to that statement and, as such, it may not be such a bad thing to be 'out of your mind'. Often, I believe, a big part of the distress I may be in is caused (or at least exacerbated) by spending too much time in my mind, too much time thinking things over, dwelling on things that I cannot change, berating myself for thoughts or feelings. That said, it seems to me that by spending more time 'out of my mind' I could possibly avoid a little bit of the distress that I usually find myself in.

Just a thought...

Forever Changed

I know what you're thinking: "Why in GODS name does she keep harping on this?!" After all, blog post after blog post centers around my last major depressive episode, for heaven sake find something new to write about, right? I would ask you to remember though, that one reason I have this blog is so that I have a place to 'talk' about things that, for one reason or another, I do not feel able/willing to talk about elsewhere. My last therapist seemed to think that one of my 'problems' was that I do not talk things out with others. I do not often go to friends and tell them what is wrong. I rarely tell someone how I am feeling (though a lot of that has to do with the fact that I don't know myself). What can I say? He's right, I don't do that. I could sit here and tell you some of my theories as to WHY I don't... but that can wait for another blog entry.

And so I write here. I write things I wish I could talk out with others. I write in the vain hope that it will help me figure something out, figure out what's wrong, figure out how to get my life back together, figure out if it is even POSSIBLE to get my life back together. I write because I need to.

So why do I insist on pounding this particular topic in to the ground? At this point I am trying to figure out how to deal with the aftermath of it. I am attempting to put 'it' into words in hopes that, by doing so, I will be able to understand myself. I have no idea what EXACTLY the hell I am trying to understand. I suppose that I am hoping that, by thinking about it, by writing it down, I will stumble upon that answer as well.

As I have said in previous blog entries this was not my first experience with major depression. It was, in fact, my fifth major depressive episode (though, lucky gal that I am, I had lived with dysthymia for some time before my first MD episode and have had the pleasure of living with it ever since, between MD episodes that is). Maybe I got cocky, I don't know. I can tell you that after a few episodes I came to believe that I had a pretty good idea how my depression presented itself. Sure it varied slightly but for the most part I knew what to expect. Better still (and maybe because of the fact that I thought they were so similar) I knew I could function through them. Even during the worst episode I was able to function well enough that no one seemed to notice anything amiss (to be honest at times even that surprised me as I was SURE the emptiness that I was feeling, the flatness, the 'Nothing', they exhaustion, everything was clearly visible in my eyes). What I didn't know was that it COULD get worse. MUCH worse.

I've described before that last, worst episode. I won't go in to detail here. That is not what this entry is for. For those of you who would rather not have to go back and find out what the hell exactly I am talking about let me see if I can sum it up for you (though it will not do it justice): Basically I quit functioning, at least, for the most part. I definitely stopped functioning well. I cannot tell you how much time I spent alone in my dark bedroom (I had put aluminum foil over the windows in the vain hope that I would be able to get more sleep... didn't know that soon I would be getting too much...) sleeping, 'hiding' under my pillow, or staring vacantly at the wall beside me, the ceiling above me. Then there was how I was feeling (if you're waiting for an explanation of that you're going to have to keep waiting... or go back and read some of my first blog posts... it's just too hard to even ATTEMPT to explain, probably because I just flat out can't do it, not as it should be anyway. No description does it justice). I'd never really been suicidal before. This time I hit three key points: the point where suicide actually became an option, the point where I could (and wanted so much) to do it, and the point where I was so far in the pit that I could no longer even kill myself (despite desiring it more than anything else).

That about covers THAT part. And now...

Forever changed.

*sigh* How do I explain this? It would help, I suppose, if I understood it myself. I suppose the best way I have been able to put it is this: It feels like I've been put through the wringer (you know, when they did laundry back in the day and would put the wet cloths through the wringer to get most of the water out before they hung them out to dry?) and I just will not ever be the same. That last episode took something from me though I'll be damned if I can figure out exactly what 'something' is. There was a time in my life when I felt capable, when there was no question whether or not what I had planned was something I could do. It was more of a knowledge, somewhere in the back of my mind, such that I didn't even think about it. It just 'was'. A time in my life when I knew (again, at the back of my mind) I could handle anything that was thrown my way. That time seems so long ago, another life time in fact. I had hoped to be in graduate school by now. The events of last year put that on hold, I had hoped, for only a short while. Now I am not sure I will ever get there and I am not exactly sure WHY I think that. I suppose it comes down to the fact that I just no longer feel capable of anything. I think of getting a job (I actually have a second interview this week for a job that I would actually like... I think.) and immediately feel something that I cannot really put words to other than to say that I feel incapable. I think the feeling comes from a fear that I will get to the same point I was last year, when I really WAS incapable of much of anything. I think... I think I'm afraid of going back there. I don't want to do it again, not if I can't make sure that I won't go back a third time (and there's only one way I can think of that would be a sure thing).

I'm not this person. I am capable. I am sure of myself. I am not afraid. At least, I wasn't this person. Now, well now I am forever changed.