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On the Borderlands (something’s wrong with uncle Nathan!)

Writer's picture: Nathan ColeyNathan Coley



I had always made it a point to make my nieces wonder about me (and do this still, much to their innocent confusion as to why a grown adult would behave the way I do). To one of them, in particular, I tend to whisper, in a tone speaking to some zany disposition, “Something’s wrong with uncle Nathan.” Her reliable blank stares and dismissals are always confirmation of the proposition.


I just didn’t quite know how right I was about something being awry with uncle Nathan (and yes, it is OK to say something is wrong with me. I’m not in therapy because I feel like I was assembled correctly at the factory, with flying colors from quality control; things seem off to me, and I would like to make them be not off).


I had actual warning signs, of course, that something was indeed wrong with uncle Nathan, but I had done a splendid time ignoring the problem, denying the reality of anything systemic. If I was wrong, I reasoned, it was because I had garden variety rage, a bad day, or a little too much to drink. I had some anxiety, so what? Everyone has anxiety. Take a walk in a crowded area and see the anxiety on parade. The same went for depression. Everyone feels down, and I feel down too. Please stop harassing. Yes I will see a therapist. Sometime, ok?


Except the back of my mind seemed to be very sure that there was no such time as sometime.


The thing about not knowing a problem is that the problem will persist with a lack of intervention. This is why an onlooker will panic if they see a distracted hiker walking near certain injury or death. For the unlucky pedestrian, the problem will persist without a change in behavior.


And speaking of behavior:


The play itself had repeated too many times, and everyone at home was tired of being part of the same cluster of tragedies: anxious fits, emotional rollercoasters, crying fits, rages over big things, rages over small things, yelling, screaming, things broken, hearts broken. With the help of people in my family, as well as some friends, I was able to admit that something was rotten in the state of Denmark and get to work (though I hope my ending has a happier one than those at Elsinore) through some therapy, medication, and self-care.


It all worked magically, until it didn’t, and we will get to those reasons in time. This is just an introduction.I am just kind of saying hello now, ok?


Hello.


As I intend to be very candid about some of my own thoughts, behaviors, and actions (in light of how my condition affects them), I also realize that I cannot expect the same profile of my family, friends, and anyone else who is close to me. This means that I am going to be a positive LIAR.


Kind of (I mean I certainly have been, go me). As I speak about particular topics, particularly family, sources of trauma, and traumatic events, I will do the following: First: I will change enough of the details to make sure that the focus is on my point and less on the example. This is not the occasion to make anyone else close to me participate in a much more public discussion. Second: in the spirit of not making a character assassination of anyone close to me, the thematic emphasis on the especially yucky will fall on me. That means that, as my writing unfolds, I will be magnifying my mistakes while making light of the offenses of others. This doesn’t mean that I should actually think of my mistakes as being in a super category (which is precisely what I do! Stay tuned, there’s more!). As I blurt out all this babble, however, I need to be careful to not hurt anyone with my words (and one of the author’s of this essay is a PRO at such things).


Here’s how to make the first part of a long story short (But we will get back to that later. I promise. I’m too pot committed now to the dissolution of my reputation to leave out all the good stuff): Medication and therapy land were, for about 8 months or so, like a fantastic amusement ride that had some serious points of fun, and some serious changes in direction and tempo that inspire nausea. Medication and therapy for anxiety and depression worked and then did not. There were highs that were high and lows that were beyond exploration, and this see-saw continued until April of 2023 behaved rather like the Hindenburg in its final moments, sending me into one might casually call a nervous breakdown.


Return to the play from earlier, but add more anxiety. More rage. More depression. I found myself, for the first time in my life, overlooking medical leave at work. I had lost friendships. My trusted therapist at the time (and I mean TRUSTED) prematurely discharged me from the practice after several months of sessions. Medical leave continued. The new version of the play went on, with wins here and failures there, all culminating in a week long stay at Unit 11 in Western Psychiatric Hospital, less than a full day before my initial return to work.


Boom went the dynamite, and out went the diagnosis into my chart: Borderline Personality Disorder.


This was, for reasons in the juicier parts of the writing, not entirely a shock to anyone involved. And in a way, it provided me with some answers and relief. I now had something to decode so much of why I behaved the way I do. I could judge myself less and understand myself more. BPD is poorly misunderstood, no thanks in part to years of clinical bias and Hollywood’s usual portrayal of the most extreme types.


I can’t say what shape this blog will take, or what frequency. Sometimes I will focus heavier on the topic at large, with myself playing a minor role. Other times I will be front and center, and in such a way that may very well test your patience and compassion. I will do what I generally do with projects that are my own: what I want, when I want.


If you’re reading this, I’m grateful that you have gotten this far.


Welcome to Crazy Town.




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