G’day everybody, my name is Elliot Waters and you're listening to The Dysregulated Podcast. As always, thank you for tuning in.

Now, I say this repeatedly—repeatedly—that no show, no podcast on the entire internet goes deeper than this one. There is no more vulnerable show—open, honest, genuine, and fair dinkum—on the whole internet, and I stand by that.

I’ve thrown out the challenge before: if anyone can come up with a show that rivals mine for pure honesty and the detail I go into—about the most embarrassing moments at times, the most difficult moments, and even the wins when it comes to mental health and mental illness—I just don't think any other show can go where this one goes.

And this episode, I believe, is going to be another great example of that. I'm really excited to bring it to you all, because this is a story I’ve wanted to tell for the entire duration of this podcast. How long has it been now? Two and a half years or something? 186 episodes, I think. Great content. If you're listening for the first time, I highly recommend going back and starting from the beginning.

Anyway, enough about that—although I do recommend it!

This story, on the face of it, might seem a bit silly—just a little. But this moment, this event I’m about to go through, actually underpins so much of my mental health journey over the years since it happened. And it still impacts me—100%, no question about it. The results of that night, even though they might not seem that significant, let me tell you: they still affect me greatly.

There’s an episode coming up soon that I’m going to record, and it’ll probably be one of the hardest ones I’ve ever done—definitely one of the hardest when it comes to looking way back. We're talking teenage years here. This is all about when I was 16.

You guys might have heard me mention in therapy or on here before about this “16-year-old loose cannon.” Well, we’re about to meet him. I’m about to tell you exactly where my friend—my part, my sub-personality—was born. It was born on this particular night, at this particular party.

Now, the episode I’m referring to—the hard one I haven’t recorded yet—is really important for my story, and for so many people I know who are going through something similar. But maybe they don’t know what it’s called, or how to even think about it. It’s going to be a really significant, important episode for a few reasons.

But I can’t tell that story without first telling this story. So that’s what I’m going to do right now.

We’re going back in time—to when I was 16 years old, in Year 10, at a school party. Well, when I say “school party,” I mean a guy from school had a house party. Everyone in the year was invited. Even I was invited, which was pretty cool, because that wasn’t always a given.

And finally, I was able to do something I’d wanted to do for a very long time. I’d kept getting told it was a bit weird that I hadn’t done this yet. And what I’m talking about... is my first real kiss.

Forget "real kiss"—this was my first kiss. My first kiss with a girl.

And this is what set off a huge chain reaction.

And a lot of what came after wasn’t particularly good. Like I said, I’m going to do an episode soon that will be really difficult. Here’s a little hint: retroactive jealousy. That’s the one I’ll be recording soon.

But in order to tell that story properly, I need to tell this one—because this is where it all began, in a sense. And I don’t say that lightly. I’m not just saying it for effect. I genuinely believe that in many ways, this night—this particular night when I had my first kiss—was the moment when Elliot’s borderline personality wasn’t necessarily born, but ignited.

Looking back, I can see that BPD traits were already there, just humming below the surface. But this moment... this was the fuse that lit the fire. So even though this might seem like a bit of a funny story on the surface—"My First Kiss" and all that, going back in time, being a silly teenager when everything's new and exciting—it was also a major turning point.

I wish I knew then what I know now. But I can’t stress this enough: this moment was pivotal in my journey. I really do believe it flipped the switch for my BPD. And not just that—other mental health challenges too. The social anxiety disorder, for example, and the Asperger’s or autism spectrum stuff that was already there... I think this night and what followed really intensified all of that.

Maybe not that exact moment, but in the aftermath—it all started to dig in. Like, “Alright Elliot, we’re with you now for the long haul.” And here I am at 34... they’re still with me. We’re on now.

Unfortunately, life gave me the opportunity—unknowingly—to open myself up to these deeply negative self-perceptions and painful emotional states. I didn’t realise it at the time, of course, but this night kicked off a chain of events that’s caused a lot of pain over the years. It’s included hospitalisations, suicidality, self-harm... listen to the podcast—it’s all there. And there’s more to come.

It’s interesting, though, because when I do my Black Dog Institute presentations—for those who don’t know, I go around to schools, community groups, run webinars for parents and that sort of thing—I often talk about my high school struggles. And this story sits right at the heart of those struggles.

This was the big issue. The lead-up to it, how I was feeling about myself at the time, and what happened afterwards—it all mattered.

When I speak at high schools in particular, I usually frame it in a fun way. Like, “This is a story about when girls didn’t have cooties anymore!” The kids in Years 11 and 12 get it—they laugh. But the younger ones still believe the opposite sex is full of cooties. You know—"boys, yuck" and all that. You get it.

So again, on the surface, it might seem funny. But I cannot overstate how significant this moment was for my mental health trajectory. It was a turning point.

And you can see a lot of the current Elliot in that 16-year-old version. And vice versa—you’ll see that younger Elliot is still in me now. We’re working on that in therapy, don’t worry.

