Don't call me a borderline

I have borderline personality disorder. I am a person who has a personality disorder.

However, I am not a personality disorder. I am a person.

I've always balked at the use of the term "she's a borderline." It feels wrong grammatically, but it also feels very invalidating. When therapists write they write about their "borderline clients." Would they also say "my depression clients"? Probably not -- they'd say "my depressed clients," which is a description.


A better term I read recently described people like me as PBB. I had to scope around and see if he meant "peanut butter babies," or "pure bullshit barometers" or "pushes buttons battalion," but what he was abbreviating is People with Borderline Behaviors, or as I like to think of it People with BPD behaviors, because we're actually people with behaviors that fit the definition of the diagnosis, but we are not the diagnosis.

I know a person who believes that everything -- life -- is "just a conversation." He says that our feelings are conversations with ourselves. It's all about the language we use to describe things, internally and externally. In my conversations about BPD, I think I will try to use the term PBB. It is the only descriptor that remembers that I'm a person.

It's about to happen

I have a chance this Saturday to either see or create my future. I'm not sure I'm willing to see it if it is not the direction I want to go, and I'm also not sure I have the ability to direct my life myself.

Last summer, on a hot day in July, I got angry at him for what still feels like a real, valid reason to me. Valid or not, though, I was furious and told him in no uncertain terms to get the fuck out of my life and "my" house. (We had moved into it together, the third house we'd rented together, about five years earlier. It was not "my" house, but that's how I referred to it when I was mad.)

I was serious. I wanted him out of my house and out of my life. My therapist and I had discussed this situation in incredible detail for four years. FOUR YEARS and the conclusion we had both drawn was that I needed to extricate myself from the situation.

I had tried to leave before. I had been staying home with our three kids, so didn't have a lot (any!) financial stability or way to move out. I went back to work soon thereafter and am completely financially independent now -- I make as much as he does. I got that financial independence and had my switch flipped when he made me so angry that hot, sticky July day. So I told him to leave.

Which he did. He went out of town on a three week business trip, and when he came home he packed up and moved into his own apartment.

The day he came home from the trip, I begged him not to move out. I had taken the previous 30 days to work through a lot of it, and I realized almost instantly what a remarkable mistake it had been to ask him to leave. I was also terrified, lonely and not at all convinced I wanted to live without him.

He would not budge. He said I had thrown him out a number of times before (true) and that he wasn't going to be a ping pong ball for me. He came clean about his feelings about me -- he was afraid of me and my anger, he hadn't really liked me for a very long time, he was only staying for the children, he had warned me not to say "get out" one more time or he would go (also true).

Look. I know how miserable it must be to live with me. I know my borderline personality disorder makes me into a total ball of fury in a matter of seconds, and that when I'm furious I take no prisoners. I know.

I can't really imagine he'd want to come home, but god I want him to come home. For me, for the kids, for him (ha!). I think there is a chance we could make a good life together. At least a chance.

A couple of months ago I stumbled across the website of a dialectical behavioral therapist who also does couples counseling. In my area!

I sent the URL to him and asked him if he'd be willing to go. He responded with "It depends. You paying? And what do you want out of it?"

I had no answer for that. The answer? I WANT YOU TO COME HOME. That's the honest answer, that's the motivation, that's why I'm very willing to pay the $250 session fee.

But I didn't answer immediately. I waited and spoke with my therapist who told me I had some choices:

-- Tell him the Real Deal and let the chips fall where they may. Maybe that would make him decide he doesn't want to go.
-- Be dishonest and say it is for some other semi-true reason -- like I want to improve our relationship for the times we have to be together, like around the kids.
-- Put my desire to get back together on the shelf -- lock it firmly away -- and go to improve the relationship in general. He caveatted this option with his opinion that he doesn't think I can do this.

It was nearly a month before I answered, and I chose option #1 -- I told him the real reason. I asked him if it's a possibility. He said he doesn't think so. He doesn't think so but he'll go anyway.

I grilled the poor man about it -- I wanted one straw of hope. One tiny little strand of hope, one sentence from him that he'd even CONSIDER coming home. Dear god let him come home. I need him home.

So the appointment is Saturday morning: 90 minutes about this. I have prepared myself the best I can. My goal will be to remain in a listening mode as much as possible, to express remorse for my hurtful behaviors and to over-repair the damage if possible. I am sure this is going to be so emotional for me that I will need a full box of Kleenex, but I don't want my tears to be the centerpiece of the discussion.

