But... I Don't Want to be Borderline

Today I got on the internet to see if I could find a good book about borderline personality disorder. I don't know how to tell my mom and thought that maybe a book might make it easier (perhaps I could just send it to her and not actually have to say the words...). The problem though is that I cannot find one that I like. All the ones geared toward family members and such of folks with BPD make such individuals out to be just awful. Horribly manipulative and disruptive to the family, a strain on family life... There is a lot of talk about how 'different' people with BPD are, as if they are some sort of alien species. How hard they are to live with. How hard the disorder is on the family and friends of people who are borderline. I don't want to give my mom a book that says “Here are some of the horrors you've got to look forward to”. I don't want her to be told how freakish, how screwed up, how 'different' I am.

And I don't want to be borderline.

A Short Contemplation

I had a long drive this morning giving me plenty of time to think. That's not always a good thing, especially when I'm feeling less than stellar (as I was this morning). Still, one of my musings brought a little bit of enlightenment with it.

I was recalling bits and pieces from my incapacity evaluation yesterday and thinking about what I will do if the powers that be at DSHS tell me no, yet again. It brought to mind the time when B- (the psych) looked at me, at some point during the evaluation, and told me something to the extent that, even if i find myself in the place where death seems like the only option there is always another option. Always. What most struck me (after the fact) was how sincere he was. He really believed what he said. What else struck me was how much I don't believe it. Maybe it's not so much that I don't believe it as... I don't know, I don't feel it? I'm OK with dying. And if it happens sooner rather than later, by my own hand or not, I guess right now I just don't care all that much. I probably should feel badly about that, especially when it seems there are a good handful of people out there that do care. But I don't really feel badly about that either.

A Bald Faced Lie

As I said in my last post, sometime around the end of December last year or the beginning of January this year (I'm a little fuzzy right now as to which it actually is) I applied for what is basically a sort of temporary disability. Mid January of this year I was denied. After a recent call to the local crisis line I was encouraged by the good folks at community mental health to reapply. They themselves have actually been quite helpful where this is concerned, actually. Tonight I went to a mental health evaluation as part of my efforts to get the assistance I believe I am in need of. It wasn't a lot of fun, I can tell you that. I actually cried (something I hate doing) when, at the very first, the guy doing the eval said that he didn't think it looked very promising (thankfully I think he became a bit more convinced as we got in to things a bit more). We covered pretty much everything. We even went into border line personality disorder in some detail after I told him that I didn't quite agree with those who believed I might have that particular axis two diagnosis. That was pretty interesting, actually, and how I came to reluctantly agree. We covered depression (major depressive disorder, recurrent) and cutting and suicidal ideation and all of that good stuff. At the end of the evaluation he told me what he would be telling the powers that be at DSHS (BPD, MD, recurrent) and what he would suggest to them (cognitive behavioral therapy -for the depression- and dialectical behavioral therapy/classes -for the BPD-). He also asked me what I would do if they told me no again. I cannot remember what exactly I told him; probably something along the lines that I haven't thought that far yet. That would be the reason for the title of this entry. Because I am 99% positive I know what I will do if they tell me no again. If they take that last small bit of hope from me one more time.

I know what I'll do...

Normal

Funny, the first entry on my other blog bears this exact same title. This entry will prove to be a bit more sedate, I think, and less verbose. You see I don't write the same any more. If I am to be honest I will admit that I am not so sure I can write any more at least, not well. Still, why not? People will either read or they won't, and that's fine. But maybe, at the very least, I will get something out of the process.

So, back to Normal. The topic came up yesterday at what I can only call a 'follow up' appointment. I'm in a bit of a holding pattern, you see. Three emergency room visits and a few discussions with as many community mental health professionals later I am now waiting to see if I can get some help getting some help (sort of a short term social security, for lack of a better way to explain, and I've already been denied once but the people at mental health seem to think my chances are better now... if only I shared their optimism). And in the mean time I've had two of four 'crisis appointments' with a very nice woman who is neither a counselor nor a therapist and I'm not exactly sure what it is we are supposed to be doing (it's entirely possible that the whole goal is just to get me face to face with someone who can judge whether or not they need to worry I might kill myself in the near future). But again, I digress (good lord, the main body of this entry isn't going to be as long as this introduction or whatever it is).

Normal. I was asked if I could remember a time I had been happy to be alive. I thought for a moment and then smiled as I remembered Normal. Now since normal is subjective, as I am sure we all know, she predictably asked what normal is like for me. Unfortunately all I could do was again smile at the memory and tell her that Normal 'is good'. I suppose that is a bit of an understatement. Normal is VERY good and this entry is my attempt to clarify a bit more, if only for myself, what Normal is.

So here goes.

Normal is good. With Normal life is good. There is hope, with Normal, but you don't notice it because there is no need, if you understand me. People rarely think of hope unless they need to. Unless there is some question as to whether or not that hope actually exists. With Normal those small little things don't really get you down. You might worry but it doesn't consume you and it very rarely sticks around too long. Normal... well, Normal is just good. I really cannot explain it any better than that. The memory of Normal brings a smile to my face one that unfortunately leaves all too quickly as I recall how long it has been since Normal has visited... and as I begin to despair that it will never come calling again.