Struggle

Life is a struggle. Fact! BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder, for the outsiders) is a struggle. Fair enough. But at the same time, a struggle can be the beginning of something new...

We all have our own struggles in life. Usually, if one struggle is (almost) over, another one appears. Since last Tuesday, I'm officially DM, Master of Arts. That means that the ongoing struggle with my Master's thesis is over. Finally, as some might say, without any congratulation whatsoever for having graduated Cum Laude... :S However, after graduation follows the one-million-dollar question: What do I want to do now I've graduated? What kind of job do I want to do? And especially: Will I ever find that job that is a perfect match with my high hopes and wishes?

During the summer break, I'd applied to be a teacher of English in The Hague, but I was unlucky because there weren't enough students to let the course go through. I wasn't immediately worried, it was only my first job interview. Still, I'd liked the sound of it, so I was just a little disappointed. Although I graduated as an MA student of Latin American Languages and Cultures - with Linguistics as my specialisation - I do have an affinity with English. I can express myself better in Spanish, though, but still, this was a job that suited me. In the end, it turned out that it was better it didn't go through, as my grandma became seriously ill - as in lethally ill - and I was needed back home, in Belgium. I had to be there for my family, and especially for my grandma. Now, 5 months after the facts, she is back home, still not completely recovered, but stable and - I hope! - more or less happy that she's still with us, the family that practically adores her. I'm back in Leiden and I've been looking for job opportunities. I applied for two jobs with a motivation letter and my CV, but without any result. At the moment, I'm working as a teacher of Dutch, Spanish and English, as in, I give some friends of mine private lessons in these foreign languages. I enjoy it a lot, especially because I can give them all my attention, as I only have one student at a time. It also means that I can mould their knowledge somehow, just as a potter moulds the clay. It is a satisfying pastime, but it's not enough to pay the bills every month, if you understand what I mean. I don't want to give it up, that's for sure, but I need something I can use to pay the rent. And then there were the chats with my ex-psychiatrist...

She's a special person, always been, from day 1 on. We met when I was only a week or so here in Leiden. I had to go to the ER because I'd cut myself badly. After the wounds had been looked after, there she came, as a psychiatrist still in training. She was my first positive encounter with psychiatry, I have to be honest. Long story, I won't bother you with it now, my dearest reader. Anyway, it's been about two years now that she left Leiden and went working in Utrecht, where her qualities were better appreciated. Since then we've been seeing each other on a more or less frequent basis. She's helped me through a difficult period, although she wasn't my psychiatrist anymore. She's been of invaluable help and I can compare her with a precious diamond, there's only one of those on our planet Earth. Later on, when I was already feeling better, we talked about many different subjects, and one in particular that kept coming back time and time again: working as a hands-on expert in a psychiatric setting. She was of the opinion that it would be something I had to keep in mind. So I did. All our chats haven't been in vain: at the beginning of September, I wrote a letter to a psychiatrist she frequently works with, in Utrecht/Zeist. Of course I hoped there would come a reply, some interest, maybe even an invitation to go and talk with that specific psychiatrist. And guess what, today I had an appointment with that psychiatrist and her team coordinator. I can hardly believe it, but it wasn't some dream nor an illusion, no. It was as real as can be. 

So I went to Zeist by train this morning. And guess what, Debz wasn't that nervous. I'd say, just a little bit of healty tension. I'd decided that, whatever would happen, I'd stay myself, I wouldn't try to present myself as a different person, one that is better, less emotional, more stable or... no! I would be the person I am right now: a newly graduated Master of Arts, looking for a job in which I can excell, more or less stable, human - thus emotional when it comes to certain topics - borderliner, yes, but one who has learnt a lot in the past 13 years. And that experience is what characterises me. See, I have this heavy backpack, and in the backpack there are some good things I could certainly use as a hands-on expert, but there are also some heavy rocks I have to carry along with me, only because they are in the backpack I picked up some 13 years ago. I cannot just drop them, it doesn't work like that. I may need them in a later stage of life, who knows. 

