Borderline

by Shabri Prasad Singh

  2. Unstable interpersonal relationships, characterised by alternating between extremes of idealisation and devaluation: Most of my relationships were troublesome and unstable. My relationship with my mother always alternated between love and hate, and with my friends, too, it was always the same. I was possessive and jealous and I smothered people and lovers, which created havoc in all my relationships. The only people I did not smother were Pink, Purnima and Doc.

  3. Identity disturbance or unstable self-image: I always struggled with my own self-image, most of the times I hated myself. I always had low self-esteem which made me have a very poor view of myself. My self-image was mostly negative, as I saw myself as useless and unworthy. I had a battered self-ego and this disturbance in my own self made me very vulnerable and extremely sensitive. Most Borderlines are extremely sensitive people; their emotion barrier is almost non-existent. Children or infants have better self-defensive techniques than Borderlines.

  4. Impulsivity that is potentially self-damaging: Over spending money, gambling, substance especially alcohol abuse, reckless driving, binge eating and promiscuity (unsafe sex with multiple partners) . . . I was impulsive in all these areas, and I would do things that I would instantly regret afterwards. I was impulsive with phone calls and I would make a mess of my relationships by constantly calling people because I misbehaved with them. I was impulsive with my emotions, I would quickly jump from love to hate to indifference to love again in a matter of hours, which really left the other person confused and put off by my erratic behaviour.

  5. Suicidal behaviour, and recurrent self-harm: I would always fantasize about killing myself. During such phases, I did more emotional self-injury than physical self-injury. I was a scarred person and I was traumatized by my past; by not moving on, I could not focus on anything, and this made my life come to a standstill and made me dysfunctional.

  6. Chronic feelings of emptiness: Most of these symptoms are interlinked and one symptom gives birth to or encourages the other. All my life, especially after my father’s death, I felt empty inside, as if I was stuck in a vacuum. I could not deal with the emptiness which led to severe depression and it made me do things like enter into pointless relationships, including the one I had with Pink. After all, I knew it was not going anywhere since he was married, yet I continued with it.

  7. Persistent reactivity of mood: Intense episodic dysphoria, which is a long-lasting, profound dissatisfaction with life. I was never really a happy person; even when I felt happy, it was a sort of artificial elation of mood, probably because of a temporary good news or an exciting situation, or because of the medicines. Most of my medicines were mood stabilisers and anxiolytics. I was on benzodiazepines which help elevate your mood, combat anxiety and help you to sleep.

  8. Inappropriate intense anger: I had an uncontrollable temper; in a fit of rage over small things, I would shout, throw things, destroy relationships by becoming emotionally violent, and reminding the other person of all the wrongs they did to me and in their life. This mostly happened with my mother, and our arguments and fights always made me very angry. I did behave volatile with my friends and boyfriends, too, but most of my anger was always directed at my mother. The anger is mostly too intense for the given stimulus or situation it is brought on by. The reaction is always of too much anger over small issues. Even other emotions are always out of proportion—too much love, too much hate, too much jealousy, too much attachment, too much guilt, etc.

  9. Transient stress related paranoid ideation or severe dissociative symptoms: It is a sense of being detached from oneself. My constant staring at walls and my time spent alone where my mind would wander in that frame of mind when I would not be myself, I would have a sort of out of body experience where I was just not present in the moment.

  I showed all these symptoms in a continuous manner. I discussed with Purnima why I was not told earlier that I suffered from BPD. She told me because it is a very stigmatised disorder, it was a conscious decision that it was best not to tell me until I was ready. I discussed the symptoms at length with Purnima, and she noticed that I was gaining insight into my own problem. She asked me, ‘Now that you know all this about yourself, let’s work together to identify the symptoms in your day-to-day life and find a way to manage them. The next time you feel overwhelming emotions, whether it is for a guy you like who doesn’t reciprocate, or when you have a fight with your mother, or you feel that your friends are not there for you the way you are there for them, I want you to write down your reactions and emotions in a diary and show them to me.’

  I asked her many questions: Do other people diagnosed with BPD behave as I do? Do they have messed up interpersonal relationships like I do? Do they have mood swings and emotional outbursts like me? Do they swing from intense sadness to sudden elation and then back to sadness in a matter of hours? I remembered how I would have a fight with my mother on issues like the clothes I wear or my partying and alcohol, or when I misbehaved with the staff. She would say her piece and move on, while I would brood over it for days. Then suddenly, after brooding for days, I would in a moment become happy and feel elated over nothing. But then that happiness which came for no rhyme or reason would last only an hour or two and I would go back into immense guilt and sadness. I wondered about people with BPD who were working or married, or worse, were working and married—how do they function?

  Purnima told me that Borderline Personality Disorder is a complicated one. She said the symptoms can manifest themselves in a variety of circumstances and situations. She added further that there are a variety of cases and symptoms, all relating to Borderline Disorder, and while the problems may vary, the underlying problems and most symptoms are the same. And these symptoms can overlap with symptoms of other personality disorders. She explained that both she and Dr Chugh refrained from labelling their patients. There are good as well as bad sides to people. With treatment and circumstances, people’s lives change.

