Borderline

by Shabri Prasad Singh

  When we were both dry, we got into bed. Sabrina took out an injection; it was heroin. ‘No, Sabrina, don’t. You are so lovely and smart; you are too good for this stuff. Please don’t,’ I begged her. Not paying any heed to me, she injected the drug anyway.

  ‘I am doomed to love Mohammed. He, however, doesn’t love me back. He has changed; over the years, he has stopped loving me. I have done everything to win his heart again, but I feel he just can’t handle me anymore. We Borderlines are so hard to love . . . Why, Amrita? Why?’

  ‘We are capable of much more love than normal people. Obviously, this scares them. Our intensity is a boon and a curse at the same time. It cannot be handled by the best of people, Sabrina. That’s why we are hard to love,’ I replied.

  ‘When I married him, I was a teenager, madly in love. He made me feel secure; he pampered me and took care of me, as a result of which the anxiety and the emptiness went away for a while. But then his father died, and he took his place in the political party. I have hardly seen him ever since. To numb the pain, I started going out alone. I got a tattoo that says “marriage”, because I believed in Mohammed and myself. I swore on my mother’s grave that I would fall in love and be with him forever. He, however, changed, and I felt ignored. It’s the same as possessing something and not realising its value. You, too, don’t know your value, Amrita,’ Sabrina went on.

  ‘Shshsh . . . sleep now. I’m here, and the bed is warm and cozy; just sleep,’ I said as I kissed her on the forehead and switched off the lights.

  I did not sleep that night at all. Partly because I did not take my medicines and partly because I was in deep thought. While it was easy for me to understand Sabrina, it was difficult for others to understand us. Since our personalities could not be completely changed—only managed and restrained—we were cursed for life.

  The following morning, before I left for home, I urged her to reconsider injecting heroin. ‘It’s more than poison,’ I said. ‘So how can poison destroy poison; it can only make it stronger!’ she said. ‘You are not poison. In fact, you are its antidote; we both are,’ I said, and left the hotel.

  I went home and met my mother. Though we did not talk much, I could feel that she was glad I was back home. I told no one about Sabrina, though. We had decided to meet up in the evening, after her meeting with her lawyer. I booked a table on the terrace of my favorite restaurant. By the time she joined me, I knew something was wrong. She looked very upset and anxious.

  ‘I changed my will; I cut him out of everything completely,’ she said, as a tear rolled down her cheek.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ I asked her in a serious tone.

  ‘He wants me to get admitted in Dr Sunil Rukhja’s rehabilitation programme. He doesn’t believe in me, that’s why the alcohol and the drugs,’ she cried.

  ‘What does he not believe?’ I asked her, and handed her a cigarette. I, too, needed one by now.

  ‘He has a friend, a much older, dirty, slimy man, who is his political financier. One night, while Mohammed was away, he came over. I thought he was a nice man, but he got me drunk and repeatedly raped me that night.’

  ‘He raped you! In your own house, my God! Did you report on this bastard,’ I asked.

  ‘I was drunk, and I was emotional. I barely remember what happened, but I know for sure I was raped. I told Mohammed but he did not believe me. He said I was trying to create trouble. The problem is that this man is old, and I was high. I feel disgust as I say this, but I partly let him rape me as I got turned on. I am sick of myself,’ Sabrina cried.

  ‘I liked his dirty touch, especially on my breasts. After a few days, I told him I was going to report on him and have him exposed. He simply grabbed me and injected me with heroin. I liked what it did to me, and then he undressed me and did it all over again,’ she continued.

  ‘Sabrina, you need to stay away from this man, or you need to report on him. Forget it if your husband does not believe you; just get away from Hyderabad.’

  ‘Getting raped by this monster was my own sweet form of revenge on Mohammed’s distancing himself and emotional neglect of me. But now I am addicted to the heroin and the sleazy sex. I have told Mohammed that I take heroin, that I have been raped, and that I am not well. But all he wants me to do is check into a rehab. I don’t need rehab; the solution is to be loved in the way that I love.

