Yes I’m lazy. Yes I’ll make ten million excuses. Yes I get tired easily. Yes. Yes. Yes. Everyday I get to the gym I think I’m not cut out to be a fighter. But I’m not letting that prevent me from trying. Because the very next day, my mental illness might decide to kick it into third gear.

But this time, I’ll be ready.

All of this, the hours of training, repeating drills, the miles of running and the countless sessions of therapy — all for this one moment. And yet, even in this moment, recovery is a life long journey; not something that’s a quick fix like in a month or a year’s time everything will be back to normal, whatever that means. Recovery is a journey where we know we’ll have our ups and downs and yet we keep fighting.

Because when you are down and out, when you think you’ve got nothing more to push with, all that training, all that practice, all those long hours of hard work — that’s when we rise up and get to live for one more round.

We’ve still got the best round in us. Let’s give it all we’ve got.




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As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them. – John F. Kennedy

For the past few days I have realized that I am feeling the most at peace I have ever felt in a very long time. It doesn’t come around very often, but when it does, I feel so thankful that I am still here in order to experience it.

It’s a humbling thing — to feel urge-free; to feel physically good and healthy; to have a sort of hop to my step; to feel open to whatever the present moment has to offer. I know that these are all “feelings,” but I can’t help but relish in it.

I don’t know how it happened or how long it will last, but I am so thankful that you have helped me get to this point along my journey. They say it takes a village. For those with mental illness, sometimes it takes even more than that… but to my village, thank you.

My husband.
Forever my stronghold, always supporting me on my crazy ideas and bold adventures. To my human alarm-clock, my traveling baseball stadium buddy, my concert-loving honey. You are the most patient, loving and joyful person in my life, always ready to give me a hug. Love you!

My parents, my family, extended family, pseudo-cousins and cousins. it goes without saying that you ground me. I can always be with you and feel a part of something special and yet, at the same time, you make me feel normal even when I can’t see that for myself. You keep me going and involved, helping me never stray too far off the edge, always there with open arms. The time we spend together — no matter how long or short or apart or ordinary — is indeed, good for my soul.

My therapist. It was a rough year, but we stepped up and started doing some serious heavy lifting. Thank you for helping me understand I have most of the tools already within my reach. For providing a safe place for me to open up and be vulnerable in order to get to the bottom of things. For being another constant in my life — and giving me the assurance that it will pass (most of the time I don’t believe you, but I know you are always right on that one). For the Wednesday check-ins, just because it helps. And always reminding me that I’m working on that dream of Africa.

My coach, Pam. I’ve said it before, but feel it’s definitely worth repeating here. What separates Pam from many generous and wonderful people is that with each impression she leaves, slowly, you begin to recognize that what already exists inside you is not only real and true, but is also worthy of being shared with the world. You begin to believe it yourself because she has already believed in you. Pam is proof that we are here to link to others; to raise people up when they might not fully believe in their own potential. This is her gift — her ability to wholeheartedly believe in the people she connects with and connect them with each other. To Pam, my number one cheerleader, thank you so much for helping me believe I have a body of work worth pursuing.

My trainer. Always a smile and a hug to greet me, you make me feel like a champ. Even when you told me I wasn’t ready for the Gloves, you knew you had better plans for me to work on. Everyday I am there I learn something new —  gently encouraging, patiently showing me through example, and never tired of lacing up my gloves. You believe in my power, my strength, my ability to fight, but most of all, you believe in me. You’re my angel, Moises. You told me yourself.

My dear Diane & Jim. I know I can count on a good hug and a warm hand to hold before I have to get on stage and be vulnerable in front of a large audience. Sometimes it’s scary up there and when I start to fear my talk isn’t going well, I only have to know that you are there in the back of the room, accepting me for who I am and holding me up. Your deep understanding of the suffering we go through has been a beacon in my stormy seas. Your love knows no bounds and because of that, I am so blessed to be a part of your lives.