  When Purnima said this, I saw hope for myself in the future. She also pointed out that it was all a matter of thinking. I told her that my family says that I don’t know how to give people space, and that I can be oblivious to the hints people give when they ignore me. ‘Why can’t I understand that?’ I asked Purnima. She kindly replied that by saying so, I was getting more aware now and this was the first step, and I would understand these patterns with time. She was very happy that my growing insight into the disorder was going to help me.

  I began thinking about those people who have not been diagnosed; it would help them a lot if they knew what they were suffering from. Anyone who wanders around feeling empty all the time, hating themselves and having intense emotions for others without those emotions being reciprocated . . . And what about those people who could not afford help—either financial or in terms of support from family and friends? Such people would keep sinking back into the black hole because they do not know what they have or cannot pinpoint their symptoms, and do not have support. All these questions invaded my mind and I began to sympathise with myself and with others suffering from this disorder. I wanted to help other people who were suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder, but first, I had to take care of myself. I had come a long way from the dreadful days of New York and Chandigarh and my useless party days, but there was so much more work I still had to do, to get better.

  I had always struggled in terms of a career and a goal, because I did not know what I wanted to do. And whenever things would start to get better in any area of my life, I would suddenly regress and feel so anxious, thinking something bad was about to happen. Aware of the malady and what it does, I was still suffering from it and knowingly I was entering a difficult place where even when you know what’s wrong, and you want to change it, it seems impossible.

  I was convinced that this invisible illness would be so overtly visible to other people if they could just open my mind and see the damaging scars I had, the patterns that I had formed and were embedded so deeply in me that I could
not untangle myself from them. I don’t consciously do all these things; they are somehow innate in me, almost as if they were hardwired in me.

  I finally understood why it is called Borderline Personality Disorder. There have been several debates and a number of conflicts over the name of this disorder. BPD is hugely stigmatised, and its name has been vastly criticised by patients, psychiatrists and psychologists. Some also call this ailment Emotional Dysregulation Personality Disorder. Whatever the name, the fact remains that no one takes us seriously. Our family and friends try to run away from us, while we are forced to deal with our emotional problems all by ourselves, almost like third degree burns on our bodies. We try to avoid abandonment so desperately that we are misunderstood as being manipulative or attention seekers.

  However, the truth is that we don’t want to abuse alcohol and drugs, we don’t want to feel empty, and we don’t want to be abandoned. There is hope for people with any mental disorder. That hope is proper treatment—a healthy lifestyle, and most importantly, personal effort to conquer the illness and battle against it.

  Chapter 19

  BORDERLINE TO BORDERLINE

  As the river flows, we are stuck on a rock which never glows,

  Living in between emotions we try to reach the shore,

  Tied down by this illness we feel we are ignored.

  Emptiness, anger, impulses are our fate,

  Can we change this pattern, can we turn and see the light,

  Can we open our locked gates, the mind we know has us in a bind,

  Shall we try to free ourselves? I think it’s about time!

  There is, after all a sun that never stops to shine.

  Irealised that I was neither the first one nor the last to be diagnosed with BPD. I also began to realise that I had to get better, I had to help myself, and I had to mend. I was told that the process of recovery can take ages, and I thought what better way to help myself than helping someone going through the same dark journey. I had the perfect doctor and therapist, and I understood the disease. Now, I wanted to understand how to look at it from another sufferer’s viewpoint.

  My therapy with Purnima continued like clockwork, my medications were sometimes changed, and the dosage was at times increased, and at times lowered, depending on my progress. By now, I was on benzodiazepines, which helped me sleep and had an anxiolytic effect, since I suffered from anxiety almost daily. The other medicines were selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, which were like an anti-depressant. It was the year 2014, and it had been two years since I found out about Borderline Personality Disorder. Since then, all I had done was research about the illness, join online forums and platforms where other Borderlines shared their own experiences, and I went for my sessions with Purnima. I stopped going to parties completely, and it did not help that all my friends had gone away—Anna had moved to the States after she got married, Chris moved to Jaipur and got so busy with his work that he barely called, and Alia completely abandoned me: She got tired of my obsessive calls and being my babysitter at parties, if and when we went out.

  So, there I was, alone, with no friends, just my family and my therapist and, of course, Doc. My mother and I continued to argue and fight. I also began to realise the effect my illness was projecting onto others. It was not easy for my family to deal with my haphazard emotions. I was most worried about Jerry, and what kind of affect my illness would have on him. I tried my level best to iron out my issues with my mother but nothing worked. Out of sheer anger and frustration, and to uplift my mood, I would go and drink—to feel good, to drown my sorrows, to feel numb, and then feel terribly guilty the following day. I would apologise to Mamma, who would completely shun me because of my obnoxious behaviour. I would end up hugging Papa’s portrait and cry bitterly, damping the painting where my tears fell.

  We had shifted to a huge house, and Mamma had done it up very beautifully, with the surrounding gardens blooming with flowers. The house was a haven, as I had the privacy of the outhouse all to myself. However, ironically, there was no peace within me. I blamed my mother’s second marriage for my condition. I also had no friends, which left me feeling worse. I would cry uncontrollably, and continue to feel miserable, empty and hollow within.

