Get Me Out of Here

My Recovery from Borderline Personality Disorder

RACHEL REILAND

HAZELDEN
^®

Hazelden

Center City, Minnesota 55012-0176

1-800-328-0094
1-651-213-4590 (Fax)
www.hazelden.org

©2004 by Rachel Reiland

First published by Eggshells Press, 2002

(Original edition titled
I'm Not Supposed to Be Here
)

First published by Hazelden, 2004. All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America

No portion of this publication may be reproduced in any manner without
the written permission of the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Reiland, Rachel.

[I'm not supposed to be here]

Get me out of here : my recovery from borderline personality disorder / Rachel Reiland.

     p. cm.

Previously published: I'm not supposed to be here. Minnesota : Eggshells Press, 2002.

ISBN 1-59285-099-5

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-59285-777-7

1. Reiland, Rachel—Mental health. 2. Borderline personality disorder—Patients—United States—Biography. 3. Borderline personality disorder—Treatment. I. Title.

RC569.5.B67R45 2004
616.85'852'0092—dc22
[B]
2004047373

Editor's note

This publication is designed to provide accurate information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher and author are not engaged in rendering psychological, financial, legal, or other professional services. If expert counseling is needed, the services of a competent professional should be sought.

To protect the anonymity of the author, her family, her friends, and the many professionals who helped the author through the therapeutic process, pseudonymous names have been used to represent all people, locations, and institutions described in this book.

08 07 06 05 04      6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover design by David Spohn

Typesetting by Tursso Companies

Dear Readers:

Seven years ago, I met Rachel Reiland on my Welcome to Oz Internet Listserv support group for people with borderline partners.

The members of my group were living in the midst of a capricious tornado: alternately confused, terrorized, and hopeless. Then Rachel stepped in.

Recovered from her illness—an incredible accomplishment—she explained to members what probably lay behind their partners' illogical behavior. She revealed the inner terror she experienced as a borderline, enabling them to see beyond their partners' controlling and abusive behavior.

And because she was recovered, she gave them hope.

When she showed me her first draft of this book, I was awed by her courageous escape from the prison of her own mind. And as an author and writer, I was taken away by the raw power of her writing style. She survived; then she wrote about it with a profundity that made her story unforgettable.

Though I was working on my own publications, I made it my mission to ensure that Rachel's story be heard by the entire community of individuals and clinicians interested in borderline personality disorder (BPD). I knew that the book would take readers on a journey of understanding of what it's like to have BPD, give new hope to the borderline community, and help erase the myth that borderlines never get better.

With the support of others eager to tell Rachel's story to the world, I published this book with my own imprint, Eggshells Press. Hazelden Publishing and Educational Services then bought the publishing rights to bring this book to a larger audience.

Whether your life has been touched by borderline personality disorder or not, Rachel's journey through mental illness is fascinating and cathartic. It shows that fundamental change is possible if we have the courage to face our own demons, look them in the eye, and banish them from our self-perception. It doesn't matter what we have to overcome: BPD, anorexia, or some other mental illness. The point is that with help and a commitment to recovery and healing, we can overcome it and heal our emotional and spiritual wounds.

In a way, this book is a love story: a mother's love for her children, her husband, her psychiatrist, and, ultimately, for herself. My hope for you, the reader, is that this book impacts your emotions, gives you the experience of what it's like to have BPD, and shows you that if a person is committed to recovery, recovery is possible.

I hope you find it as richly rewarding and life changing as I have. And may it give you a better understanding of how it feels to not just be symptom-free, but to live with contentment, self-love, and true joy.

—Randi Kreger
Coauthor,
Stop Walking on Eggshells
and
The Stop
Walking on Eggshells Workbook
; Owner,
www.bpdcentral.com and the Welcome to Oz family of
thirty-five Listserv support groups for family members of people with a borderline in their lives

Rachel Reiland's courageous struggle with borderline personality disorder (BPD) is a tale that is both harrowing and reassuring, disturbing but sustaining. Her battle is typical yet unique. These paradoxes are like the illness itself. BPD is a disorder characterized by contradictions. Its cure is derived by navigating through the straits of emotional extremes into the tranquil waters of compromise and consolidation.

Get Me Out of Here
details Reiland's recovery. Her triumph results from the collaboration with her talented and unconditionally accepting psychiatrist. In the doctor, she found compromise between her desperate childhood fears of abandonment and her adult-derived defenses of self-destructiveness, attacking rage, and nihilism. From the remnants of her frightened, vulnerable childhood (which she labeled “Vulno”) and her “Tough Chick” personae, Reiland fashioned her individual humanity.

