- After being hospitalized numerous times, I was diagnosed with three mental illnesses.
- I dealt with anorexia, major depressive disorder, and borderline personality disorder.
After I was hospitalized twice for anorexia, I found I could no longer function at work and plummeted into a deep depression. After my second suicide attempt, I was placed in a locked hospital unit high above Manhattan's Lexington Avenue, where an assembly of white-coated psychiatrists diagnosed me with borderline personality disorder. Within three years I'd had three major diagnoses: anorexia, major depressive disorder, and BPD.
Shortly after I was diagnosed with BPD, I was transferred from my urban comfort zone to a prestigious private psychiatric hospital in the suburbs. It had a long-term unit specifically for patients with BPD. There I was treated with dialectical behavior therapy, originally developed to treat patients who were chronically suicidal and who self-harmed. I lived, ate, and breathed DBT for 10 months, until my insurance balked at paying for additional time there. But my depression persisted.
The next step was another transfer — this time to a state hospital — but my mother stepped in. She couldn't stomach the thought of her child in this setting. She arranged my discharge to a group residence where I'd be supervised around the clock. I was also enrolled in a day program that specialized in BPD, where I could continue being treated with DBT.
Medication and therapy were vital to recovery
I remained at the day program for 18 months and at the residence for three years. However, during this time, I still floundered. I was admitted intermittently to psychiatric hospitals, had incidents of self-harm, and experienced periods where I relapsed into anorexia. During one group therapy session in the hospital, the therapist insinuated I was becoming a "professional patient." He was half-joking, but his words stung. Once a young professional who strode along Fifth Avenue, I hadn't envisioned this for myself. Instead of mustering the resolve to fight, I retreated further into my illness.
Once I left the day program I continued in therapy with the social worker I'd been working with there. She was a kind older woman with a private practice in an office in her home. Though we talked for over 10 years, there were only a few topics I felt comfortable discussing with her, like my mother, my career, and my eating disorder. Eventually I became tired of hearing myself drone on and dreaded hearing her sugary-sweet voice.
Without consulting her, I quit therapy one day and stopped all my medications cold turkey, which I'll admit was ill-advised. Because I'd still been feeling depressed, it hadn't been apparent to me that the combination of medication and therapy was helpful and was keeping my suicidal ideation mostly at bay.
The right therapist helped me confront my emotions and manage my mental health
Without these two tools, my suicidal thoughts became cacophonous. I reached out to a different therapist connected to my old day program. She ran a women's group I'd participated in. She referred me to a psychiatrist — I'll call her Dr. L — for a medication evaluation. Dr. L was the rare psychiatrist who also practiced psychotherapy, specializing in transference-focused psychotherapy, an alternative treatment for BPD that emphasizes the relationships in the client's life, particularly the transference between the therapist and the client. I went to see Dr. L for one appointment and ended up staying for 11 years.
Dr. L wasn't the warmest person, but she was whip-smart, and, most importantly, she didn't judge me or any of the things I revealed to her over the years we worked together. She let me know she could take anything I threw at her and never flinched. We broke down my psyche and painstakingly restored it, truth by truth. We explored my conflicted relationship with my alcoholic father, and I knocked my mother off the high pedestal upon which I'd placed her.
While Dr. L and I worked together my father passed away, and all the resentment and rage I'd been holding back at him imploded. Around this period I made another suicide attempt. Following my discharge from the psychiatric hospital, Dr. L confronted me about my pattern of persistent silence. In therapy and in my life I avoided confrontation and tended to acquiesce. Anger was an emotion that was not allowed in my household. In my therapy sessions I had a habit of remaining quiet because I feared what might escape if I said what was truly on my mind.
When I did speak up about myself, I used words like "evil" and "loathsome." After Dr. L challenged me, I was finally able to acknowledge the anger I'd buried since childhood. In our sessions, I was finally able to broach the topic of my sexuality with her — something I wasn't able to do with anyone else.
Therapy saved my life
Together we realized I was asexual. It was a relief to no longer constantly question who I was. During therapy I could be emotionally intimate and vulnerable, which was new and exciting. While it was difficult when she forced me to come to terms with the roots of my self-loathing and self-destructiveness, I now recognize this was important.
After 10 years of working together, we reduced the frequency of our sessions from twice a week to once a week. When Dr. L went on extended vacations, I no longer felt abandoned or needed sessions with the psychiatrist covering her patients. Instead, I realized I looked forward to the break. I'd gone from someone who thought she'd need to be in therapy indefinitely to someone who was fine without it. When I told Dr. L I wanted to terminate therapy, I gave myself a year deadline, which she agreed was an appropriate amount of time.
For our last session, I wanted to do something special. I felt as if the work Dr. L and I did together saved my life and gave me something to live for. While there was no way to adequately say thank you, I wanted to try. Since both Dr. L and I were readers, I gifted her a few books I thought she'd enjoy. But that still didn't feel personal enough. I'd started writing, so I decided to also write her a letter. Part of it read:
You stuck with me. You didn't give up on me. And you saved my life. I believe that if I had not met you, I would be dead by now. I would have been dead long ago.
And look at me.
As little as a year ago, I did not think I would be capable of functioning in this world without you and then my world shifted. You helped the axis tilt. It wasn't as if the earth swung 180 degrees all at once. I didn't feel the degrees go by — one day I looked at the cloudless sky and realized that I would be okay in my own world.
And look at me.