"Is there a bottom with BPD? Does something happen that changes everything? This will sound bizarre, but yes, I've figured out what did it: rage. Ultimately rage, not hope, hurls me into recovery when I finally understand that it's not simply my illness, but incompetence and avoidance from the mental health system that has created my 'incurable and hopeless' condition."
-Kiera Van Gelder
I too feel this rage, of the person caged and studied, men huddled around with their notebooks and closed doors; told your failure to keep yourself alive and functioning is you just not trying hard enough, or just that you're incapable. I know the rage of having your clothes taken away, shivering in a johnnie while some student, bored and monotone, lists off personal questions, deciding who you are with barely a glance in your direction. You have no voice, just tears in your eyes and a scabbed-up arm. I know the rage of a girl in a circle of men who, in the course of a few minutes of her fear and shame, explain how toxic she is. I know the rage of being released with a see-you-soon, a list of diagnoses under your bandaged arm, no explanation, from strangers who only saw symptoms.
I know the ambulance rides where you are stripped of humanity and power, things you never get back all the way. I know what it's like to carry those stares and labels with you always, telling you you'll never be anything more than the lines on your arm, the borderline you straddle constantly. Convinced everyone can see right through you.
You made me hopeless and incurable.