“Joana, today’s session is going to be a little bit different than the other ones. Its not going to be just you and me today, your parents have asked to join in for the first half in which I will try to do most of the talking, and then its going to be just you and me. Okay?”
I nod with my head. My anxiety has been over the roof since yesterday after leaving the hospital, and the fact that my parents have barely spoken to me, or even looked at me in the eyes, for 24 hours is making it worse. I can say, for sure, that these have been the worst 24 hours that I can recall, no phone, no Cris, no computer, not being able to text Cris, my parents not talking to me, not being able to talk to Cris, not being able to go out, not knowing what’s going on, not knowing how Cris is doing…
I haven’t slept either, my headache is worse, the pain in the back of my neck is killing me, I’m having issues concentrating and my thoughts have been really coherent. Yet, here I am, sitting in front of my parents who still can’t look at me in the eyes, just driving myself insane with expectations.
“Very well. How would you like to proceed? Should you talk or should I?”
She’s talking to my parents and my mother is the one who replies.
“You talk, Laura. Please.”
My mother’s eyes are fixated somewhere on the floor and she rubs her hands nervously, my father is rubbing circles in her back and he’s looking at my therapist.
“Okay. Joana, recently you have been experiencing mood swings, well, I guess that we can call them extreme emotions rather than mood swings, when what you feel shifts from one moment to the next, going to opposite extremes of the emotion spectrum. Is this correct?”
I look away from my parents and I look at my therapist.
“Yes.”
“Okay. Would it also be correct to say that when these episodes happen you might feel that people have something against you, or that they make extra efforts to make you feel bad or to lie to you, things like that. Correct?”
I nod and then I say yes.
“Okay. Well, all these signs are consistent with a mental health illness called Borderline Personality Disorder, or BPD for its initials.”
My mother is crying, and my father looks at the window behind my therapist’s chair.
“I’m sorry. What?”
She turns her body a little so that she’s facing me completely.
“A disorder called-”
