Honest to Blog - Goosebumps
- Ang Nicole
- Mar 12, 2019
- 7 min read
The second in a series of ‘things I am passionate about.’
My second memory of having an anxiety attack was when I was around six years old. We had a shed out the back in which my dad had put a car battery to charge.
The battery was sitting on top of the freezer, restricting my access to the zooper-doopers.
Despite being warned not to touch the battery, I was hankering for an icy treat! I pushed aside the battery, just enough to lift the lid to the chest freezer and access the treats.
When I went back out of the shed my older sister asked if I had touched the battery. I admitted that I had, but it was just a little.
She is almost five years older than me, and loved to prank me (and low-key torture me).
My sister told me that my hands were going to dissolve.
Although I was young, I was an avid reader.
Goosebumps by R. L. Stine were a favourite of mine.
Because I was not supposed to have the books at home because they clashed with the beliefs of my parents, I often read them at school.
One, out of the 233 scary stories published in the series, which I had recently read was about a boy who was invisible.
So, having heard I would dissolve… I was convinced that I would never be seen again by those I loved and cared for.
It was the stuff of literal nightmares.
I looked down at my hands and noticed for the very first time in my life that I could see blue veins beneath the skin of my hands.
I was convinced that it was happening – I was dissolving.
I remember running inside to my mum who was asleep on the couch; I woke her up and told her what my sister had said.
I was distraught!
I showed mum my hands. She kind of laughed it off and said I would be fine.
It didn’t feel like I would be.
I curled up on the floor, reaching out to my mum and sobbing because I was scared she would never see me again.
To this day I still look at my veins and wonder if they are normal.
When I wrote the previous blog post about my passions I had written this:
“As a sufferer of BPD and Anxiety Disorder, I am passionate about connecting people to the right source they need to help them with their journey. I am always working towards getting the help that I need, so that I can be helpful to others too. When my mental health is a mess I cannot be the loving and kind person that I strive to be.”
I want to expand on my statement throughout this post and discuss some of my personal feelings and experiences with BPD.
- Trigger Warning –
In this post I will speak very blatantly about my struggles with BPD, about my diagnosis and how it all brought me to where I am at today. Please don't read further if you are easily triggered, or feel that you are not in the right headspace to cope with potentially triggering subjects such as suicide, hospitalisation and personal opinions on medicating.
To give you a proper picture of who I am and how I became diagnosed you’ll need to understand a few things about me.
I was married at 19 years old and consequently divorced at 22 years old. I have spent year’s self-loathing for the fact that my marriage was a chaotic nightmare. My ex-husband enabled my mental health issues and gas-lighted me often! But I didn’t even know what that meant until I was 23 years old and visiting a friend as she was in a psych ward (we both suffer with BPD) and she told me about what it meant.
As a girl that grew up in a strict, and somewhat culty, Christian household let me just say that being divorced was kind of a big deal!
I was made to feel very ashamed for the fact that I was divorced.
Admittedly I did have an affair – I am not proud of it, but it is a fact.
I am of the belief that if a relationship is stable and healthy there would never be room for one to have an affair.
If I had felt the love, attention or affection of my husband then I am very certain I would never have felt the need to seek it elsewhere.
This is in no way an excuse, but helps you to get a full picture of what brought me to the next point of my life.
Anyway, so I am 22 years old and divorced.
I start dating this guy who is younger than me.
He is a super chill guy who I don’t get to see all the time, but we have fun together. His family are kind and accepting, they treat me better than my ex-husbands ever did. I am in love - with him? (in hind site) not so much – but with the idea that a family could be so loving and friendly.
Then my anxiety attacks get bad!
Really bad.
We would go out for drinks most weekends and inevitably I would have an anxiety attack (alcohol often induces these for me).
He didn’t really know what to do, and I couldn’t really tell him.
I think his breaking point was this one time when my anxiety attack went for roughly three hours. I was on the side of the road, wanting to run home, but miles from anything I knew. He sat with me and I kept repeating that I didn’t know him.
I can’t explain all the things I do or say during anxiety attacks.
