Live Ideas submission written on 23 Oct 2023

Her eyes peered open as her alarm had gone off for the fourth time. Emma, someone who usually would hop straight out of bed in the morning, lay flat, her head turned as she stared blankly at her phone. She lifted it, tapping her screen to see another Quora email notification. Though she contemplates unsubscribing to them daily, the intrigue of the Quora articles makes her hesitant. Today was an article titled ‘How many failed relationships will a borderline personality sufferer go through before realizing something isn’t normal?’ Emma chuckled at the irony of the question; it seemed fitting for the story she was writing, not to mention her life. Before reading the article for the answer, she set the phone face down on her chest to think about it, not that there was a correct answer anyway.

            “They may never know,” Emma answered out loud. It wasn’t hard to think of, especially when all the emotions she had felt the whole week were because of this. She’s felt drained, easily agitated, stressed… She’s become more attuned to her boyfriend’s emotions and reactions lately, at least more than usual, something she’s constantly been trying to improve up to this point. Anything can seem to set her off: something being too loud, a repeating sound, a look even. She remembers a few days earlier when she woke up in the middle of the night and had a panic attack, which she hadn’t had for almost a year. It wasn’t until then that she realized what was causing these somatic reactions: her story.

Writing was a hobby for her. In her free time, she occasionally would write about her day, with attention to her bad ones. Sometimes, she would make short stories after listening to a new song or finding a pretty scenery picture online. After seeing a writing contest ad at the library, she decided to write a story about a girl with borderline personality disorder. It would be a chance for her to tell her story since, not that long ago, some therapists wouldn’t take Emma and those like her seriously. Plus, having at least one of her writings published intrigued her. She had yet to know the troubles that would ail her.

            Three pages in, Emma’s fingers seemed to glide across her laptop. As she typed her story, she could recall each event as they happened, happy with how they turned out. She wrote about her first time at a psych ward and why she ended up there. She wrote down every emotion she felt during it, with no interruptions. However, something happened when writing about the beginnings of her relationship:

            ‘After work, Lily drove straight home and hopped in the shower. She looked back at the gift-giving and chuckled, then an image of Michael smiling popped into her head. Her heart started to beat a mile a minute, her face heating up, which was hard to place whether the shower or emotions caused it. This moment felt different from all the times she had thought of him. Usually, the thought would leave as quickly as it appeared, but she couldn’t get it to go this time. As she leaned her head down and placed her hand over her heart for support, every moment spent with him flashed like a movie through her mind, playing the moment when their eyes met like a love scene. She started to shake with anxiety, even feeling tears exit her eyes, turning quickly into weeping, “What is happening to me?” She wondered, thinking she should be delighted instead, while slightly thinking she was having a heart attack. She had an idea of this emotion, having felt it to this extreme before in high school, and finally, she muttered the strength to admit, “I think I like him.”’

            As Emma noted every reaction, she felt her face heat up, tears streaming down as if she had eaten something spicy, and before she knew it, she appeared in her old house, just as she had written in her story. Her home was as disorganized and messy as she remembered. Papers were all over the floor, and the room was dimly lit due to a small lamp being on. Amazement soon became confusion as she watched her past self sobbing on a couch in her living room while listening to loud, sad music. “I hadn’t written this yet,” she softly spoke so as not to disturb the moment. She slowly lifted her arm as she walked toward her former self, which quickly turned to crumpled paper, switching the setting. Her memories flashed before her eyes like fast-forwarding a movie, her entire plot playing out right before her. Anxiety and depression crept in at times, as she felt heart palpitations and witnessed her suicidal thoughts like pop-ups on a computer screen. Just as she felt the intensity of death on her, she found herself stopped at the moment she and her boyfriend had told each other the ‘L’ word, their dates and pillow talks floating around the scene. She decided to stay in the moment for a while, reminiscing about her wonderful first moments with him. However, as she bent down to sit on the paper-covered void, she fell unexpectedly, landing on her tailbone with a thud.

            “What are you doing!” Emma heard next to her, quickly covering her ears at the sudden shout. The voice seemed familiar to her. Opening her eyes, she recognized it to be Jacob, her boyfriend. She sat in the backseat of his car, as Jacob was in the driver’s seat and her past self on the passenger side. Her gaze quickly shifted to her past self, staring at him as if she could not move. She remembered this moment, especially the feeling. This was when Jacob confronted her after seeing her put pencils in another man’s hair with a warning. She watched as her past self stammered and babbled over her words. Emma didn’t know what to do, wanting desperately to snap her past self out of her trance of negative thoughts. “Well?” Jacob continued, and at that point, Emma had enough.

