The fear of a PD diagnosis

I’m beating myself up at the moment about the possibility of my diagnosis being changed to emotionally unstable personality disorder (or having it added to my existing diagnosis). It’s been on my mind almost constantly since last week’s psychology session.

The first time this possibility was suggested to me, it was by Dr Lee. In her report from a meeting at the end of 2016, she had me ‘under review’ for EUPD ‘traits.’ Her view was that my depression – severe at the time – was exacerbating these traits.

When I was admitted to hospital, the psych who sectioned me was very clear that he didn’t think I had a personality disorder, and my discharge summary made no mention of it. But since it cropped up in last week’s appointment, I’ve been beating myself up about the possibility of it becoming my official diagnosis.

I don’t deny that I have some EUPD traits, and I know that, as Dr Lee said, they’re more pronounced when I’m unwell. There are plenty of traits that I don’t think I have, but I have to admit that I do tick some of the boxes. And I’m genuinely terrified that I’m going to be diagnosed.

I know that a diagnosis is just words, and that no one need know what I’m actually diagnosed with unless I tell them (which I most definitely wouldn’t if I did get saddled with the EUPD label). But I’m seriously struggling with the possibility, because it confirms everything that I think about myself.

It confirms that I’m not unwell, but that there is something fundamentally wrong with me; that I have a ‘bad’ personality. It confirms that I’m right to dislike myself so intensely. It confirms that I’m attention-seeking, immature, manipulative, melodramatic, unreasonable, difficult, burdensome, exhausting, evil. Bad, bad, BAD. And if that’s the case, suicide starts to feel like the only option, because it’s not fair for my husband, children, family and friends to suffer because of me.

The hospital psych said that a lot of the people on the ward had personality disorders. It was clear to see who they were; they were the ones throwing their phones across the room, kicking and punching walls, screaming at staff and visitors, having to be physically restrained in the throes of temper. It was also very clear that the staff thought these people were ‘crazies,’ basket cases, a laughing stock: ‘Oh look, there goes her phone again, haha!’ They were treated as mad people, not ill people.

Do I feel like those people in the hospital? Not really, no. I did everything I could to avoid attention while I was on the ward, not to attract it. I spent as much time as I could get away with on my own in my room. I tried to be polite and patient and not make a fuss about anything. If I had EUPD, wouldn’t I have been kicking off rather than trying to stay under the radar and be a ‘good patient?’

There are other symptoms that I don’t tick, as well. My mood doesn’t swing as it should with EUPD. I don’t dissociate or have psychotic episodes.

But I can’t stop thinking about the possibility of getting this diagnosis, a diagnosis that scares me so much. I don’t want to be a ‘crazy psycho bitch’ who’s constantly causing drama. Maybe I am, though. Maybe that’s how everyone sees me. I already feel that I’m essentially bad at heart. Getting a PD diagnosis would be the concrete evidence of that. And if that were the case, I would find it very, very difficult to live with myself.

 

Today I’m hurting

I’ve been referred to children’s services yet again. It may just be a formality but it hurts. It hurts to think that I’m not a good enough mother for my children. It hurts that they have to check up on me because I can’t be trusted to look after them. It hurts that I know they’re right: I’m not a fit mother. I’m screwing the poor kids up for life.

It hurts, too, to be so very lonely. Everyone’s telling me that I’m looking good/doing well/on good form, and I know they mean it as encouragement. But it means that no one is recognising or acknowledging that things are so very hard still. Even with the improved medication. It’s only two weeks since I came out of hospital; too soon to be back to normal. And yet that’s what everyone expects, and I’m afraid not to live up to their expectations.

I need a hug. Someone to listen. A shoulder to cry on. But I’m on my own. On my own and hurting.

Taking it slowly

It’s two weeks now since I came out of hospital. Two weeks; it feels much longer. Already, I can look back on that period and think, ‘My God, I was really, really unwell, wasn’t I?’

It’s a huge blessing that I seem to have bounced back a lot quicker than I did after my first inpatient admission. I guess the fact that my medications haven’t been changed – only the doses – made for a shorter settling-in period.

But this seemingly fast recovery comes with a caution, and that’s that I need to make a conscious effort to pace myself.

The temptation is to throw myself headlong into normal life again. Back to work, back to the school runs, back to cooking and cleaning and Hotshots and everything else I usually do. And that’s a good thing in some ways; in a ‘fake it till you make it’ way, getting back to my usual routine is helping me feel more like myself.

But I do need to remind myself that it IS only two weeks since I came out of hospital. If I do too much, too soon, I’m in danger of running myself into the ground.

Pacing myself is hard because after the best part of two months out of action, I feel guilty about the time I lost and the burden that placed on Ian and others, and am compelled to make up for it.

It’s also emotionally and physically exhausting to try to be the person I am when I’m well, when I’m still in recovery – and at the early stages of recovery, for that matter.

What makes it harder is when people tell me I’m looking well. It’s great to hear that encouragement, but it also makes me feel under pressure to act as well as I look. Already, pasting on that smile and forcing myself to be ‘up’ all the time is taking its toll. That’s why, after an afternoon talking to Nick and Cherry about my involvement in church life, I was completely drained and felt very fragile.

The fact is, I’m not very good at pacing myself. But I must try. Because I really want this to be the start of a long period of stability, not just a temporary good spell leading up to another burnt-out crash.