Borderline Personal Disorder: When psychopathy helps your success as a writer By Claire Fitzpatrick

“The Queen is controlling, the Witch is sadistic, the Hermit is fearful, and the Waif is helpless.”
― Christine Ann Lawson, Understanding the Borderline Mother

I’m not here for you to feel sorry for me, because it doesn’t get anyone anywhere. I’m not here to wallow or to make you change your opinion of me, because it also doesn’t get anyone anywhere. This essay of sorts wasn’t written to change your opinion of me. It’s simply to show you why I write the way I do, and what it means for me to use writing as a form of catharsis. I have Borderline Personality Disorder, and I don’t want your sympathy. I just want you to understand what it means, and how I use it to inspire my writing.

Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is a widely criticised and misunderstood mental illness. It’s called borderline because it indicates someone is on the border of neurosis and psychosis. It’s a fractured psyche, but not entirely unmanageable. BPD controls every aspect of my life. It splits my thinking into black and white. I either love or hate you, like or dislike you; there is no in-between. I won’t go into the specifics of how this diagnosis came about. Suffice to say I grew up with parents who loved me and my sister, except one of them experienced various incredibly horrible traumas in their life they couldn’t get over and wouldn’t seek help to try and get over them. Instead, they drank heavily and offloaded their lifetime of sadness to a child, a child who just wanted to know they were loved and appreciated, a child who just wanted to be a child. This parent also gave up their first child for adoption and then gave me a quest to find this child. Now let’s think about that. A child with a quest. Sounds like some kind of hero in a fantasy story, right? Wrong. I felt it was my life’s mission to find this mysterious sibling because if I did this parent would stop drinking and tell me they were proud of me. They’d tell me they loved me and for the first time, I’d genuinely believe it. They inflicted their pain upon me which, through therapy, I now know is not OK.

I can’t even begin to count the number of times I hid in the cupboard to escape this or the number of times I self-harmed just to feel something that was not their pain, but my own. Because there was no room in their life for me to be sad. There was no place for me to voice my feelings that weren’t childish happiness. I don’t know how to make this any clearer: I was allowed to feel my own feelings. I. Was. Not. Allowed. To. Feel.

And that’s the way it’s been for a long time. I don’t always hide the fact I don’t experience genuine empathy for a lot of people. I don’t think I’m a particularly unkind person – I’m just brusque, and if pushed to the point where I allow myself to outwardly project my emotions I will tell you exactly what I think of you, and that isn’t always nice. Because of this, I don’t have many ‘real-life’ friends, and I haven’t had many stable relationships.

However, my current partner, who I have been with for almost three years, also has BPD, and while we have a bizarre relationship, it works. Because we understand each other in a way many others simply can’t. He’s a very interesting person. While I bottle up my emotions and then explode, he explodes straight away without a second thought. But he’s also an artist, and when he’s frustrated, he’ll go work on a piece that gives him some semblance of peace and calmness I can’t always provide. He uses creativity in the same way as I do. I love him more than I have ever loved another partner (I was engaged to my daughter’s father for three years, yet the relationship failed because he didn’t understand my BPD and thought I was just ‘crazy’. He’s not a bad person; he just doesn’t understand, and that’s OK). My partner and I are like yin and yang. We’re two pieces of the same puzzle. And yet our symptoms don’t mirror each other – they’re reflections of the same disorder. I’m obsessive and hyper-focussed, and I push each other to do more and more things that overwhelm me. He’s more laid-back and works on one or two things at a time. But this is why when he has outbursts, they’re horrible, yes, but they’re not as explosive as mine because he doesn’t hold it in like I do. And while he doesn’t go to therapy, it’s a skill I wish I could learn.

For example, I recently had a driving lesson. The instructor expected a lot more from me than I could give, as I had only had around seven lessons from three different people. I told this instructor about it. I made it clear I was nervous. And yet as I drove and missed a few turns he would sigh or click his tongue, or even say “why can’t you do this? Everyone else can.” I let this slide for two or three times. Maybe I should have been able to do this? Maybe he was just being matter of fact because he had to be straightforward during a short person of time allocated for the lesson. However, after another round of “why can’t you…are you ever trying…” I finally showed emotion and exploded with rage. I pulled over to the side of the road, grabbed my bag, told the instructor he was a c*nt and to get f*cked, and I got out of the car and stormed off. He shouted at me from the window, demanding payment, yet I shouted at him to never contact me again.

A few days later, at my psychologist appointment, I told her about the altercation. She told me I was impulsive and that I should have thought about him. What if he was having a bad day? Yet I told her I didn’t care. I’ve made so much progress with my therapist over the years, I really have, yet I honestly didn’t care, and I still don’t.

