Work Text:
The next year
Home smells of onions and paprika tonight. A nice roast for no reason in particular other than Trinity wanting to make it. Dinner for herself and for her hot surgeon girlfriend who was still stuck in the OR long after their shift was supposed to end. Trinity is glad that she gets to leave work on time most days. And glad that Yolanda will get good overtime pay.
The apartment is decorated for Christmas again. Their second one together, with the same small plastic tree and fairy lights over the window. Scattered throughout are little reminders that it's no longer a one person household. Her PS5 sits under the TV and the controller is in the coffee table drawer. There's a second warm blanket on the couch, and the coat rack no longer just holds two jackets.
The bathroom still has the same two cups which were there since pretty much the beginning. More towels though, from a very chaotic trip to IKEA. For two doctors they'd turned out severely inept at putting together the second desk for the study.
It still feels strange. Home, this kind of home, domestic and simple. Not the house she grew up in which never really was a home. Or the apartment which was more like a crashpad, with posters on her walls and clothes everywhere. Dennis was doing better things with it now, thanks to actually earning money as an intern.
She'd resisted the idea at first, of course she had. Too close, too much, she’d need a place to fall back on. Always struggling with connection and commitment. Never secure enough to do things right. She's a mess so why should anyone want her like this? Broken and messy. Quick to lash out and incapable of not collapsing at the smallest hint of emotional turmoil. Never able to take criticism without either shutting down or lashing out. Broken, broken and-
The spiral stops with the buzz of her phone. It is still on silent from work, so this must be a calendar notification. Therapy and in bold letters an addition: DIAGNOSTIC RESULTS. Of course she's spiraling. Even if nothing will happen tomorrow. She'll be told she's healthy and there's nothing untowards going on. No matter how much time she had spent researching the diagnosis before even bringing it up in therapy. Going by her therapist's reaction to that, maybe there is something after all.
She hears the jingle of keys before the door opens. A sigh followed by a bright smile as Yolanda rounds the corner. From across the apartment the click-clack of cat claws scramble towards them. “Sorry,” Yo sighs and wraps her in warm arms, “Bowel perf with secondary infection of the gallbladder.”
“Ouch,” she chuckles into her girlfriend's front. “Food's gonna be ready in a bit. Go shower.” She playfully pokes her side.
Yolanda tilts her head up and gazes down with a tired smirk. “So boring all alone.”
“Can't just leave the kitchen alone.” Damn, why is she so responsible all of a sudden? She could still make this work though. “Only if it's really important.” Yeah this, this is good. Yo needs some time right now and she can provide.
“I was just teasing you.” Oh. Okay. “I know you need to flip the meat in a few minutes. l’ll do fine on my own.” She pecks a kiss to Trinity's forehead and makes to move to the bathroom.
“Sure?,” she asks in a small voice.
“Yes,” Yolanda half-giggles, turning back around after just a few steps. “Trin?” So simple, but with enough emphasis that it cuts right to the core. “Tomorrow will be fine.” Not even asking if something is wrong or what it is. Just right to the point. “Whatever happens, I will be outside with snacks.”
She nods weakly, not meaning it. “Yeah…yeah…what's the worst that could happen, right?” Her fake smile does not work.
“I don't know. What is the worst thing that you are imagining?”
Every moment there are at least half a dozen worst case scenarios going through her mind. That much Yo probably knows, and isn’t referring to. No, tomorrow is… “That she tells me I don't have it.” It, like a damned forbidden word. It. “That she says I do have it. Either feels impossible to grasp.”
Yolanda's expression softens as she closes the distance again and holds her. “I don't think it is a question of if.”
She knows that. Of course she does, after reading the diagnostic criteria often enough to know them by heart. Of course she does and yet. “I'm scared,” she croaks, “Fuck, hate it.”
“I know.” Careful, gentle. “Whatever happens tomorrow, you will still be the same Trinity. The same person I love and cherish.”
