It’s always my fault

Yes, you heard it right. Apparently it’s always my fault. My diagnosis, my mood, my attitude, my existence. It’s all about me. Even though nothing is about me, not at all.

It was a Friday afternoon, I think, when I lied in my bed and called the only three people in the world that I wanted to know, and the only three people that I was told I needed to tell to continue getting treatment.

I was just at my psychiatrist because I’ve been feeling strange. Yes, I am that person that when I fix myself again, something new happens. I’ve always felt complete, not happy, but complete. But after that tragic year up in the cold north, I somehow felt different. I didn’t recognize my emotions, I felt like I was always angry, and I felt a little sense of self.

The only way I can describe it if someone were to ask is that I’m trapped inside a human sized transparent ball inside a white sound and air proof room. Outside the ball I’m trapped inside of, I can see hundreds of color coded Post-it notes swirling around me like in a circular wind motion. Each color representing a mood. Let’s say that red is angry and blue is sad. On the blue note it can either say “Sad” or a memory that I feel is sad. Sometimes, one of the notes will stick to my ball and I will recognize that memory or that emotion. But there is a barrier between me and that emotion or memory, so I can’t feel it completely. I know that it’s there, but I still can’t take it in over me. And that feels very, very strange.

Sometimes, without no warning at all, I can feel my body is being angry or sad while my mind thinks “What the fuck?” and vice versa. I didn’t understand anything. Why would I feel this way when I was always aware of my emotions, my memories, my dreams? Why do they suddenly feel so near, but still so unimaginably far away from me? Why can’t I feel myself?

My psychiatrist brought the SCID-II form and asked me some questions. I don’t remember exactly, but out of over 6 points, I scored 8. I was now borderline personality disordered person. A new label to label the girl that everybody took for granted. Perfect.

I wasn’t angry, I wasn’t sad, and I certainly wasn’t happy. I felt nothing at all. I was indifferent, really. Just shrugged my shoulders and said “oh, well.”

I got home in bed and I dialed my best friend. She didn’t really have anything to say on the matter, but I think she was supportive as best as she knew how.

My dad only muttered the sentences “Well, now you know the problem, and can work towards something better.”

My mom. Oh, my strange, strange, blankly mother. Well, she had a lot to say apparently. You see, I left my mom when I was a very young teenager because of difficulties with her. I told her I left her because she said horrible things, she used me as a messenger between her and my father, and without going into too much details for now, she slapped me a few times. I thought that she understood all of this, even though she blamed it on being sick (I don’t know), she didn’t seem to have much concern about it. I thought we had re-established a decent relationship, but she managed to break me once again.

When I told her about my new diagnosis, she said that she now understood. Understand what, you mean? “Well, you’ve always been cold towards me, you left me and your behavior as a child wasn’t right.”

Well, dear ignorant mother. You needed a reason for me not wanting to stay with you, and the instead of seeing the truth, you blamed it on my disease. You’ve already blamed it on me being adopted, on the divorce, on me being different, difficult and strange. And finally you could put the pieces all together. It’s the disease that did all this, isn’t it?
I know for a fact that she didn’t even research the matter, and I know for a fact that I didn’t have this disease when I was 3, or 8 or 12.

I have a very mild form of BPD. I’m not a manipulator and I’m not reckless or impulsive in any way. I don’t engage in drugs or alcohol abuse, dangerous sex or reckless driving. I mostly keep to myself and regularly see people I know when I don’t have work. The only way my diagnosis affects me is on very bad days, when I struggle to feel something, or I feel too much at once, but I have never taken it out on others. And I’m so lucky to know this for a fact.

I guess it didn’t matter that I got this disease after 2015, because in my mothers eyes, I’ve always had it, right? It doesn’t matter that so many horrible things have happened to me over the past few years, and in my 20-something years on this earth, more than a human should need to experience in one lifetime, right? It doesn’t matter that someone did something so horrible to me, that I lost such a big part of myself that in just a matter of a year, I suddenly wasn’t Amelie anymore, but something that needed to be fixed for the greater good of my everyone else. Because that makes it easier for her. Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter who I am and what I do. I will always be the problem.

... And when you’re told that enough, you soon enough start to believe it.

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