Self-aware Borderline 

You know one of my biggest struggles since I’ve been diagnosed with Borderline personality disorder. You’d think it was a good thing, and in some ways or at least from a therapeutic standpoint it is and should be a good thing but I tell you it is the worst thing ever. 
The thing I’m talking about, is becoming a self-aware borderline. 
The first step in therapy, is to be diagnosed but then it’s to become aware of your “patterns” and behaviors. But not only that in DBT, they teach mindfulness. Which makes you aware of everything, externally and internally. 
The reason why being self-aware as a borderline, is probably the worst thing, is because it makes what we do and how we feel, which is already tenfold, even fucking worse. Like, we have just had all our nerve endings plucked like a guitar, set on fire with kerosine.

In a way, it’s a lot like this other thing that you learn about in DBT, called “wise mind”. Which is the ultimate goal. You want to take your emotional mind and with a rational mind and combine them to create a “wise mind”. 
This is sort of where the problem lies in being self-aware. I can see everything I do, say, or feel from a rational perspective. Understand why it is that way but no matter how much I understand it, I cannot help how I feel or react. My borderline doesn’t care about the rationales. Even if it’s something so insignificant. Like the time my ex boyfriend moved a pillow and I flew into a rage. I knew there was no reason to get that angry, but I did. All he did was move a pillow. It didn’t cause me any harm, I didn’t ask him not to. So, why did I do that? 
You see, noticing things like that. Being aware of things like that, on a daily basis, is horrible. It makes you feel horrible. They tell you in therapy that it helps. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. It ruins your self esteem. It shows you just how fucked you really are. 

It’s like you can see what is going on, you know what to do but you aren’t in control. 
I miss being blissfully unaware. Things seemed so much simpler. All I do now is either apologize, explain myself, self loath, or isolate so I don’t hurt others. This is what knowing does. 
It has helped break some patterns, but at what cost? 


Dear Amy (part 3) 

Dear Amy, 
Everyone always tells you, when you’re adopted, that they gave you up for a good reason, that they did it so you could have a better life. I know why you did what you did. I can understand that. 

The thing about adoption though, is that even though you may be thinking of your baby and giving them a better life, in that moment, no one is really ever thinking of the child. 
What I mean by that is, that no one thinks about the child afterwards. The emotional repercussions of growing up adopted. How that one choice, will change and affect everything in their life forever. 

Change how they view the world, themselves. How others view them, treat them. How they grow up, who they grow up to be. 
Identity is a big problem for a lot of adopted people. Not knowing who or where you came from. Who you look like, your medical history, any history for that matter. It causes an emotional disturbance within you. I know because when I didn’t know you, when I was going through puberty, as a teenager, this became very evident, a big focal point in my life. I felt lost. 
Another thing that was hard growing up, is the bullying. Kids are mean. If you are different in any way they will use that against you. And they did. My siblings included. Adoption is not something you come by often, people, kids don’t understand it. So, they make fun of it. They made fun of me. I felt like I was bad, or there was something wrong with me. 
Then there is just the idea of adoption that no one worries about. The way it makes you feel. How you were abandoned by your birth mom, so you must be horrible. How no one could ever love you because they couldn’t. Though this may all be irrational, no one realizes the impact of adoption, the abandonment, the idea that you were given up, what it can do. What it did to me. What your choice did to me.
I love you, mom.



Dear Amy (part 2)

Dear Amy, 
I know my last letter was harsh but you need to understand that I have not had an easy life. I may have wanted for nothing but it does not compare to the shit that has happened to me. 
I am angry because you never even gave me a chance or a choice. I would have rather struggled and been with you, stayed with you, like I was supposed to, than this. I know you did what you thought was best but it wasn’t good enough. 
Growing up, I saw the mother-child bond my siblings had with my mom. The one you can only have if you’ve come from their womb. I never got to experience that kind of bond, that kind of love. 
Growing up, I always felt out of place in my family. I never fit in. I knew I was not like them. I did not belong with them, to them. From a young age, I tried running away, saying I wanted to go home to my real mom. 
I know I already mentioned this in the last letter but every year on my birthday, when most children wished for things, I wished for you. I never wished that you would be some amazing person to steal me away. I just wanted to know you. I just wanted you. 
You have always been the only person I ever wanted to know. The most important person to ever exist. The person I love unconditionally. And because of that, I hate you more than anything. Because of that love, I am angry. Angry does not even begin to describe how I feel. 
I feel abandoned. I feel unwanted. I feel unloved. I hate myself because I wasn’t good enough to keep. 