She sniffles. The stupid question on her lips falls out. “Are you sure?”
“I am.” How can she be so sure? “We'll sit in the car with loud music while you drink your bad energy drink and then we'll see what we do next, okay?”
She nods. Sniffles again. For the moment it's enough.
The office of her therapist is nice. It's quiet, with no big bright ceiling light or disturbing smells. A comfy couch and a box of tissues next to it. She needs those far too often.
Trinity had been to therapy before, as a teenager when her parents sent her there. Some old man who reminded her too much of Calhoun to tell him anything relevant. Even so he had apparently noticed some markers of the diagnosis and called them out. But always in an accusatory manner. Something was wrong with her and needed fixing.
Her current therapist Sarah is different. Unapologetically queer and Latina, just the kind of person who understands her own struggles. Easy to talk to and supportive. Tough and honest when it matters. Today she's wearing a crazy penguin pattern shirt and holds a big packet of paperwork in her hands. Trinity can't help the frequent glances at it throughout their beginning check in. Sarah notices because of course she does.
“There is a lot in here,” she says, “The questionnaires you did, the ones from your partner, your sister and friends, plus everything we did here. It is a lot of information and you should take your time to carefully read everything, when you feel ready to. What's more relevant right now is at the top here, the results.” Trinity's throat cramps together and her stomach turns into a knot. Goddammit, why so quickly? “Would you like to read it yourself or-”
“No, please you do it.” She mumbles an apology right after for interrupting.
“Not a problem.” Sarah flips open the first page. “As we discussed, there are nine main diagnostic criteria for borderline personality disorder. For a diagnosis usually five of them need to be present. Each criteria also has its own scoring system to determine how prevalent it is. You'll recognise some of them very directly from questions I asked as part of the session, while others are aggregates of the questionnaires.” Then she pauses and wordlessly picks a stress ball from the stimtoy box by the table. Trinity catches it and immediately feels like she'll break it by pressing down. “The first point is fear of abandonment, which has pretty clearly been present for you going by both your own perception and that of the people around you. Would you agree with that?”
“Yeah of course,” she says quickly, “All the time. I don't have a fucking attachment style, only fear.”
“Your current relationship seems quite secure,” Sarah gently challenges.
“That's different.” Of course it is, but why? Maybe she's changed too.
“I'm sure it is.” Like she so often does, Sarah deftly keeps the conversation on topic. “Criteria two, Unstable or often changing relationships. Not currently present but definitely in the past.”
“Those weren't really relationships,” she chuckles drily, reminded of her stupid college days.
“Still counts. The criteria is not completely fulfilled but enough to be included. ” Sarah turns another page. “Number three, unstable self image or sense of self; struggle with identity and self. Fully present based on self-assessment and outside perspectives."
Her gaze darts away to the funny otter picture on the left wall. “My self image is very stable. Always at the very bottom.” She gets a raised eyebrow from Sarah and adds quickly, “Yes, I know, bad joke. I've been doing better.”
“I'm proud of you for saying that.” Still makes her feel weird to hear that. “Impulsive or self-damaging behavior is the fourth point. Partial but still present, particularly through the lens of food.”
“Yeah,” she sighs. It had really sucked to learn that restrictive eating and her other hangups with food could in fact also be classified as self-damaging behaviour. “I'm not really impulsive though.”
“That's true, which is where the partial comes from. At the same time, being overly focussed on planning and structure can be an overcorrection for struggling with impulsivity.” Damnit, yeah. Of course it is. “Five is suicidal behaviour or self-injury. I put this down as no, since the passive suicidal ideations you described were in the past and haven't resurfaced for some years.”
She nods sheepishly. Yeah, maybe she is doing a little better. “And self-injury I never…” She'd seen other girls cut themselves. Somehow it never stuck with her. Maybe it was the harsh beauty standards from gymnastics. Everyone would see if she did that.
“Yes, so a no on number five. The next one is varied and/or random mood swings. These are prevalent in every part of the diagnostic methods. Also mellowed out as opposed to a few years ago, but it is still present.”
