Day 10: My Diagnosis Story - Finding Language for My Life.
This post concludes a 10‑day series exploring the nine criteria for Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). These posts are educational in nature and rooted in lived experience — they are not intended as tools for self‑diagnosis.
***
I didn’t always know what I was living with. I just knew I felt too much. Too sensitive. Too reactive. Too afraid. Too empty. Too intense. Too inconsistent.
Too much for others.
Too much for myself.
I started therapy when I was 8 or 9. I was diagnosed with Severe Generalized Anxiety, and I did exposure therapy for my biggest fear, which helped. But the anxiety never really left. Even now, it still lingers in ways that border on paranoia.
I was in and out of therapy throughout my teens, mostly because of behavioral issues. But I never felt safe enough to be truly honest. And because of that, it was often brushed off as “typical teenage behavior.”
It wasn’t until I became an adult, navigating adult relationships, becoming a parent, that I started to realize how deep it really went.
How much I struggled.
How much I had always been struggling.
The Turning Point
I used to think I was just “too reactive".”
“Too sensitive.”
“Too pessimistic.”
“Too needy.”
But that wasn’t the case.
After having my son, I went back to school and started taking sociology classes. That’s when I first heard of Borderline Personality Disorder.
I had heard of it before but not in the gentle way.
Just the stereotypes. The stigma. The whispers that people with BPD were “manipulative,” “toxic,” “too much.”
I didn’t want to self-diagnose, but something about it fit.
The patterns. The intensity. The fear. The ache. The swings.
So when I finally returned to therapy, I brought it up.
My therapist listened. She was gentle. She was honest.
She told me she was 99% sure I had it, but she wasn’t comfortable giving me the diagnosis herself. Not because she didn’t believe me, but because she didn’t want to attach the stigma of BPD to me without a formal evaluation.
She referred me to a psychiatrist. I went. I told my story again. I answered the questions.
And at 27, after living with it for most of my life, I finally got my diagnosis.
And I didn’t feel broken. I felt relieved.
Because now I had language. Now I had a map. Now I could stop blaming myself and start healing.
What Diagnosis Gave Me
Compassion. I stopped calling myself crazy. I started calling myself human.
Clarity. I could finally see the patterns and name them. That’s where my healing started, even if I’m not perfect at fixing them all the time.
Direction. I found therapy that actually helps, and starting DBT has been great. (At home work book rather than in person groups, but that’s just because of how hard they are to come by.)
Hope. I realized I wasn’t alone. That healing was possible. That I could build a life worth staying for.
Why I’m Sharing This
Because I wish someone had told me sooner.
Because I want to be the voice I needed.
Because BPD is so often misunderstood, and so many of us are walking around undiagnosed (or misdiagnosed), ashamed, and exhausted.
Because diagnosis isn’t the end of the story.
It’s the beginning of a new one.
