The questions just keep flooding in…

These past few weeks, as well as the next week, have been and will be incredibly busy for me. It’s the end of the semester, and everything is due. Last week alone contained four separate tests, a quiz, and two presentations. This week is papers and quizzes and projects, and more trying to figure out who I am.

In my English class, we’ve been working on research papers and accompanying powerpoint presentations. Since I don’t know as much as I’d like to about Borderline Personality Disorder, it became my topic of research. Since I declared my major in the psychology department a few weeks ago, I get weekly emails containing announcements and opportunities for undergrads in the psych department. At the very end of the first one I got, there was an announcement that nearly stopped my heart: a presentation entitled “Understanding BPD”, being held at my church.

It was on my calendar the instant I saw it.

Little did I know how dangerous of a move that was. The day of my presentation, I got in a fight with a vending machine, and felt like crap while I was educating my class on the dangers of misdiagnosing Borderline Personality Disorder. While I was speaking, it didn’t hit me very hard, but once I sat down, I was sick to my stomach. I hadn’t said out loud that I had BPD, but it felt like I may as well have.

Then, last night, I realized the BPD presentation was imminent. I wanted to go for my own personal learning, as well as possibly getting some quotes for my paper. I invited my girlfriends from Presbyteria, who all initially said they had things to do. Discouraged, I went to my room and packed up, trying to get ready to face my own insanity without anyone to support me. Right before I got out the front door, I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket, and found that Corinne was calling. Cole, Jess, and Corinne all ended up coming, which was both a relief and  nerve-wracking. Maybe they’d be better able to understand what I was going through, but what I know about BPD scares the crap out of me — what if I scared them off? How was I going to get along?

The presentation was easy on the ears, but many of the facts that the woman presented were like punches to the stomach. Nearly everything she said hit home, and there were a few points where the tears leaked out of my eyes. There were other people in the room with BPD, who said things that validated some of the inanely intense and confusing feelings that I was trying to deal with on a daily basis. I got to thank the presenter afterwards, and wrote on my evaluation that I was grateful for her words that encouraged me to discard the notion that I was going crazy.

I put most of what I’d heard out of my mind today, because it was a busy one, and I needed to focus on homework and planning the rest of the week. But this evening, while talking to Corinne on AIM, she asked me to read her latest blog entry (which you all should read too, there’s a link to her blog in the right sidebar). I continued scrolling after I finished, and saw “BPD” in the title of the next blog post. She wrote a little about the presentation, and how, in her professional career, she never wanted to treat anyone with BPD.

I had another moment where my heart nearly stopped. I don’t even know why I’m so scared, but when this stuff comes up, even when I bring it up, a myriad of thoughts and scenarios nearly always flood my mind:

I’m going to lose my mind. Will I graduate from college, or will I snap and take myself out first? Will the BPD and and depression and the anxiety get worse? What if I have a panic attack in public? How do I ever learn to talk about the scars on my arms? Will I ever forgive myself for what I’ve done? Can I ever get rid of these self-destructive tendencies? Am I going to live the rest of my life alone? Will my mood swings and self-injury and borderline personality scare everyone away? Will God ever bring some good of this? When will the pain and the confusion end?

As the questions race, an empty, swollen feeling gathers in my stomach, and my eyes water. I begin to shake, and almost all at once, a numb lethargy steals any motivation to move. My trembling hands fall folded in my lap, as I wait for the fear to pass, knowing it will take its sweet time.

I want to say something, to communicate the feeling of my heart twisting and turning on itself inside my chest, of the throbbing brokenness covering my arm, but my words always fall short. I want to keep quiet, because I don’t want to burden my friends with struggles that I pray they never become sick enough to understand, I don’t want to sound or feel like I’m complaining or whining about something that probably doesn’t have much to do with them…

… and after all that, I want to tear myself apart, to throw myself against a brick wall until I don’t have the strength to move, to jump off of some high place, and enjoy a few fleeting moments of peace before the pain I so deserve.