It’s a mirage illness. You feel like someone without fingerprints. You have no identity. You move between things constantly, people and passions. Onlookers can be tricked into seeing you as boldly transformative. In reality, you are someone without a sense of self. Sometimes I feel like a snake shedding infinite skin.
BPD isn’t talked about, but it needs to be. The stigma around BPD is pernicious. People accusing sufferers of using it as a crutch or an excuse for erratic behavior are only pushing us deeper into the pit of isolation that worsens the symptoms and the pain. Conversation can dispel a lot of the hurt, and while we have Mental Health Week, we may as well take the opportunity to air it out and punch it in the sunlight.
Luckily, BPD is treatable with consistent therapy, self-awareness, and support. It doesn’t have to be a lifelong chum like depression or anxiety. The ghost can definitely be outed. But like all mental illness, to do that requires some love, from friends, strangers, and yourself.
The shit thing about BPD is that it makes love hard to come by.