I’m great at talking about my anxiety. I talk about it like my child. My child that misbehaves, makes me cry, and makes me prefer to stay locked in the house with it rather than risk its tantrums in public.
Anxiety (GAD, it’s christened) isn’t my only child, though. There’s another. Well, not really a child. More of a stray cat that always hangs around the house. A cat that you have to explain to people, ‘It’s not our cat, no. It just comes here sometimes, unannounced, uninvited. Yeah, like Adele.’
It’s called BPD, it’s Borderline Personality Disorder. I have tendencies. Not full blown. It doesn’t take over my life, like it does with others, but when it does turn up, it’s hell.
But I don’t talk about it. I don’t write about it. Why am I so ok with talking about living with GAD, but not my BPD visits?
BPD makes you convinced that everyone hates you. It flips your extreme emotions in a matter of seconds, it makes you abuse the ones you love the most and push them away, and it can make you fully terrified of anyone leaving you, even just for a few hours.
It can make you feel pathetic.
Anxiety doesn’t make me feel pathetic, it makes me frustrated and angry.
BPD makes me feel so terrified, isolated, and preyed upon. It makes me embarrassed and hateful of myself. I’ve said sorry to those I love more than I care to admit, after shouting and screaming and calling them every name under the sun. It’s exhausting.
I haven’t quite worked out whether it’s easier to just adopt the stray cat yet and accept it as mine, or to keep on pushing it away in the hope it will get the message.
I don’t even feed it.