I shudder, picturing Chloe when she was born—tiny and shriveled and bloody. “And what happened to Edith?”
“She tried to kill herself by jumping from a window in Dr. Bennett’s study.” He shakes his head. “Of course, it was foolish of him to see a patient off-site. It was lucky she survived.”
“And was she better after that?” I ask, my voice betraying how desperate I am for a happy ending. Dr. Hancock stares at me. He must see that my interest is no longer academic. When he answers, his voice is gentle, though, as if breaking the news to a child that there is no Santa Claus. “There is no cure for BPD,” he says, “but the dissociative episode was finally ended. The patient was able to accept that she was the one who had given birth . . . or at least . . .” Dr. Hancock hesitates.
“At least what?” I ask.
“At least she was able to convince her doctors she had given up the delusion. Patients with BPD are notorious for ‘tricking’ their doctors. It may be that Edith Sharp simply adopted another imposture.”
I don’t understand. “Of who?”
“Of herself,” Dr. Hancock answers, “but herself cured.”
Daphne’s Journal, August 1, 20—
I’m waiting for Peter to get off the phone so he’ll watch Chloe so I can go over to Laurel’s and I think it’s a good idea to write down what’s been going on to get it clear in my head.
I still haven’t heard from Laurel since we had the fight. At first I was so angry I didn’t care. All I had done was tell her there was nothing wrong with her baby and suggest she get some more sleep and she’d jumped down my throat. I assumed she’d apologize—send me a text with a sorry-face emoji and a cocktail glass and act like it was no big deal. I assumed I’d forgive her. But she didn’t text or email or call. I even checked my spam to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. Nada. Zilch. Not even a sorry-face emoji.
Then I started thinking about what Stan had told me about Laurel having BPD and trying to kill herself and I started worrying about her. I know how suicidal thoughts can get lodged in your brain, especially when you feel trapped. It had happened to me right after Chloe was born. I started hearing the words I want to die in my head, as if someone else was saying them. They were the first words I’d hear in my head when I woke up in the morning, the last when I lay down at night. No you don’t, I’d tell myself. You should be happy. You have a beautiful baby and a loving husband.
I don’t deserve them, the voice would answer.
You can’t leave Chloe, I would argue back.
Maybe she would be better off without you, the voice would counter, or once, ominously, Then take her with you.
One day Peter found me asleep in the bathtub. It scared me half to death, waking up in cold water, Peter’s hands on my shoulders. I was so startled, I thought he was trying to push me under the water when of course he was trying to do the opposite. I thrashed around and soaked the whole bathroom, and the carpet in the hallway. Peter was so upset. What kind of a mother kills herself, leaving a child behind? he shouted. I tried to tell him that it was just that I’d been so tired that I’d fallen asleep, but then Peter held up an empty bottle of sleeping pills. “Then why did you take these?” he asked. I didn’t remember taking the pills, but I must have because I felt so groggy. I must have finally succumbed to the voices.
That’s when I started going to the mothers’ support group. I stopped taking baths too. I haven’t heard the voice since. But now, thinking about Laurel, I remember what it was like and I feel terrible about the way I acted. I told Peter about it and he surprised me by being really sensitive. “It sounds like she really can’t help the way she acts,” he said. “Maybe you’re being too hard on her. It’s a shame to let the friendship go when she’s been such a positive influence.”
So of course that made me feel really bad. I even called up Esta and told her how Laurel was acting and she said that yes, Laurel might have BPD, but I should worry about myself and not “overproject.” Whatever that means. For a therapist she’s not very helpful! So I looked up BPD on the Internet and I was surprised to find all these blogs by people who have BPD talking about how hard it is to make and keep friends and advice pieces on how to cope if someone you love has BPD and I realized it was a sickness like alcoholism or postpartum depression and it really isn’t fair to judge Laurel, because Peter was right. She really can’t help the way she acts. No more than I could help listening to that voice that told me to take the pills.
Also, I found out the reason Laurel reacted to me like she did. It’s because I’m her Favorite Person. That’s a special phrase for people in the BPD community and it means a person whom the BPD idealizes. I know that might sound a little vain, but I can see it now. Even though I admire Laurel so much there’s a lot that Laurel envies in me—like the fact I put myself through school without