But let’s get into it. This is the story of my first kiss.

Now, I’m going back quite a few years—I’m 34 now, and this was when I was 16. I’m trying to really recreate the context or the setting a bit for this episode. So what I’ve done... I’ve had a few beers. Four VBs, to be exact.

Back then, I was drinking whatever the hell was in the esky. But now it’s low-carb VB—trying to be healthier, you know?

I’ve had those beers just to loosen up a little, because this story—and the retroactive jealousy episode coming up, and many of these high school stories I’ll be sharing—they were all fuelled by alcohol. So I figured: if I’m going to tell it properly, it’s only fair I get into that headspace again.

This is the most fair dinkum, genuine podcast on the internet, after all. So I’ve got a little buzz going, just enough to relate back to myself then—to tap into those memories. It adds a bit of theatre to the storytelling too, I reckon.

So yeah, it might sound a bit like a joke at first—like, “Oh, he’s drinking for a podcast episode?” But trust me, this is serious. Alcohol was a huge part of this story. And to tell it authentically, I wanted to remember what that felt like.

Let me tell you right now... I am dialled in, baby.

So, my first kiss was at age 16. That’s probably the first interesting point.

When I was at school, I don’t know—some people seemed to be kissing others in, like, Year 6. And that was considered pretty cool. Everyone knew about it, too. Even when we all came together for high school—different public schools around the Kotara area here in Newcastle—we already knew stories about who had done what in primary school.

There were a few people who could lay claim to already kissing someone back in Year 5 or Year 6. And when we got to Year 7, those reputations followed. Suddenly, all these kids from different backgrounds and schools were brought together—but with a lot of shared threads, too. And back then, stuff like “so-and-so kissed so-and-so” was huge. That was the talk of the playground.

Even holding hands was a big deal, which I actually managed to do in Year 6—held hands with a girl. That was cool. Didn’t get the kiss, though. That didn’t happen until Year 10.

But back then, it was a big deal. I remember in early high school, not really sure where I fit in. No one really is at that point. Everyone’s jockeying for social position. And those who seemed more experienced with dating or whatever—you could tell that counted for something.

To be honest, I wasn’t even that interested in all of it at first. But I felt like I should be, because it was clearly important to other people. I had no idea just how much that kind of stuff—like, who you’d kissed, who you’d been with—would end up defining your social status. But it did. Even in Year 7, it already mattered.

So, yeah, the pressure was on. I remember even in Year 6, there was pressure to sort of “progress” through the stages of romance. Because that made you cool. That meant you were doing life right. It was validation—and that kind of validation is so, so important when you’re just trying to figure yourself out.

Especially if you’re already inclined toward things like personality disorders—like BPD—or low self-esteem, or social anxiety. And that’s something I haven’t really said much on the show before, but it’s true. As socially anxious as I was—which was undiagnosed at the time—I was also incredibly socially aware.

I had autism, ADHD… there was a lot going on that I didn’t know about yet. But looking back now, it all makes sense.

Anyway, I’ve lost my train of thought—that’s the ADHD brain again. Happened at work today too. I’d be halfway through telling a story and forget what I was talking about. Let me think...

Right—so if you were someone whose self-worth was already on shaky ground, the idea of being able to say you’d kissed someone—and that others knew you’d kissed someone—that was massive.

It didn’t start off that way for me, but it became the biggest, most important thing I had going. It was defining. I was just waiting for the opportunity to tick that box so I could move on to... whatever the hell came after kissing someone. I didn’t have a clue.

So even in early high school—and late primary school too, really—when all the different schools came together, and you were hearing stories about what happened at other schools, you started comparing yourself. The social hierarchy began to form. And all of a sudden, where you sat in that hierarchy became everything.

Now, I don’t know if you’d guess this, but I wasn’t one of the “cool kids.” Can you believe it? Elliot Waters—not one of the cool kids! I know. Shocking.

But I was one of the nice kids. I was the kind of kid everyone liked. I wasn’t necessarily the first person invited to a party—or invited at all sometimes—but I was well liked.

Looking back, I was a good kid. A nice kid. Just trying to figure out where I fit in the world. And I couldn’t figure it out for the life of me—because now we know, right? Autism, ADHD, OCD, social anxiety, BPD, bipolar—take your pick.

But yeah, I was liked. And I understood, even then, that getting feedback from the outside world—being liked—meant I must have been doing something right. I wasn’t thinking of it in those terms back then, obviously, but that’s what was happening.

I was just being me—at first. Later on, I started putting on a bit of an act. But in Year 7, people liked me for who I was. I definitely wasn’t at the top of the social hierarchy, but I was liked enough that people had my back. If someone stepped out of line or tried to cause trouble, I was protected a bit.

And thank God for that. Because I’ve always been a lover, not a fighter. A lover... who doesn’t do much loving anyway.

I’ve never liked confrontation—couldn’t stand it then, can’t stand it now. So I was grateful to be looked after in that way, even if those same people also ragged on me or gave me a hard time now and then.