Anyway, I didn't feel very comfortable at the beginning, and then there came some questions that were quite tough to answer. Somehow, I managed to stay myself, and I answered out of this spirit of mine, one that tells me it's okay to be who I am. Afterwards, however, when I went back to Leiden by train, there was this nagging doubt. Was it somehow okay? Had I been thorough enough? Will they accept me for an internship? But I also thought: this is exactly what I want to do! I want to help other people, not only fellow patients but also social workers, by looking in my heavy backpack, and using the tools I find in there. I want to be of some significance in people's lives, also when this means I'll have to deal with a lot of suffering, not only mine, but also the suffering of the patients I will eventually work with. Rumour has it that the psychiatrist as well as the team coordinator want to offer me an internship. How awesome would that be?! Still... there is this - other - one-million-dollar question: Is there money to pay someone like me? And what do the other members of the team think about a hands-on expert like me forming part of their team? The truth will be revealed next week, at the earliest. So I'll have to endure this feeling of insecurity, of nagging doubt... I mean, although I am already a hands-on expert - by my past (and present) as a psychiatric patient - I don't have that many experience. So that's something they have to keep in mind. I'll first need training, and only then will we know if I can be of any significance in their team. I really pray to the Lord for this chance, this opportunity. If they don't give me the chance to prove myself, they will never find out. It will be tough, yes, it will sometimes maybe even be unbearable, but at least, I want to have given it a try... 

 
 

The one who wasn't meant to be

The story that I'm going to tell you doesn't have a happy ending. So consider yourself warned. 

When I was about 9 or maybe 10 years old, I felt so strangely alienated that one day, I asked my mom whether I was adopted or not. I can still remember that she looked as if she were struck by lightning. She was offended, that much I can tell you. But it was a rather serious question, I wasn't playing any games nor was I fooling my mom or myself. It was a question asked with the honesty only children have. I can't remember if it was then or only later that my mom told me that my parents were really happy the day my mom got pregnant with me. My sister is six years older than I am, and my parents already wanted a second child a couple of years earlier, but somehow my mom couldn't get pregnant, however much she and my dad wished it would happen. And then finally, six years after my sister was born, I came into this world.

Only later did my mom tell me the entire story, a story that still bothers me a lot. I already was a teenager, but I can't remember why or when exactly my mom told me what's coming next. She just told me, maybe because she had to share her story. Maybe it was bothering her in the same way as it still is bothering me. Anyway, my mom and dad'd had to go to great lengths to have their second child - me, indeed - and differently from what I was thinking, I was not a mistake, as I thought initially, but they welcomed me in their midst and they were very happy to have me. However, my parents thought that two children was enough, so my mom got herself sterilized. But then, the most unimaginable happened: only a couple of months after I was born, my mom got pregnant again, despite the sterilization. You'll probably ask yourself how this was possible. Well, that's what I did. I mean, first they had to wait so many years before I was born, and then, so shortly after I was born and despite the sterilization, my mom got pregnant with her third child. I can tell you that this was something they hadn't expected at all. As they had decided that two children was enough, they decided to have "it" taken away. Yes, my mother had an abortion. I don't know how many weeks she was pregnant with my brother or sister, but in those times they saw it as a mistake made by the gynaecologist, and not as a miracle of our Heavenly Father. 

I do realise that spreading this kind of information is kind of dangerous and maybe even unethical. I don't want to judge my mom and dad for their action, but I do see it as a miracle that God put into my mother's womb. And as a christian, I do believe that God had a purpose by doing that. Accidents don't happen when it comes to God's will. He's pretty clear in what He's doing. Nothing happens without a reason. As I got older, I couldn't forget about all this. It's not something that I took very lightly, quite the opposite in fact. When my mom told me this, I still wasn't a christian, so I didn't think about it the way I do now. Now, however, I utterly regret that my mom and dad took the wrong decision. They should have acknowledged that God wanted to do something good, that He wanted to give them the presence of a third child in their family. Abortion is not always inevitable, let's be realistic, but I'd like to suggest that in this case, it could have been avoided. There were no reasons whatsoever to have the baby aborted. As far as I know, my brother or sister was healthy. The only thing that withheld my parents were financial reasons and also the fact that our house would probably turn out to be too small. These, however, are rather superficial and invalid reasons in order to choose for abortion.