Trinity can't really say anything to that. It's true, her mood swings wildly and sometimes for no reason. She's always hated it. Another way she's too damn broken to be loved. With that thought comes the realisation that she's already above five. And they haven't even finished the list. The diagnosis will definitely be a yes. It's been decided. 26 years of her life and suddenly there's a word for what she is. A condemnation of just how wrong she is. Forever on her now.
“The seventh criteria is already covered in part by previous ones: Constant feeling of worthlessness and/or sadness. That is a pretty clear yes based on the available data.”
“I've been doing better though,” she says quietly, as if to bargain with reality.
“You have,” Sarah nods gently, “And that is a testament to all the hard work you've done. But that does not change the fact that you do still struggle with it.”
Her gaze has moved from the otters to the window, where a leafless tree moves in the wind. “Ugh, yeah I know.”
Her therapist smiles and leaves a little room for quiet before she continues. Trinity wonders why she was trying to negotiate there. They've already surpassed five, there's nothing she can do now but accept it. Live with it, live with the impact she has on everyone around her thanks to being just that fucked up.
“Number eight: problems with anger, including frequent loss of temper or physical fights. This one could go either way and I have not made a final mark. You do describe moments of your temper overwhelming you, and the people around you notice the same in their questionnaires. But there are never fights or a temper which persists more than a few seconds. The behavior that this criteria normally refers to is not present with you, but you still gave yourself high points regarding anger in your self analysis.”
She is angry. All the time, sometimes it feels like she's angry at everyone. But also… “I can't be angry for long because then people leave. It's the abandonment issues.” Just like her mother was always angry but she couldn't fight back. Not until the last few years when she actually had her own life. It is all still simmering below the surface. “Keep it as partial,” she says quietly, “Yeah I'm angry.”
“Then I will do that.” No arguments against her point. Just acceptance. Goddamnit. “The final criteria deals with heightened paranoia and loss of contact reality. That is a clear no based on the assessment. You don't display de-realization or other patterns common for this. What is visible are flashbacks and panic attacks related to C-PTSD but not the kind of loss of reality common with borderline personality disorder.”
There it is again. The full diagnosis. The big three words which somehow mean so much. “Yeah, that's correct.”
Sarah observes her then, for a few moments, closely yet kindly. “You've probably been counting in your head.” Another pause and a careful look. “Four criteria are fulfilled, three partially and two are not present. That makes it a clear diagnosis for borderline personality disorder.”
“Mhm,” she says through gritted teeth. Yep, it's done. After all that, she was right all along. Her googling hadn’t been hypochondriac. She is in fact fundamentally broken on a psychological level. Not just that, she's broken in the way that influences everyone around her. Friendships, relationships, all her fault. Why would anyone even want to be close to her? “C-can I…” She holds out her hands. Sarah immediately gives her the stack of papers. The opened page shows her the breakdown again, plus a lengthy paragraph of medical speak that confirms the diagnosis. In black and white printed in size 12 Times New Roman.
BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER
Not in all caps, but that's how her mind displays it. Flashing neon lights too. And a couple arrows. Like a white hot brand ready to sear her skin.
She gets up. They had discussed this and her preference was not continuing their session after discussing the diagnosis. Sarah had been too understanding as usual. “I will see you tomorrow,” her therapist says gently, "Whatever thoughts come up, write them down and we will go through it.”
“Thanks,” she croaks meekly, “Yeah…uhm…tomorrow.” Shuffling out feels awkward with her arms clutching the paperwork like a precious treasure. The cold air slams into her skin burning from tension. At least the car is not far.