I wouldn’t say I was massively bullied, but as you’ll hear in this episode—and others to come—some of the things that were said to me back then were brutal. They cut deep. And they stuck with me.

There’s definitely an element of trauma from my time in high school, and I don’t want to understate that—because I tend to. But I’ve had mental health professionals tell me: it’s legitimate, it’s real, and it’s caused a lot of problems over the years. So, I’m not going to diminish any of that.

When I was in high school—and I know this is a bit long-winded—I was popular in the sense that I was seen as a nice person. Someone good to be around. I remember even in Year 7, some of the so-called “bad kids” used to come up to me and ask for advice. They’d be in trouble and put on what was called a “conduct book,” where teachers had to sign off that you didn’t muck up in class. If you were on a conduct book, your parents weren’t happy. That was a big deal.

So these kids would come to me, wanting someone to evaluate the situation—not to mock them, but to actually listen and give honest feedback in a nice, serious way. I’ve got plenty of stories like that, and I’ll tell more in time. But that part of me—the part that listens to people’s stories and offers advice—definitely took root in high school. And it’s stuck with me. It may have even set me up for this whole trajectory I’m on today.

Anyway, I’m rambling—sorry! Let’s get back on track. Where were we? Ah, yes—me kissing.

So we’re going through school, and the whole point of that long story is this: how many people you’d kissed became a big deal. First it was, “Have you kissed anyone yet?” Then it became, “How many people have you kissed?” The numbers game started to matter.

Year 7 went by and I hadn’t kissed anyone. I wasn’t too worried yet, to be honest. I was a late bloomer. I wasn’t really interested in girls at that point—I was still obsessed with trucks and trains and the Newcastle Knights. ACDC, too. My autistic fixations, which have never left me—and never will. Way more important than kissing.

Then Year 8 rolled around, and I started to shift. I began to turn into a bit of a “naughty boy,” putting on an act. That deserves its own episode, really. But I’d noticed something: the cool kids—the ones higher up the social hierarchy—were loud and obnoxious. And that got them attention.

So between Year 8 and Year 9, with the pressure of not having kissed anyone building, I made a decision. I was going to emulate the cool kids. Still in my own “Elliot the nice guy” way, but louder, more disruptive, more noticeable.

I started getting sent out of class for talking too much. ADHD was definitely showing its colours there. But I revelled in it. Getting kicked out of class made me feel like I had a bit of an edge. “Elliot’s getting sent out again”—suddenly, I was interesting. Maybe even a bit cool. And that felt good.

Even today, I still have moments where the 16-year-old me pops up. Drives me to do certain things, even now at 34. That sub-personality—the loose cannon—it was born during this period. It exists to protect me, but these days, it needs to back off a little.

As school progressed, more and more people were kissing each other. Parties were becoming more common. I wasn’t getting invited to any yet—but that would change. And that was a big deal, because the cool kids went to the parties. The parties were where all the girls were. That’s where you wanted to be.

So Year 8 and 9 ticked along. My grades started slipping because I couldn’t concentrate. I never really could. But now it was getting worse. I was leaning fully into the loud, obnoxious persona—and getting good at it. Disruptive in class, constantly talking. But I thought, “Hey, the louder I am, the more the chicky babes will notice the Big Dog.” You know what I mean?

Then we hit Year 10. I’m 16 now. Those years—13, 14, 15—were important, but 16? That was pivotal. And we know how important 16 is to me, because I still bring it up today. Even in my last psychology session this week, the 16-year-old self was mentioned again. Briefly, sure—but he’s still there. Still influencing things.

This is where it all began.

So, Year 10. Everyone had supposedly kissed someone by now. Some were doing things more sexual than that—stuff I didn’t even know existed yet. But I was learning. And fast.

I was learning that I needed to jump on the “girls train,” because that’s what defined your social status. Whether you were cool. Whether you mattered.

And that meant everything to me at that point.

Because I already had the low self-esteem. Already had the negative self-beliefs. Already had the internal battles raging. The roots of my BPD were there—and they were about to flare up.

It was all in place. The mindset, the self-concept, the emotional fragility. It was like a perfect storm. My psyche at that point was raw and vulnerable. It didn’t need much to be tipped over the edge.

And my environment gave it to me in bucketloads.

o what started happening was people began to notice—like, “Hang on, Elliot’s been to one or two parties now… what’s going on? He still hasn’t kissed anyone?” And all the boys supposedly had. Even though, later on, I found out most of them hadn’t either. But at the time, my impression was that everybody had—except for me.

So, obviously, I start thinking, “Alright, everyone’s kissing people except for me. They’re doing more sexual stuff too. I’m falling behind here. What’s going on?” I started panicking—like, “I need to catch up. I’m an effing loser. This is not good.”

And the thought that I really internalised—the one that lit the BPD fuse—was:
If people aren’t kissing me, that means I’m defective.
That was the conclusion I came to.
“There must be something wrong with me, because everyone else is doing it—except for me. So, I’m the problem.”

