I was diagnosed "by accident"--I needed to log 6 hours of therapy for a degree I was getting. The therapist wanted to do a mental health survey first, the MMPI. The following week, he said, "Ahem," etc., then gave me the diagnosis and advised at least 2X weekly meetings, and DBT. Weekly meetings, okay, I could work that in, but what was DBT. And what, actually, afterall, since I hadn't heard of the term, was BPD? Unfortunately, at the time, everyone referenced the Glen Close movie, and other (un)lovely things like that. So, very shortly, I felt like a piece of **** . . . because I had to own all of the stuff I had pulled in the past--and mostly gotten away with. But, I was also gravely suicidal at the time, and I was grateful that, due to the circumstances, I had to accept help. That was 8 years ago. Now, I am a much more, shall we say, presentable person. I remain, though, as ashamed as I was, and often very sad. In 8 years, I thought I would either get A LOT better or be dead. I am far less violent and hostile, but I am, I think, depressed more often--not as severely as often as I was, though.