  Mamma and Uncle suggested that I join some class, go back to college, volunteer with an organisation, or do something . . . But all these suggestions were in vain as I had no energy within, and no focus or determination to see these tasks through.

  Emptiness led to depression, which made me stare at my bedroom wall all day, and made me a slave to the poisonous fumes of my room because of my smoking and my refusal to let the door be opened to let some fresh air and light in. There were also some good days when I would cook for the family, but one little fight would set the trigger off and I would regress and get back to self-loathing, pity, and grief.

  One night, after yet another heated argument with my mother, I decided to leave the house: ‘Go to hell all of you. I’m leaving, and I’ll never come back.’ Saying this, I dumped a few clothes in a small suitcase and stormed out of the house. When I reached the main road, I realised I had nowhere to go. No one was willing to keep me. I stopped an auto rickshaw and asked the driver to take me to Safdarjung Enclave. There was a very nice, cozy little bar there which had not yet been discovered by many people. I went there, and as luck would have it, I met her again.

  ‘Bartender, I’d like a strong martini please. The more lethal, the better.’ These were the words of this beautiful woman sitting at the bar, dressed so elegantly. I recalled that I had met her at a hotel in Hyderabad; I had borrowed a lighter from her: Sabrina Khan. She had made an impression on me then and she was doing the same now. Her beautiful eyes seemed unhappy.

  ‘May I join you, Sabrina?’ I asked politely. ‘Of course, you may, but tell me how do you know my name?’ she said, looking at me. I sat down and reminded her about our brief meeting in Hyderabad when I had borrowed a lighter and marveled at her tattoo.

  I ordered the same drink as hers. We got along very well, and laughed, drank and shared our life stories with each other. We got so close in one evening of drinking that she was able to convince me to message my mother and tell her I was fine, and that I would see her in the morning. Then she said, ‘Stay with me at my hotel room for the night; you’re quite drunk.’ I agreed, and we went to her hotel.

  That night at the hotel, Sabrina opened up. She told me she was in town to meet her old family lawyer as she wanted to make amends to her will. She was also scheduled to meet her doctor, a psychiatrist by the name of Sunil Rukhja.

  ‘I feel like telling you everything about myself; because after years I have actually laughed with all my heart,’ she said to me warmly.

  I knew she was married to a politician from Hyderabad, Mohammed Khan. And I also knew she was unhappy: She was visiting a psychiatrist, and apparently had many layers within herself. This evening, she chose to undo those layers.

  ‘Borderline cases are extra sensitive,’ she said to me in a serious tone. ‘Are you a Borderline?’ I asked her.

  ‘I am so many disorders mixed in one that I am a cocktail that can make one drunk.’ ‘Hey! That rhymed!’ I laughed and said.

  ‘I am taking a shower; do you want to join me?’ she innocently asked. ‘Yes.’ I took of my shabby jumpsuit and went into the shower. ‘I’ll warm the water for you,’ I said and started the shower.

  In a few minutes, I saw a naked Sabrina. She was so beautiful; she returned the compliment and told me how beautiful I was. We both closed our eyes and let the hot water soak our hair and skin. The shower talk was deep, and I was inquisitive. ‘When were you diagnosed?’ I said.

  ‘When I was fifteen,’ she replied. ‘My father was the most well-respected businessman of his time. When I was twelve, he left my mother and she never recovered. She loved him too much, and he, too little. I was the only child and I knew that my mother wanted me to love my father as she anxiously waited for him to come back to us. But I knew that ma
n would never come back. When I was fifteen, my mother died. I was all alone, and that’s when I broke down. I had to be hospitalised. Back then, psychiatric care was non-existent in India, so my maternal aunt sent me to Switzerland where I was under treatment as well as received private education.

  ‘At first, my doctor said I was grieving my mother’s death, but later it was established that I was suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder. I was always reckless, hurt myself emotionally, did hardcore drugs, had very poor eating habits, and I became very fat. I slept with numerous men in an effort to get them to be with me; it was almost like I needed men to fill my void. I was in and out of hospital until I met Mohammed,’ she concluded.

  ‘When did you meet him?’

  ‘I knew him all my life. He is my second cousin from my father’s side, but I actually really met him when I came back to India, in 1999. I was nineteen then. I had returned to India for my father’s funeral; he had died in a car accident. He was a wealthy man, and although he had married again, he willed everything—all the money, property and the business—to me.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Sabrina,’ I said. ‘Don’t be,’ came her reply. ‘I hated my father, and did not want anything from him. However, I accepted everything in the memory of my mother.’

  ‘You worship your father, and still mourn his death; I worship my mother, and still mourn her death,’ she said, holding back her tears. ‘Amrita, your mother did what she did because she fell in love. Accept it, and cherish her. Ask me the importance of a mother, Amrita,’ she continued.

  ‘I love her, I do. But I feel neglected. Emotionally, I am so sore, like all Borderlines,’ I said, turning the shower nozzle off, and drying myself with a towel.