Now, in some ways—yeah, I guess sort of. But I don’t want to be too hard on myself, because I was just a kid. I didn’t know what was going on. But in many ways—no, absolutely not. For starters, as I said, there was this illusion that everybody was kissing everybody at these parties. And it just wasn’t true. I didn’t find that out until much later.

But people started noticing. That’s the thing—it wasn’t just me noticing. Others at school started commenting. “Oh, Elliot, you’re yet to do that, aren’t you?” Then came the prodding:
“Elliot, what’s going on? You haven’t kissed a girl?”
“There’s a party this weekend—I think I can get you an invite. Surely that’s when it’s going to happen, right?”

And I’m thinking, “Yeah, I guess so. This is important. I need to do it. So yeah, I hope I get invited.”

At this point, I was getting invited. Like I said earlier, I was well-liked. I wasn’t the coolest kid, but people liked having me around. I was nice—I hope I still am. And by now, I was starting to get a bit cooler too. Because I’d become loud, a bit obnoxious, putting that fake persona out there—and weirdly, it started to work. People were responding to it.

I stood out more. Not just because I was being sent out of class for being disruptive—but across the whole year group. I stood out because I was a bit different. I was autistic. I had fixations that were full-on. One day, I’ll tell you about the way I used to sign my name—it really shows just how hyper-fixated and different I was at the time.

But people seemed to like that. I was weird, a bit different, but I was funny and loud—and people liked that.

So, I started getting invited to more parties. And when I’d look around, I would see people kissing. And I’d think, “Goddamn it—what’s going on here? When’s it my turn? Surely it’s coming… because I know how important this is.”
And trust me, everyone kept reminding me how important it was too.

So I started putting more and more pressure on myself. And I got obsessed with the idea that something must be wrong with me—because otherwise, it would’ve happened already, right?

I thought, “There’s something about me that makes me different from everyone else.”
Even though everyone else wasn’t doing it yet either—I just didn’t know any better.

A few parties went by, and like I said, people started making comments.
Some of the boys were like, “Mate… mate, you need to, you know… I can’t believe you haven’t kissed anyone yet.”

Looking back, it’s so lame. Who cares, right? Why was it such a big deal?
And as far as I remember, it wasn’t a big deal for most people.
There were others in my friend group—the wider circle—who hadn’t kissed anyone either. We all knew that.

But for some reason—and I still can’t explain this—I was the one people wanted to point the finger at.
Like, “Hey, this is weird. Elliot, what’s going on? You need to be kissing people.”

I don’t know why it was me. Why I was the one singled out.
Why I was made to feel like I was the defective one.

And here’s the thing—at that point, people didn’t know it, but my negative self-talk was already enormous.
The BPD was just starting to grow out of this environment, but the low self-esteem and insecurity? That was already firmly in place.
The obsessive, negative thoughts about myself were just looping around constantly.

And when people pointed at me and said, “Something’s not right here,” it only made it worse.
To me, that was evidence—proof—that something really was wrong with me.

And to this day, I still don’t understand why I became the fixation of that year’s “let’s point and laugh at the guy who’s not getting with chicks” energy. I became the punching bag.

And it’s hard. Because some of the people saying it back then were my best friends at the time—and some of them still are.

Some of you may even be listening right now.

And let me be clear—I don’t blame anyone.
We were kids. Teenagers. We didn’t know what we were doing.
We were all just trying to jockey for position in the social hierarchy.
And maybe I was used to push others up the ladder by being pushed down.

But there are no hard feelings.

None of the people involved in that ever meant harm.
In fact, some of those same people are still in my life today—and I love them to bits.
We’ve been through so much together. This was just one moment in time.

But it was a moment that mattered.
A moment that still affects me today.

And if I’m going to be open, vulnerable, fair dinkum, and honest on this show—
I’ve got to talk about it.

And believe me—there’s more of this coming.

So anyway, I was going to parties—but look, I never really drank much at this point. I was a runner then. A race walker, actually. More on that another time. But I was—an athlete. I used to train every day. And honestly, I credit that training with keeping a lot of the negativity at bay during those teenage years.

If I wasn’t exercising daily, training hard, giving it everything—because we all know how important exercise is—I really wonder what could’ve happened. Things would’ve been a lot worse, that’s for sure.

So, I’d go to parties, and because I was a bit different—and people thought it was funny—I’d take strawberry milk.
And some people listening right now, if you’re who I think you are, you’ll remember exactly what I’m talking about: the two cartons of strawberry milk I’d always bring to parties.

People would steal them and spike them with vodka or something else.
And I’d act oblivious—like, “Oh, I can’t taste anything different…” Meanwhile, I’m getting absolutely hammered because my poor little body didn’t even know what alcohol was.
I knew it had been spiked—but I’d lean on the fact that I brought the milk, so I was trying to do the “right” thing.
But this alcohol stuff? It sort of relaxes you a bit. That’s pretty awesome.