“Hey,” Yolanda says carefully as she falls into the seat. MCR is playing in the background. There's a can of her favourite unhealthy drink but it feels impossible to let go of the paper stack. Tears burn on her heated cheeks. It's all surreal yet utterly real. Of course this is her. What other diagnosis would fit someone as fucked up as her? Wordlessly, she turns the page towards Yolanda who quickly skims the list. 7 - 2. Clear as day. “Okay.” Simple, kind. Her hand gets gently pulled away from where it was cramping against the paper. Warm fingers interlace with her own. Two squeezes, clear and precise. “Home?”
She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Maybe.”
Home is where the cats are. They crowd around her more than usual as she sits on the couch with her knee bouncing up a storm. It's where their pictures are, on the fridge and in frames on the shelf. The kitchen full of utensils actually being used is all her though. Jackets, shoes, she's all over this place. Even if she probably shouldn't be.
Yolanda is looking through the stack of papers. Her reading glasses sit a little crooked and it's the cutest thing Trinity has seen in a while. A kick to the gut and a flutter in her heart. Far too good to be true as long as she is here.
She gets up, restlessly walking back and forth to the window. “I should go,” she says and then thinks she should have probably just thought that. Go where? She's home, she is…Her eyes look for reassurance. Yo is there. Even with the written proof of how broken she is in hand. “I'm not…” She turns away, to her own reflection in the window. Like a scared deer in the headlights.
“I'm not shocked by this, Trin. It is nothing new to me. It does not change how I think about you.”
“Well maybe it should!” Number eight that one, anger with maybe a sprinkle of one too. Please don't leave, her heart screams, please mean what you say. “All these things that I have that…that are just gonna fall back on you. My stupid anger and inability to properly bond.”
Yolanda puts the papers down. Gets up and reaches for her hand. She flinches just a little bit. Yo takes it anyway. “If that were all of you then we'd have never gotten this far. It's like you said when you brought up your suspicions about this in the first place: having the diagnosis won't change anything because you're already living it. But maybe it helps to hear the words.”
“It doesn't,” she croaks, “If anything I feel worse now. Like I somehow lied to everyone around me.” Wow. Where did that come from? “It's all my fault.”
This time her girlfriend's response is more serious. “You know that's not true, Trin. Sarah said so, as did all your research. Borderline is a mixture of genetic and environmental factors. And in your case the latter is crystal clear.”
She grimaces. Tries to pull away. Gets held in place by one hand only. “Sarah said no one can be diagnosed at a distance.”
“Yeah that is the professional answer. She also said BPD often presents itself in mother-daughter pairings.”
Again she wants to run but tries to hold on instead. Her nails will probably leave a mark on Yolanda's nice surgeon hand. “Then why are you still here? If I'll turn out just like my mother eventually.” It's not a real question. She knows better, in theory.
“You are not like your mother. And who I love is my business." Trinity would rather that be a joke but Yolanda is sounding far too serious. “This will not change that, no matter how you may think or want to try.”
“But what if I will be, one day? Just like her.”
“Then an awful lot would need to go wrong first. You actually have the diagnosis in hand, and can use that to get the help you need. You have friends, a stable job and a long term relationship. Pretty good indicators for a successful life.”
Her eyes burn as she squeezes them. Hurt and stupid she barely even notices one of the cats nudging her. Full headbut against her shin. “I could still fuck it all up again. All the ways to manage that are in my diagnosis.”
“Well I won't let you,” Yolanda says, sounding so so sure. “I'm too committed for that. And frankly you are as well. Too easy to love.”
“I'm not easy to love,” she mumbles sheepishly, “With all my fucked up bullshit and…”
Slow kisses paint the back of her hand. “That is not something you can decide either. There is nothing easier in my life than loving and cherishing you.”
She shakes her head. Pulls away one final time. Can't. Yolanda is still there. “It's really hard to hear that,” she just about croaks.
“I know.” There are a few tears in the amber eyes opposite her too. “But if you try then I'll prove it to you. No matter what that diagnosis says, or how you feel like you're the worst person alive.”
“Well I'm not the worst but-”
“Very far down the list, my love.” That's usually her thing to say. Getting it mirrored back to her is entirely too much.