My mentor, Tom. You have helped me understand what it takes to fortify the bonds that exist between each other; to forge relationships that help us realize the very things we believe in. For the past 16 years you’ve helped me understand what it means to believe in someone else, to say to another: I believe in you. It feels like you can do anything that feels right in your heart. Because of your faith in me, I have been able to follow my heart. Thank you for showing the way; now it’s now my turn to do the same for others.

The BPD Pioneers. To the courageous women out there leading the way, like Kiera, Amanda S. and Tami — you have made known the incredible amount of talent, gifts, and determination that people living with BPD have within them. You are paving the way for many others and advocating on our behalf, even when you didn’t have to. For all your courage and strength — for the willingness to share who you are with the world — I will forever be indebted to you.

The NEABPD Family. Thank you for believing I have a voice to share and a truth to tell. Because of the opportunities you have given me I have grown in the understanding of my own journey and the collective journey of those living with BPD. Your dedication is unwavering — without your work we would not have much footing to stand on. Thank you for giving us a platform to speak on and because of that, those you touch never forget who we are ultimately working for. I am truly grateful to be a part of your family.

To those who left us too early. Over the course of the year, I have met a few people whose lives have forever changed because a loved one had taken their own life. Their suffering is unlike any other that I have seen and because of that, I think about them often, always in the back of my head. They remind me how devastating mental illness is and why this work we are all doing is so important to continue on. I humbly try and dedicate my efforts to those they have left behind. I thank you for sharing your story with me and hope that what I do — even if just a tiny bit — will help.

To those who supported our projects and endeavors. I could not have achieved anything here without you — the countless people who have lent a helping hand, funded our project, gave helpful words of encouragement, even those who have just read a tweet or blog post. To all those I have met this year because of this project, you have helped me realize this dream-in-progress and I thank you for allowing me to be a part of your lives. I will continue to build upon this foundation you have helped provide. I have never felt so excited to be working for and with you in the new year.

To all those who live with mental illness; to those who love someone with mental illness; to all those who help those with mental illnesses, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.




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Editor’s Note: I write this rather personal post now because I have been there during the holidays — often a difficult time for people with mental illness. Sometimes strategies like this even fail. As I now know for myself (albeit difficult to accept), there is nothing wrong with going to the psychiatric emergency room in order to feel safe. Your life is too important not to.

Perhaps love is the process of my leading you gently back to yourself.
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I remember not too long ago how hard the holidays were for me. I desperately wanted to share in the festivities, family cheer and merry-making, but in those moments I always lost myself. Trapped in a fog, I felt empty, hopeless and useless. Those are the most difficult times, when you feel as if you don’t even deserve to take up space.

When you’re there, deep in the abyss, wanting to give up because it’s too damn hard to keep on living, where do you go? What happens when you’ve stopped surviving and your body begins to shut down, looking for the fastest way out?

Everything starts flashing before you and you start remembering the promises you made to people. Whether it was an official promise or not, you remember those kind of conversations in your head, replaying scenes over and over again, holding onto them for dear life. You grab on to them until they, too, lose their power and begin to fade away.

The voices get louder and the pull becomes stronger. It’s so hard to think, so hard to listen, so hard to find that one thing to bring you back — the one last thing you know you have left in you, if you can only remember.

And there it is. Like a soldier’s last request, you prepared your own letter just for battles like this one… only there in your pocket, crumpled, faded and tattered is a promise you made — a love letter not to someone else, but for yourself:

My Love,

I know almost nothing can deter you from wanting to die but I wanted you to know how much I want to live. Deep within you, you have this life you need to breathe into. Believe me, I am here, standing as living proof of that. I care so much about you that I’ve written this letter, as foolish as it sounds.

I know you will find a way, even though you feel utterly alone. You still have me. I still exist, even though you may not feel it. Which means, yes, you still exist. The one with passion and remembers the smells of seasons changing. The one who believes the moon is there to let you know the sun is shining on the other end. The one who opens her heart up in order to help other people get through times like these.

This — what you are going through right now — is a part of it, a part of helping others. You share in a suffering that resonates with others and because of that, your struggle is not one in vain. Getting through this moment means something. And that is your purpose right now.

