BPD and societal stigma – being mentally ill in this world

Hello everyone ❤️

I'm not writing this to elicit sympathy. I'm writing it to show what it truly feels like to be mentally ill. What it's like to live with borderline personality disorder in a world that offers little space for inner struggles. What it's like to constantly face stigma – and how lonely this path often is.

Being mentally ill doesn't just mean living with intense emotions, inner tension, and recurring crises. It also means constantly feeling like you're not functioning the way people expect you to. That you don't fit in. That you're inconvenient. Whether at work or in your personal life.

Living with borderline personality disorder means experiencing everything more intensely: joy, closeness, love – but also pain, fear, and despair. I'm also a very self-critical and insecure person who needs a lot of external feedback to feel secure and believe I'm good enough and capable. My nervous system reacts faster, more strongly, and more unfiltered. And that's precisely what I'm often criticized for.

Note: This text discusses mental illness, difficult emotions, and suicide. Please continue reading only if you feel emotionally safe.

When being different is constantly judged

I learned very early on that my way of feeling was not welcome.

That I am "too sensitive".

That I am "exaggerating".

That I "get too worked up about it".

And at some point, these sentences come out, the ones that are supposed to help:

"You just need to think more positively."

"Go outside, a little sunshine will do you good."

"Just pull yourself together a little."

"Others are much worse off than you."

These sentences are not harmless. They hurt.

Not because exercise or fresh air are bad – but because they act as if a serious mental illness can be resolved with a few thoughts. As if my suffering were a matter of attitude. As if I could choose to be ill. I can't simply think positively when my insides are falling apart. I can't go for a walk and thereby "make" my illness go away. And I can't pull myself together when my nervous system is in a state of emergency.

Such statements don't empower – they diminish. They convey: Your pain is exaggerated. Your suffering is unjustified.

Loneliness that arises quietly

Loneliness rarely comes suddenly. It grows slowly. Messages become less frequent. Replies shorter. Invitations stop coming. Not because you're malicious. But because you're no longer "easy." No longer uncomplicated. Because you're no longer just listening, but fighting your own battles.

It's incredibly painful to realize that people turn away when you're feeling down. That interest is often conditional. That closeness only lasts as long as you're functioning.

And sometimes – and this is especially painful – this even happens in relationships.

When even closeness offers no protection

My illness isn't always welcome in my relationship either. It's not always understood. Sometimes it's downplayed, sometimes it's belittled.

Then sentences like the following are uttered:

"You're just so borderline."

"Now you're crying again."

Or I get ignored when I'm really struggling emotionally. Not taken seriously. Dismissed because I'm "overreacting," because I supposedly only see things in black and white.

Sometimes I am also judged when I self-harm or use drugs.

Then I hear things like:

"Whenever we argue, I'm afraid you'll hurt yourself."

But self-harm is not a threat. It is not directed against the other person. It is not an attempt to blame or to instill fear.

It is self-punishment. A way of dealing with inner pain when words fail and everything becomes too much.

Being condemned for this behavior only makes things worse. It intensifies shame, guilt, and the feeling of not being welcome, even in one's darkest moments.

This is not an accusation or an assignment of blame.

Even where there is love, there is often no room for mental illness. Understanding is not a given, even there.

And that makes it incredibly lonely.

A sentence from my youth that I have never forgotten.

When I was about 17 or 18, I'd been feeling very unwell for a long time. Actually, it started much earlier – things began to get worse when I was about 15. Shortly before my final apprenticeship exams, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital after a suicide attempt, and later spent an extended period in a clinic for therapy.

Back then I had a best friend. I often talked to her about my dark thoughts, about this inner hopelessness, about the feeling of not being able to go on.

At some point she said something to me that has stuck with me to this day:

"If you really wanted to kill yourself, you would do it. You wouldn't just keep talking about it."

That sentence silenced me. Not because I felt better – but because I learned that even honest cries for help are doubted. That my words aren't taken seriously.

Some time later, I made my second attempt...

A myth that is life-threatening

You often hear him say: "Those who only talk about it won't actually do it."

That's not just wrong. It's dangerous!

Speaking is often not a game or a search for attention. Sometimes, speaking is the last attempt to be heard. The last thread one clings to because there is still a part of oneself that wants to live.

I don't just know that theoretically.

I had more than one attempt. And in 2024 and 2025 I was not far from trying again.

Not because I "didn't mean it".

But because inner struggles aren't linear. Because hope and despair often coexist. And because words are sometimes the only way to release the pain before it consumes you from within.

What such sentences can do

When someone says, " Then do it if you really want to."

Then that's not honesty. It's devaluation. It's being overwhelmed, disguised as toughness.

Such statements convey: Your suffering is not credible. Your words are not to be taken seriously. You are too much.

And that's precisely what makes people even lonelier. Even quieter. Even more vulnerable.

The myths that cause additional hurt

• “Borderliners are manipulative.”

  Often it's desperation. Fear of being alone. The desire not to be abandoned again.

• "People with borderline personality disorder are impulsive and unpredictable."

  What hardly anyone sees: how much control, reflection and inner work is behind it.

• "People with borderline personality disorder always catastrophize everything."

  No. Feelings aren't wrong – they're more intense. Fear feels existential. Pain feels final.

• "People with borderline personality disorder hurt themselves."

  Some do this. Not out of provocation, but because the inner pain would otherwise be unbearable. And not all people with borderline personality disorder do this.

And then that one sentence about trauma

And then there's this sentence. One that doesn't feel like comfort, but like a blow.

"Your trauma has made you stronger."

"Aren't you also a little bit glad about your experiences?"

Absolutely not! I'm not happy about it! I'm tired of it!

Trauma didn't make me strong. It made me distrustful. Anxious. Vigilant. It robbed me of nights, security, and trust. It shaped my nervous system, distorted my relationships, and damaged my self-image.

The fact that I'm still here today doesn't mean it was worth it. The fact that I fight, reflect, and heal doesn't mean this suffering was necessary.

No one would say to someone with a physical illness:

"Be glad you experienced that – it shaped you."

So why in cases of psychological suffering?

Because emotional pain is easier to downplay when it's romanticized!

Such statements downplay pain. They shift responsibility. They make you feel as if you should be grateful for something that has broken you. And they leave you alone once again – with the feeling that even your own suffering is meant to be "exploited."

But I didn't want to make anything of it. I just didn't want to get hurt.

And yet: We are still here

Despite the devaluation, despite the loneliness, despite all these statements, we are still here.

We are fighting.

We reflect.

We are working on ourselves – often more than anyone realizes.

We are not broken.

We are not lazy.

We are not ungrateful or negative.

We are people with a mental illness – not with a bad character.

Being mentally ill in this world is hard. Often lonely. Often unfair.

But our experience is real. Our pain is real. And we deserve compassion, respect, and genuine connection – not just when we're functioning.

If you're reading this and recognize yourself in it: You're not alone. ❤️

I hope I've been able to give you some insight into what it's like to live with a mental illness in this society. Perhaps you'll take something away from it – a bit of understanding, a little reflection, or simply the reminder that each of us has our own battle to fight.

Take good care of yourselves and have a lovely day. ❤️