Her face crumples into Yolanda's hoodie, tears staining the nice crimson fabric. “Sorry I'm….I don't…”
“Ssssh,” her girlfriend purrs, “I've got you.”
The next few days at work go…fine. She has developed an irrational hatred for that word as everyone only ever says it when they clearly aren't fine and want to avoid talking about it. But she really is fine. She's coping alright. But apparently not enough to go unnoticed.
Samira catches up to her in the parking lot and unearths two beers from the trunk of her car. They're nice and cold from the low temperatures of December in Pittsburgh. Clinking bottles to a shift well done, they sit down in her car as the heating blasts at full volume.
Her friend doesn't even say anything. Words just spill from Trinity. “I'm okay. I promise. Just…lots going on.”
“Tell me about it,” Samira replies and toasts with her beer. She seems strangely relaxed for someone currently planning their own wedding. Trinity hopes that if she's ever so lucky as to do the same, that'll she be as chill too.
Again it's the fucking silence. She hates how well simply being quiet and waiting patiently works on her. “I got a pretty big diagnosis recently and it's just been a ton to deal with.”
“Trinity, are you okay?!?,” Samira blurts out.
“Yeah yeah it's nothing physiological. Psychiatric diagnosis.” As if a doctor wouldn't know what that means, she gestures around her head for good measure. Samira turns in her seat like she's even more ready to listen. It still feels stupid to Trinity to explain. It shouldn't matter to her colleagues whatever diagnosis runs around in her brain. They should know well how fucked up she is. But Samira is also a close friend. Someone who might understand. “BPD,” she says, and the acronym feels heavy on her tongue. “Suspected for a while and now I have…well, the full results.”
“Oh.” Samira doesn't sound disgusted at least. Not especially shocked either. “That is a big diagnosis and big news to get.” Her hand briefly rests on Trinity's shoulder. “Thank you for telling me, I can't imagine that's easy.”
“It shouldn't be this hard,” she grumbles, “But with all the fucking stigma and…you know.”
“I do,” her friend says gently. Knowing Samira had done her psych rotation on a unit specialising in the topic had helped her bring it up at all. “How's the news treating you?”
She shrugs. That's wrong, she knows damn well all the many emotions it's giving her. “Relief? Kind of, knowing I wasn't crazy and imagining problems. I am crazy in ways I already knew about” The driest, grimest chuckle escapes her. “I'm terrified of it, frankly. Knowing how BPD can fuck up all your relationships, with friends and family and…”
Samira catches the missing word. “Yolanda loves you, and a diagnosis won't change that.”
“Oh I try to believe that,” she says sardonically, “I really fucking do. But it's hard. What if her love isn't good enough? If I'm too fucked up for it to matter.”
“It hasn't been so far,” her friend says full of surety, “So I doubt putting a name to it will either. You've got something special, the two of you. Everyone can see that.”
She nods ever so sheepishly, “Thanks,” not at all communicating properly how much it means to hear that. “It's just…thinking about the future, you know? Remembering all the things my own mother did.”
“Well that's mostly the past,” Samira says, “Unless you're planning on having your own children. Which you aren't currently, right?” Trinity fails to respond for a little too long. “Right??”
“I'm not, I’m…I'm…” Is she not? “It's just part of, you know, thinking about the future. Yo and I have talked about getting engaged, she's already 33, it's something to consider.”
Samira's kind smile gains a hint of mischief at that. “I understand, trust me I really do. It's a difficult topic, and there's no easy answer.”
“There would be,” she says without thought, “If I wasn't so likely to just repeat the cycle. Maybe not that easy but…” A family would be nice. One of her own volition, with the woman she loves.
“You have every ability to break the cycle,” Samira replies, “With therapy and a partner who would challenge you if any behaviors did crop up. I don't think this is as big of a barrier as you think it is, Trin.”
“Oh you know me!” She laughs hoarsely. “Any barrier is insurmountable.” But maybe not this one. Maybe.