So at a lot of these parties, I was either sober or almost sober. I didn’t take booze to begin with.
And that was a bit of a problem, to be honest—especially when it came to kissing.
Because let’s face it—your first kiss is nerve-racking, no matter who you are. And if it’s not, that’s almost more of a red flag.

I was anxious—of course I was.
Other people managed to kiss each other because they were blind drunk. Let’s be real.
I wasn’t. At least, not at the first few parties—because I was the athlete. The runner. That was my identity.
Everyone thought it was funny but also kind of cool in its own way.

“Elliot brings strawberry milk to parties.”
And as soon as I’d get there and put the cartons in the fridge, people would rush over:
“Let’s spike them!”

It became a little running joke. And in a weird way, it was accepted.
It was this neat little thing that made me “me.”
But, fundamentally, when it came to kissing a girl, the fact that I wasn’t getting drunk… didn’t help.
Then again—as we’ll find out shortly—being blind drunk didn’t help either.

Even now, as a 34-year-old, if I’m feeling socially anxious, it doesn’t matter how much I drink—alcohol never really takes that edge off. I’ve never been able to fully dull social anxiety with alcohol. And that was just as true back then at 16.

But it was worse back then. Because I wasn’t even getting the jump start—I was just drinking strawberry milk.

Anyway, parties were happening. This is a long-winded story—I know. But I need to get this out.
This is therapy for me. It’s cathartic.
So I hope I’m not rehashing too much—but as I tell it, I’m living it again in my head.
I’m reminiscing, right here, right now.
And honestly, it’s surreal.

These aren’t memories that carry heaps of trauma anymore—because I’ve worked through a lot of it.
It’s more what came after that’s been harder to deal with.
But I don’t often go back to 16-year-old me.
There was a lot going on, and I tend to steer clear of that time.

Right now though? I’m in the zone.
Hence the couple of beers.
I feel like I’m about to head off to one of those old house parties again.
And I really hope they don’t spike my drink… oh jeez, that would be very unfortunate. Oh no, please don’t! [laughs]

So continuing on—more and more people are hooking up.
And now it’s becoming really obvious.
“Right, Elliot, what’s going on, mate?”
“You haven’t kissed anyone yet?”
“We’re 16—come on. People are having sex at this point. Get with it, will ya?”

This became a huge problem for me.
I was dwelling on it constantly.
Walking to school? Thinking about how I hadn’t kissed anyone.
Sitting in assembly? Looking around, still thinking about it.

The OCD and the BPD were starting to flare up.
These obsessive thoughts—this compulsive rumination—were just cycling endlessly.
The idea that I must be the problem. That I was defective somehow.
Not just different—defective.

And that was everything to me.
At 16, that kind of self-narrative defined my entire being.
I wasn’t cool.
I was low on the social hierarchy.
I must be ugly.
Girls don’t want me—and they never will.
It was so embarrassing. Holy dooly.

And because my psyche was so malleable at that point—because those BPD tendencies were already stirring—that narrative became all-consuming.

This obsession, this shame around not having kissed anyone—
It defined who I was.
It told me I was less than everyone else.
That I didn’t belong in the tribe.
And that was everything.

It swallowed me whole.

One of the girls—there were rumours, right?—one of the girls wanted to kiss Elliot.
That was the word going around. It got back to me and I thought, “Alright—holy hell. I don’t know what to do, but okay, let’s roll with it.”

But the way it was framed was that this girl wanted to teach me how to kiss.

Now, I’ve since learned that she just genuinely wanted to kiss me—because I was pretty cool, funny, and nice back then. But, you know, we were all jockeying for position, so the angle was:
“This person of higher social status is going to teach Elliot—who we all like but needs to get a wriggle on—how to kiss.”

It would look good on her, and it would help me tick that box. Win-win, right?

I remember sitting at this party—this was when I’d started drinking properly. I was on the Carlton Colds back then.
Still remember those. They were great. Don’t think you can get them anymore.

But yeah, I was a cheap drunk. Two beers and I was flying. I miss those days so much—it’d save me a fortune now.
But seriously, it was all new and fresh and exciting back then. I preferred being intoxicated then, more than I do now, to be honest.

So I’m sitting there with this girl—I know what’s going on. She’s talking to me, and all I’ve got to do is make one little move and she’ll dive in, and then—boom—I can finally get that monkey off my back.

But I felt like people were watching.
Some people were watching, but not to the extent I thought.
This is classic social anxiety—feeling like everyone’s judging you, being hyper-aware of any perceived negative attention.

And I couldn’t talk properly. I didn’t know what to do. The anxiety was unbearable. I just couldn’t handle it.

I remember looking at my watch—it was probably 10:30PM—and thinking,
“Oh no. Mum and Dad—or so-and-so’s parents—are coming to pick us up at midnight. I’ve got an hour and a half to go.
C’mon Elliot, you can do this. Please, God, if you’re out there—let me do this so I can move on.”

That’s how intense it was.

I’d be sitting there, talking to this girl, knowing what was on the cards—and I just couldn’t do it.
The pressure was too much. I crumbled under the weight of expectation.

