Okay?
About six months ago I took an overdose of Seroquel and was hospitalized. While they were emptying me of the drug, I was sedated with Propofol, the effects of which wear off very quickly. Because of this, what would happens is I would wake up every couple of hours with tubes coming out nose, mouth, arms, dick, etc., helpless, trapped, unable to talk, etc., at which point the hospital staff would drug me again. Of all the times I woke up, the time I remember most vividly was I saw (and heard) a doctor talking to the nurses, presumably about me (I was vague from the Propofol, I can't be certain), and though I don't remember all of it, I remember quite clearly "suspected Borderline Personality."
But let's go back.
About midway through my senior year of high school, I took mushrooms. The trip was amazing. Afterwards though, everything changed. All the horrible things I deal with now - suicidal ideation, anxiety, intrusive thoughts, etc. - happened only after the trip. I told my mom how I was feeling without mentioning the incendiary trip. I told her I needed help. She called Community Mental Health. So began our lengthy and exhausting relationship.
My first case worker was an Indian pediatrician. I didn't like him. He made me nervous. I was therefore evasive and therefore I lied to him. With only bullshit to work with, he thought I might have had Asperger's Syndrome, which he didn't tell me this, but my mom who then, later, told me (as well as anyone else who'd listen). I wasn't self-aware enough then to know that this proto-diagnosis was a mere whim in the mind of a clueless man. I became convinced that I was afflicted by an incurable, horrible disease (no one awesome has Asperger's, aside from maybe Ladyhawke and Craig Nichols) and disappeared into a psychosis-laced fog of drugs and alcohol. My self-medication uninhibited me to the point that I was overtly displaying BPD [1] symptoms e.g. cutting, impulsiveness, dysphoric episodes, the desire for and testing of people's love/approval, etc., some of which have stuck around but are closely moderated by me because I know when they present themselves they hurt my friends and family terribly. I don't have total control - there is nothing I can do about the dysphoric episodes and furthermore, I knew perfectly well that the seroquel "suicide attempt" was non-lethal (I googled it) and I did it so I could go a while longer without working. I did not mention these symptoms to my circa-then case worker Paul. I was generally sober (sometimes overcaffeinated) when I saw him and was very anxious and because of this, I evaded the issues that I really needed to discuss with him. We talked instead about books, movies, philosophy, etc., which he liked, and hence I kept it up - it was a break, for him, from listening to crazy people's crazy problems. I wanted him to like me and I knew that he liked just having a normal conversation.
I moved to Brisbane and became sober due to poverty. I studied up on mental illness and all but memorized the DSM-IV-TR. I became very conscious about not overtly displaying any particular cluster of symptoms, particularly Asperger's (not enough pieces had fallen into place for me to think about BPD yet), particularly around Mental Health staff, and I am still that way, which I imagine makes it impossible for any mental health professional to get a true hold on what I'm still going through and how to treat it. I suspect it derives from the overwhelming desire to be liked (or "loved" in BPD terminology) and I'm afraid that if I become a mere diagnosis then I will be dehumanised by my case workers, that once I am diagnosed I will be seen by them as a disorder and not a person, that if they think I need to 'fixed' then then I no longer have their love/approval, etc.
My sobreity in Brisbane encouraged me, in an odd way, to talk about the difficult things that had happened to me and what I was going through. The intense drug/alcohol induced states were absent from my life and therefore the conversations I had with people became very intense to supplement that. Now I believe that humour is just as intense emotionally but in a positive way and is more successful w/r/t being liked so I do that instead of being aggressive/intense/confrontational. I explained thoroughly to my then case worker Shannon all the things I had gone through, the drugs/alcohol, the BPD symptoms (not, at this stage, connected in my mind to BPD), etc., but I never really exposed my manipulativeness for fear of me not being able to manipulate her if she figured out I was manipulative. She asked me once if I had ever suspected that I was BPD. I told her at the time that the odds were low considering 4 in 5 people diagnosed as Borderline are women.
I've told you that I fell in love with her. I told you that I moved back here. I've told you about the Seroquel "suicide attempt."
We're back at the beginning.
I really think the mushroom trip led to me developing BPD, and the post-proto-diagnosis drinking/drugging episode explains what I imagine is my case workers' unwillingness to tell me what, precisely, they think is wrong with me.
I worry about whether I ask them. "Do I have BPD?" You know. My fear is that if (at the moment) they don't think I have it, and I tell them that I think I have it, they will then consequentially have reason to believe I have it, and I then run the risk of being dropped as a client due to BPD being essentially untreatable.
I'm not asking for advice. I'm going to figure it out for myself. But I know I'm going to be searching for an answer anyway, and I would much rather do it in a way that's entertaining for you.
- 1. Borderline Personality Disorder
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