
Finding My Mother in the Diagnosis She Never Received
My mother died when I was thirty-four. She was never diagnosed with anything, because she never sought help, because in her generation and her culture you did not do that. But in the years after her death, as I began my own therapy and started to understand the patterns of my childhood, I came to believe — with the quiet certainty that comes from recognition rather than proof — that she had BPD.
