SpiritBurger

...now I have "Johnny-Depp-Victimizer Disorder!!" YAY!!

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

(saunters across your bedroom, dressed like this, doing this, dick swinging)

Yesterday, I learned my final lesson about living with BPD.

The last person I called my best friend came to pick me up in another state when I was discharged from the psych ward. She has given me a place to live and has shared any/all material things with me, and I am beyond grateful. In exchange and out of gratitude, I babysit her kid and keep her apartment clean.

I shared everything I learned about BPD with her. She called me strong a lot. She told me to just do whatever I needed to do to get better in the wake of my official/'off the books' bullshit diagnosis, because I have been turned down and ignored by every mental health professional within 100 miles. She watched that happen.

Fast Forward 6 months or so. During our fourth fight about how I keep seeking validation and checking if everything is good, because I care about our relationship. I have worked every day to try to recognize, monitor, and correct my completely random moods.

After being ignored by NAMI (still waiting on a response after 1 month, after begging for advocacy.

My best friend stopped being around her own home about a month ago. At first, it was "staying over" at "a friend's" on the weekends, and now it's 4 days a week. She is leaving her kid home with me and her ex bf, and spending nights about the town. When I brought this up to clear the air, I was scolded. "I WANT YOU TO JUST DO YOUR SHIT."

Wow... quite the change in tone. The person who basically rescued me is now barking at me for speaking up about being taken advantage of. Nothing changed.

When I tried to have a more calm discussion with my best friend a few days later, she not only told me I talk too much, but that she is sick of me constantly thinking something is wrong, which is literally the number one problem pwBPD face, every minute of every day of life.

I said "THAT IS WHAT MY DISORDER CAUSES ME TO DO, and I am sorry, and I am working on it."

... BITCH ROLLED HER EYES AND LAUGHED.

That, my friends, is the final lesson about BPD... Nobody gives a fuck, because they cannot understand what the person with BPD experiences... They ALL get sick of it, because we are fucking awful to be around.

Sure hope I can get a job so I can get the fuck out of this new toxic environment.

Until then, I guess I'll just shut my mouth, stop having any feelings or reactions to anything at all (except, of course, for listening to everyone's vacuous narcissistic self-aggrandizement).

Fuck yes, I'm strong. My superpower is losing and bouncing back, and doing so largely alone, or with help from people who rapidly grow tired and disgusted with me, and let's fucking face it... My presence just makes people sad as fuck. Nobody wants to think about how the person sitting beside them is constantly under attack by their own mind. This bitch pats herself on the back for getting up before noon. Nobody gives a fuck, at least, not for long.

I wonder why it's so hard to convince myself that I deserve to be alone when that is the recurring lesson.

I am never again sharing with anyone that I have BPD unless they intend to have intimate contact, and I have no intentions of encouraging or inviting intimate contact... at this point people make me want to vomit blood.

Thanks for all the help.

It is NEGATED by your ignorance and disrespect.

Tell me again how hard it is to be A Mom.

The person in question is a recovering alcoholic of 3 years ... Imagine if every time she mentioned struggling, I scolded her for it and let her know just how inconvenient I find her boring stories about how much she needs a shot of fireball. I sat up with her all night many nights and held her while she freaked the fuck out. Imagine if I laughed at her now.

Hello. The following is from an email I sent to NAMI this morning. Fingers crossed y'all.

My name is HEIRONYMUS. I am a current resident of ONAERIA, and I’m 44 years old. I’ve struggled with my mental health for most of my life. I am a survivor of childhood neglect and abuse, and have survived multiple suicidal episodes. I’ve spent the better part of the last few years in various states of homelessness and employment. I’ve had 17 full time jobs since the age of 15. Since my first suicide attempt at 18, I’ve done everything I could to educate and empower myself, all the while systemically losing and being denied the support of family and friends. I’ve had therapy, mental health assessments, and hospitalizations, which have all produced obvious diagnoses of “Major Depression”, and over the years this developed into “Major Depression with Generalized Anxiety.” It has become increasingly hard to maintain relationships of any sort, including professional. I spent all of 2021 living in a van, which culminated in another suicidal episode in Springfield, IL. I called 911, was hospitalized, and admitted upon assessment at Memorial Health Psychiatric Services. I was held for the traditional 72 hours.

