Content warning: this piece contains mention of suicidal ideation and discussion of mental illness. Recommended read for adults 18+.

Dear BPD,

I fucking hate everything about you Borderline Personality Disorder. You are the worst thing that ever happened to me. The sad truth is that I’m not alone in my suffering. You have taken love, light, and hope from many people.

More often than not, the humans that you hurt are younglings who are too innocent to protect themselves from your evil deeds. Like most predators, you lie in wait for your prey, those humans who are youthful, weak, and stray from their packs. You’re a disgusting creature who needs to be done away with like a rabid dog let loose upon a preschool. You prey on young, vulnerable children like a creep offering kids skittles and driving a big, white van, just lying in wait.

As a kid, I believed that if I was good and prayed every night, life would be amazing. My parents did their best to make my medical experience as happy as possible. They took me to the zoo and the candy store after procedures. They made sure that I had candy and a good dinner before I had to go on a Jell-O and water diet in preparation for medical procedures. My parents did everything we could to make these experiences positive. Despite being strong-willed, my muscles deterioration was full-blown. No amount of good deeds could fix the situation.

I went to church on Sundays, hoping God would protect me and bring me friends. Nobody would be ready to protect a little girl from a devil that is invisible.

I’m not even sure when your malicious plot was carried out upon me. It could have been medical trauma or the abuses I experienced from my teenage years. I’m not sure.

My childhood was complicated, to say the least. As a strong, medicated adult, and after years of therapy, I wonder when you decided to attack, As a child, I would always ask Jesus, every time I went to the doctor. I was always afraid that they would want to slice into my tiny body,  and do things that confused me. And when they finally decided to cut me open, I  prayed that I wouldn’t stop breathing. My parents tried to shield me from the risk of my death, but it never quite worked because even as a child, I could understand that there was a possibility that my short life would end in the unlikely event that a medical procedure went wrong. Like most little ones, I trusted my dad and mom to make choices for they inevitably signed the paper understanding my life could end to try to give me a chance to run and play like other youngsters.

At seven years old, after surgery, my folks got me a puppy to keep me company. Her name was Jewel. We loved each other from the second we met. She would curl up by the bed that I was confined to while healing and sleeping beside me. And when we were both playful so would pull me around the house while I held on to an old sock, I still miss her. We were best friends until the day she died.

I missed out on playing outside on hot summer days. Mine were spent in bed, watching TV, wishing I could run through the sprinklers, letting the water cool me off as the grass prickled my knees like other kids.  I frolicked in the grass for the first time.

As a teen I was miserable! Having these issues I never learned how to interact with people as a result of my isolation. I took comfort in being away from my peers. Hating the feeling of loneliness, daydreaming of falling in love for the first time, wanting to go out for ice cream with friends. I felt like I was not good enough to be a friend or a girlfriend. You make me think I’m unlovable.  As an adult. I have friends, family, and a wonderful partner. But no matter what, I’m always on edge. Because of you, I always hear that my loved ones will start to despise me, if anyone rejects me rejected, take those feelings to heart. Rejection cuts like a knife, and the wounds are slow to heal.

Because of borderline personality disorder, I’ve considered suicide even to the point of actively planning to take my own life.

I wonder what point you decided to ruin my existence . I wonder why I was a target. You cause so much pain and grief: the fear of being alone, of not being accepted, not knowing who you are inside, that everyone secretly hates you, or that you’re not good enough for anyone to love or find even a tiny amount of value in. I hate the way you make me feel. You’re like the monster under my bed. No one believes that you exist, but you haunt me all the time. In my head, I think everybody hates me even though I make friends easily. I’m attractive, I’m funny, and animals adore me. But in my head, everybody hates me, and that’s because you told me that every day. Why?

There’s nothing more I can do than fight intrusive thoughts! Telling myself that I’m worthy of a nice day. I can spend whole days writing down my thoughts and ways to dismiss them.

My constant fear of abandonment and my intense mood swings have caused me a lot of difficulty in romantic relationships. I have lost several people in my life, friends, and romantic partners, because it’s been difficult for them. Even though my family denies it, I’ve heard them speak in hushed tones, or over a glass of wine when they think I’m not around.  You tell me how much of an issue it is for them. Some of these losses and difficult relationships still hurt.

You make me feel like I’m bat shit because one minute, I’ll be the happiest person on Earth and the next minute, I’ll want to delete myself from the planet. I don’t understand why these things happen to decent people. I can feel like I’m nuts. People say I have false memories,    One way or another, have false memories leads me down a rabbit hole where I feel like I’m either going insane or living in Hell. No matter, this would put me in a never-ending spiral of pain.

You are the evil voice in my head telling me that no one loves me and that the world would be better off if I were dead, the voice that tells me to overdose on my prescription drugs. I fight that every day and night. Fuck you!

Editor: Shannon Hensley