Some of this story is typical: early family conflicts, abusive relationships, feelings of insecurity contributing to destructive behaviors such as rage attacks, promiscuity, and anorexia. The extreme behaviors of BPD constitute the high drama in the stories of those who endure its ravages. But Reiland does not focus only on the flamboyance of the symptoms. She also describes the small, intimate nicks and cuts that bleed slowly and painfully, day to day.

Reiland's recovery is, in many ways, atypical. It is attained through an intensive, four-year course of traditional, psychoanalytically oriented psychotherapy, punctuated by several hospitalizations, some lasting for several weeks. Unfortunately, such a treatment program would be unavailable to most patients today. Most hospital psychiatric units are not geared for extended stays of more than a few days, and most insurance will not support this intensive treatment regimen.

Fortunately, Reiland possessed financial support to pay for her care. She also maintained a supportive, loving relationship with her husband and children. And she developed a trusting relationship with an experienced, knowledgeable psychiatrist. Although many sufferers may not share all of these blessings, they can, nevertheless, still achieve the victories she accomplished through the same persistence and courage she demonstrated.

BPD is the monstrous, metastatic malignancy of psychiatry. Most professionals shun patients with this diagnosis, convinced that they are exhausting, hopeless, and often terminal. The sickest, most severely psychotic schizophrenic patient is preferred over one with BPD, because at least there is some feeling of control over the treatment process. Hospitalization and medication can easily and quickly subdue the schizophrenia monster. But BPD symptoms can rage unpredictably, are difficult to control, require months or years to detect improvement, and can overwhelm the vulnerable therapist.

Until recently, a diagnosis of BPD was a label of hopelessness for both the patient and the doctor. With a suicide rate of almost 10 percent and no consistent treatment approaches offered, the prognosis was considered to be poor. However, with developments over the last ten years, such pessimism is no longer warranted.

Refined treatment approaches, such as dialectical behavioral therapy and adapted psychoanalytic techniques, have demonstrated significant effectiveness. Long-term follow-up studies, just now becoming available, illustrate that individuals with BPD can survive and thrive. Recent studies confirm that many borderline symptoms resolve over the years.

Although continuous treatment significantly augments the recovery rate, many patients achieve remission even without therapy. Over time spans ranging from six to fifteen years, as many as three-fourths of all patients with BPD will have resolved symptoms such that they no longer qualify for the BPD diagnosis. These patients would then, within the medical lexicon, be considered cured. Few other chronic medical conditions (e.g., diabetes, emphysema, hypertension, and schizophrenia) can achieve this ultimate level.

Reiland's
Get Me Out of Here
is here to declare that raging mental illness can be cured. Like Reiland, we must recognize that despite disappointments even from those whom we count on—family, friends, health care providers, insurers—survival ultimately depends on the individual's courage to explore his or her own unique humanity. Then we can embrace the support and caring available to all of us. As Dr. Padgett insists to Reiland, “Love is infinitely more powerful than hate.”

—Jerold J. Kreisman, M.D.

Coauthor,
I Hate You, Don't Leave Me: Understanding
the Borderline Personality
and
Sometimes I Act Crazy: Living
with Borderline Personality Disorder

My recovery was not an individual effort but was only possible with the help of more great people than I could ever list here—many of whom probably have no idea just how much of a difference they made in my life.

In particular, I'd like to thank Dr. Padgett and Father Rick, who led the way on my journey to healing; Randi Kreger, whose persistence and encouragement has enabled my story to make it to print; my loving children and my husband, Tim, who refused to give up on me even in the darkest of times. His love, loyalty, and laughter have made ours the best marriage I could ever be blessed to have.

How could my mother have done this to me? She told me that kindergarten would be such fun. She lied. She wanted me out of the house and out of her hair—the same as always.

Mrs. Schwarzheuser knelt beside Cindy, heaping praise on her perfect yellow-green trees. Cindy's mother would be so proud. My orange, purple, and brown paint had run together, and my picture looked like a putrid blob.

Golden-haired Cindy was Mrs. Schwarzheuser's favorite. I hated her—those perfect little ringlets tied up in colorful ribbon, that perky little nose, the blue cotton dress with the frilly lace around the collar. Ribbons, lace, dresses—sickening. Mrs. Schwarzheuser hated me, but that suited me just fine. I hated her too.

