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Love in the Time of Mental Illness
Performed live at Queerstories (Melbourne, 25 July 2018) Photos by Alison Cosker |
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(1)
The first thing I think of when you haven’t posted an Instagram story in 24 hours is that you must have slept with someone else. Not only that: but you’re still with them, doing day-hangs (the ‘new second base’, according to some tweet I read), which we’ve never even done ’cos we’re not at that stage of dating yet.
Wait, no, we have—but always so brief ’cos we had just four weeks, then you left for Europe.
A good pal (not a bestie, like, she’s more Tier 2 than Tier 1, if you know what I mean—Dante’s circles and all that), she told me an LDR (long-distance relationship) would break me. She was real nego—like, ‘I felt attacked’-nego. I know she just cares for me, but, pssh, her experience of LDR isn’t my experience of…
…oh my god, are we even in an ‘R’? No—yes? You used the R-word the fourth-last time we hung out (at your place, on your bed, post-movie, it was a Monday).
You’re probably not sleeping with anyone. I dunno, maybe you are? I don’t care, what happens in Europe, amirite.
Lies: I do care. Not a lot, but I do. I don’t wanna know.
(2)
The Netflix series Crazy Ex-Girlfriend isn’t that crazy at all. It’s ramped up for comedic effect, sure, but protagonist Rebecca’s arc is pretty relatable. Spoilers—well, not really if you’ve been paying attention—but when Rebecca learns she has BPD (borderline personality disorder), I was like: doie.
To clarify: my BPD isn’t as extreme as hers. I’ve never moved towns to chase after a boy I was obsessed-in-love with … though, at twenty-one, I did date a C-list publishing celebrity (who, closeted, demanded our relo be kept secret), for whom I would regularly travel from Werribee (where I lived with my sister) to South Yarra via train, then let him make me wait outside until his parents fell asleep so he could sneak me in.
And I’ve never asked a colleague to illegally hack and track a lover … though, some years ago, I did keep reading an ex’s emails ’cos he was still logged in on my laptop and it was my only connection to him for the next four months post-breakup.
(3)
While I was in Thailand, I got competitive ’cos we were both holidaying and not really messaging. I wanted you to think I was having such a good time that I wasn’t thinking of you. Ridiculous ’cos, amid the beaches and the temples and the clubbing and the offers from cheaters (I wasn’t cheating—we hadn’t discussed mono--they were cheating) … amid all that, what I really wanted was a text from you.
I posted Insta story after Insta story hoping to match yours, but to truly ascertain that I’d matched yours, I had to keep checking what you were posting. The trap: Insta snitches on you if you’ve seen someone’s story. You knowing I was always up-to-date with your stories? Loser.
A nifty Google search introduced me to storiesig.com, which lets you watch people’s stories anonymously. Legit. So your profile was permanently on storiesig.com on Safari on my phone … but always behind another tab in case someone ever grabbed my phone and discovered my shame.
Refresh, 4 stories, last story added 37 minutes ago. Refresh, 5 stories, last story added 1 minute ago.
The first thing I think of when you haven’t posted an Instagram story in 24 hours is that you must have slept with someone else. Not only that: but you’re still with them, doing day-hangs (the ‘new second base’, according to some tweet I read), which we’ve never even done ’cos we’re not at that stage of dating yet.
Wait, no, we have—but always so brief ’cos we had just four weeks, then you left for Europe.
A good pal (not a bestie, like, she’s more Tier 2 than Tier 1, if you know what I mean—Dante’s circles and all that), she told me an LDR (long-distance relationship) would break me. She was real nego—like, ‘I felt attacked’-nego. I know she just cares for me, but, pssh, her experience of LDR isn’t my experience of…
…oh my god, are we even in an ‘R’? No—yes? You used the R-word the fourth-last time we hung out (at your place, on your bed, post-movie, it was a Monday).
You’re probably not sleeping with anyone. I dunno, maybe you are? I don’t care, what happens in Europe, amirite.
Lies: I do care. Not a lot, but I do. I don’t wanna know.
(2)
The Netflix series Crazy Ex-Girlfriend isn’t that crazy at all. It’s ramped up for comedic effect, sure, but protagonist Rebecca’s arc is pretty relatable. Spoilers—well, not really if you’ve been paying attention—but when Rebecca learns she has BPD (borderline personality disorder), I was like: doie.
To clarify: my BPD isn’t as extreme as hers. I’ve never moved towns to chase after a boy I was obsessed-in-love with … though, at twenty-one, I did date a C-list publishing celebrity (who, closeted, demanded our relo be kept secret), for whom I would regularly travel from Werribee (where I lived with my sister) to South Yarra via train, then let him make me wait outside until his parents fell asleep so he could sneak me in.