This is about living your body of work. This is the paradox — we continue to live despite and because of our seemingly intolerable pain and suffering. That is the radical leap you and I are taking. Because it’s not just about surviving or recovering or being cured, as much as we desperately want to be. It’s about thriving, right now, right here, just the way you are.

Just as you are, so it is that I am. We’re in this together. I won’t let you go.

Love you,
Me.




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A few days ago, my trainer and I decided I will not be ready for the 2011 Golden Gloves.

I took it a bit hard — defeated on an emotional level, feeling that I have failed, that I could have tried harder, that I wasn’t boxer. Most of all, I let you down. You have believed in me and supported me on this journey and I came up short. I wanted to earn your trust and keep good on my promises and show that I was able to persevere through. I wanted you to know I was a fighter.

Deep down, however, despite my desire and insistence on pushing forward — especially in the last few months — I wasn’t ready. I thought maybe I could just eek through, like cramming for your final exam or jumping off a skydiving plane. I was putting a lot of pressure on myself to learn as much as I could, to toughen up as quickly as possible, and go down to a weight that I haven’t seen since my wedding day, seven years ago.

But there’s no multiple choice in this test and this isn’t something I can just brace myself for by knowing there’s a parachute on the other end. Becoming a fighter is hard, consistent, day-in-day-out work. Like treatment for BPD, training to be a fighter is a marathon, not a sprint (and even then, it’s more of a journey, not a destination). I thought it would be easy, in a sense, that all it took was to work hard in the gym and do what your trainer tells you too.

And that’s true for the most part, but unfortunately, I didn’t realize how crucial it was to be trained by the right person and to have a good fit. It would take me 9 months to find a trainer who had all three attributes needed in developing a promising fighter: 1) the expertise to teach proper form and technique; 2) the commitment and willingness to take you under their wing, and most of all, 3) the belief that you can do it.

So despite all the progress made in the last 3 months with my beloved trainer, I knew, in the back of my head, that if I had entered the Gloves it would have been like a lamb to the slaughter. Deciding not to enter the Gloves was devastating, but after my emotions subsided, I realized that my trainer did not think that I couldn’t fight, but rather believed that with time, I could become a fierce fighter.

Which is perhaps the best part of this seemingly bad news: we’re in it for the long haul. I am so excited at the prospect of becoming a true fighter; one that hones her chops, that builds confidence that lasts, that earns her dues. I know that this time next year, I not only have a chance to enter the Gloves, but perhaps become a viable contender.

And so I hope you’ll join me once again, for the next 365 days of training. I haven’t given up on the Gloves. I haven’t given up on becoming a fighter. I haven’t given up on this whole project, in helping shed light to those who fight the difficult battles of mental illness. A dream deferred won’t hold me down.

It will make me want it more.

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As a student of graphic design I always had in my visual mind a representation of my journey through mental illness. I put this little “napkin drawing” as a little experiment to share, in a single image, the course from which I asked or received help concerning my mental illness. The 1980′s commercial of Tootsie Pop, where the little kid asks the owl, “How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop?” comes to mind. Only with this, I asked myself, how many people did I ask for help until I received my BPD diagnosis? I wonder about how many other people share a similar journey — often times with more hospitalizations and emergency room visits — and who helped them along the way.

My thought was if we can shrink the amount of people it takes to get a proper diagnosis, maybe we can lessen the amount of years of suffering. Anyway, more to come on these infographics. Again, these are just musings, unscientific representations of my journey, just to give an little window or impression of the path I have been on.

Everyone has his own specific mission in life; everyone must carry out a concrete assignment that demands fulfillment. Therein he cannot be replaced, nor can his life be repeated, thus, everyone’s task is unique as his specific opportunity. – Viktor Frankl.

In 2007, during one of the first sessions with my (then new) therapist, she asked me, Amanda, what do you want to do?

I told her I wanted to go to Tanzania, help with the HIV/AIDS epidemic and climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. I know it sounds a bit ambitious (talk about all-or-nothing thinking!), but I just wanted to escape the suffering I was living with. I knew quite well that it would follow me wherever I went, but delving into work completely for someone or something else seemed like a great way to forget my problems. At the core, I have never felt worthy of existing in my own right. It’s something I still struggle with today. The thing is, doing something meaningful meant I had to stay alive. It didn’t matter how horrible I felt or how horrible of a person I thought I was — my actions trumped my feelings.

