I must begin this post with a clarification: Although I am a college girl who likes the movie Girl, Interrupted and books such as The Bell Jar, I am not basing my following feelings on trying to live up to some melodramatic cliche of "depressed white girl poet in her twenties." Or maybe I am? I can say with surety that many times I do not know who it is that inhabits my body. But I feel fairly certain about the (bold) claim I am about to make...
I have Borderline Personality Disorder.
Right? I mean, there is a danger (and an odd sort of satisfaction) in self-diagnosing. We could be using the supposed disease as an excuse for behavior. We could be biased, not being able to see things from an outside perspective. We could be wrong.
Yet I feel so right about this diagnosis. And who says a paid professional has to be the one to label me? Okay okay okay-- I have issues with labeling in the first place. But sometimes things need a label in order to be understood and worked with in this world. I know myself better than most people know me, and by labeling myself as someone with BPD, I feel... Less lonely. Less misunderstood. There is actually a name for this personal instability. More importantly, there are solutions.
Granted, I am not sure what the "solutions" are yet. I am guessing they are the same solutions that are given to every other mental illness-- therapy and pills. And fresh air, exercise, fruits and veggies, yadda yadda yadda. Okay, fine. I accept. All I am missing is the therapy. Oh, and the money for therapy. But maybe I'll figure all of that out later. For now, I just want to read more about BPD, discuss it with others, write, think, meditate, stop myself from doing anything too impulsive, write, and maintain healthy relationships with those people in my life.
And honestly, I will probably buy Borderline Personality Disorder for Dummies tonight at, appropriately enough, Borders.
Deep breath.
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