Part 3.....

After I was out of day treatment, the child psychiatrist I was seeing insisted I be in therapy and I insisted I see a female.  So, my mom's wonderfully involved parenting style consisted of throwing the insurance book of providers at me and telling me "Pick someone!".  Unbeknownst to me, I picked someone who actually had a background in personality disorders and ended up diagnosing me at age 14 with BPD.  There were a few problems with that whole situation though.  First of all - I had no clue what it was and her having me read the criteria from the DSM-IV didn't help things any.  Secondly, my mom's view on life was (and still is) minimize and ignore things and they'll just go away.  And third, this woman engaged in some unethical if not fraudulent billing practices.

At this point in time there was no longer any way to hide that I'd been sexually abused, I'd incurred even more of my mom's wrath by saying too much about that already but she quickly made up a cover story to protect her family and the real perpetrators.  I learned it by rote, backwards and forwards, still hoping I could do something to earn my mom's love finally after all these years.

"I've only got hurt once, at my school when I was 8.  I asked for a pass to the restroom that was sort of in a separate building and when I left the girls room a bigger boy grabbed me and pulled me in the boys room.  He took my panties off and put his fingers in here and tried to make me such his thing but I bit him and got away and hid.  Later another girl from my class got sent looking for me and I told her I had got sick and didn't tell anyone what happened for real."

That was what I told this psychologist, nothing about 11 years of severe physical and sexual abuse by relatives or verbal and emotional abuse and neglect by my parents.  My mom quickly talked me out of the idea that I had Borderline Personality Disorder after reading how it was caused by serious abuse or neglect during childhood and going on and on about how anything I remembered of growing up was wrong and I had a 100% wonderful childhood.  (While I do have great memories, I also remember the hours of her screaming over one misplaced toy as long as my dad wasn't home, threats of having me arrested for crying, locking me in my room, etc.  And my dad's drunken driving which nearly killed us all quite a few times).  After the psychologist helped get me transferred to a new high school I found myself quickly running out of things to discuss with her since I couldn't be honest.

Tensions rose between her and my mother since she kept insisting I had Borderline Personality Disorder, and my mom also found out she was doing something slightly shady with billing (I never understood what).  The drive home from appointments would take about two hours due to rush hour traffic and they turned into sheer misery for me due to my mom's hateful tirades about how much time and money I was costing the family.  She had some severe back injuries, a side effect of a medication she'd taken for a chronic illness, and I heard daily how those hours on the road put her in pain for the entire week.  Finally I gave in and did what I thought she wanted - I refused to see the psychologist anymore.  That day was taken up with dozens of phone calls...demands from the psychologist that we arrive at the scheduled time, more calls when we did not saying to be there at 8pm, then demands to talk to me on the phone (which I refused), then a final call that the police and social services were being called.  For weeks I lived in fear anytime I saw a police car but nothing ever came of that last threat.

A First Attempt at Explaing How Borderline Personality Disorder Has Impacted My Life

(A side note - I'm not sure how long or in depth I will get, its a week today since a nasty fall which left my with post-concussion syndrome, neck and shoulder injuries, and week of doctor and lawyer issues.)

Until a few months ago, anyone who brought up even the most remote possibility that I had BPD would've seen me explode with fury about how it was just a diagnosis that put the blame on a person who had been abused and blamed them for all the pain they suffered from what happened to them at some point in their life.  It was only after I spent 28 days at an inpatient program and the doctor who oversaw my treatment there (who happened to be the one person I formed any sort of bond with as far as the staff went), spoke to my outpatient psychiatrist that I began to accept the diagnosis.  My regular psychiatrist and I spent about two hours discussing it and for the first time ever there wasn't any disgust or blaming or judgement.  The main part of the discussion was actually how abuse sets up the factors that make it so easy to develop this disorder later on.
When I spoke about this to my outpatient therapist she said she'd known this all along but knew the topic was off limits for discussion, I asked if she was able to handle it and she assured me she was.  Her ability to handle it lasted about a month.  The second to last time I saw her she made the remark that the way I felt about something was "crazy", which I took offense to.  When I wanted to discuss it at our next session she began to accuse me of being manipulative in everything I did, including my choice of topics to discuss in therapy.  After verbally ripping me apart she asked "Well, what do you think about that?" when I told her I felt like melting into the couch I was sitting on, she reminded me where the door was.  After a few months of bouncing to some other less than stellar therapists, I now have a psychologist who is one of the sweetest and most caring people I've ever met.

So...how do I think my BPD began?
Well, I'm not sure if I would have developed it regardless but some things when I was 12-14 played out in a way that definitely taught me that drama = affection or caring.
I began to have my first severe panic attacks when I began junior high at age 12.  The school counselor began to try and help me deal with them and in the course of the first few times I spoke with her I mentioned some things going on at home - how my mom had been very sick the past few years and how my dad drank heavily.  For the first time ever, I got sympathy and support from an adult for what I was going through, and even a hug which was a completely foreign thing in my frigid family.  Not long after, my dad nearly killed the whole family while driving drunk the wrong way on a rural highway.  Today I realize that should've warranted an immediate call to protective services, but instead it got me more sympathy and affection.
I had been severely sexually and physically abused up until age 11 and truly was still enduring daily verbal and emotional abuse.  I shamefully admit though, that I wasn't above embellishing things after awhile to get more caring and love at school - I exaggerated the dangerousness of my dad's drinking and my mom's verbal outbursts...knowing those wouldn't get me taken from the home (had I spoken of the abuse that stopped when I was 11, I'm sure I would've been taken away within hours).
In my mind, if there wasn't chaos going on at the moment there was no way for me to have love.