“Have you heard of BPD”

What’s happened? Did I just wake up for the first time ever? Who am I? You mean I’m actually no one? I have known somehow all along but never known as well.

“Have you heard of BPD” Dr S asks me at the end of a soul destroying 1.5 hour interview.

No no no no no. I refuse. That can’t be me. But somehow, all along, yes, it is me.

I don’t want that. But it’s me. How can I pretend anymore. Or was I pretending… because I don’t know what’s real. They’ve identified me. They see me clearly, looking right at me from their three chairs. They didn’t even need to discuss between themselves. They’ve all seen it clearly, each for themselves. I walked right into it, freely, openly. No one blinks or nods or anything…. simply silence. Shhhh!!!! It needs to stay a secret because there’s actually really no “me”…

“Have you heard of BPD”. Yes I have. I know. I don’t want it. Take it back. Reverse time. I know what it is. My heart knows it’s me. And I’m it. That’s me – I’m that disgusting word. I’m disgusted. I hate myself.

“Have you heard of BPD”… Yes BPD is me. I am BPD. This connection of my clarity and seeing BPD smiling up at me from within some deep dank invisible part of me makes me realize that the day my body dies and screams in horror, trying to grasp the last breath I’ll never take will be a cake-walk compared to this moment of clarity. At least when I die… that will be real.

I, me, BPD, am looking at myself, smirking, satisfied with the response I’m getting. Good, I revel in the pain I’m causing – I know that she deserves it, she should have paid attention because she knew all along… Idiot. The betrayal stabs me like a knife, burning, spreading. I continue to stab myself in the back… again… again… again… It feels so good, so comfortable… I’m home.