I didn’t have the money to go to Africa, but I thought about the whole think-globally-act-locally thing. With that, I flew to San Francisco and set forth on a 7 day, 545 mile bicycle ride to Los Angeles. Instead of helping the epidemic in Tanzania, I helped raised money for those living with HIV/AIDS here in the States. Somehow, I connected those two together. And although I didn’t escape the pain of living with borderline personality disorder, the ride became one of those pivotal moments that helped define the trajectory of my life.

With the sheer magnitude of 2000 cyclists on the road everyday, I couldn’t help but see purpose and meaning in action — work that was literally greater than myself. I was physically and mentally exhausted — tired from 8 hours of cycling, feeling the effects of my medication and still dealing with the very real symptoms of BPD.

But in those handful of days riding the coast of California, meaning translated onto so many different levels. It was physical, tangible and had an end goal. It had its own community — a beautiful traveling circus of sorts — where people laughed and danced and celebrated with pride; where individuals cheered each other along, shared their strength and remembered lost loved ones. It was being a part of something that changed lives — lives where real people suffered but kept on singing and continued to push (or pedal) forward.

Although I’ve come off of that great high, I am still reaping the rewards of that journey today. It gave me the courage and experience to know that a life with meaning is a life that is hard to leave unfinished. And I’m still going with that, because it’s brought me here to this current body of work: the one I have spent the past year and a half tinkering with, learning from, testing, trying and pushing forward with. It keeps me going, sometimes with the same zeal and excitement as the first day in San Francisco, but more often with the determination and desperation you feel when you’re all alone in a long, bumpy, hot stretch of road with not a rest stop or cyclist to see for miles.

It is in those moments that you figure out what will pull you through when giving up is not an option. You go to the very depths of your being and find it there, buried deep in your gut — it is there where you find the meaning and purpose to which you push forward with.

Every so often my therapist recalls that conversation we had about Africa. She reminds me how I am climbing that mountain every day.

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Just a quick update: the bug that’s been going around finally got me and I’m down and out with the flu. I tried to see if i could sweat it out last Thursday, but I think it just made it worse (lesson: listen to your body!). I’ve been sleeping on and off for the past two days but feel like I’m slowly coming around today and am a bit better. Hope to get back to the gym on Tuesday. For now, I’ll be resting with ginger and green tea, reading a book, writing, and listening to Christmas music. Definitely all good stuff for the soul! Will write more soon. Happy weekend.

These past few days I have been eating like a mad woman — which is, in hindsight, much better than actually being a mad woman.

Still, this is a big issue for me as I am trying to get my weight down for training. Yesterday I ate a total of three peanut butter sandwiches, a muffin and a protein shake. Then when I came home I kept on looking for something, anything to eat. Honey Smacks. Fortune cookies. Pretzels. For dinner, a whole tupperware container full of steamed chicken and broccoli.  Today I made two PB&J sandwiches, a banana, blueberries, flax cereal, soy milk, coffee and a muffin. I just couldn’t stop. I’m beginning to realize that it didn’t matter what I was eating, as long as my mouth was chewing. As I write this, I am still hungry.

I’m starting to get down on myself, thinking I don’t have enough willpower and discipline to lose weight, to tame my urges to eat; that I don’t want it bad enough. But is it me or my medicine pulling out the rug from under me? And there it is — as I constantly have to remind myself — on one of the three pages of listed side-effects of my psychotropic drug: excessive hunger. increased appetite. weight gain. high triglycerides. potential for diabetes. I thought I was beyond this, but lo and behold, it’s rearing it’s ugly head again.

Boy this sucks. Can’t a girl catch a break?

