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.

Part 2 of How Borderline Personality Disorder Has Impacted My Life

By the time I hit 14 things had disintegrated from barely manageable to a complete disaster.  Because I had embellished some things, the adults who I had come to rely on as "safe people" at school now disbelieved anything I said.  Throughout 8th grade I had been repeatedly harassed by a boy at my school, near the end of the school year it came to a head when he touched me in a sexual manner.  My emotions were so overwhelming and given my past history, no one believed me despite there being witnesses.  After being trapped in a small room and questioned by multiple adults for over 4 hours, I was threatened with arrest for making a false statement but released without any charges filed.  I was still too naive to see that the people I'd considered my protectors had completely turned against me.

A month later I was admitted to a locked psychiatric unit for the first time.

Most of the week or so I was there is a blur.  I know I was there over a weekend so what little therapy was available was even less.  Forced to wear green scrubs and God forbid if a boy and girl say on the same couch.  Since I was the second youngest there, I got to play Mario 64 with the 11 year old girl who was my roommate.  I remember passing out from having blood drawn and getting in trouble for trying to comfort my roommate when she was crying.  They gave me Prozac, which made me fall asleep so quickly and often that I'd fall out of chairs.
The next week at the day treatment program is a little more clear.  I was still very sleepy but managed to stay awake most days.  We'd have therapy groups for half an hour a few times a day, the rest of the time was spent sitting on broken down couches talking amongst ourselves while being watched through a glass window by a psych nurse and social worker.  I was thought to be odd for bringing up how when my mom had been sick a few years back I'd had to keep it secret from everyone and hushed for trying to "bring up the past".  The social worker was known for trying to get you to "lose it" on your last day during group therapy so that you'd have to stay longer.  On my last day she attacked me for not wearing make up (my parent's didn't allow it), for being a brat because my dad had bought me a new bike that week, and for being too much of a child instead of a teenager at age 14.  I was saved from whatever else she planned to say by being called out for the family meeting that marked my exit planning from treatment.