I want to know what he thinks. He as in my husband, and he as in the therapist.

I am ON FIRE. I can't sit still, I can't stop thinking about it, I can't stop crying. I can't stop crying now -- 45 hours or so before the appointment -- but I believe I can not cry during it. Yeah, right.

I don't want to manipulate. I don't want to guilt him into coming home. I want him to choose to come home. But I can't make him love me. As the song says, "I can't make your heart do what it won't."

I just so much want his heart to want to come home.

I need help. Tips, ideas, thoughts, prayers, hugs. How will I get through this? How will I convince him to come home? We were together nearly 13 years until I told him to get out. Until I threw away a chance at being together with our grandchildren, finally buying that house we can afford now. Please forgive me for throwing that away, I acted in anger and fear and I am so, so sorry. And I love you.

The bully writes back

A little history:

I was bullied by a group of people -- mostly girls -- on the school bus I rode from seventh to 12th grade. I very carefully never let them see me cry. But inside, that hazing and isolation burned a hole in my soul. I've never been willing to attribute much to it, but my therapist is now suggesting I suffer PTSD. Since I'm so desperately unhappy, and since nothing else is working, I agreed to start a course of PTSD treatment, which primarily involves desensitizing my very sensitive emotions to the effects of what happened to me.

So instead of blowing up when I feel rejected, I can conceivably say "oh, yeah, I feel like blowing up because this triggered some of the same feelings I had as a kid." Or that they simply won't trigger. Wouldn't that be lovely?

Anyway, one of the components of PTSD treatment is to re-live the situation.

About a month ago, coincidentally (it is eerie, really), one of the people who bullied me wrote me an email out of the blue, APOLOGIZING for what she did. I couldn't believe it.

After much thought and deliberation, I wrote her an email and asked her to tell me as much as she can remember about the situation, so I could use the information in my therapy sessions.

Here's what she wrote back:

Hmmm. I only remember one specific incident in particular. I don't even know particularly why I remember it. Probably because it was something I did all by myself just to be a bitch. You were sitting in the front seat. I sat behind you and I kept hitting the back of your seat the whole distance to school, just to be annoying.

I remember a lot of name calling on that bus. But it was directed at a lot of different people, not just you. The funny thing is that I dreaded that bus everyday for the same reasons you did. I think a lot of people did.

I can't speak for anyone else of course, but I always felt bad that I did to you what someone else did to me. Instead of standing up to MY bullies, I just became someone else's bully. I look back on it now and realize how chicken shit that was.

I think she's full of crap and told her so. This was my response to her:

You know, that isn't enough. You sought me out nearly 30 years later to offer a sincere apology. I doubt you wanted to apologize for one incident of kicking the back of my seat all the way to town.

You characterized me as a tough little girl to survive the hell you put me through. What do you mean by that? What made you say that? And why now -- so long afterward? My only conclusion is that it was pretty significant to you, too.

You said you hoped my life was great because I deserve that. Funny, but that's not how it is. My life is far from great.

If that's all you've got, so be it. But I sincerely doubt that or you would not have written to me in the first place.

I know just how you feel, Britney

Do you think Britney Spears has borderline personality disorder?

While, on one level, I am extremely annoyed at the woman's actions and the way she seems to be self destructing, another part of me says "Wow, that poor woman seems to be self destructing, I wish I knew how to help."

I don't follow the whole saga, but the act of going into a hair salon and grabbing the clippers to shave her head indicates to me a woman out of control, and someone very angry, full of self-hatred, someone who loathes the way things are and wants to shock herself out of it.

Do you remember her on David Letterman last fall? All sweetness and light. Such a polite, funny, fun person, so happy and clear-eyed. Contrast that with the tabloid images of her today.

I am usually really hesitant to talk about BPD and celebrity, movies, whatever. It seems that the portrayal of the disorder in popular media is one of deep ignorance. What I know about Britney is that the look in her eyes on that video, the way she looks at herself in the mirror, struck something in me. I saw something that clicked and I said "Oh my god, she's BPD." I think the difference in the way I mean it versus the way the popular media portrays such things (i.e. the way they called the astronaut who flipped out "borderline") is that they mean it pejoratively while I mean it as a recognition of something wrong that CAN BE FIXED.