  ‘Enjoying being raped was a part of my impulsive behaviour. I felt guilty for months after. Just as I feel guilty about heroin. But I am a Borderline, and I feel afraid of rejection and abandonment. We Borderlines are always lying somewhere in-between—in-between love and hate, neurosis and psychosis, being with someone and then wanting to leave, a safe and clean life while wanting to destroy ourselves, in-between a sea of emotions and then numbness.’

  She took a large sip from her glass of wine, and then ordered her martini.

  ‘Guilt, anger, jealousy are all vestigial emotions, Sabrina! Do you want to get better?’ I asked her point blank.

  ‘Again a “in-between”, as my answer is “yes” and “no”. This Doctor Rukhja says that my Borderline Personality has hints of histrionic personality disorder too, in which I want attention and I dress proactively to get it. I am also constantly swinging between feelings, from feeling good one minute to sad in the very next; loving in the very next. I refuse to take medicines as I gain so much weight when I take them. Luckily, I have no problems sleeping, so rehab and medicines seem pointless to me,’ she concluded.

  ‘Sabrina, come and see Dr Chugh; he is the best. He has got me from a point of complete destruction to some form of stability. Forget the rape, and then the willful sex with that man; forget Mohammed’s growing distance from you and get back to life. You have the money—why not take a world tour, and move on in life,’ I pleaded with her.

  Again, she said ‘no’ and ‘yes’, and I understood why.

  Suddenly, she turned the conversation around and asked me: ‘I know I love Mohammed, but do you love Pink?’

  It was my turn to say ‘yes’ and ‘no’. I loved Pink, and yet I did not love him at the same time. But of all the men who ever came into my life, he was the only one who seemed to be close enough to understand me.

  ‘I only know one love, Sabrina—my father’s love. No man stands a chance in front of him. I have no real space for other men; I just get obsessed with them. Subconsciously, I secretly want to sabotage the relationship. So I do all the wrong things, and that is the truth.’

  ‘Well, I love Mohammed, but his rejection kills me. I did such a lowly thing by enjoying sex with his friend. I want Mohammed to love me back, but I’m afraid it will never be the same. I want a baby, I want Mohammed, and I want him to quit politics.’

  By now, the food had been served, but we were not hungry. We had it packed, and went back to her hotel. However, I agreed to go with her on one condition: That she would not take heroin, and she agreed.

  I felt as if I needed to counsel Sabrina. I said to her, ‘I really think things have gone way too far, Sabrina. You yourself have told me that at times, he even hits you. You need to let go of Mohammed, and forgive me for saying so.’

  ‘Can Borderlines ever let go?’ she asked me with helpless eyes. Unfortunately, I felt as helpless as her.

  Yet, I said, ‘We may not know how to let go, but we can at least learn to fly. We can at least lighten our burden by learning not to feel guilty all the time. We can surely learn to control our emotions, and learn to fill our emptiness.’ I held her hand as I said the things I told myself every day.

  ‘How?’ she desperately asked.

  ‘By learning about our patterns and choosing a different path. Sabrina, why don’t you start by going to a good counsellor, and by getting back to taking your medicines,’ I said. I again tried to convince her to visit Dr Chugh.

  ‘No, Amrita. I will deal with the patterns of my personality on my own. I will fight it myself. We are different in one way: You love your doctor, and I hate mine. Like you, I just cannot
accept a “no”. I can’t accept Mohammed’s rejection of me. I shout and scream, I cry all the time. Mohammed comes to the room and sees me crying. But instead of placating me, he simply leaves the room. To seduce him, I even lost weight and started looking attractive again. He still did not want to make love to me. I cooked for him, wrote him love letters, told him about my feelings, but he simply ignores me. As a desperate attempt, I now do the opposite of what he wants me to do. I sometimes even embarrass him at social gatherings. He has instructed his secretary to keep me away from the house when his guests are over. I have no friends, as they have all left me. I am tired of being alone, just like you,’ she was ranting and raving.

