As a kid, struggling to authentically connect with people and the world around me, I took refuge in the characters on my TV screen. I joined the universe I was meant to be a mere observer of and was able to feel whole and completely present for a time in my otherwise dissociative existence. 

In high school, I watched a series called “The Fosters” and immediately connected with the main character. While our lives looked very different, we felt a lot of the same things, often had the same thoughts. At some points, I could’ve written her lines. Maybe done it better, even.

Though I wouldn’t have always made the same choices, I understood why she did what she did. At every turn, who she was made sense. And I felt it in my bones.

. . . . .

“I know you all think that I’m unacceptable.”

“That’s not what we meant.”

“THAT’S WHAT YOU SAID.”

Season 5, Episode 2.

. . . . .

As the series begins, we meet Callie, a 16-year-old, white girl growing up in foster care in California after the death of her mother and imprisonment of her father years earlier. She has a younger brother named Jude who she fiercely protects, at times to his detriment. And when she finds herself finally taken in by two people who are offering everything she’s been asking for–love, care, and a forever home–after years of mistreatment and outright abuse, she’s not sure what to make of it. And if it isn’t someone else putting up barriers or doing her wrong, she makes sure to sabotage herself at every turn.

I rarely find myself supporting a character full-stop. But no matter what happened, I was always on Callie’s side. Sometimes, to a serious fault (I admit). I just couldn’t help screaming at my TV, “why the hell is nobody listening to this girl?” She deserves to be heard. To be believed. To be unconditionally loved and accepted. So, when it continued to be that she wasn’t, the empathy and vicarious rage I felt rattled my cage.

It was hard to watch. Yet, in those moments, I could feel my own experiences breathe and be seen through hers. It was painful, but it was also a weight lifted. Even if I wasn’t able to have this sense of being seen “in the real,” so to speak, having it in an escaped or false reality was somehow enough.

I feel things deeply. That’s a given. I also have a deep interest in film and television series. Suffice to say, exactly how my BPD and autistic traits managed to have intersected in this way has brought me an absurd amount of peace and joy. Because through this medium, I process my emotions, analyze my thoughts, and explore how I show up in the world—and how sometimes that looks a little (or a lot) different from other people. And when my emotions feel too big for others to hold, I find comfort and safety in an episode of Gilmore Girls that I’ve seen 14 times. It just works. And it’s been a far more reliable tool in the way of emotion regulation than anything that has ever been recommended to me. I kid you, not.

People will say this is weird, lame or embarrassing. That it’s borderline childish. Or that I should stop watching TV and read an effing book. Seriously, I get that one a lot. 

Allow me to speak oh-so-clearly when I say this:

I don’t care.

The way I exist is not less valuable, does not hold less validity, simply because others deem it looks too different or doesn’t match their idea of what a full human should be.

Truly, I spent too much time this past month spinning my wheels, trying to write something—anything—that gave justice to the experience of being both autistic and having BPD. I felt pressure to authentically and fairly express something that is highly misunderstood, if not entirely denied and excluded from existence, in a way that was not only digestible for the outside viewer, but likable to a larger audience. And in the end, I think I lost the plot. 

All I needed to do was share one real experience that was mine. No one was asking for more. And if they were, they shouldn’t be. It’s not my job to try to explain something so massive and varied, nor is it even remotely my place. Maybe you enjoyed what I shared here, maybe you didn’t. Either is fine with me. Not everything is for everyone. And as this journey has become more public, I find myself occasionally needing to be reminded that it’s perfectly well for me to live that way.

 

About the Author: Jennifer is a licensed social worker and mental health advocate with lived experience of borderline personality disorder. She volunteers her time with the Lived Experience Committee because through advocacy we find that representation matters, human connection saves lives, and recovery is possible.