And I’ve never asked a colleague to illegally hack and track a lover … though, some years ago, I did keep reading an ex’s emails ’cos he was still logged in on my laptop and it was my only connection to him for the next four months post-breakup.
(3)
While I was in Thailand, I got competitive ’cos we were both holidaying and not really messaging. I wanted you to think I was having such a good time that I wasn’t thinking of you. Ridiculous ’cos, amid the beaches and the temples and the clubbing and the offers from cheaters (I wasn’t cheating—we hadn’t discussed mono--they were cheating) … amid all that, what I really wanted was a text from you.
I posted Insta story after Insta story hoping to match yours, but to truly ascertain that I’d matched yours, I had to keep checking what you were posting. The trap: Insta snitches on you if you’ve seen someone’s story. You knowing I was always up-to-date with your stories? Loser.
A nifty Google search introduced me to storiesig.com, which lets you watch people’s stories anonymously. Legit. So your profile was permanently on storiesig.com on Safari on my phone … but always behind another tab in case someone ever grabbed my phone and discovered my shame.
Refresh, 4 stories, last story added 37 minutes ago. Refresh, 5 stories, last story added 1 minute ago.
(4)
The main concerns of someone with BPD are twofold.
First: how the hell do I guarantee this is real? See, BPD folks have a shaky sense of self (thanks, faulty memory!) and, thus, hard-to-regulate emotions. So life events become plot elements, pieced together until things become coherent. When it comes to love, each interaction becomes evidence. Good or bad, we use these puzzle pieces to make sense of why we feel the way we feel.
And second: how do I make sure you don’t leave? Staving off abandonment is possibly our top motivator. This means every bit of ‘evidence’ is climactic: a little whiff of disinterest or neglect, and our world spirals into Armageddon.
The trouble when someone has both BPD and OCPD (obsessive-compulsive personality disorder)? These self-protective narratives become self-sustaining: yardsticks against which actual events and exchanges are measured. It’s not simply Do you really still care about me?; it becomes No, we agreed X, so you better not not-X or else none of this was ever real.
(5)
There’ve been a grand total of four occasions (so far) during which BPD, OCPD and my other assorted disorders have conspired against us.
(6)
Before my nine-year-old nephew started therapy, the child psych requested a family history of mental illness. My sister made me fill out the bit pertaining to me ’cos ‘I don’t fucken know all the shit you have lol’.
At their first session, the psych asked her: ‘So your brother has all of these?’ (Yes.) ‘Properly diagnosed?’ (Yes.) ‘Meds? CBT?’ (Yes and yes.) ‘Woooow [Owen Wilson voice]. Alright.’
(7)
You turned your Insta private the other day and storiesig.com only works if the profile is public.
The main concerns of someone with BPD are twofold.
First: how the hell do I guarantee this is real? See, BPD folks have a shaky sense of self (thanks, faulty memory!) and, thus, hard-to-regulate emotions. So life events become plot elements, pieced together until things become coherent. When it comes to love, each interaction becomes evidence. Good or bad, we use these puzzle pieces to make sense of why we feel the way we feel.
And second: how do I make sure you don’t leave? Staving off abandonment is possibly our top motivator. This means every bit of ‘evidence’ is climactic: a little whiff of disinterest or neglect, and our world spirals into Armageddon.
The trouble when someone has both BPD and OCPD (obsessive-compulsive personality disorder)? These self-protective narratives become self-sustaining: yardsticks against which actual events and exchanges are measured. It’s not simply Do you really still care about me?; it becomes No, we agreed X, so you better not not-X or else none of this was ever real.
(5)
There’ve been a grand total of four occasions (so far) during which BPD, OCPD and my other assorted disorders have conspired against us.
- Situation: That time you double-booked and had to cancel on me to help a friend for work. Action: While you were running errands, I texted you paragraph upon paragraph about how ‘unimportant you’ve made me feel’ (blerg).
- Situation: Our second-last night before Europe, when I asked for an ETA and you didn’t reply for 15 minutes ’cos you were at dinner. Action: I used my having left dance class early as guilt trip (it backfired), then threatened I’d be ‘real peeved’ if you were late. Wasted half the night talking through it.
- Situation: You posted an Insta story about being in hospital. I messaged full of concern. You left me on ‘Seen’. Action: Nothing. I filed it away as ammo for later. I guessed, in the end, you were fine. I welcomed the attention I got from the Bangkok cheaters (not ideal).
- Situation: We were chatting after a week of no talk. You stopped replying for 10 minutes but managed to post an Insta story. Action: I rang you and demanded an explanation. 45 minutes. The roaming charges were expensive af.
(6)
Before my nine-year-old nephew started therapy, the child psych requested a family history of mental illness. My sister made me fill out the bit pertaining to me ’cos ‘I don’t fucken know all the shit you have lol’.