You see, the problem is bigger than you might think at first sight. As I've written in an earlier post, me and my sister have been experiencing problems in getting along for the past few years/months, and as for now, she's misbehaving again towards me, simply because she doesn't care about me. As for me, I can't stand this type of behaviour. If you're reading this, dear sis - which I don't think you do, because you've never ever accepted me and my life and the struggles I experience don't interest you an inch - then I won't say I'm sorry, because you yourself never apologise for your actions, nor do you take responsibility for them. This is the biggest point: I think that God already knew this, and that He purposefully wanted my parents to have another child, and I sometimes can't hold back my tears and utter sadness when I think about my dead brother or sister, the one who wasn't meant to be, but who could have been a real brother or sister to me, and not a fake one. He or she could have really loved me and showed me his/her concern. Maybe I would have found a true friend in this younger sibling. Maybe (s)he would have been there for me when I was going through rough times. And maybe (s)he would have appreciated my love for him/her, and would have returned it. 
 

Yes, I do have a sister, but she's so apparently absent in my life. I have the impression that for one reason or other, she'd rather I didn't exist. I'd be glad to tell you otherwise, but she has really hurt me just a few weeks ago. She obviously doesn't realise what I've been through during the past 13 years, and she doesn't show any sign of respect for my graduation as a Master of Arts, even though for me it was my crowning achievement: graduating Cum Laude. She only had one word for me when I told her the big news in all my enthousiasm: "Finally". Her reaction disappointed me and took me by surprise, even though I could have expected this somehow. I just don't get it, I've been through extremely difficult times, I've studied so hard and I've given all the best in order to write a qualitatively good MA thesis, but do you think she acknowledges that this really was such an abnormal achievement? No, she doesn't. Is it envy? I wouldn't understand why, but it has every sign of it. She's turned into a completely different person since she married my brother-in-law. At first, she still supported me somehow, but that brat has spoilt everything. For him, I'm like a ghost, it's as if I don't exist. His hatred and disgust towards me are pretty obvious, even for other family members. And if he thinks he's going to get away with it, he's probably even right. Life isn't fair, nor will it ever be. Only when I'm in Heaven with our Father will I experience what true love is.

Now I'm 30 years old, and still I ask myself this question: What would have happened if there had been a younger sibling? Yes, I'm mourning the loss of my younger sibling. I'm also asking myself if (s)he would have been different from the rest of the family, just like I am. Would (s)he have been there for me when I had to go through these difficult times? Because let's be plain honest: supporting me isn't one of the strong suits of my closest family members. They just don't know how. I can't blame them, for they don't know the love of the Lord... I hope that one day, I'll meet him/her. I've learnt in church that unborn or newly born children who die always go to Heaven, immediately, without being judged, because there is nothing to judge. One day, I'll meet you, little bro/sis... Love you...

Is it just me, or... ?

... is the world getting more and more menacing every minute? Yes people, it's been a while since my last post, but here I am, back again, although not feeling all too well to be honest. I'm not certain if my own health is in peril, but I know for certain that my grandma's is in jeopardy. After thirteen weeks, she could finally leave the hospital and go back home. That was not even three weeks ago. My granddad was crying out of sheer happiness, and I had a hard time not to cry along with him, because I was also very happy that we could have her back at home, where she belongs. However, Wednesday she will be admitted again, only to undergo another complicated and risky surgery on Friday. And not just any Friday, no, Friday the thirteenth, for crying out loud! As you might have read in an earlier post, I wanted to get rid of all my superstitious thoughts and feelings. However, it didn't work out too well - as you might have noticed - so I'm actually pretty afraid that something irreparable will happen and that we will lose her. And no, I'm not willing to give her out of hands yet, quite the contrary, I deliberately want to fight for her if that would be of any help.