            “Say something!” Emma shouted, hopelessly gripping onto her past self’s shoulders and shaking them. Before she knew it, everything around her had dissipated, Jacob’s car transforming into a wall before her eyes. In front of her was a dark hallway, faintly lit by the light from downstairs. She was in her old house again, hearing faded yelling in the distance—Jacob’s. His voice echoed through the house like a roaring lion; Emma was slightly worried the cops would be called. She walked down the stairs to see what was happening, feeling that her past self was at the other end of the yelling, and she was.

            Emma’s past self stood against the front door as if pinned, Jacob a distance from her. She stared at the phone her past self clenched onto for a moment, then remembered why he was so angry. “Go ahead and tell your friends how abusive I am!” Jacob taunted, with Emma’s past self remaining as frozen as before. Emma wasn’t sure what the argument was originally about but could presume it was when he found out she was telling her friends about his behavior. She felt pressure on her chest as she touched her heart to ensure nothing was there. Everything in the room seemed to close in, Jacob’s voice bellowing through her ears. She watched her past self speak as Jacob showed evident discontent, though she couldn’t hear a thing. All she could hear were her thoughts, the things she previously wanted to say but couldn’t:

            “If you didn’t do this all the time, I wouldn’t have to tell my friends.”

            “I don’t know what you want me to do.”

            “How else am I supposed to vent?”

            “What do I say not to anger him more?”

            “How can I fix this?”

            The thoughts bled into one another, becoming a concocted blend of anxiety and internal screaming, starting to sound like never-ending white noise. She thought she had left this feeling behind and begged it to end. “Get me out of here!” She cried out, clasping her hands over her ears. Silence struck the room, hearing only an indistinct sound from below her, mixed with the air conditioner kicking on. Emma opened her eyes to find herself back in her living room, looking down to see her earbuds on the floor. “Jesus Christ,” she uttered, taking her hands off her ears and looking down to discover three pages worth of writing she had yet to do, “I couldn’t have done all this.” She then saved her document and shut off her laptop, her heart still pounding a thousand beats a minute. As she poured herself some water, it slipped out of her hand and shattered on the ground, her hands uncontrollably shaking.

            For a couple of days, she had gone without touching her story. Even thinking about the story resulted in depersonalization until Jacob snapped her out with a question of concern. Typically, Emma would explain her stress, but this time, she shook her head and replied that she was okay. She was still unable to process if what she experienced truly happened, her tailbone aching for days. Throughout the week, her tolerance for anything seemed to dry thin; she couldn’t concentrate; she even found herself in tears following anger after dropping a bowl of water meant for her cats. The competition was nearing, and she knew she couldn’t wait too long to finish the story, though she wanted to quit. She wanted to give up and act as if the competition never happened. Revisiting her past was too much for her; she couldn’t even get the story right. As she battled her brain with reasons to continue, she paced around her living room, a slight headache ensuing. She sat down on her couch, massaging her temples, thinking of a way for this to end: 1, she could forget about the competition, waiting for the guilt of her unfinished work to stop consuming her, or 2, she could enter her story and embrace her past, being able to say she finished a story for once in her life.

            Emma looked over at her laptop, light gleaming upon it from the window as if choosing for her. “I must be crazy,” she grunted, pushing herself off her couch and sitting in the chair before her computer. She opened her laptop, her hands landing on her keyboard. They remained in position momentarily before she forced her fingers to type something—anything. Yet, nothing was coming out. She reread paragraphs and dialogue but still couldn’t decide what to write next. It was as if every memory was erased within the inactive days. Confusion became irritation as she locked her head between her arms, feeling her cheeks getting hot and tears escaping her eyes. “Why can’t I remember?” she whimpered, desiring to throw her laptop against the wall and scream till she couldn’t hear. But, she could not move.

            As she bawled, Emma kept telling herself she was stupid, that the contest was silly, that nothing mattered anymore. The negative thoughts fueled her rage as her grip tightened. Then, everything became still. Her arms released from their grasp, dropping to her side as she rested her head on her keyboard. The silence in her head allowed her to listen to her surroundings and ground herself. Moments later, exhausted, she lifted her head, regaining her position. Determined to get something done on her story, she started to type:

            ‘Lily grew tired of the screaming, exhaustedly laying her head on her knees.’

            As she waited for the magic, nothing seemed to happen. She looked around, everything appearing just as before. Staring back at the sentence, she tried to equate it with familiarity but couldn’t make out anything, so she started typing words—emotions:

            ‘Anxiety… Depression… Anger… Sadness…’

            But still, nothing changed. Confusion grew in her, rapidly turning into rage, as she cuffed her ears, her meowing cats seemed to fuel her temper. Just as she heard another meow with the click of the air conditioning turning on, she grabbed a water bottle and chucked it at the wall near her cat, shouting at him to stop distracting her, forgetting that he couldn’t comprehend anything she said. As Emma’s vision blurred with tears, she felt something fluffy rub against her leg. With guilt and self-pity creeping in, she collapsed to the floor and started to bawl.