And so I’ve been starting to think to myself, well, this is one of those obstacles I knew I was going to have to overcome. Weight, hunger and appetite — these will somehow play a role, just as my emotional sensitivity and my mental health has played a role on this journey. No one said this would be easy and so I’m trying not to blame myself for not having enough willpower (because really, where will that get me?). I just have to realize these are the cards I’ve been dealt and some aspects I can work on and other parts are a work in progress. The solution? Always have veggies around. So here it is, day one with baby carrots and edamame.

Treat me well, my veggies. Treat me well.



*PS. Thanks to all the Twitter responses on eating healthy, somewhat low calorie food and feeling full. Any suggestions? Let me know! I’d be happy to try them! Thanks!






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A boy comes to me with a spark of interest. I feed the spark and it becomes a flame. I feed the flame and it becomes a fire. I feed the fire and it becomes a roaring blaze. - Cus D’Amato

This past Saturday I was the first to arrive at the gym. I need a lot more fundamental training and am glad to have some extra one on one time with my trainer. We continue to work the mitts:  first with basic jabs and one-two’s, then throwing in some slips to keep me honest, then a weave to upper-cuts to hook to right-hand combination. With each new combination he calls, my trainer and I slowly build up an arsenal of punches, adjusting and correcting my position and stance, reminding me to keep my left hand up.

When my trainer and I are working on the mitts, I feel very confident. He is a gentle, loving, consistent, funny and a guiding force. Around him I am able to let go of everything else and focus on his voice. We often do 30 seconds of non-stop uppercuts and I hear him gently reminding me to relax, relax, relax... I try my hardest to do so — but in a funny way, often makes me more tense. Despite this, I have an incredible respect for him. He has not only taken me under his wing but also makes me want to work even harder.

Today I saw what happens when you don’t have that. Another trainer (not from our gym) and his boxer were sparring with one of our gym members. She definitely had a bite but was technically out-matched. With a harsh tone and admonishing, nagging voice, the trainer yelled at his boxer. I know I’m a bit sensitive to things like that but I began to empathize and felt sorry for the girl. I doubt whether his yelling was effective in keeping her guard up. Being yelled at has never worked for me, mostly because I already have those voices in my head. And today, after the mean, nagging, trainer left, I felt so lucky.

There is nothing like having a coach, mentor, or counselor who is able to bring out the best in you, who encourages and congratulates you on both small and big victories alike. And even in a tough battle lost, when all else seems to fail, they will find the one silver lining that you can hold your head up to, that makes you hunger and long for that same moment the very next day, renewed with determination. Those people make you believe and over time, help you replace that harsh internal voice with a new one — one that sometimes gently and sometimes with a roar — brings you back to the person you’ve always known you could be.

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I know God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish He didn’t trust me so much. -Mother Theresa

Today my trainer told me to trust him. I do. It’s me I have to work on.

Woke up extra early this morning for sparring and thank goodness I was too sleepy to let fear settle in. As I approached the ring, I remembered my thoughts from yesterday and repeated to myself that it was not about playing small. For the most part, I was relaxed. There was only one moment where I froze — I heard the 30-second warning bell and locked up. My sparring partner asked, “are you okay?” and I said through my mouthpiece, “Yeah, sorry — Fear.” and went back to the business before me.

I am trying to learn that good defense does not necessarily mean you have to completely evade a punch — sometimes that takes too much time and often leaves you out of position. Just a slight move — a slip here, a parry there — and that is enough for the punch to miss its intended target. This is easier said than done. I see them coming, but I’m not trusting that my glove will take the brunt of the impact. Instead I flinch away, leaving my left side open — an easy target for a solid hook.

The idea that you’ll be hit but won’t be hurt is a new one for me. Trusting yourself and your reflexes — that what you have is enough — is a leap of faith until you’ve put it into practice. My therapist would say that the more you put it into practice, the more you gain mastery over it.

And because of boxing, I have seen my mental illness from a new perspective. Trusting that you’ll be hit with intense amounts of emotions but won’t fall prey to them is also an act of faith. To be honest, as our treatment has gone to the next level, I am often left wrestling with angels and demons — seemingly life and death situations in my head. I have to believe I have enough in me that the hits I am taking in my mind won’t hurt me.

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