My temporary brush with insanity as the result of becoming deeply emotionally connected to a girl with a personality disorder.
You’d be surprised in what stunning relief a “please never talk to me again” stands etched in the skin on your wrist or your thigh, especially when it comes from Emily. Or at least I was. At times I had loved her; often, I had not, and the rest, I couldn’t tell. When I told her I loved her, it felt forced. When Emily wanted something, you didn’t question it. There are not enough menthol cigarettes in the world to help me understand the twisted and rusted gears that grind in her head, the wicked things she says, or the fucked up things she’s done to the ones around her. All I know is that when she grabbed my shirt collar in my high-school’s hallway and pressed her lips against mine under the fluorescent flickering lights, I thought it was love. I thought I could fix her, and I thought she could save me.
If there was an award for the most inaccurate assumption in the history of modern society, I’d have won it.
I almost wish there was, because so far, I’ve gained nothing else from this fiasco. People like to grin and say, rather joyfully, “Well, you’re better for the experience!” I am absolutely not. What happened, instead, is that I lost seven months of my brief time here to an angsty teenage girl with what professionals call borderline personality disorder. It’s not so much a cut-and-dry mental issue as it is a satellite of different behaviors that most functioning people find unacceptable in society. Emily, however, had a pass for these behaviors…because she had borderline personality disorder. Everything was because she had borderline. Not according to her mouth, of course, but according to her eyes. Her eyes begged for you to understand her, for you to understand this monster that was eating her up inside.
It took me about six months to work out that there was no monster eating her up inside.
She was the monster.