            The following day, Emma was greeted by hospital technicians. The room looked the same as when she was first there, with white walls, no doorknobs, and a foam mat for a bathroom door. Just as she was told to head to a room across the hall, she remained in bed, waiting till the very last moment to get up. After checking her vitals, Emma headed to the main room, where she found a TV, a whiteboard, and two medium-sized tables. Surprised to be the first one in the room, she sat at one of the tables while waiting for breakfast.

After arriving home, Jacob found the house a mess, as if a tornado had blown through, and on the ground lay Emma. He wouldn’t have seen her if it wasn’t for the whimpers and sniffles. He started to lift her and walk her to his car as she fought back, begging him not to take her to the hospital, which he explained was for her own good. Eventually, she seemed to calm down, willingly entering the emergency room but keeping silent. She seemed emotionless, completely gone from reality, as she did what she was told. Jacob remained with her for the four quiet hours waiting to enter the ward, but he couldn’t join her upstairs. He kissed her on the forehead as he told her he loved her, watching the automated doors close behind her.

The morning felt like a blur to Emma. There was a group therapy session about thought patterns, but she couldn’t be bothered to pay attention. All she could think about was Jacob’s betrayal and surviving the next few days in the ward. While waiting for her turn in individual therapy, she sat on the couch and watched TV, the technicians encouraging her to do a puzzle or play board games instead. However, she didn’t want to; she wanted to remain on the sofa and become one with it, maybe even enter a new world. One thing she knew, at least, was she didn’t want to be there.

As Emma focused on Guy’s Grocery Games, someone informed the staff that Dr. Rose, the psych ward psychologist, was ready for her. One of the techs had to walk Emma to the room Dr. Rose was in, and as they closed the door, there was no hesitation in greeting, “Good morning, Emma,” said Dr. Rose, “How are you feeling?”

“I’m good,” Emma answered as if automatically.

“That’s good to hear,” Dr. Rose stated, pausing momentarily as if waiting for more clarification, “I hear you’ve had a rough time lately.” Emma knew what the psychologist was doing. She remembers saying nothing to anyone since she stepped into the hospital, so how could she know what was going on with her? Dr. Rose must’ve noticed her demeanor change, adding, “It says here your boyfriend came with you. Can you tell me about him? What’s your relationship like?”

Emma found her question irrelevant and a bit insulting, answering, “It’s fine. He’s the one that admitted me.”

“It sounds like he was concerned for you,” Dr. Rose probed, Emma refusing to look in her direction.

“I guess.”

“Why do you think he was concerned?” For some reason, as Dr. Rose asked the question, Emma felt her wall crack.

“He found me crying on the ground when he came home,” Emma sounded defeated. Before Dr. Rose could ask why, Emma continued, “I have been a bit stressed lately.”

“From what?”

“From… My story,” Emma started to regret explaining further. She knew what she was about to say sounded crazy and unbelievable, but it was real, at least to her. Dr. Rose began to ask her ‘therapy questions,’ such as, ‘What do you mean?’ or ‘What about your story is stressing you out?’ And this was something Emma was too familiar with and agitated to get roped into. She went on, not too confident in her words, “You’re not going to believe me… But I’ve been seeing my past.”

Dr. Rose thought for a moment and then asked, “Like flashbacks?” Emma knew she wouldn’t understand, already feeling her face’s temperature increase.

“No,” Emma paused, “Like… When I start to write down a memory, it appears in front of me, like I can see everything just as it happened and feel what I felt then, too.”

“Do you experience these hallucinations often?” Just as the question emerged in the universe, Emma felt on the border of shutting down and losing her temper. As she was about to give up on clarification, a shift in her seat spiked pain from her tailbone, remembering the bruise she had gotten the other day.

“I have proof!” Emma jumped out of her seat, stamping her left hand on the table that divided her and Dr. Rose, her right hand resting on her lower back, “When I first entered my memories, I fell suddenly and landed right here. I even have a bruise!” Dr. Rose just stared at her, taking a moment to jot something down on her clipboard.

“Where did you fall from?” Emma knew Dr. Rose’s question was just to make her question what actually happened, but she was not to be made a fool of, especially by another psychologist.

“I’ll show you,” Emma then grabbed a nearby pen and paper and started to write:

‘Nighttime seemed like the perfect storm for causing trouble in Lily’s life. While Michael was on a business trip, Lily had started a new career. As she thrived, following his return, he wondered where he belonged if he was even wanted.’

