"Are you sure you want to put your name on that?”
In one way or another, this is the type of question fielded to me lately by some very wise and well-meaning people. There’s no question that mental illness carries stigma. In fact, BPD is historically thought to be among the most stigmatized disorders. Through the cursory reading I’ve done about my condition, I learned that in the days of old it was not unusual for a physician to recognize BPD but diagnose bi-polar instead, as manic-depressive disorder was thought to carry less of a heavy, life-altering diagnosis.
Is it too soon to haul me away to the trash yet?
The advice is not coming at me from the void, but generally by people who have lived to see mental illness get stigmatized; there’s no question this could result in fractured friendships, relationships, and even relationships at work. Probably the biggest concern people have for me is that someone might do some digging, find out that I am neurodivergent, and decide that I am simply not worth the trouble.
To that I can say a few things: in the here and now I know that my current employer is more than supportive of my efforts to understand my mental illness and find a path to recovery. For this I am grateful and emboldened. To anyone else who might be put off by my diagnosis? I can only say that I would much prefer that your signatures not be the ones that authorize my paychecks. Thank. You. Very. Much.
I can’t claim that my disorder can excuse some of my less than stellar behavior over the years, but I also can’t claim to have brought the disorder on myself. Studies of twins have revealed that there is a significant genetic component with BPD, and that the generic influence could be as high as 40 percent.
I do not apologize for my migraines and my sinus infections; I certainly will not apologize for having borderline personality disorder. I will discuss it with the same clinical interest that I might reveal I have a cold or a virus.
My attitude was not always this way. At first I was dead set against the idea of a mass public declaration. Reading life only through the experiences of what others have gone through, and often a long time ago, I reasoned that speaking about my illness would alienate me and seal me off from future prospects in all walks of life. This made me very much feel like I was living in a prison, and it certainly compounded the shame I felt for being borderline. It’s a lousy thing to be sick, but an even lousier thing to think you have to be embarrassed about it.
I will deliver dump truck loads of embarrassment for my inappropriate words and actions, but not for this.
One evening I was listening to a song I have probably heard well over a hundred times this year: Eternal Rains, by Ad Infinitum. In the second verse of this track, vocalist Melissa Bonny sings, “We look down at the ground just to feel safer / silencing the dream of rising higher.”
We look down at the ground just to feel safer, don’t we? It sure is safe down there. Right?
Things that are worth doing, I am realizing, generally have some risk packaged into the deal. At my stage in my life, squarely at mid life if you want to know, I have often struggled with a sense of purpose and meaning. One feature of BPD is that the patient lacks a stable sense of identity and reason for being. During my experiences with BPD, I have often felt like a piece of driftwood, not really having any goals, and even worse, not seeing myself as capable and worthy of them.
I realized I had been looking at the ground for far too long, and furthermore, I finally saw the unique opportunity that was before me. Those with BPD can be highly intelligent and creative and very skilled in rhetoric and other forms of expression. I realized that I was probably better suited to write about having this disorder than most with my condition. What started out as a vague idea suddenly started to feel like a moral imperative of sorts.
And please, forgive me for the expression of self-confidence here. It is generally not something I am good at, so it’s important for me to strike when the moment seems to have presented itself. So, without hesitation I think I can say this:
I believe I am a capable writer, and I believe that I can use my writing to help others.
This is not a contest, and I’m not here to mark my intellectual territory. I am here to say, “Hi! My name is Nathan. I am sick, and I think I can use my abilities to help myself and you.”
So why not? Really, why the Hell not?
The “Why” comes back to say “You’ll lose friends. You might not get that promotion. You might this. You might the other.”
The “mights” can go promptly to the deepest recesses of Hell too.
When I announced that I was going to start a public blog about my mental health, something happened. In the words of Halestorm singer Lizzy Hale, it “stopped raining in my head.”
Along with that came purpose, and a sense of motivation that I have not felt in recent memory. I could not be told to go back on this at gunpoint.
The world can keep its Stigma. I will, in turn, keep my sense of self and purpose. If there’s a cost, there’s a cost. Good things in life are rarely free of some kind of price.
This is where I will dismantle my shame, no apologies included.
Yours Mentally,
Nathan
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