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.
Lucy's Depression Diary 