I have always loved to write. From my earliest school days I enjoyed putting my thoughts and experiences down on that fresh, clean, waiting page. Later I realised that I could express myself more easily on paper than I could when speaking face to face with someone. When, later still, it became apparent to me that I was different from other people in various ways, it became more important still to write. That way I did not have to share my words (and therefore my thoughts) with anyone and so did not have to face the unexpected surprise, shock, resentment, anger, disgust or other frightening response that might come from them.
I found that I could not understand other people. I could not predict what reaction they would have to my always well-intentioned words. Becoming increasingly self-conscious, I communicated less and less by speaking. I was protecting myself from the hurt of others - those whom I knew did not understand me. I became aware that others thought me odd, stand-offish, arrogant, self-opinionated. The result was, though, that I was becoming an isolate, a social recluse, super-sensitive and self-protective at any cost.
It was much, much later that I finally learned from a therapist that my "oddness" was in fact a personality disorder, of genetic or other cause, for which I myself was not to blame. But blame and misjudgement I surely suffered: from family members, ashamed of the stigma that I had brought upon them; from work colleagues who found my mood changes uncomfortable; from doctors who concluded my constant concerns about problems of dizziness, nausea, stomach pains and chest palpitations were signs of my hypochondria.
The depression that flew in and flew out of my every day for many years has finally turned into a dark. threatening, ever-present cloud that chokes my view of the sun and stifles light-heartedness and joy. My struggles, finally, have dragged me through to old age. I am now an octogenarian, an old woman - isolated, reclusive and still "rather odd."
For me it is worse now than it was through all those years before. Today I do not have the highs in between, none of the delights of being fit and confident and capable of doing ANYTHING. None of the pleasure of coming inside on so many days from the fragrantly abundant garden, my self covered with perspiration and grime, but knowing that treasured, wondrous place was as perfect as I could make it in the eight hours I had just toiled there.
Writing is my main form of communication, now that I am elderly, frail and living alone with my dog. I am suffering considerable pain from back and hip problems, struggle to walk, contend with the multiple problems of IBS - its stomach aches, nausea and discomfort. But that old, BIG problem is ever with me, for I am "odd". I have borderline personality disorder.
Fortunately, my dog loves me, just as I am.