My grandma. I'm so proud of her, because of her perseverance and happiness that keeps us as a family going...

It's not the only thing that keeps my mind spinning, though. Although I've finally finished that bloody thesis, I haven't had an easy time. First of all, I'm looking for a job, not yet desperately, but still... I should be able to earn some money to pay the bills. And then there is the reason why I'm writing this blog. My mood hasn't been too good lately. It's probably just because we're on the verge of switching to the "autumn modus", but it bothers me. And it's not only my mood. You see, I have these "ideas" that disturb my well-being. "Ideas" that some specific person will harm me, or my family and loved ones. "Ideas" that something terrible is happening to the people I love. You see, it's not only my grandma who's experiencing health issues, there's also my Blue friend. You might know him from his blog or not, but he's not feeling too well either. He has some quite serious neurological problems, and I wish there was a way in which I could help him, but I can't think of any. So I just sit here, in my 12 square metres, waiting for him to post something on his blog so that I can live in peace and quiet again. 

There's more, however. The above-mentioned ideas are not exactly what bothers me the most, no. What bothers me most are these "ideas" that other people want to do everything to do me harm - me or my family in any case. To put it more concrete: I'm afraid that someone wants to kill me. Someone in specific, indeed, but it's quite risky to put more details on my blog. However, I don't think she - for it's a she, indeed - shows any interest in my blog. Still, you never know. I'm afraid she wants to poison me. She can do that if she wants, there are possibilities for her to do it. I'm afraid she wants to make me abandon my house. Look, as I'm not a student anymore, I'd really prefer not to live in a student's flat anymore, but as far as I know, I'll have to put up with this situation for at least one more year, because Leiden has its housing problems for ex-students. I know for certain that she doesn't like me, and I experience her presence as extremely menacing. That's why I wrote that opening sentence. Look, I just think she wants to get rid of me, the sooner, the better, doesn't matter how. I do think she has some psychological issues too, and that's what scares me even more. I don't think she's a normal person, and I especially deny that she has any good intentions towards me. 

Ok, I've been asking myself if this is really as realistic as it seems to be for me at this very moment. I have to take into consideration the fact that I'm trying to reduce the amount of pills, especially the anti-psychotic Cisordinol. I've told my psychiatrist that I'm ok, but at the moment, I don't know if I can say this without lying to myself or to him. I acknowledge that these menacing thoughts could be a result of the lower dose I'm taking, but I don't want to give up yet. I mean, I've only diminished from 10 to 8 mg, which is practically nothing. One thing's for sure: I'm so obsessed with her wanting to get rid of me that I see things happen as if they were real. Like what? Well, like her putting some poison on my stuff in the kitchen. Or her leading a trial in court to put me out of my comfy student's room. Or her sending a gang of rapers and/or killers to me when I'm alone outside in the dark on the streets of Leiden. 

So what should I do? I know something's not quite right, but I don't want to put the blame on the pills. Hell, that's just not fair. I've been praying to God to make this experiment happen and to achieve my goal, that is, to be able to live with less numb-making pills. I know I should probably tell my psychiatrist and/or my nurse, but I just don't want to. I don't know if they'll immediately link it with the rescheduling of my pills, but... Oh Lord, I feel so helpless and worried, not only worried about my own mental health, but also and especially sick with worry when I think of the creepy illness of my Blue friend (he's only in his forties, he can't just die, can he?) or the unclear health problems that my grandma is experiencing. 

 

Anyway, one thing's for sure: I have extreme difficulties with thinking of "her" as just a person in my life. I keep on seeing her as the origin of all evil, indeed, as a servant of our common enemy: the devil. I have sufficient proof to say that she's a direct descendant or servant of the devil, but I can't put it here, for fear of getting into serious trouble. I'm off now, have some other stuff to do. I just hope and pray that everything will turn out to be all right. I'll try to keep you posted...