At their first session, the psych asked her: ‘So your brother has all of these?’ (Yes.) ‘Properly diagnosed?’ (Yes.) ‘Meds? CBT?’ (Yes and yes.) ‘Woooow [Owen Wilson voice]. Alright.’
(7)
You turned your Insta private the other day and storiesig.com only works if the profile is public.
(8)
I hadn’t seen my psych in three months, which is longer than how long we’ve been dating. Obvi, I had to give him the full rundown. (The main concern of someone with OCPD is: everything should be perfect all the time; my way is the best way; catch-ups should be cogent, contextualised, comprehensive.)
Re: phone call, he said he was proud of my initiative (though I should work on the ‘drama’ factor or whatever?) and also for (a) making myself vulnerable and (b) focusing on needs and desired behavioural changes.
I was getting real smug when my psych—glorious, sassy old gay that he is—cut me off: ‘But you live your life in sixth gear while everyone else is on third. I’m exhausted just listening to you tell me everything from the last three months! So, yeah, have some understanding while you two are doing long-distance.’
BPD internal monologue: shit, is he not proud of me anymore?
OCPD monologue: why doesn't he appreciate that I did well?!
Immediate action: tweet about it.
Longer-term action: work on it.
(9)
The other night, while I was doped up on Codral, we had a real good chat. Brief—but good. You asked how my Queerstories piece was going.
Hahaha, what? The piece. About you. I mean, about me … about you.
I fluffed some shit about ‘misadventures in dating via mental illness’ and you kept asking and fuck fuck fuck stay cool make jokes I’m roasting myself not you what? you want to read it what? say ‘maybe best when you’re back’?
Me: ‘This might be a “better in person when you’re back” [laugh-cry emoji]’
You: ‘Haha I’m sure I’ll get the debrief from some of the queers going’
Remembering Queerstories! Asking how I’m feeling! Positive evidence! Daaamn, boy, maybe you do care.
But also: I look around this crowd and, goddammit, which of you are his spies?!
(10)
Counting from today, it’s a week until you’re back.
In that time, I’ll have: done Queerstories, heaps of edits, dance training, some writing, gone to Adelaide with my Tier 1s, hosted a book launch, attended a film-festival opening-night gala.
In that time, you’ll have: done Paris (been waiting all trip for that), returned to London, boarded a plane to Melbourne.
In that time, I hope you’ll have: messaged me to organise when we’ll hang.
In that time, I’ll likely have: rewatched Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Season 3, Episode 11, when Rebecca’s psych tells her: ‘You deserve love … I hope you believe that.’
In that time, I hope I’ll be: better at driving on low gear.
I hadn’t seen my psych in three months, which is longer than how long we’ve been dating. Obvi, I had to give him the full rundown. (The main concern of someone with OCPD is: everything should be perfect all the time; my way is the best way; catch-ups should be cogent, contextualised, comprehensive.)
Re: phone call, he said he was proud of my initiative (though I should work on the ‘drama’ factor or whatever?) and also for (a) making myself vulnerable and (b) focusing on needs and desired behavioural changes.
I was getting real smug when my psych—glorious, sassy old gay that he is—cut me off: ‘But you live your life in sixth gear while everyone else is on third. I’m exhausted just listening to you tell me everything from the last three months! So, yeah, have some understanding while you two are doing long-distance.’
BPD internal monologue: shit, is he not proud of me anymore?
OCPD monologue: why doesn't he appreciate that I did well?!
Immediate action: tweet about it.
Longer-term action: work on it.
(9)
The other night, while I was doped up on Codral, we had a real good chat. Brief—but good. You asked how my Queerstories piece was going.
Hahaha, what? The piece. About you. I mean, about me … about you.
I fluffed some shit about ‘misadventures in dating via mental illness’ and you kept asking and fuck fuck fuck stay cool make jokes I’m roasting myself not you what? you want to read it what? say ‘maybe best when you’re back’?
Me: ‘This might be a “better in person when you’re back” [laugh-cry emoji]’
You: ‘Haha I’m sure I’ll get the debrief from some of the queers going’
Remembering Queerstories! Asking how I’m feeling! Positive evidence! Daaamn, boy, maybe you do care.
But also: I look around this crowd and, goddammit, which of you are his spies?!
(10)
Counting from today, it’s a week until you’re back.
In that time, I’ll have: done Queerstories, heaps of edits, dance training, some writing, gone to Adelaide with my Tier 1s, hosted a book launch, attended a film-festival opening-night gala.
In that time, you’ll have: done Paris (been waiting all trip for that), returned to London, boarded a plane to Melbourne.
In that time, I hope you’ll have: messaged me to organise when we’ll hang.
In that time, I’ll likely have: rewatched Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Season 3, Episode 11, when Rebecca’s psych tells her: ‘You deserve love … I hope you believe that.’
In that time, I hope I’ll be: better at driving on low gear.