CHAPTER 2

I’m Already Gone

— Sadie —

The two men in suits glance at each other. Crap. I’ve already forgotten their names. Across the table, I drone on about my fourteen years of experience in all things digital marketing. I hold my head high and sit up straight with my shoulders back. I alternate eye contact between the men—careful to look away every few seconds. Finally, I stop and wait for the next question. “This isn’t a client facing role but we’re a small team,” one of them says, “We sometimes have to wear different hats.”

I nod with a smile. That doesn’t surprise me.

I’m a chameleon. It’s one of the few positive aspects of having borderline personality disorder. I’ve been in remission for a year and a half now. But that doesn’t mean I can’t tap into some of the oddly beneficial traits that come from having the disorder—when I want to. On top of having BPD, my father passed down his natural ability to camouflage himself into various types of social settings. We appear extroverted, but we’re not. Years of adapting my identity to fit my environment must help too. I can adjust and fit in if I have to, I told myself on the drive in.

The truth is, I don’t want to pretend to be someone else for 40 hours a week. I don’t want to work at this marketing agency with its fancy office, glass walls and strict business dress code. But I know I’m better equipped to handle a regular 9 to 5 job than I was when I started freelancing. That was five years ago—before I got my diagnosis. I can still thrive with a full time job, even if working for myself seems to be better for my mental health. At any rate, I know full time employment will only be temporary. Until I can grow the blog; until I can get myself out of the mess I’m in.

The mess I got myself in.

I hope to find a job with a culture and a job description that will best suit my mental health. A small team, a laid back boss, few meetings, no direct reports. A schedule that lets me leave by 5PM. An autonomous work environment that’s analytical in nature would be ideal. I have to reserve my creative energy for the blog after all. I would also prefer to report directly to the owner of a small business, not to a marketing director in a big corporation. At least, that’s been my list of criteria as I desperately apply to jobs. Can’t have it all, though. Lord knows I’ve tried.

I’ll do what I have to, because he can’t stay there. The ultimate goal is for me to be able to provide for Logan. Freelancing pays well but it’s unsteady. At the rate I’m currently earning and spending, my account will dwindle to nothing in three short months. Please don’t pick me. What if I can’t handle this many life changes at once? I’ve gone through major life changes before—I didn’t break then, I won’t break now. Please pick me. I need the luxury of a steady paycheck. And health insurance! He won’t be generous, he’ll remove me from his plan as soon as he can. I’ll have to pay out of pocket for therapy. I can switch to monthly sessions—that’ll save money. I’m well enough for that…aren’t I? I’m aware my head’s a mess. For a second, it makes me doubt myself.

“How do you feel about client communications?”

I smile with my eyes and hope my distraction isn’t obvious. “After five years of freelancing, I’m very comfortable working with clients. And I enjoy helping others.”

“You’ll do fine,” he’d told me once, “People usually like you. You’re friendly and kind.” This was back when I was nervous about starting my first (and only!) director position. This was back when he still saw me as good and valuable. Before I was thrown away like the butt of a cigarette—it was like BPD, but somehow different. I can’t quite put my finger on what those differences are. I don’t want to. I don’t want to feel the need to analyze him anymore. I’m just not there yet.

I turn to the first man. “I’m also accustomed to working with small teams. I don’t mind taking on extra tasks when the need arises.” As long as I’m done by 5. My eleven year old son, Logan, will need me home as early as possible. I’m sure we’ll both miss our routine. The flexibility of being there for him at a moment’s notice is not something I’ve been taking for granted.

As much as I don’t want this job, or any job if I’m completely honest, I’m not wishing to leave right away. Doing normal life things like interviewing for a job or getting dolled up in business attire is a break. It gives me a chance to forget what’s happening. To forget what I’m losing. To forget what I’ve already lost.

“Well, you fit our qualifications for the role.” The man looks to his partner.

I’ll have to cook dinner every night. I’ll miss his tacos and homemade shells. He was a good cook. Logan didn’t like all those fancy recipes anyway. He taught me how to make the shells. I can make them myself. I’ll save money on groceries!

His partner nods. “Yes, we’re hoping to make a decision by the end of next week.”

I’ll be able to buy whatever groceries I want. I’ll be able to shop at any store I want. I won’t have to clean the kitchen twice. I realize I’m actually excited to go grocery shopping this weekend.

At the end of the interview, I shake hands and walk out. My heels clank against the shiny white floor like a drum. Every step, as well as my confident stance, is carefully orchestrated. Reality sinks back in as the reception desk gets further behind me and the walls drift away. I walk into the elevator and give one last smile to the receptionist as the doors come to a close. As soon as they shut, I let myself sneak a peek at my phone. My smile drops.

DEVIL SPAWN WHO WILL MAKE YOU CRY: I’m not listening to any more emotional outbursts. I’m moving on. Splitting the finances, the bills. That’s it!

And there it is. Reality.

I know this tactic. His message may read like a typical after breakup text to anyone without context, but it’s so much more than that. Since last night, I’ve been patiently waiting for him to unblock me—so I can show him just how serious I am, but mostly so Logan and I can go back home…to an empty place and a new spare key.

You need to leave, I text back. My thumbs dart across the phone screen as I leave the main lobby and walk outside to my car. I want you out tonight. You know what you’re doing and what you’ve done. I never want to see you again.

My thumb hovers over send. Since treatment, I’ve made it a habit to avoid using words like “always” or “never.” Using them could mean I’m entering into an emotional mental state. Using them could mean I’m thinking in all-or-nothing terms. That’s known as splitting, when you have borderline personality disorder. So do I actually mean it? I imagine yesterday and feel the gut punch of his words. The logical part of me knows I shouldn’t be surprised but I still can’t believe he had stooped so low. I picture my life without him. Instead of dread or sadness, I’m relieved.

Yes, you’re damn right I mean it.

I slam my thumb into the send button.