And this happened a few times.

Looking back now, I can see there were opportunities.
Mate—Elliot could’ve cleaned up. Let me tell you.
But I didn’t see those opportunities for what they were.

I was so petrified—so frigid.
There’s a word that followed me around:
“Elliot’s frigid.”
“He won’t touch a girl.”
“Elliot’s frigid.”

Oh man… shut up, everyone.

There were chances to get that monkey off my back—but I was too scared.
Because I knew what was on the cards.
And it was embarrassing—everyone talking about it:
“Maybe at this party Elliot will finally kiss someone.”

And people were pointing and whispering—or at least, that’s how I perceived it.
Probably not to the extent I thought—but to me, it felt like the whole room was watching.

The weight of expectation was just too much for poor 16-year-old me—
A nice kid, a bit timid—despite putting on this act of being loud and obnoxious and confident.
Just a kid trying to figure out what the hell life was all about.

A bit like how I feel now, to be honest.

So anyway, a few parties go by—more missed opportunities.
And the pressure keeps building and building.

At school, there’s another party coming up.
Everyone’s going.
These parties are huge—everyone’s getting smashed, hooking up with each other left and right.

I get there, I’ve had two beers—I can’t walk straight, I’m absolutely tanked.
But I’m having a great time.
And I’m still not kissing anyone.

Still.

And the whole time—before the party, during the party, after the party—those ruminations just keep cycling.

The pressure builds and builds.

Eventually, we get to this particular party.
By now, the general impression is that I’m literally the only person in the year who hasn’t kissed a girl.

That wasn’t true, of course—but I had no clue.
And everyone was going along with the idea that it was just me.

So, people are giving me pep talks.
We’re pre-drinking at a mate’s place.
And people are like:
“Hey, why don’t you try and hook up with so-and-so?”
And I’m like, “Yeah, maybe. I’ll give it a go, boys. You got my back?”
“Yeah, she’ll be right. We’ll figure it out.”

“This is it. I promise. This is it.”

So we’re building it up.
And I’m drinking too much.

Even back then—and I still do this now, to be honest—my thinking was:
“The more I drink, the more confident I’ll be.”

Even though it never really worked.
The idea was: “The less anxious I’ll feel, and the better my chances of hooking up with someone.”

That mindset—that belief—was born at 16.
And it’s still with me today.

That voice says,
“Drink more, Elliot. That’s our best shot at getting validation—at not feeling so crap about ourselves.”

So yeah, we’re pre-drinking. I remember this party—I passed out before we even left.
Classic Elliot. Cheap drunk.

I was on goon—cask wine—and Vodka Cruisers too.
That’s one hell of a chaser.

I’m obliterated. Can’t walk.
Getting carried to the car by my mate’s parent, who was silly enough to offer us a lift.

But I’m thinking,
“Right. I’m drunk now.
This is good.
I’m ready. I’m ready.”

So we get to the party, and I’ve got my eye on somebody.

Even now—not that I’m going around trying to pick up girls or anything—but even now, I kind of hone in on someone.
I’ll think, “That person’s nice,” and I’ll just fixate on them in a way.

Not fixated in the clinical autistic sense—but more just that I decide:
“That’s the person I’m interested in.”

And it was the same back then.

So, I had my person.
I had the girl I wanted to try and kiss.
And the boys knew who it was.

Funnily enough, she was actually the ex-girlfriend of one of my mates—because in high school, we were all sort of interconnected like that.
Now, that would become a big problem later on, but at this stage, I didn’t have the retroactive jealousy yet—so I didn’t care.

What I did care about was:
“I reckon this chick’s pretty cool. I reckon she’s pretty hot. And… I think she might actually kiss me.”

I just had this feeling that she would. And I wouldn’t mind if she did.

Silly me told the boys that.

So of course, we get to this party—I’m absolutely off my feet, can’t walk straight.
There’s all this pressure, and I’m just trying to drink it away—trying to calm down, enjoy myself, and hopefully talk to this girl like a normal person.

Socially, it was hard.
I wasn’t making eye contact back then either.
Could’ve been the autism.
So I drank more, just trying to compensate for that.

We get to the party—and there she is.
She’s over in the corner.
I remember walking in and spotting her right away.
Holy dooly, that’s her.

And one of the boys elbows me—
“You’re on tonight, mate. You’re on.”

I’m like, “Yeah, righto,” as I’m trying not to vomit.
So attractive, I know.

The party’s going and I’m doing my best to show off.
I put on some ACDC—Highway to Hell—doing my air guitar, thinking I’m looking cool.
She’s in the same room, kind of hanging around.

Apparently, she’d heard the rumours that Elliot might be making a move.

So I’m being loud and obnoxious—typical clown mode.
That was my thing back then. I thought it made me stand out.
I did it at school, I did it at parties.
Turn the dial up to 11 when the drinks are flowing.

