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 sick of my personality and see 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 or 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 rejected and mistreated as a child, then grow up into a confused and mistrustful adult who invites rejection and mistreatment. The only way I can manage self-forgiveness is to recognize that almost anyone who lived through a childhood as traumatic as mine would turn out just as badly messed up. Perhaps a few abused children escape without major personality flaws, but most suffer with rage, shame, and mistrust. I suspect close to half end up imprisoned, on the street, or dead.
So just surviving, remaining outside institutions, and having one close relationship must be counted as a kind of success. There was a time when I could point to my surgical career to prove I had beaten the odds. But time has mocked that victory. So now I just try to be OK with making it from day to day, sustaining a marriage, and continuing my efforts to improve. 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, and how many books I’ve read. I didn’t do those things just to piss off people who tried to help me. I really wanted (want) to improve, but somehow couldn’t get past all the obstacles. Just because I built the many of the barriers myself does not mean they aren’t there.
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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