Children who experience trauma often grow up in environments where attention, care, or support are inconsistent, unsafe, or harmful. I experienced trauma as a child, and I was so busy just trying to survive and make everyone else happy that I never learned how to receive attention and support in a healthy way.

When I was 17, I left home. All of a sudden, I was on my own. I was no longer being abused, which was a huge relief, AND I was hurting because of everything that had happened to me as a child. I wanted and needed help and support, but I didn’t know how to get it. I began acting out and displaying abnormal illness behaviour. I would hurt myself and take overdoses that were really just a cry for help.

Sometimes I couldn’t cope with my emotional pain and had to be admitted to the mental health ward. At that time, my pain was unbearable. I was desperate to find any way to quiet the turmoil inside me. Sometimes, I would mimic symptoms of psychosis. I would pretend I was hearing voices and bang my head on the wall. This behaviour would result in me being given an injection and forced into a seclusion room with only a mattress and a metal toilet with no seat; I would fall into a sedated sleep. You may wonder why anyone would want this. The truth was, during those stints in hospital, my psychological pain was so strong that I would do anything to be distracted from how I was feeling inside.

In the mental hospital, I was often accommodated in the High Dependency Unit (HDU). There was nothing to do in HDU. We weren’t allowed our phones. There was one TV, almost always tuned to the rolling news channel. The boredom was sickening. Twice a day, at morning and afternoon tea, the tea ladies would bring in caffeine-free coffee and biscuits. The terrible coffee and bland biscuits were the highlight of the day. HDU was so stifling that jail would have been more exciting.

Despite HDU being such a monotonous, mind-numbing environment, I always felt scared when I knew I would be discharged soon. Hospital was a safe place for me, and I was able to receive support and attention when I was an inpatient. Even when the attention was negative (such as the nurses being angry or frustrated with me), it was still better than being at home on my own.

BPD patients are often labelled as manipulative. Some of the nurses said I was being manipulative so I could stay in hospital. Maybe I was—but think about it: the only incentive I had for being there was to receive care and distraction from my emotional pain. Receiving care seems like a very basic need to me. Rather than calling me manipulative, perhaps the nurses could have validated my need for care and helped me learn how to receive it in a healthy way.

I acknowledge that during those hospital stays I wasn’t experiencing true psychosis. I was, however, sick. For anyone to want to be in such a boring, stifling environment, they surely have to be unwell. I wasn’t in hospital because it was fun—if I wanted fun, I could have gone to the movies, a theme park, the local lagoon for a swim, or even the library to enjoy a good book.

I now understand that the illness I had was Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). At the time, though, I didn’t have that diagnosis. I didn’t have the skills I needed to cope with my mental pain in a healthy way, so I pretended I was psychotic.

During those years in and out of hospital, I suspected I had BPD. I think some of the medical staff suspected it too. Maybe my treatment team thought they’d be doing me a disservice by diagnosing me with such a stigmatised illness. Personally, I thought that if I admitted to thinking I had BPD, rather than psychosis, I would be judged and refused help. I wasn’t entirely wrong—there is still much stigma associated with BPD. I know someone who is a mental health nurse; we were once close, but after they found out I had BPD, they stopped treating me as a friend. They became hostile and cold. They tolerated me, and that was about it—and still is.

Fortunately, not all mental health staff stigmatise BPD patients. Since my diagnosis, I have met many wonderful staff who enjoy working with people with BPD because they know how life-changing it can be when patients receive the right support. For me, that support came in the form of Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT). Since starting DBT, I have not once pretended I had an illness I didn’t have. I was taught how to receive help and support in a healthy way.

At first, committing to DBT was scary, because the help offered was outpatient, and I felt safe in hospital. Many studies have found that long hospital admissions aren’t the best thing for patients with BPD, and I now understand why. A big part of DBT is teaching clients skills to cope with life’s ups and downs, and showing them how to receive attention and support in a healthy way. If a BPD patient is admitted to hospital every time they face something difficult, they probably won’t learn how to use these skills.

DBT has been life-changing for me. I’m fairly certain that if I had continued being admitted every time I struggled, I would never have learned how to use my skills and would have become even more dependent on hospital. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in and out of wards. Now that I have my DBT skills, I know I won’t need to.

When I first started DBT, my individual therapist (T) assured me that I could learn to manage life without depending on hospital admissions. T told me I didn’t need to pretend to have psychosis or any other illness in order to get help. T explained that I had BPD and acknowledged how much I had been through. T also said that patients with BPD are deserving of help and support, just like patients with any other illness. T validated my pain and helped me see that I was worthy of support. That validation was the first step in my recovery journey. For the first time in my life, I totally trusted a medical professional.

DBT is a very comprehensive program. As well as group therapy once a week, I also had individual therapy once a week. Phone coaching was available 24/7. I learned many skills in DBT—skills that help me manage the difficult days. Now, if I need attention or support, I can message my brother or sister. I also have close friends I can reach out to if I need help or just want a chat.

For about 20 years of my life, I avoided admitting—even to myself—that I had BPD, because I thought I wouldn’t be taken seriously. I assumed the only way to get my needs met was by banging my head on the wall or pretending I was hearing voices. Eventually, after I was diagnosed, I was able to build a therapeutic relationship with my therapist. They helped me find the courage to accept that I had BPD.

Accepting I had BPD was the first obstacle on my journey to recovery. It was hard to acknowledge such a stigmatised illness, AND I’m glad I did, because acceptance was my first step forward. Now, I know that if I want support, I need only ask for it. I don’t need to pretend I have psychosis or any other illness to get help. I haven’t been in the mental health ward once since starting DBT, because I finally have the skills I need to manage life without relying on hospital.

I am living my best life, making the most of every minute of every day.