  I wanted to forcefully take her to Dr Chugh, but since she was leaving for Hyderabad the following morning, I did not press the matter. In Sabrina, I had found someone with the same wounds and scars as myself. I wanted to make her feel better while working on myself as well. However, something was nagging me. I was extremely worried about how Sabrina felt about herself. Slowly, I got up and gently kissed her on the mouth. Then I kissed away her tears. I touched her whole body with love and empathy in an effort to make her feel clean and pure about her physical self; in order to rid her of her feelings of hatred towards herself because of the way she had allowed that pervert to touch her. It was a kiss and touch of mutual trust and understanding, not lust.

  Three months later . . .

  Sabrina and I were constantly in touch for about three months. We both loved each other. Of course, we disagreed on a lot of things, but we still respected each other enough to look past our differences.

  Things got worse for Sabrina as far as her husband was concerned. And so one night, she did the inevitable.

  Sabrina lured the old man and killed him by giving him an overdose of heroin. She then did the same to herself, thereby committing suicide.

  I met Mohammed at the funeral, and he seemed devastated; he was in tears. I only had one question for him: ‘Did you love her?’

  ‘Yes, I truly did.’

  I left him crying. Sabrina took this extreme step because she was grieving the loss of love. She did the inevitable, like most Borderlines: She fantasised about suicide, she took her own life, to feel life again someplace else. The shocking truth is ten per cent of most Borderlines will take multiple attempts on their lives and succeed eventually. This is one of our most devastating patterns.

  The man who took an oath to love and protect her was unable to do so. Her death shocked me. Slowly but gradually, I, too, was getting to a very dangerous part of the illness.

  There is no time but this time,

  Keep only those memories that beautifully rhyme,

  The future rejected me, calling me the mistress of my past,

  Ergo my present also became aghast.

  That was Sabrina’s last poem for me.

  Chapter 20

  PSYCHOTIC PARANOIA

  Where buildings fall and visions melt,

  Where sleep is lost because of the dead,

  He comes in my dreams and spreads his legs,

  I love him so much he dances on my head.

  It was May 2014. A different political party had taken over the country after a lot of mudslinging and campaigning. Soon, the country was enveloped in a class war. People from different castes were fighting with each other over reservation issues. The matter blew out of proportion, resulting in destruction and vandalism all over India. With widespread communal riots and killings, the country had become a cesspool of corruption and injustice. The more I saw of the country’s problems, the more hopeless and sick I became over this appalling situation. The new Prime Minister of India and Bhaarat Ohri who lost to him were at the centre of creating this mayhem in our country. Politics, the dirtiest game ever played, was consuming the peace of others.

  I was back to the question of what to do with myself, as I had varying self-images and goals for myself, but no stability and definite goals.

  Pink and his family had left India for good. His father-in-law got caught in a scam and had to withdraw from his political career. The family collected all its ill-gotten wealth and relocated to London. Pink and I still met, but the distance was beginning to take its toll on our relationship. Meanwhile, I had also found a new friend who was gay. He was happily living together with the love of his life, as the Indian Constitution did not recognise same-sex relationships.

  People were dying on the streets due to summer temperatures crossing fifty degrees; water, food, shelter, and electricity—basic human needs had become luxuries—and the media was covering ‘stories’ about the poor dying because of this; political scams and other issues had led the country to a point of absolute turmoil. All these issues made me want to fight the corrupt political system of our country. Until then, I had wanted to become a politician and help people. Looking at the current state of affairs, I dropped the idea as I found politics to be a very murky world. Instead, I thought of fighting the system by writing about it. Soon, the idea of writing became a desire, and the desire a dream. I wanted to write a book, so I spent my nights researching on the problems the country was facing. And to me, the answer was simple. India was plagued by corruption, illiteracy and over-population. If these three problems could be overcome, we could progress towards becoming a global power. I had even thought of a name for my book: ‘Politics of Race.’

  I now had a purpose in life. So whenever I went out—either to attend a party or simply to meet friends—I would tell people that I was writing a book. This became a joke amongst my family and friends, as I spent all my nights researching but never wrote more than a chapter or two, the reason being that my head was full of ideas and my mind was overloaded with information. The more I read about and witnessed what was going on in the country and in the world, the more it affected my mind. I would empathise with those who were suffering, and their pain would make me sick. I became more and more self-destructive reading about terrorism, genocide, corruption, inequality, racism, people killing one another over money, a mother killing her own daughter over money . . . I failed to understand what was going on?

