Shame Continued…

Today I had to get a physical to make sure I was “healthy” enough to continue with DBT, who would’ve thought it’d be so difficult?

Shame continued…

It was time to get a physical, Dr. Robot was giving me the physical, I was petrified.  He could feel it in my body as tried to get my reflexes.  He told me to relax several times, but I couldn’t.  My body was stiff, perhaps ready to fight.  I was not a violent borderline, my feelings were for the most part kept inside and I for the most part fought with myself, but this man frightened me to the point of wanting to defend myself.  He chuckled a few times when I couldn’t relax my shoulders, elbows and I was humiliated… A young good- looking man walked in to add to my humiliation.  He was taking my blood.  Confusion set in.  What were they looking for in that blood?  Why I was in sheer terror of beng alone?  Why I had almost no friends?  Why I was so angry?  Why I had cried every day since I could remember?  Why I was so helpless?  Would these results really come up in a blood test?

I was both envious and intrigued again at this kid taking my blood.  He was probably working a job he liked, had friends, went home every night to a girlfriend and if they broke up he most likely didn’t swallow 47 xanax to “ease” the pain..  I also felt shame, I was older than him , yet in front of him I became a child, talked very little, only when spoken to, kept my eyes down so he wouldn’t see how sunken they were from withdrawl, and just prayed in my head he would go away quickly.  I was a failed woman in front of a thriving young man…

Next, came a three hour interview.  I sat in the waiting room for the interviewer.  In she walked, long black hair, same as I’d had as a little girl, before everyone told me blondes were more beautiful, petite, frecke faced, she looked lke she’d just com out of the womb and again here she was to offer me help.  Shame.  We sat in a samll room.  I felt inflated next to her, I had always been thin but in the last month due to cutting down on running I had gained 10 pounds.  I looked at her, she too was floating, cut in half, but I PRETENDED TO BE OK.  That is until she asked me questions, three hours worth of questions, that resurfaced memories I didn’t want to relive over and over, my brain was doing that on it’s own already.  I sobbed throughout most of the interview, wiping my tears with my sleeves, with my scarf and she watched me, finally offering to go get tissues.  Shame.  At one point I looked at her.  I had just told her all about my pain, my agony, the demons that lay inside me, my suicide attempts, how I’s wish to die, and I noticed a callous indifference in her, which scared me.  FEAR.  “Do you ever get depressed doing this?”  I aksed.  “No”, she answered as if I’d just asked her if she wanted some ice cream.  I couldn’t understand, who was the “crazier” one me or her?  I’d get depressed looking at hot dog vendors ont he street, in the cold, trying to earn a dollar to pay bills, living an unfulfilled life, instead of the Amreican Dream and she didn’t get depressed by people’s stories of abuse, drug addiction, suicide attempts.  It was then that I knew how different I really was….


2 Responses

  1. This was a really good post. I like how you explain everything that you went through, what you were thinking, and how it made you feel. This is very insightful for others without BPD to help them understand what you’re going through and understand you. Please keep posting things this way.

    I’m curious to know what kind of things you do in therapy that seem interesting to you, if you don’t mind talking about it too.

  2. I’ve asked that same question numerous times… How can this not affect you? When I see someone in pain, I feel that pain too. When someone else is sad, I feel sad too.

    I know doctors, social workers, etc. are necessary, but something in me rebels against their blatant objectivity and indifference.

    I just could never be that way.

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