Fine, I admit it. I’m just scared

I get it. About two years ago, my life started falling apart at an alarming clip.

I was married (spoiler alert: was) and had two young children. I was at a point in my career where things, I thought, should be getting easier. But they weren’t. As my cohort aged and had kids, I had fewer and fewer close friends. My marriage was in trouble. I struggled with intense, body-clenching rage and existential squid-ink darkness.

In the midst of what I guess was a mental breakdown, I tried to kill myself. At that point, seeking help became life or death. The evidence that I was struggling with mental illness was incontrovertible; that it was affecting the people I love was equally uncontestable. So, I ended up in therapy, talking to a nice lady named Julia.

What a cliché, I thought, looking at her ready-to-pluck tissues and well-hugged crushed-velvet pillow. But it felt good to talk to someone who wasn’t furious at me for a decade of craziness, who could see me with professional compunction.

After a while, Julia suggested that I might have something called borderline personality disorder (BPD), with symptoms including suicidal ideations, rage, impulsive behaviour and black-and-white thinking. The more I understood BPD, the more I understood what triggered what, and why. I’m not saying that I’m not responsible for the suffering I caused. I am. But I didn’t have to beat myself up as much as I had.

Addressing my mental health wasn’t enough to save my marriage. But it allowed me to know myself. It’s like I hadn’t fully put my weight on this Earth. I was holding a part of myself apart, suspended, like a terrified marionette. Now,

I’m here. I’m happy – and sad – in a way I couldn’t be before. And I’m more comfortable admitting, “I’m scared.”