Finding you was the best thing that ever happened to me. Having you in my life for those 5 short years, were the best moments I could ever dream of, even if we had our fights. 
I know, I wasn’t what you were expecting. I wasn’t what you had hoped I’d be. That we didn’t see eye to eye. 
I only wish you had worked through your demons, so we could have been in each others lives longer. I had no choice but to cut ties with you. The constant feeling of being accepted and rejected but you, the most important person I will ever know, cut like a thousand knives because of how much I love you. 

I was for the better when you were in my life. I was happier. I finally felt that bond but it wasn’t enough for you to just accept me as I am. 
On top of everything, I finally had you… But all you wanted was your baby. You didn’t want me. 

I can forgive you for the things you said now but I don’t know how to forgive you for abandoning me. 
If only you would hear me. Then maybe, I could forgive, begin to forgive you.
I love you 

Always and forever,


Dear Amy

Dear Amy, I’m never going to give you this letter but it’s finally time I confront you, well, my feelings about you and my adoption. The feelings that I have buried so deep inside. The one thing that I have never been able to talk about. I can talk about the sexual abuses and other traumas in my life but you, what it means to me, I have never uttered a word to another living soul. 

So, this is me, finally letting go of all of it.

I’m not exactly sure where to start. I guess, it’s best to tell you how I feel. I’m really fucking angry. That is the best way I can say it. I’m so mad. And sometimes, I really hate you, I hate your fucking guts for what you did. I hate you for abandoning me, for giving me up. I hate you for leaving me with abusive parents, to live this horrible, miserable life. I hate you because you couldn’t take care of me. I hate you because you didn’t want me. I hate you because you did this to me. This is all your fault. I hate you because you didn’t have an abortion. 

My life has been hell. I was made fun of since I was a child for being adopted. My broth and sister told me constantly, that I was not their real sister. I had kids make fun of me, tell me you gave me up because I was a piece of shit. 

Growing up, I had things but the only thing I wished for every birthday was you. 

My father, sexually and physically abused me, my mother has emotionally and mentally abused me for 28 years, my siblings bullied me, kids bullied me, my first boyfriend raped me, abused me in every way possible, I had the one thing I ever wanted torn from me, and when I was up alone crying all those nights, contemplating suicide, trying to commit suicide, or cutting myself… Where were you? Where were you when all of this was happening to me? You just abandoned me, to strangers. Your own fucking baby, at 3 weeks. Not once but twice. I went through hell and you just went on living. 

When I was a teenager and going through all those changes, trying to learn my identity… Where were you? I didn’t know who I looked like in this world. All I wanted to know was who I looked like. Do you know how hard that is for a child? I just wanted to know where I came from. When we had to do those family trees as little children, do you know what that felt like? Do you even fucking care?