I seethed with jealousy as Mrs. Schwarzheuser showered Cindy with compliments. Suddenly, rage overwhelmed me. I seized a cup of brown paint and dumped half of it over my picture. Glaring at Cindy, I leaned across the table and dumped the other half over her drawing. I felt a surge of relief. Now Cindy's picture looked as awful as mine.

“Rachel!” Mrs. Schwarzheuser yelled. “You've completely destroyed Cindy's beautiful trees. Shame on you. You are a
horrible
little girl. The paint is everywhere—look at your jeans.”

My blue jeans were soaked with brown paint. They looked ugly. I looked ugly. Mrs. Schwarzheuser frantically wiped up paint to keep it from dripping onto the floor. Everyone was watching.

I felt my body go numb. My legs, arms, and head were weightless. Floating. It was the same way I felt when Daddy pulled off his belt and snapped it. Anticipation of worse things to come—things I had brought on myself because I was different.

“In all my years, I've never seen a child like you. You are the
worst
little girl I've ever taught. Go sit in the corner, immediately!”

Shame on Rachel. That language I understood. And deserved. I wasn't like the other little girls. I hated dolls and other “girly,” pink toys. I hated being a girl more than anything. I wasn't any good at it. If I had been a boy, things would have been different. But somehow God put me into a girl's body by mistake. I wondered if I would go to hell for daring to think God made a mistake.

Mrs. Schwarzheuser was right. I was horrible.

The concealed amusement of my twelve-year-old classmates sustained me as I swaggered out of Sister Mary's homeroom. My defiance faded the moment the door closed behind me. Although I'd never admit it, the hallway was a lonely, frightening place. Without the admiring glances of my classmates, I was totally alone, praying fervently that the principal wouldn't see me without a hall pass. A futile prayer to a God who loved everyone but me.

Sister Luisa's tall, thin frame emerged from her office. She sauntered a few steps past me then deliberately turned and stared—a piercing gaze that made me wish I could dissolve into the wall.

“Miss Marsten,” Sister Luisa said disapprovingly. “I see you have managed to get yourself thrown out of the classroom again. What was it this time? A smart remark? Or just your usual disrespect?”

Sister Luisa's questions were not intended to be answered: they
were
the answers. She waved me toward her stark office, a place even more frightening than the empty school corridor. The office felt bare and cold despite the charts and religious poems taped to the cinder-block wall. A lone, large wooden crucifix hung behind the worn metal desk. The face of Jesus stared at me with disgust.

“Miss Marsten,” she said, “I am not going to tolerate this type of behavior in my school. The notes we send to your parents don't seem to have much effect. But rest assured, young lady, I will end this nonsense with or without the cooperation of your parents.”

The notes. My parents had no reason to believe the notes. Smarting off in class was one thing; smart remarks at home were unthinkable. Authority reigned there. Control. Express an inappropriate emotion, expect a slap. The same expressionless stoicism Sister Luisa witnessed in her office was the norm at home. I stayed out of the way in the house. My grades and test scores were excellent, so my parents ignored the scathing notes from frustrated teachers.

“You have twisted the brilliance God has given you.” Sister Luisa's ruddy face, pinched by the white headband of her veil, framed a scowling intensity. “It is a sinful waste.”

“Sinful.” “Shameful.” Words so familiar they were a part of me now.
So what, Sister Luisa? Tell me something I don't know
.

“So smug. So smart. You think you're a hero among your friends, don't you? Don't fool yourself. You're their entertainment. They're not your friends. They aren't laughing with you, they are laughing at you.”

My stomach churned, bile rising in my throat. Weightless. Dizzy. The brave demeanor crumbling. Sister Luisa continued, and her face grew harsher. She had penetrated my core and wasn't about to waste the opportunity to humble me. I began sobbing like a little girl. Her thin lips turned upward slightly as she tasted victory. I wanted to disappear.

“We both know that God blessed you with a great talent for words. Words can be used to accomplish something worthy. But words can also destroy. And, young lady, your tongue can slice like a knife. If you don't control it, you won't have a friend to your name. Your classmates will fear both you and the destruction your words can cause.”

Fear me. Like a wild animal. Out of control. Crazy. Once again, Sister Luisa didn't tell me anything new. No one feared me more than myself.

“You're going to eat this bacon—even if I have to shove it down your goddamned throat!” My father thrust the plate inches from my face, his eyes wide and threatening.

