MEMOIR OF THE SPLINTERED

THE END

Hello.

I would start by introducing myself, but I've never thought of my name to be that important.

You're assigned a name at birth — the one given to you by your parents. And for what reason? Not because that name suits you; certainly not. It has nothing to do with your personality, your triumphs or your failures. The name to which you were given was simply chosen to help identify you.

Label you.

And you can't blame your parents for choosing a name you would grow up to dislike. For the most part, parents choose the name they thought — at the time — sounded the prettiest or the coolest. How could they have known that you would grow up with a personality that juxtaposes that name?

How could they have known you would grow up, not feeling comfortable in the body you're given; with the feminine name they've slapped you with? A name you would repeat over and over while staring at yourself in the mirror with tears streaming down your cheeks because you don't recognize who you are.

The literal meanings of my given middle name are: "the first appearance of light in the sky before sunrise", and "become evident to the mind; be perceived or understood".

Personally, I would say I outgrew that name years ago. When the light became dark, and understanding became frustrated confusion.

As you get older, doctors and specialists will gaze upon that darkness and confusion within you, and provide you with another label.

Mentally ill.

Another label given after the doctors have dissected you, believing they know everything there is to know about you after a twenty minute therapy session. Another label that you don't have a say in before it's slapped on your record for life.

And just like that, it's the end.

The end of your own self-identity, because now you live with the one you've been given.

The end of the freedom you once had from the stereotypes that accompany your disorder.

When I was first diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder, I didn't know much about it. The name didn't make any sense to me, and the psychiatrist I had barely known from the hospital didn't do a very good job of explaining it. But, being in an emotionally fragile state, I accepted her diagnosis without complaint and let her alert all of my doctors and therapists of her "discovery".

It wasn't until I took a psychology course in college that I really began to learn about how others perceive Borderline Personality Disorder. I can still see the list of symptoms on that textbook page burning in my mind.

Emotionally unstable.

Manipulative.

Attention seeker.

Warped sense of self.

Unstable image or identity.

The list goes on and on of painful labels stabbed into me, as if rusted nails were being plunged into me, unable to be removed. I felt dirty, damaged... broken.

No... not broken. Broken implies something that cannot be fixed. I'm not fully broken. I'm...

Splintered.

I could try to ignore those labels; pry out those nails and continue on with my day. But even when you rip the nails out, irreparable holes are left behind. Something that badly damaged can never truly be fixed.

Instead, I began to obsess over that list of symptoms. Analyzing each and every one, wondering how it applies to me.

Twenty symptoms.

Twenty rusted nails.

Twenty bleeding wounds.

This is my story.