During this last hospitalization, my therapist there began talking to me about Borderline Personality Disorder on day one. All daily sessions with all staff during my hospitalization about my condition from the first day forward were centered on BPD. I was given literature on BPD, including the book “Sometimes I Act Crazy,” which I read in the hospital. Prior to that, I had very little knowledge or understanding of BPD, and upon discussing it at length, it became clear that I exhibit 8 of the 9 criteria for diagnosis, and have for my entire life. This ‘diagnosis’ was never NOT discussed while I was on that psych ward.

I was released with discharge papers that all state a WRITTEN diagnosis of “Worsening Depression with SI.”

Since I was discharged, I have faced a non-stop cycle of slamming doors and rejections from any/all organizations I have contacted. I was placed on Medicaid (Illinois) and prescribed two months worth of Fluoxetine and Hydroxyzine. When that ran out, I had to just… deal, because getting on Medicaid in Ohio was a nightmare, which took months (I am currently covered under Paramount Advantage, which is being absorbed by Anthem Blue Cross this summer). I have been repeatedly denied assessment, treatment, or even consideration since learning about BPD. I’ve spent the last 6 months being told by counseling centers where I used to go for therapy that my “problems are more than they are equipped to handle” while educating myself on this disorder and trying to develop the skills to function on a higher level.

Upon contacting the hospital (and my therapist at that hospital) seeking a clarification of my diagnosis, I was informed that they “can not help with that.”

I’m getting an awful lot of that lately. After what I have learned about BPD, I understand why.

I am living with a friend, or else I would still be homeless. My last job lasted for 2 days. I am unable to work. I have no family left, thanks to this disorder. Since learning about BPD, I have also learned of the stigma attached to it, and have been experiencing it firsthand for months, repeatedly. Medina County JFS ran me through a months-long futile quest for a proper diagnosis nobody is willing to commit to, only to grant me benefits for two months (I waited three months to receive them), and then reject me for the benefits I was already receiving because I could not provide adequate documentation of my disorder (because no one I have contacted is willing to see me unless I am IN THE ACT of suicide).

If I cannot obtain a proper HONEST diagnosis, I will be homeless again in October, and will have nowhere to go.

I have struggled my entire life, survived horrors, and have done so alone. Every relationship I have ever had has suffered, and I have no family to turn to. I gave up on romantic relationships years ago.

I am a nationally published illustrator with a near-genius IQ, and I feel as though I am going to die young and alone because I have a disorder that nobody wants to talk about. As I age, I gain wisdom and strength, but it is obvious to me that a lifetime of endless duress has taken a very real physical toll. I simply do not know how many more episodes I can take. It is no longer acceptable to me that I should face death only to be patted on the head and told that DBT is all up to me. I know that already.

In the meantime, I’m embroiled in the study of Jungian analysis to treat myself. I know that I can be productive and helpful, and since learning all about BPD, I am determined to devote my time to helping shed light on this for others who may be more lost than even myself. However, if I have nowhere to live and am constantly fighting to quite literally survive, I will become another statistic for someone like myself to read in dismay and hopelessness.

I need advocacy. I have been sent in circles for the better part of a year, and so far, Medina JFS, Lamplight Counseling, Highland Springs Behavioral Health in Cleveland, and the hospital in Illinois have all been of no help whatsoever. All of the above have referred me to each other with cyclical results. The ubiquitous advice is “call 911 if you are a danger…” which is what I have done, with temporary and inadequate responses from the medical community as a whole.

There has got to be a better option. I should not have to defend myself to bureaucrats while I starve and suffer under their ineptitude. My life is at stake, and has always been.