I knew better than to defy him. Yet, as much as I feared him, the food on the plate was more terrifying. Fat. Dripping, greasy, bloating fat. I could not disobey him, but I couldn't give in. I could not be derailed from The Diet. Everyone wanted to sabotage The Diet. Friends, teachers, coaches. Now the same man who called my oldest sister “fat ass” when she neared the freezer was determined to make me the same way. Fat. Disgusting. Humiliated. I'd rather he kill me.

“Dad,” my sister pleaded, “she needs help. She needs a doctor.”

Bold of her. And stupid. She never learned.

“What your sister needs is a good kick in the ass.”

“She's starving, Dad. What does she weigh now? Seventy?”

“Your father is right,” my mother interjected, her voice cracking with emotion. She used this tone so frequently that no one paid attention. “She's fifteen years old. She's a bright girl. She's just going through a phase.”

“It's not a phase. She's sick. She's anorexic. If she doesn't get help, she's going to die,” said Nancy.

“What do you mean—help?” My father's focus shifted to her and away from me. The question needed no answer. It was a dare.

“I mean a psychiatrist,” she answered.

“A
psychiatrist?
” he roared. My mother tried to calm him down.

“Nancy, honey, you know we can't do that,” my mother said. “What would people say? Your sister is an intelligent girl. She's just stubborn. She'll come to her senses.”

My father leaned toward Nancy and shouted, “She needs a kick in the ass, not a shrink!” Nancy cowered in retreat.

Another fight between the three of them, talking about me as if I had left the room. I shoveled the two strips of bacon into my mouth. Peace broker once again.

“See! You can't coddle this kind of bullshit. You have to put your foot down.”

As the battle continued, I quietly left the kitchen and tiptoed into the bathroom. The bacon, which had been tucked tightly in my cheeks, flew directly into the toilet. The perfect solution. He thought he won. Let him.

Sitting in the living room waiting on a jar of piss. What a way to spend the weekend. According to instructions, it took two hours for three little drops of urine squeezed into the jar to render judgment. A quarter after ten. Fifteen minutes to go.

Tim read the sports section, occasionally looking up and giving me that reassuring smile that melted me so often. Unbelievably steady. Calm. What a welcome change from the neurotic and narcissistic types I'd been hooking up with for years. In the four months I had known Tim, I still couldn't fathom why this attractive man with sparkling eyes was still faithful—and still around.

He worked in a factory as a line foreman. I had been high school valedictorian—a National Merit Scholar, the varsity field hockey captain, on the dean's list at Saint Robert's. I had worked as a cocktail waitress. Hustled trays of imported beers to arrogant Yuppies, smiling at the measly tips and hating almost every one of them. Hating myself. Smoking joints in the closed bar as the sun rose while my former classmates hit the showers and commuted to the kinds of jobs I should have. I was twenty-four years old.

I'd been through this pregnancy scare before. But Tim was the first man to sit through the grueling ordeal with me. At least this time I could be certain of who the other party to the scare was. At least this time I was nearly convinced that, if anyone could love me, this man might.

It was 10:30
A.M.
Tim put his arm around me as we went to check on the jar. My Ouija board to the future. I couldn't bear to look. Tim did the honors, peering into it. He asked for the instruction pamphlet. Clutching it in his hand, he looked into the jar again.

“What is it?” I asked.

He embraced me. “Positive, Rachel. It's positive.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go ahead and look for yourself,” he said gently.

A brown ring, thick and clear, not subtle at all. A bang-you-over-the-head ring. One that says, “You're pregnant, stupid! Now what are you going to do?”

Abortion had always been the fallback position—mercifully, one I'd never had to consider. Being virtually convinced of God's nonexistence, the prospect shouldn't have bothered me. Yet it did.

Now it was time for Tim to leave. Now was the time for the relationship I considered too good to be true to prove that it was. With the abortion option, there was no excuse to be trapped by a situation like this. Yet I felt as if the world were closing in on me, my life catching up with me, as if justice had been rendered. I'd played roulette with an empty box of Trojans and lost.

“Marry me,” Tim said.

What? Didn't he know he didn't need to be trapped? Didn't he know how easy it would be for him to walk right now, that I would understand?

“If you want an abortion, I'll support you. But I'm not talking about a shotgun wedding. I've never met anyone like you, Rachel. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Trust me on this one. I wouldn't lie to you. Will you marry me?”

I'd taken so many chances in my life. Sex. Drugs. Life had been a series of impulsive gambles. Dangerous moves. Foolish choices. Why not take a chance on this one? Why not marry a man who loved me so obviously even I had begun to believe it?

“Yes.”