High-fiving the boys, putting on a show—making sure she sees that the boys love me.
But the truth was, I wasn’t actually making any moves.
And I knew it.

Even though I was acting confident, I was absolutely petrified inside.

I remember saying to one of my mates:
“Mate, I don’t know what to do. I can’t talk to her—it’s too hard. There are too many people around. Everyone’s watching.”

And he said,
“It’s alright. I’ll have a word with her.
I’ll pull her aside, just let her know you’re interested.
If it’s good news, I’ll let you know. If it’s not—well, I’ll still let you know.”

I said, “Righto, thanks, mate. Appreciate it.
And make sure you tell her I’m cool, yeah?
Make sure you say I’m a good bloke.”

Even though we went to school together—she saw me every day—I still needed my mate to build me up.
Because deep down, I didn’t think I was up to it.

So I’m walking around the party, still fixated on her—glancing over now and then.
Then I see my mate pull her aside. They go out the front for a chat.

And I’m thinking:
This is it. Holy dooly. This is it.

I sit down with a cup of goon—red wine, not white—because it was 1% stronger for the same price.
What a degenerate, right?

I’m sitting there, sculling red wine, nearly vomiting it back up—because I’ve already passed out twice that night.
But I’m thinking,
“This is it.
This is life-defining.
Please, God—let me do this tonight.”

So eventually my mate comes back in. I can see she’s a little behind him.
I tell him,
“Don’t talk to me just yet. Just act normal. Come get me in a minute. I don’t want to seem desperate.”

Not that I was desperate—no way.
Not desperate to get my first hookup that I’d spent months obsessing over and called life-defining.
No way.

Eventually he comes up and gives me the lowdown.
“Alright,” he says, “here’s the deal…”

And this is funny—if you went to school with me, you’ll know exactly who and what I’m talking about here.
But what she said was:
“I don’t want to date him.
I don’t want to be his girlfriend.
He loves the Newcastle Knights—and I hate footy.
I hate the Knights. It just wouldn’t work.”

(Oof.)

But she did say:
“If he comes over and says hello, I’ll kiss him.
But it has to be away from everyone.
I don’t want to kiss him in front of everyone.”

So I was like, alright, alright—fair enough.

Even at that point, I wasn’t a hookup guy.
I’m not a hookup guy.
I’ve always been more of a relationship sort of bloke.
I want to connect—go deep emotionally.
Not just… well, you know what I mean.

So, it was a bit disappointing that she didn’t see it going beyond just a kiss.
But at the same time, I didn’t care.
She was good looking, she seemed keen—that was enough.

Alright Elliot—this is it. Do it. Bloody do it.

The party’s about halfway through at this point.
I walk up to her, in front of everyone, and say:
“Hi… hi, so-and-so. It’s Elliot.”

(As if she didn’t know who I was—we saw each other every day.)

Anyway, I can’t remember the exact conversation…

I remember I wasn't making much eye contact—which, as we now know, was a sign of my autism, though I didn’t know that back then. There was a lot of social anxiety. I was sweating heaps. I remember the sweat. I had on a dark shirt, which helped hide it a bit, but I still felt embarrassed. I was trying so hard to talk about things I thought she might be interested in—but I didn’t even know what that was, back then or now. I was just so stuck in my own head, overthinking every little thing, stumbling both literally and figuratively.

We’d walk downstairs for a drink, then head back up again. Each time there was a chance to slip out the side and make a move, but I just couldn’t do it. So we’d go back upstairs—where everyone was—and I’d just keep walking and talking. Up and down. Again and again. Finally, I got the courage to say, “How about we go out the front for a bit?” And she was like, “Yeah, sure.” Because that’s what you do, right? You get away from the crowd. If you’re alone and she’s keen, you’re on the right track. At least, that’s what I was told. That was the unwritten rule of teenage parties back then.

But even out the front, I was still so anxious. I just kept talking and talking, trying to fill every silence. That’s what I do when I’m anxious—I can't handle the silence. It feels like failure. Even now, I can fall into that mode. I was standing still, and she was pacing back and forth in front of me on the street. Not far. We were still talking, but I noticed it and pointed it out.

Young Elliot the wannabe psychologist picked up on it: "You’re doing the pacing thing. What's that about?" She replied, “Oh, I just do that when I’m thinking about stuff.”

And it never clicked—she was thinking about me. She was waiting for me to make a move. She was out there for a reason. It had been arranged. She was into me. But I was just frozen, caught in a storm of pressure, expectation, and internal chaos. And time was ticking. I knew her mum was picking her up at midnight. I’d been told: “Elliot, make your move before midnight, or you’ll miss your chance.”

That made it even worse. The pressure doubled. And like so many times before at other parties, the clock ticked down and the moment was slipping away. It was 10 to 12. She said she had to go inside and grab her stuff.

My heart sank. I thought: You’ve done it again. You’ve failed. You’re pathetic. You’re defective. You’re frigid. You are everything they say you are.

I followed her in, dragging my feet, feeling crushed. And then, just as she was heading toward the door, I had this one last thought—this internal scream: Do it now. It’s now or never.

