Hieronymus Bosch: "HELL"

Almost a week has passed since I last posted something on the blog. I’ve been engaged in a pitched battle with some of my worst demons. Trying to survive. Living minute to minute. That sort of thing.

Seems like I should check-in with everyone. I haven’t the courage to look at my web-stats, but even though I’m sure the number of visitors is way, way down, I know there are several readers who do care. I want to reassure them I am still kicking, albeit less strongly all the time.

I’m pretty much out of ideas for how to get out of this pit, which mostly is one of very low self-esteem. I don’t mind the anxious, sad and angry feelings like I used to. But I am so sick of my personality, and see so little chance of change…

About half my therapists have been willing to give me the diagnosis of a personality disorder. Of those, at least two seemed to enjoy slapping me with that accusation. Of the ones who have held back, I suspect there has been a sense of not wanting to further lower my opinion of myself, or further anger me, or somehow make things worse. One psychiatrist said she thought there might be a difference between ‘borderline’ characteristics that are reactive and defensive, but not necessarily integral to the personality, and true BP disorder. That seemed like a nice way of saying that I sure look like someone doomed to eternal conflict with others, but maybe there’s a small chance I can improve.

One of my curses is being so self-aware. I can see all the hostile and counterproductive things I do, and even understand why I do them, but I can’t seem to stop. I’m not someone who puts the blame on others, and thinks that if only people around me would cooperate I’d be fine. I see myself do and say the most appalling things sometimes, and yet I have no more ability to redirect my actions than I would of turning a train running on a straight track.

The sad thing about so-called ‘borderline personality disorder’ is that it mostly results from childhood abuse. So you get horribly mistreated as a child, you grow up into a confused and mistrustful adult, and then bring upon yourself exactly the kind of attitudes and treatment from others you most fear and most want to escape. Sometimes the only thing I can offer myself to provide just a little self-forgiveness, is to recognize that almost anyone who went through what I did (what many of us did) would come out just as badly messed up. Maybe 1% transcend it all and become saintly. I used to think I could eventually pull that off, but no longer. I suspect close to half end up imprisoned, on the street, or dead.

So just surviving, living outside of an institution, and having one close relationship must be counted as a kind of success. There was a time when I could point to becoming a surgeon as evidence that I had beaten the odds. But time has mocked that victory. So now I just try to be OK with still making it from day to day, still being married, and still trying. I think some would question how hard I try (“If you really wanted to change, you could”), but I know how many years I’ve spent in therapy, how many groups I’ve attended, how many books I’ve read. I didn’t do those things just to piss off people who wanted to help me. I really wanted (want) to improve, but somehow can’t get past all the obstacles. Just because I built some of the barriers does not mean they are false obstructions.

This was supposed to be a one-paragraph check-in to let others know I’m still alive and fighting. It ended up a rant on my current despair. I hope it somehow helps others feel less alone. At least I feel that way, even if all my readers have long since gone.

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