Where I’ve been, Where I’ve Gone, and the Borderline in Between

I’ve been all over the place. Impressive considering, as aforementioned, I’m still here. I’ve gone to Dallas with friends (and handled logistics nearly solo), to Paris with people—the majority of whom—I’d be happy to never see again, I went back briefly to California for a funeral and a friend, to Ohio for love, to the city, to a dungeon, to work over and over, but mostly, I’ve gone to the far reaches and dusty divides of my mind. It’s a mess. Admittedly, an enlightening one.

I recently accepted that I have borderline personality. Previously, it would’ve been the disorder, but I’ve achieved a state of functionality and balance that prevent it from really impeding my life in ways I can’t overcome. A lot of luck was involved. I was originally diagnosed as bipolar. It never really fit. I always fell into the ‘other’ classification at the bottom of the thirty-some-odd listings on the Wikipedia page. My shrink, who I’m fond of, didn’t challenge the diagnosis, but then, he only sees me in controlled environments, so it makes sense, and I do have upswings and downswings. They just aren’t cyclical. I turn like a hiphop ballerina—back-forth-back-round-down—in seconds, seamlessly. This may not sound lucky, but it means I don’t get stuck in moods (not typical of everyone with borderline, by the by). Rather, I learned what stimuli can snap me one way or another.

Fiction is my recovery go-to. Furthermore, because the mood swings were more prominent than the depression, which was just one of many common states, maybe the most common at the time, I was put on a mood stabilizer. Again: lucky. Mood stabilizers are a good treatment for borderline. So, I was better. I still wasn’t well. But I was better. I didn’t have any reason to think the diagnosis was wrong.

This all goes back over a decade. Borderline personality was first brought to my attention by a friend who suggested, after an Abnormal Psych class, that it seemed to fit me better. I just kinda kept it in my brain for years, occasionally glancing at it, but not really digging into it.

I only recently learned, after having looked into and accepted it, and then discussing it with my shrink (I use the term fondly, honest), that anger is a big thing with borderline personality. And man, did I have a temper. I mean, I still do, but I police and manage it now. From infancy on, I had rage. More off-tilt luck started me on the path to dealing with it.

The first step was arguing. I used to argue about everything well past the point where I knew what I was talking about. Well, maybe seven or eight years ago, I was in a toxic friend-relation-not-but-kinda-ship. We clashed. Hard. Ironically because we’re at once extremely alike and fundamentally different. We argued a lot. We argued so much people actually attempted to intervene (we not-so-kindly told them to fuck off). We argued into tears and torment, into agony and sunrises, into fits and circles. We would routinely stop hanging out for multi-month stretches to detox from each other, then we’d hang out again, honeymoon for a month, and promptly dissolve into mutual toxicity and conflict. It went on like that for years. Long story short, I burnt out.

I think he may have too, though it wasn’t quite the same. For me, I lost my desire to argue. I started to draw lines. It initially was hostile. I got irritated once it became clear there was a disagreement. I blamed the other person. Gradually, it receded into something more healthy like, “Look, I don’t think that’s right, but I don’t actually know, so…” Sometimes, particularly if I’m low on spoons, I regress and get a little toothy. But I try to stay mindful, to recognize that differing opinions aren’t personal attacks. Likewise—and this one I learned from massive conflict in my current relationship—it’s okay to be wrong. You don’t need to try to convince or convert when you talk. You can listen openly, and if it turns out that they know more than you (woe to those with brainy spouses), you can adjust your thinking. It’s hard. It’s really hard, but it gets easier, and you get happier. Again, luck in the form of conflict.

All these epiphanies fall under the types of things you’d cover in BPD-specific therapy. I learned them the hard way, but I learned them well. There’s probably more that I’m forgetting, but whatever. I promised myself this would be a low-pressure blog and I meant it. This is a record, recorded to process and ponder outside of myself.

Anyway, I got tangential (that never happens). The point is, I’ve learned a lot about myself and how I work. BPD is a big part of that. We’ll likely get into others (sleep is essential, discipline is a bitch, meditation changes everything, referring to yourself in the second person disowns responsibility, etc.). For now, though, I wanted to talk about some of the mistakes I made that caused me to fuck up and drop this blog, as well as…way too many other things.

A big mistake is over-planning. If I can barely get myself to write, forcing myself to write this, then that, then this, when maybe I want to write that other thing over there is going to cause me serious issues. This can be applied more broadly to life as a whole. I need to not set myself up to fail by over-planning and trying to take on a mountain when I can’t even tie my shoes. I need to pick reasonable, small, manageable goals. They add up.

I went to TEDxMileHigh (speaking of places I’ve been) last year and there was this talk the punchline of which was “collect the 1s.” Essentially it means collect small victories instead of aiming for the big ones first (in terms of the talk, the 1000s). The 1s add up to 1000 eventually. What’s more, they motivate you to keep going because they’re tangible results. On the flip side, while failure can teach you, every time you fail, you encode the idea that you can’t do the thing you failed at. So, if you’re constantly failing at the same task, it becomes increasingly more difficult to do every time.

