Content note: this article contains references to suicide that readers may find upsetting.

We met under peculiar circumstances. Cheryl, 73, took me into her life out of necessity. She was the person doctors laid me next to the night I was admitted to the University of Iowa’s Crisis Stabilization Unit, in a reclining chair that doubled as a bed. Too weak to stand but still wanting to run, nurses wheeled me into a small room to discuss what my day-to-day would look like: case workers, psychiatrists, therapists. Propped in my recliner chair bed, I managed my first hello to the room. “I’ve never seen this,” I said as I weakly pointed at a TV showing John Wick. “You’re not missing much,” Cheryl replied before I passed out.

One in 10 people with borderline personality disorder (BPD) die by suicide. The first time I tried to kill myself I was a sophomore in high school. It was a weak attempt, followed by another weak attempt. Both had the same intended outcome and the same trigger: an overreaction to an innocuous action. I wasn’t invited to a group outing, twice, and decided it would be better to die than live with the overwhelming feeling people I loved didn’t love me back. I self-harmed all through high school.

I dealt with trauma in college by getting drunk and telling strangers about said trauma, then would go home and yell at myself in the mirror, cutting as I did. I’m loud, yes, but the misconception that BPD is loud is damaging. It’s telling people to stay under ice while they’re looking up hoping you don’t blame them for drowning. My best friend of 16 years stopped talking to me over a petty argument, saying I rely too much on BPD as an excuse. 

The truth is, I don’t want people to know about it. 

I am nervous talking about borderline personality disorder, thinking if I tell people where I’m coming from, they’ll think it’s being weaponised. Fear of abandonment is a huge part of BPD. Rejection sensitivity, an extreme emotional pain from feeling rejection, results in keeping secrets to keep people close. I wore sweaters in the summer, sweating through cotton while my friends swam. They’d ask why I wouldn’t get in the pool and I’d blame ‘cramps’.

I never saw this as manipulation but as escape. I grappled with the understanding that this is my burden and I got mad at those who made me feel unlovable. In response, I’d isolate myself, too afraid of getting close to someone or hurting them. I mistook self-care as defensive and dismissed any thought of social interactions with friends; my problems seemed unsolvable and hopeless. The further I turned into myself hoping things changed, the more they capsized. 

Borderline personality disorder is a complicated term. The doctor told me the day I was discharged to not think of it as “bad” but as an “emotionally intensive disorder”. Dialectical behavioural therapy helps us learn how to properly work through emotions expanding in our chests that might burst into subtweets or angry texts. It rearranges negative thinking patterns into positive ones that result in behavioural changes. It was recommended to me after being discharged from the University of Iowa for my fourth suicide attempt; one that followed intense months of feeling isolated and abandoned.

Insecurity and unstable relationships are a staple to someone with borderline. The paranoia of people leaving causes you to hold on closer, suffocating them with needing constant reassurance that they will stay close forever. I lost myself in my first relationship, overcome by the need to care for him more than myself. I felt unconditional love in exchange for being silent about things that happened behind closed doors. I overlooked so much because I needed someone who made me feel like I was enough, that I wasn’t the person doctors said would hurt anyone who surrounded me. “My experience dating a person with borderline” is clickbait advertised to me constantly on Facebook. Why am I unlovable, I wondered. Why am I impossible to be around?

Leading up to being hospitalised at the University of Iowa, I was losing my grasp on reality. There was a thin line between what was real and what was not. I had overwhelming dreams of friends leaving and my mom calling to say another relative had passed. A month later, things got worse. I’d get up in the morning thinking I was in another country, convinced I had tasted the clouds of Cuba only hours prior. I wouldn’t show up to work because I didn’t know what day it was. I had no context for what was happening outside of ‘depression’, feeling my lows always offset my highs.

Little did I know mania existed on that spectrum as well.

Borderline and bipolar disorder have some overlap. Both include mood swings, impulsivity, inappropriate anger, reoccurring thoughts of suicide, and unstable relationships. When my borderline gets bad, it is a tug and pull between two sides of the same coin. For me, they meet in the middle when it comes to sleep. Chronic sleep problems elevate social/emotional, cognitive and self-care impairment. Insomnia for people with borderline may also heighten suicidal ideation. 

I left Cheryl my number two times, written in letters I hid around the stabilisation unit. She never called, but at the time, I believed in her promise she would. I think she believed in her promise too before life got in the way. Years ticked by as I got healthier with the mood stabiliser Lamotrigine and anti-anxiety pill Venlafaxine. I followed orders to remain sober by turning to friends. People I thought would leave helped instead, flushing pills down toilets in my most vulnerable moments.

Slowly, I began to open up, leaning on my community to help make my lows and highs neutral. With time, therapy and a lot of love, it became easier, an uphill battle that exists on a quieter frequency than it used to. The static is still there, buzzing in the background as an always possible danger, but it’s not as loud as it once was. I’ve learned to mute it with friends, family and, more than anything, self-care. An understanding that the worst parts of me do not overshadow the best. Whatever bump in the road that is coming up will require love and support from everyone including myself.

I learned to swim with the tide, not against it. 

If you or someone you know is struggling with their mental health, you can find support and resources on the mental health charity Mind’s website and NHS Every Mind Matters or access the NHS’ list of mental health helplines and services.

If you are struggling with your mental health, you can also ask your GP for a referral to NHS Talking Therapies, or you can self-refer.

For confidential support, you can also call the Samaritans in the UK on 116 123 or email jo@samaritans.org. In a crisis, call 999.

Frame Of Mind is Stylist’s home for all things mental health and the mind. From expert advice on the small changes you can make to improve your wellbeing to first-person essays and features on topics ranging from autism to antidepressants, we’ll be exploring mental health in all its forms. You can check out the series home page to get started.

Images: courtesy of Meggie Gates