It brings out my mean streak something shocking. I’ve always had a devilish way with words, particularly nasty ones, and BPD is like a Terminator vision that highlights the chinks in everyone’s armor. Unlike my mania, which tends to make me charismatic and eloquent, a BPD “turn” or “moment” sees me turn sour and crude.
I remember once wagging a butter knife at my friend’s mom and her baby-boomer friends at their dinner table after they were bemoaning the Gillard government. I accused them of “dry butt fucking my generation into oblivion.” They stared at me in open-mouthed shock, so I added that that they should “go huff asbestos in a ditch.” It’s not the kind of thing a level-headed person whips out at a 6 PM dinner with freshly introduced adults.
Of course, the outburst didn’t give me any sense of relief. It turned into a looping internal monologue of personal recrimination and self-hatred. Every decision is retroactively punished.