In 2021, the second year of the pandemic, I walked into my therapy appointment as per usual, expecting another normal session where I try to calm myself down the whole time, and try to ignore the events and emotional experiences I had become a part of that week.
It was not a normal appointment.
My therapist sat me down and brought out a piece of paper with writing on the back and front. It was covered in pen, the words almost blending together. I had only known her for 6 weeks. The amount of pen that had been scribbled across the page had my heart racing — that amount of summarised notes don’t exist unless something is very wrong. She began by telling me over the last 6 weeks while we had been working on my mental health, she had been taking notes. She looked me in the eyes and said the words I thought I’d never hear:
“I believe you have BPD.”
BPD. Borderline Personality Disorder. I was being told, in that clinical room, that I have a personality disorder. She kept talking, mentioning pathways, and the positive prognosis many people with BPD have, but I was not paying attention. I was sick. I had a personality disorder. My life is over, without me actually dying.
At most, I thought I had severe depression. That’s it. Only a couple of suicide attempts, everyday self-harm; and I was convinced I was fine. I was fixable. I didn’t have to worry about stigma, about job opportunities, and I thought I was fine. Of course, I realise now that a person with…