A rush of wind blew through the room, papers spiraling around as if appearing from nowhere, the ceiling lights rapidly flickering. Dr. Rose watched in amazement as the room changed into a million pictures passing by as quickly as a new thought, “Are you doing this?” she asked. Calm set in, revealing darkness, the occasional flickering of a light mounted to the ceiling, faintly recognizing three doors with the letters A, B, and C mounted on them. She looked around, unable to see Emma anymore, “Emma?” Receiving no answer, she heard some people shouting from the door behind her, “Emma?” She called out again, the door opening as a beam of light peered through the door’s crack. As she poked her head in the doorway of what looked like a cluttered living room, she found Emma standing in front of an open door where yelling could be heard. As she made her way to Emma, she discovered that one of the people yelling was, in fact, Emma. However, this Emma was different; her hair was shorter, and her arms lacked a couple of tattoos.

“Go and have fun with your friends since I don’t fit in your life anymore!” The man had shouted.

“Stop being so insecure!” The different Emma hollered back.

Emma was tired of these memories- these horrible memories. She had forgotten about the extent of this memory, hoping it wouldn’t end too badly. She started to shake, shuddering every time Jacob would shout. While her past self became more confident at this point, it didn’t mean her defenses were healthy. Just as Emma regretted her decision made out of ego, she had missed a portion of the fight, quickly dodging a glass her past self had thrown at Jacob. Her heart skipped a beat, her breathing weakened as she fell to her knees. Hunched over, her nails dug into her arms. She watched as Jacob stomped toward her past self, clenching her arms, and commanding her to calm down.

Shortly after, she felt woozy; the only thing Emma could hear was the rustling of the papers swirling around her. She couldn’t hear anything, her sight slowly blurring to a fiery red. She thought this was it; she was to die. But as her body was almost swallowed by a dark figure towering over her, she felt a splash of ice-cold water on her head. Yelping, the memory and the mass of papers became saturated to reveal Dr. Rose standing above her with an empty glass. As Emma lifted her head, her eyes shifted to her surroundings, nothing but a dark abyss. The two remained silent for a moment.

“How’d you know that would work?” Emma wondered, vigorously shaking through her breath. Dr. Rose kneeled to her level, slightly smiling.

“I didn’t really,” She paused, “but sometimes, you need a temperature change to focus on the right thing.” Emma didn’t move, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

“What is wrong with me?” Emma began to bawl like a newborn baby, something she had promised herself she’d never do in front of anyone. Feeling embarrassed, she actively tried covering her face with her hands, despairing for a hug, embrace, kind words… anything. But she knew this wasn’t possible, as she figured therapists weren’t allowed to do that. While less intense, her mind still spun with the thoughts of internal decay, telling herself that it wouldn’t get better, that nothing would get better, and that as long as she had BPD, she would always have a hard life. Watching her release the emotions built up over years of trauma and confusion, Dr. Rose decided to sit down, keeping silent as she patiently supported her.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Dr. Rose assured, “your mind just processes things differently than others.”

“If I didn’t have BPD, none of this would be happening,” Emma continued, sobbing, “I wouldn’t constantly think of death and snap so easily where it takes forever to calm down.”

Dr. Rose placed her hand on Emma’s back, “BPD isn’t a life-long sentence; it’s something you have, not something you are.” At that moment, the walls of her office appeared as if dripping down like paint; as the two found themselves back in their seats, Dr. Rose’s hand sat on a stack of documents instead. Emma’s crying weakened as she wiped her nose with her shirt. “You’re kind, artistic, sociable… Your emotions may be strong, but this shows you care.” Emma felt slightly relieved yet drained, her attention sparsely present. Dr. Rose continued talking about BPD and managing stress, and for a moment, Emma felt understood as she left the office, believing she heard an apology on her way out.

---

As it may, Emma had missed the competition deadline. However, despite the weeks of diminishing mental health, she thought it would be a waste not to publish it, especially after what she went through to produce it. She named it ‘Sorrolgia,’ as it recalls a girl’s past and her struggle to heal.

            “Borderline personality disorder, or BPD, is borderline between neurosis and psychosis. Those who have it experience rapid and extreme mood shifts, constant feelings of emptiness, impulsive or self-destructive behaviors, explosive anger, and unstable relationships, to name a few. The cause of this disorder comes from the inability to create healthy attachments in childhood. A heavy stigma hides behind BPD as dramatic and manipulative behaviors, and while there are borderlines out there that can come across this way, the disorder as a whole isn’t. This is only one story out of millions of others. It is not rare, and it is not incurable. It’s a friend, a partner, a mother; it is me. I have borderline personality disorder, and this is my story,” Emma looks up from her podium, claps and cheers ensuing from the small crowd in the library. As she closes her first-ever published book, she ponders something her therapist had told her:

“Life can seem like an endless battle, but that doesn’t mean it’s undefeatable.”