I can be quite cruel and ruthless to myself, and to those around me.
I have hit myself to the point of bruising, I have hit others, I have torn up grass and I have sat repeating the same things over, and over, and over (sounding completely insane).
In this instance I remember thinking that my boyfriend and I hadn’t been together long so I barely knew him, but all I could do was repeat that I didn’t know him (without being able to explain my thought process) as I was well past my window of tolerance.
Some bystanders called the police, he had to call his mum… it was all very messy.
Not long after he broke up with me, confiding that he believed I needed to seek professional help and most likely be medicated.
Personal opinion – I fucking hate being medicated.
In my experience I always end up feeling like an absolute zombie, a shell of who I really am.
I don't take medication on a daily basis, but in the event of a particularly difficult anxiety attack I do take diazepam to help me calm down.
So yeah, he broke up with me.
And all I could think was that I am utterly unlovable.
In fact, my ex-husband had told me this exact thing.
So I knew that it must be true, because at that point I had not experienced the kind of love that I now know exists. The kind that accepts you for your flaws and doesn’t love you despite them, it loves you because all of these things make you who you are.
I couldn’t fathom living knowing I was divorced, unlovable and that I was basically rejected by my parents because of their religious beliefs (which kind of just reinforced the fact that nobody could possibly love me).
I started hurting myself, cutting deep enough that it scared me.
I called my best friend and she met me at the Emergency Room. She sat with me, unsure of what to do or say, holding onto me as I wept.
(Quick shout out to her for always supporting me even though she doesn't really understand it. You always go above and beyond for me and I am so grateful for you)
Upon admittance, once my bestie had left, I felt an overwhelming sense of being alone and felt (wrongly) that nobody cared for me.
I left the hospital, bought a bottle of red wine, drove (while heavily medicated by hospital staff) to one of my favourite places and with clarity I had never before experienced… I knew what I had to do.
My sister found me before the ambulance (something I am yet to forgive myself for).
I was unconscious. Bleeding. Unresponsive.
I was whisked away in the ambulance and placed in a part of the psych ward known as flexi – where they take those that are a danger to themselves and others.
Over the course of a few days I was analysed by psychiatrists, psychologists, doctors and nursing staff.
After much deliberation they concluded I had three super fun diagnosis – depression, anxiety and Borderline Personality Disorder.
Since then I have basically been running from my diagnosis and trying to pretend like I am not just BPD, I am Ang.
But recently I spent another week in hospital and realised a confronting truth – it is time to finally address my mental health problems.
I have done a few things since then.
The first of which was to start a self-awareness journal. I keep track of my emotions and my anxieties then try to figure out ways to solve the issues I am facing. I see my psychologist (weekly at this point). I have started drawing. I started this blog. I haven’t been working as much. I have even turned down events that I had been looking forward to for months, knowing it was the best choice for my mental growth.
But just know that doing all these things doesn’t mean all of a sudden I am cured.
I am still battling constantly to be healthy in my thoughts and actions.
My relationship is scarily co-dependent and although we love each other deeply, we have to work on this. We plan to work on ourselves individually so that we can be loving in a healthy way, and we have gone a few times as a couple to see a psychologist.
I struggle a lot with practicing self-care because I don’t believe I deserve it.
But I am not invisible, and I need to stop telling myself that I am unimportant.
The first time I was in hospital I had a surprising amount of friends and family ditch me… I think that maybe it was all a bit much for them.
Somehow this time, people seem to be more supportive.
I think maybe it is because this time I want to get better!
I want the same thing for others who are struggling with their own issues too.
I am passionate about people being at peace with themselves and learning to love themselves for who they are, the way I hope I can one day too.
I encourage you to reach out and find the support you need if you’ve struggled with any of the things I have mentioned, or if you’re battling your own demons.
If you feel that you need help I strongly urge you to seek the assistance of friends, family or you can call the numbers of helplines such as Beyond Blue (1300 22 4636) or Lifeline (13 11 14)
Or visit www.beyondblue.org.au or www.lifeline.org.au
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