Prelude
My boyfriend and my therapist think that writing could be a good outlet for me. I myself am not so sure. Whilst in theory I like the idea of a blog, in practice there are a number of blocks. Firstly my ability or rather lack thereof to write well. Second the fact that I struggled as both a child and an adult to keep a diary. I have always wanted to, but never seemed to stick at it for very long. I think my inherent laziness has something to do with it. Which brings me to my final reason, a blog to be considered a proper blog needs to be updated at least once a week, if not once a day. My hardcore all or nothing attitude means I may struggle to do this in which case I shouldn't do it at all. I find it hard to tolerate failure on any level.
Still, between me and you, even though I am no good at it (and I do so hate doing things I'm not good at) I secretly enjoy writing. It was my best subject at school and ever since I've graduated I have genuinely missed writing essays.
Clearly, these ramblings thus far are an indication that I have decided, at least for the time being, and against my better judgement, to give it a go. Time then, to introduce myself; my name is Holly and I have a borderline personality disorder.
The beginning
I don't plan on spending a lot of time on my back story, such as there is one. Needless to say I have struggled most of my life with the feeling that there was something wrong with me, without ever knowing what that was. For a long time, I admitted to no one (although on some level, definitely to myself) that I was struggling or that I felt I had a problem. My first overdose in 2010 was the beginning of my realisation that a) definitely something wasn't right with me and b) I needed to admit this and ask for help. For me, there is nothing more difficult than asking for help. Those trapped within the current mental health system in the UK will know that the difficulties don't end with asking. You have to beg, loudly, consistently and unceremoniously.
The best thing to come out of my initial overdose was my frank discussion with my new job about my mental health. I was referred to see our occupational therapist and in doing so met the person who would go on to save my life. Both metaphorically and literally.
My therapist (with some help from a counsellor I was seeing for my needle phobia) first floated the possibility of BPD in July last year. It would take a very serious overdose ( with time spent in both hospital and a psychiatric setting) for me to be officially diagnosed and exactly a year for me to start specialised treatment.
I figured getting the official diagnosis would be the most difficult part, and once they realised how serious my condition actually was, I would be 'home free' and able to start the enviable task of getting better. Oh, how naive. I won't bore you with the hoops I had to jump through, but suffice so say they were numerous and each one more ridiculously bureaucratic than the last.
My least favourite part of this process was interaction, or usually lack thereof, with the community mental health team. For me, this place was hell on earth. Full of staff who constantly seemed harried and uncaring ( the socialist in me wants to believe that this is due to cuts in the service making their positions increasingly untenable), a building that seemed to mirror it's inhabitants, crumbling, broken and grey and finally my fellow 'patients'.
At this stage I should point out that whilst I have a serious mental health condition and I am no longer under any illusions as to how ill I am, I am a functioning member of society. I have a full time job, an ever decreasing but firm set of friends, and more recently the most wonderful relationship.
My condition at times can be quite severe; I have had four overdoses, the last of which was in only March this year. Without going into the boring details there are 9 sets of criteria which categorise BPD. To receive an official diagnosis you need 5. I myself have 8. The one that I don't have is, unfortunately, the trait that most at the community mental health team seemed to suffer with and that is psychosis.
I would sit in the waiting room, desperate to be called in and inevitably being left to sit there ages after my appointment time, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone else. I really needn't have bothered. Most of the people there were either talking loudly to themselves, to the voices in their head or aggressively with each other. It terrified me. For someone who has desperately craved to feel 'normal' for most of my life, it was the most cruel reminder yet that I wasn't. Usually an incredibly empathetic person, I felt completely detached from my fellow human beings in this setting. I have never felt more alone or abnormal than during those tumultuous visits.
Still, the purpose of me attending these meetings was to secure a referral on to specialist treatment, something I had come to see as a holy grail. Eventually, and with a lot more heartache and stress, I was referred on to a hospital which offered something called Mentalisation based therapy (MBT). This is a treatment programme specifically for those with BPD and consists of group therapy and one on one sessions weekly. The programme is to last for 18 months. I started it in June and my intention is this blog will chronicle my treatment programme. This allows me to update it, hopefully weekly to coincide with the group sessions and hopefully chart my progress ( or lack thereof, I myself am still skeptical that this will 'make me better'). I am starting two months in, with a month break ahead of me before we resume in September. I will use this break to 'catch you up' on the first 8 sessions. Lucky you.
Being devoid of any creativity the blog is currently nameless. Hopefully, when my boyfriend wakes up he will have a brilliantly, witty name for me.
Until next time, over and out.
The best thing to come out of my initial overdose was my frank discussion with my new job about my mental health. I was referred to see our occupational therapist and in doing so met the person who would go on to save my life. Both metaphorically and literally.
My therapist (with some help from a counsellor I was seeing for my needle phobia) first floated the possibility of BPD in July last year. It would take a very serious overdose ( with time spent in both hospital and a psychiatric setting) for me to be officially diagnosed and exactly a year for me to start specialised treatment.
The middle
I figured getting the official diagnosis would be the most difficult part, and once they realised how serious my condition actually was, I would be 'home free' and able to start the enviable task of getting better. Oh, how naive. I won't bore you with the hoops I had to jump through, but suffice so say they were numerous and each one more ridiculously bureaucratic than the last.
My least favourite part of this process was interaction, or usually lack thereof, with the community mental health team. For me, this place was hell on earth. Full of staff who constantly seemed harried and uncaring ( the socialist in me wants to believe that this is due to cuts in the service making their positions increasingly untenable), a building that seemed to mirror it's inhabitants, crumbling, broken and grey and finally my fellow 'patients'.
At this stage I should point out that whilst I have a serious mental health condition and I am no longer under any illusions as to how ill I am, I am a functioning member of society. I have a full time job, an ever decreasing but firm set of friends, and more recently the most wonderful relationship.
My condition at times can be quite severe; I have had four overdoses, the last of which was in only March this year. Without going into the boring details there are 9 sets of criteria which categorise BPD. To receive an official diagnosis you need 5. I myself have 8. The one that I don't have is, unfortunately, the trait that most at the community mental health team seemed to suffer with and that is psychosis.
I would sit in the waiting room, desperate to be called in and inevitably being left to sit there ages after my appointment time, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone else. I really needn't have bothered. Most of the people there were either talking loudly to themselves, to the voices in their head or aggressively with each other. It terrified me. For someone who has desperately craved to feel 'normal' for most of my life, it was the most cruel reminder yet that I wasn't. Usually an incredibly empathetic person, I felt completely detached from my fellow human beings in this setting. I have never felt more alone or abnormal than during those tumultuous visits.
The rest
Still, the purpose of me attending these meetings was to secure a referral on to specialist treatment, something I had come to see as a holy grail. Eventually, and with a lot more heartache and stress, I was referred on to a hospital which offered something called Mentalisation based therapy (MBT). This is a treatment programme specifically for those with BPD and consists of group therapy and one on one sessions weekly. The programme is to last for 18 months. I started it in June and my intention is this blog will chronicle my treatment programme. This allows me to update it, hopefully weekly to coincide with the group sessions and hopefully chart my progress ( or lack thereof, I myself am still skeptical that this will 'make me better'). I am starting two months in, with a month break ahead of me before we resume in September. I will use this break to 'catch you up' on the first 8 sessions. Lucky you.
Being devoid of any creativity the blog is currently nameless. Hopefully, when my boyfriend wakes up he will have a brilliantly, witty name for me.
Until next time, over and out.
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