Borderline Personality Disorder in the Capital City: My Journey to Finding Clarity in the Chaos of London
Trigger warnings: references to self-harm, sexual abuse, miscarriage, suicide, addiction
By Molly Mahoney
As a woman in my twenties, newly diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder (EUPD/CEN), I’ve been reflecting on the ways in which London shapes my experience of mental illness. As an English Literature and Creative Writing graduate, I once rolled my eyes when the professor argued that a city can be a central character in a novel. However, after moving to London to pursue my poetry and a career in mental health, I’ve realised I was perhaps too quick to judge.
London personifies and thrives on intensity and transience. Whilst this rewards the capital with a ‘time-of-your-life’ reputation, these qualities labelled me as a ‘risk’, someone who is ‘emotional’ and ultimately ‘hard to treat’. Sharing similar traits with the city I called home, yet being labelled with a personality disorder, has forced me to look upon the capital as if for the first time, just as Nick Carraway does from Queensboro Bridge, reflecting on New York’s ‘wild promise of all the mystery and beauty in the world’.
It’s difficult to maintain emotional regulation in a city that thrives on chaos. The pressure to say yes to every event with your friends, lest you squander the privilege of being young and free in London, coupled with pressure to never turn down an opportunity at work, plays havoc on the nervous system and often means self-care takes a backseat. If I take myself for a walk when I’m feeling overstimulated, I step out into a world of people shouting and commuters speeding past. If I’m struggling with depersonalisation, London can make feeling alone in a crowd even worse.
Most notably, self-destructive impulses, a defining characteristic of BPD, have been met by London with open arms. I’m reminded of a few lines from Troll by Shane Koykzan, ‘You have coaxed the sober back into bars,/ Handed out cigars at memorials,/ Offered nooses, cliffs, and pills to those who unfortunately found You’. I’m not blaming London entirely for my diagnosis (I’ve arrived to this city with a history of mental ill health) but it’s the particular cocktail of London life that exacerbates and encourages my symptoms.
Despite being out since childhood, I’d never felt truly secure in my queer identity. The community in London is unique and with its vibrant scene, rich history and diversity, I feel included and supported like never before. However, my insecurities and self-hatred led me on a dark path of abusing my queerness under the guise of celebrating my bisexual identity, for the purpose of self-destruction; my desire to be numb and to take risks to feel something. BPD is often co-morbid with addiction, and my exploration of the scene became dominated by drug and alcohol abuse, something that partying with the East End community catered for and encouraged.
Being spiked twice didn't phase me, I was that determined to implode. I neglected my close friends for strangers to get high with and my transient relationships on the scene fed my hyper-sexuality and disorganised attachments, common attributes of individuals with BPD who have been abused. My wake-up call was coming home from the club and miscarrying on the bathroom floor. I heard of multiple deaths whilst entrenched in the scene and I didn't care if the next one was me. I’ve since had many experiences of queer joy in the scene now that I’m stable, including pool club and poetry events, but more needs to be done to promote sober spaces for the London community.
BPD is primarily a dissociative disorder. I’ve realised in therapy that turning up to work hungover and on a comedown was a method of dissociation from the abuse I was experiencing in my job. London’s professional culture promotes a work ethic that is money-hungry, highly productive and incredibly selfish — as a fresh postgraduate with a first-class degree and ambitions to make it, I fell right into this capitalist trap. I was sexually harassed and groomed by my employer for months, yet I was told to put up with the abuse to get ahead. This is alarmingly normalised in London workplaces.
My mental health deteriorated, and I became stuck in a cycle of being signed off sick, returning to the same abuse, and being signed off again. I finally found the courage to leave because I discovered that I was not the only victim. I was prolonging the suffering of others and contributing to a culture of silence by not speaking out. Once I’d given the finger to London’s working culture, what ensued was a spiral of manic highs and depressive lows.
After quitting I lived a bohemian existence where I was free to create all day and stay out with friends all night. However, the instability of this existence soon bared its teeth. Without a schedule, my suppressed traumas from work, including being threatened with a knife and groped by a trader, reared their head. I was self-harming and drinking almost every day. I wasn’t sleeping and I was barely eating. Without income, I soon spent my days applying to jobs with no response or being berated at the job centre for my ‘laziness’.
I felt London was not going to take me back. The cost-of-living crisis left me skint and my self-confidence was at an all-time low in my failure to reenter the job market. I was forced to accept hush money from my abuser, rather than pursuing legal action, because I could not afford to live in the city I called home. Soon potential employees had questions. Why had I suddenly left my well-paying job? Why is there a gap in my resume? Would a GP sign me back on to work?
I felt useless in London. I was drifting through my twenties in the best city in the world. I told myself to be happy. I didn't feel it. Despite receiving therapeutic intervention from the crisis team at the start of 2024, in February I’d had enough. On the way back from a bar in the AM, drunk and miserable, I had an alarmingly calm realisation on the Central Line. When I get home, I’m going to kill myself.
The underground seemed to be carrying me to my fate. Jumping off the tube at Lancaster Gate, I made a run for it to St Mary’s Hospital. I attracted the attention of police when I started disrupting traffic. I was escorted to A&E by police under a 136 and subsequently sectioned under the Mental Health Act.
As much as being a Londoner may exacerbate symptoms of stress and pre-existing mental health conditions for everyone, London also saved my life. Since the hospital stay, I have been supported by multiple agencies, including my community mental health team. I am fortunate enough to have a diagnosis, which I’d be unlikely to receive in my hometown village GP practice, so that I can access the right care and medication. One of the leading personality disorder psychotherapists in London works with me and I’m lucky enough via the NHS to be accessing a specialised therapy. Apart from the well-funded psychiatric services London offers, the rest of my life is here too. I just couldn’t see that before.
It’s a privilege to live in the same city as my best friends. We are a little family who look after and celebrate one another. As a creative, I value being in a cultural city like London. It has welcomed myself and my poetry with open arms and I have had invaluable opportunities to perform at gigs and meet other artists. The myriad of creative outlets, like the free museums and exhibitions, offer much needed respite from inner turmoil, helping me explore my emotions and develop positive coping strategies. Reconnecting with nature helps me to manage my mental health; Hyde Park is my lifeline, whether I go there to read or for a walk with a friend. I have also forged a new career here, working in mental health as a support worker, so I can ensure other people with personality disorders do not feel quite so alone in London.
Living with BPD anywhere requires ongoing effort and self-care. In the early days of my diagnosis, I truly believed London would be the death of me. Its encouragement of both risk and excess exacerbated my symptoms, particularly emotional instability, unstable relationships, addiction, and impulsive behaviour. However, in recovery I have come to recognise the ways in which London has supported and cared for my mental health.
The access London provided to psychiatric services, spaces to pursue my hobbies, and social welfare during a time where I could not work because of BPD meant that I could stay living in this city and near important friends, family and therapists. London’s characteristics can have both positive and negative impacts on one’s personality. I am determined to keep seeing the joy in my little London life, whether that be bird watching in the park, meeting a dear friend for coffee, or watching the summer sun reflect on the skyscrapers, making the whole city shimmer.