  In my session with Purnima, I asked her if she were affected by my pain. She said, ‘If I allow myself to get caught up in the pain my patients suffer from, I would not be able to function.’ She told me it was good that I empathised with people, but I should not and cannot allow myself to become sick over it. She said I needed to self-preserve myself.

  However, I did not take her advice and instead, kept on reading about things that made me despondent. I began to lose sleep over the misery in the world—from the poor on the streets, to the victims of rape and violence, the terror attacks, and the wars the world was facing—all of this would bring mayhem to my mind. And then the inevitable happened: I lost my grip on reality again.

  I started visiting temples: I prayed and cried, changed my appearance by wearing traditional outfits and sporting a tilak on my forehead every day after my temple visits; I even begged God to rid me of my sins even though a part of me believed that God was fiction. Another thing that took away my sleep and peace of mind was that evil Guruji, whom my Papa helped when he was a nobody. All of a sudden, he had a million followers after he died. Everywhere I went, I saw his slimy picture and people revering him. My friends told me they could see Guruji in the tea they drank and sometimes Guruji would bless them and heal them if they went to his ashram and drank that special tea. I was appalled. I told Uncle, and he said although he was his cousin, he believed he was a fraud. He also told me to ignore his popularity. I wanted to expose this fraud Guruji to my friends, but when they learnt he was a cousin of my Dad’s, they started to ask me if they could meet my Dad. I was disgusted by this and I went to Shiva temples and cried for hours on the Shivalinga. Where was the world going to? What had become of the world? Where dark and wrong people are worshipped and honest and simple people suffered!

  I created a Facebook page on Borderline Personality Disorder and posted daily updates about the si
gns and symptoms of the disease, and how those affected by it could help themselves. The responses I got were appalling. People started messaging to ask if I had this disorder; they even went on to say that by writing about it, I was exposing myself to the world. While I was aware of all the criticism I was receiving, I did not care about it. The page was getting popular, and since I was barely eating and sleeping, I began to lose weight. I started looking thin and sexy, and whenever Pink was in town, we had awesome sex. However, I was getting vindictive too. I was spiteful with people, and lost my temper easily. All this left me haunted by my Papa’s memories, and I lost perspective on everything in life.

  Once, I went to attend a wedding with my parents. I was looking beautiful, but at the same time, I was sleep deprived and had developed a very nervous disposition. When the groom arrived on the scene, I started hearing voices in my head and began to imagine that my parents had arranged my marriage. I started running around at the marriage venue, screaming and imagining that it was Bhaarat Ohri who wanted to marry me. I was shouting and hugging Uncle, so my parents immediately got me into the car to take me back home. When we got home, I simply collapsed. The following morning when I woke up, I was glad that I had slept. When I heard what had transpired the previous night, I was shocked. I had a very vague memory, and this made my parents all the more worried and concerned.

  Over the course of the next few weeks, I imagined that everywhere I went, people were watching me and they wanted to kill me. I even told my driver to carry a gun around whenever I went out. Dr Chugh was travelling abroad at the time, and he added some antipsychotic medication to my existing dose of medicines, and told Purnima to monitor me for a week. Since the medication was very strong, it made me sleep.

  But soon, I slept less and less and developed hallucinations. I would keep crying and repeating: ‘I will never let my Papa go.’ I was so anxious that I only slept for an hour or two each night. I was getting thinner and thinner, and would hallucinate and hear voices. My body became electric, and I would feel shocks when I touched things. I would toss and turn in bed, torturing myself throughout the night as I was unable to sleep. Living through this insomnia, I would keep thinking about my book and have a clear picture of it in my head. Then I would knock on my parents’ door at odd hours of the morning and bring them an empty diary saying, ‘Look, I have written the book.’ They would try to put me to sleep, but nothing would work. My body had become arrested and it could not move when I lay in bed; however, my mind went into an overdrive. I even went and got a tattoo on my body which said ‘Vish’, meaning poison, and an anagram of the word Shiv.