Basically, I’m saying this hot, tangential mess of a post is a 1 rather than 100 (maybe a 10; I just realized it’s pushing 1500 words). But I felt better even as I wrote its initial draft. Because I was writing it. I was actually doing what I intended to do (still am). I didn’t get hung up on the fact that I really meant to talk instead about ‘hey, so here’s why I failed before, and here’s what I did right!’ in a nice orderly and catchy post. And, frankly, I did talk about those things. I talked about them like I would if I was holding you captive in my office and you made the mistake of asking “What’s new? It’s been forever!” No joke, that question involves ducktape and no potty breaks if you expect the whole answer (I lose my train of thought easily; I’m sure you’d never guess).

And speaking of what’s new, in lieu of a better transition, since this is just a brain dump apparently: silence is another change. Ironic timing, but it’s true. Silence: I’ve tried to find it and feel it. To accept I don’t need to live in the spotlight 100% of the time, and that attention elsewhere has nothing to do with my worthiness or value (that last bit about worthiness, specifically being worthy of love, comes from my shrink and was an intense process Fall 2015). Silence blossoms. When you’re quiet the world can get in. And honestly, not every thought needs to be heard by others (another trait of borderline personality is needing to give an action to every emotion, and for me that is usually talking). This one is still a work in progress obviously, and I’ve kinda fallen off the wagon the last couple months. But that’s partially because my partner and I were binging on each other.

We aren’t going to have any time coming up here because of my super tight Spring schedule (we’ll also get into that). Speaking of, I need to go the sleep asap if I want to meditate in the morning. It’s 11:24pm and I have class at 9am. So, sorry to end this abruptly. Maybe I’ll edit it to be tidier. Maybe I’ll leave the snarls and tangles and brambly bullshit for posterity. I mean, if you’re coming on this ride, you should know whose driving. This is a pretty clear picture of the license.

-L.

 

 

Post Script: Reread this prior to posting and opted to leave the stream-of-consciousness, even though the last page or so led to deepening winces. In my defense, I was racing the clock. (I lost, by the way.) Hopefully, the next post will be more focused. I’m still playing catch up so we’ll see what happens. Things will continue to develop organically, but will likely find a form eventually.

Communicating Connections

“Fill up on language; gorge on it, then give it back as nourishment: new poems, better than Halloween candy.”

                          –Kim Addonizio (Ordinary Genius) 

Sometimes I think about teaching, about my Yaya and what remains of her in me. She was a teacher, an English teacher. My thoughts seek her out when I correct things, outwardly and inwardly. The number of times I debate asterisking corrections to peoples’ posts online is likely unhealthy in the most obsessive of ways. I wonder at her when I offer feedback or advice. For me, explaining is not a choice, not really. Explaining, explicating, extrapolating, exemplifying, expounding, exposing, expressing, teaching: call it what you will, I will do it. I cannot help it or stop it, it is compulsive and explosive, bursting free with bold insights and reflexive repetitions; the only things that bridles the desire are disinterest or exhaustion. If I know a topic, I will offer what I can to inform others about it. There is no single subject for which this is a greater truth than that of English, of writing. I could write about writing and read about writing until my fingers and eyes fall free, fleeing from the abuse of constant over use. I muse often over what words we, my Yaya and I, would weave together when speaking of writing, had we but the time to do it. Maybe someday, in some dream or some life yet to be lived, we will. We’ll rant and ramble, cutting each other off at every curb-clipping turn, one bombast racing the other to the finish line of every point about language and literature that we could link into one conversation. But then, that’s what communication is all about. That’s what language is all about. No, not beating one another to answers known by both. It’s about those links, the things that tie each individual thing to everything. It’s about connections.

What connects this self-indulgent post to the point of this supposedly narrowed blog? The obvious answer is me, but more specifically, my recent readings, my recent goals and dreams, a year set on progress, on becoming adult-esque, on reading and writing and being an editor. What connects this post to this blog? A group I joined today on Facebook, endorsed by fellow blogger Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh, focuses on critiques for writings of all kinds and what’s more, it actually guarantees feedback within 24 hours. Astounding, no? Stranger still, I felt more like giving critiques than getting them. It was refreshing and relaxing to reveal my thoughts on works with encouraging advice and questions. It reminds me why I am intent on being an editor and reinforces my claim to Yaya’s language-loving lineage. But again, why does that matter to this blog? The answer is hiding in the question. It may not matter for this blog, which is why I’m considering starting a new blog dedicated to writing, reviews, and editing, leaving the rest of my life to this one. Please, let me know what you all think, feedback from friends, family, and the far reaches of the Internet’s population is craved far beyond simply being welcomed. As it says below, I’ve shown you my words, now show me yours.