It’s been a rough day, well it’s hard to explain. I woke up feeling so exhausted. All I wanted to do was go back to sleep. I was in it. That comfortable depression. I somehow managed a shower and my meds. But what got me here, that has to do with what I told you yesterday. After, I read those journals and my boyfriend got out of his meeting, on our way back, I told him about it. Somehow, he ended up talking about how if I’m going to go down this road, dealing with trauma, using exposure therapy, I should start with the biggest one first. That way the others would be easier to handle. 
He had a point. 
But, before I tell you what I did next, let me tell you something about this trauma. I have never spoken of my feelings about it to another living soul. I have never written about it in a journal of mine. I have pushed it so far down that it has never popped up in my mind. For me, this is my hole, the one I was afraid that if I went in, I would not get out. The one thing I would not dare face because I didn’t, don’t think there is any coming back from it. It is the only thing, in my life, I believe I can never get over. 
To many of you, it may not seem like a trauma. It may not seem bad at all but I’ll tell you, I’ve heard it all before. And unless you actually know what it’s like because most people don’t, then I kindly ask you to not say anything. I can see it from a non bias, well the other side perspective but this is mine. This happened to me. I know all about the reasons. How good the intention may have been. But please, respect my side of things as well, that’s all I ask. 
Well, I took my boyfriends words and told him I would start to talk to him about it. Then we stopped somewhere, so I could use the lady’s room and the idea just hit me. Like bricks. 
I decided I would not speak about it but rather I would write a letter. A letter finally pouring out my true feelings to the person that I couldn’t ever tell them to. The whole way back, I was writing this, anger swelling inside me. 
I couldn’t finish the letter because it got too much but I read it out loud to him. I finally spoke my truth to someone. For the first time ever, I let it out, in writing and out loud. 
When we got back he asked me, if this person were here, right in front of you, what would you say? I told him I wouldn’t say anything because I don’t want to hurt them. He told me, he would get them to listen to me, so I could tell them, because I also would tell them something that would not hurt them. I think he wants me to have peace. 
Going down that hole, I didn’t think, I’d be okay but I’m here right now writing this. To tell you, I feel in a way at peace. I’m going to add to my letter and then post it after I post this. The more I talk about it, the more it’s out there… The more I begin to heal. 
On the car ride to therapy, I listened to 2 songs on repeat. One, gave me the answer I was looking for. The other, a song that had meaning about this, I hadn’t been able to hear but it didn’t make me cry. I felt strong. 
So, finally, who is this person and what was the trauma? She’s my birth mom and it’s my adoption. 



Why did I just put myself through that? Earlier, I was looking at an old journal app, I have on my iPad. It only has three entries, from 2013. I read them in chronological order. The last, was the beginning of what would end up being the biggest trauma in my life. I didn’t know it at the time, since it was speculation.
Reading that, gave me the dumb fucking idea to bring my journals from the time of the trauma, well the days and months after, to read, as I sit in the car waiting for my boyfriend while he’s in a meeting. 

I have always been a firm believer in exposure therapy. Especially for PTSD. That’s because I’ve used it before to desensitize myself to being sexually, physically mentally and emotionally abused. It really worked, at least in the sense that when I passed my exes house, I would not freak out. 
Anyways, I am sitting in this car, and I begin to read. The first entry, 4 days after the trauma. The entry is an exact, word for word description of what happened. How much more exposure can you get!? Now, I’m hysterical, I am reliving this all over again. Minute details I forgot. 
It’s been 4 years, and I don’t think I’ll ever get over this. But, I think this was a good first step. I’d rather confront this on my own terms, than in therapy. On my own time, in the comfort and privacy of my own space. Where I feel safe. 
I think I can do this. I’ve done it before. 


Is this real?

Am I overreacting? Are these feelings legitimate? Are they real? Am I really this way or did I just make this all up in my head? 
Lately, I’ve been struggling a lot with these types of questions. If this is all in my head, if this is all made up. This borderline, if it is just some imaginary thing that doesn’t even exist, that I don’t actually have but I am just a giant fucking drama queen, cry baby. 
I think a big part of it, is the fact that for years, my mother would drill it into my head that I was just immature. That I was only a drama queen. That there was nothing wrong with me. 
Another part, I think, which I’ve been reading a lot about is invalidation. I think the years of invalidation have finally gotten to me. That I am just refusing or maybe a better word for it, self doubting to such a degree, that I don’t even believe my own self anymore. 
I used to be more confident about my feelings. But now, I feel like I can’t trust them. As if they may not be real. Maybe this is a new symptom? 
I wish I knew what the fuck was going on. As much of a psych nerd as I am, sometimes, my own psyche eludes me.