Let’s imagine you’ve argued with a friend. It’s a particularly mild argument, nothing too bad, and you both manage to get over it and salvage your friendship. Yet for me, that means renouncing them as a friend, cutting off all contact with them, and adding them to your mental list of ‘people I hate the most.’ Later, you may realise it was irrational and you’ve just lost the best friendship you’ve ever had, but at that moment, severing all ties with them is the most logical thing to do. Except, a BPD brain isn’t a logical brain. In my head, my logic switch turns off as fast as it turns on. Just like the way I acted in my driving lesson. All semblance of decency, understanding, and empathy just goes away. I’m not saying it’s an excuse as to why I behave the way I do, but it is a major contributing factor.

Despite many years of therapy, I still haven’t gotten over the abuse afflicted upon me as a child, and I still can’t control my emotions. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because the parent who gave me my quest didn’t care about me and what I wanted my life to be? So why should I care about others if the one person I wanted love and validation from couldn’t give it to me? I just can’t get over it, and I still haven’t figured out how to be rational and logical in an appropriate manner. To be honest, I truly believe the way I acted towards the driving instructor is perfectly rational and logical. But I know, deep down, that maybe, just maybe, it’s not the way to treat others, even if I was mistreated in the first place. I don’t want to hurt others in the way I was hurt as a child.

I use all of this pain, all of this sadness, all of this frustration, in my writing. I turn it all into something creative, something cathartic. My sadness is a hollowness, a bitterness, like something rotten inside of me. I suppose that’s why I gravitate towards horror. I can use this in a macabre way to convey my feelings in an acceptable manner. When the overwhelming thoughts of uselessness, of anger, of fluctuating moods, of intense loving and loathing of someone takes over I use horror to explore it. This character becomes mutilated in a physical way rather than an emotional way. This character feels the most intense physical pain they’ve ever felt in their life in a physical way rather than an emotional way. This character literally and grotesquely turns their body inside out in a physical way rather than an emotional way, and for horror writing, it works.

I love writing. It’s a skill I am so thankful I have. I’m also an artist and an academic researcher, but writing is who I am. It gives me a sense of identity when I’m going through stages where I feel there’s nothing inside of me. Writing allows me to create characters in a fairly easy way because I, myself, am a character to many people. I have many different faces I show to people because I want to control how they view me. I hate being out of control. It makes me think of the feeling of helplessness I had as a child.

Right now, as I write this, I am on the brink of tears. My heart is beating so fast I feel it might burst forth from my chest. Why won’t you love me? Why won’t you say you’re proud of me?! Why the f*ck should this be what I write about? Many people tell me I’m funny. I love telling jokes. I love making people laugh. But I can’t tell them I try so hard to make people laugh because it’s the only way I know how to make myself wanted. Because surely my writing and my art aren’t good enough for people to like me?

I don’t know if I can give any solid advice on writing. I believe I’m an adequate writer, but not so good people would ever ask for advice. I know that’s my low self-esteem talking, but deep down I truly believe that. And I don’t know if that will ever change. But I’m trying. You better f*cking believe I’m trying my hardest to change. I’m trying to be a good person, a good role model for my child, a better partner, and someone who cares about other people’s feelings. I’m trying not to be so f*cking selfish. And I tell people to write about their feelings honestly, to write about their pain, their sadness, their struggles in a wholly transparent way. For we all experience these emotions, it’s just some do more than others. And honestly, that’s all I can do. 

Bio: Claire Fitzpatrick is an award-winning author of speculative fiction and non-fiction. She won the 2017 Rocky Wood Award for Non-Fiction and Criticism. Called ‘Australia’s Queen Of Body Horror’ and ‘Australia’s Body Horror Specialist,’ she enjoys writing about anatomy and the darker side of humanity. Her debut collection ‘Metamorphosis,’ hailed as ‘simply heroic,’ is out now from IFWG Publishing. She’s currently studying a Master’s degree at the University of Queensland in Health and Rehabilitation Sciences. She lives with her partner, her daughter, and her cat Cthulhu somewhere in Queensland.
 
Facebook: facebook.com/witch.of.eldritch
Instagram: wetoo.arestardust
Twitter: CJFitzpatrick1991
Website: www.clairefitzpatrick.net/

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Metamorphosis: Short Stories by Claire Fitzpatrick

This short story collection includes 17 tales of terror. Madeline will never become a woman. William will never become a man. Does June deserve to be human? Does Lilith deserve a heart? If imperfection is crucial to a society's survival, what makes a monster?

"Simply heroic." - R.J. Joseph [reviewer]​

"Wonderful carnage among the formalities and forced smiles." - Aaron Dries, author of 'A Place For Sinners.'​"

A wickedly gruesome collection." - Tabitha Wood, author and editor.​​

​"Visceral and demented, full of flesh that twists and transforms and even sprouts feathers, Fitzpatrick's stories will either sicken or delight." - Brian Craddock, Shadows Award-winning author of 'Ismail's Expulsion.'

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