So I said, “Hey—just one thing before you go.”

I grabbed her hand. Electricity. She turned around. “Yeah?”

And I kissed her.

Eyes open.

She had her eyes closed, but mine were wide open the whole time. I didn’t know what I was doing. I remember thinking, Oh, I should probably close my eyes… and then I saw, in my peripheral vision, people cheering. High-fiving. Celebrating. Like I’d just kicked a winning goal in a grand final. I quickly shut my eyes, pulled back, and she smiled, said something kind, and walked off to meet her mum.

It should’ve been a relief. But it wasn’t.

Because all that cheering, all that celebration—it didn’t feel like support. It felt like mockery. Like I was the school loser who had somehow scored a miracle. It just confirmed that I was different, weird, and behind everyone else. That this was a novelty. A moment so rare it had to be commemorated.

People tackled me. Put me on their shoulders. Paraded me around the party. And I just stood there thinking: This is humiliating.

This was the moment my BPD was born.

The traits had been there: emotional dysregulation, poor self-esteem, unstable relationships, impulsive behaviour. But this was the match that lit the fuse. The intensity of that kiss—the pressure, the aftermath, the internal collapse—it all triggered the formation of the disorder.

And it didn’t stop. The next day at school, the comparisons began. The talk about bases, body counts, who’d gone further. I’d just reached first base, and now I had to play catch-up with kids who were already on third. I was finally “in the game,” but completely unprepared.

What should have been a moment of triumph became the origin story of years of shame, rumination, and spirals. Because that kiss didn’t fix anything. It made everything worse.

And I still live with the aftermath. The 16-year-old part of me is still trapped there—still trying to get it right. Still trying to figure out how to avoid being mocked or rejected or called frigid ever again.

That part of me fuels the drink. Fuels the drug use. Fuels the obsession with being cool, accepted, untouchable. That part of me still thinks I have to go harder than everyone else to be someone worth keeping around.

And even though logically, today at 34, I know that none of this matters—that being kind, genuine, and self-aware is far more important than body count or party tricks—my emotional brain doesn’t believe it.

That’s why CBT hasn’t worked for me. Because I know the thoughts are irrational. I know they’re rooted in teenage trauma. But knowing that doesn’t turn off the pain. Doesn’t undo the wiring. Doesn’t make the 16-year-old inside me feel any less rejected.

That’s why I go to therapy. That’s why I tell these stories. Because I’m still trying to reach that younger version of myself and say:

You weren’t defective. You were just scared.

And that is the story of my first kiss. And the night my borderline personality disorder came to life.

This all happened when I was 16. I’m 34 now—more than double that age. You’d think I’d be able to just move on, right? But it’s not that easy. And that’s exactly what makes this a mental illness.

If I could simply flick a switch and shut off these thoughts—just chalk it up to teenage angst and move on—I would. Believe me. But I can’t. I cannot turn it off.

I have OCD that obsesses over this stuff. I have a disordered personality. I’m autistic, I’ve got ADHD, depression, bipolar traits, generalised anxiety, social anxiety—you name it, I’ve probably been diagnosed with it. I’m carrying a whole backpack full of labels.

But the reason this is mental illness is because no matter how much I logically tell myself that these things don’t matter anymore—that it’s ancient history—I still can’t let go. I’m not in full control of these thoughts. They spiral. They overpower me. And I’m left with no defence.

Even at work—just a normal day at Bunnings—a tradie will walk in and the comparison begins: He’s better looking than me. He’s more confident. He probably pulls all the girls. He’s everything I’m not. And I know it’s rubbish. I know it’s irrational. I’ll literally slap my hand and go, Elliot, stop it. But I can’t stop. Because that’s what mental illness is. It’s not a choice. If I could turn this off, I would’ve done it years ago.

Therapy is helping. And I’m doing a lot of work on myself outside of therapy too. But the thoughts still come. And they’ve pushed me to some dark, dark places. I’ve been hospitalised more than once. I’ve stood at the edge of life, having to ask myself: Do we keep going? Or do we end it right here?

And thank God—thank God—that every time I’ve reached that point, there’s been the tiniest flicker of hope. Just enough to hang on. Just enough to fight another day.

I can’t express how serious this is. From the outside, yeah—some of these thoughts probably sound ridiculous. Silly. Over-the-top. But inside my brain, with my psychological makeup, this stuff feels like life and death. And it’s nearly killed me more than once.

Can you believe that? The number of people I kissed at 16—or didn’t kiss—has triggered suicidal thoughts. That’s how deep this goes. It’s not "crazy"—I don’t want to use that word—but it is a stark example of how insidious and embedded mental illness can be. These disorders—whatever they are—can get in so deep that they distort everything: how you see yourself, how you interpret the world, how you move through life.

Mental illness sucks.

And I really hope this episode offered something—whether that’s understanding, validation, or maybe even a bit of entertainment. Maybe you’re sitting there thinking, Come on, mate. It’s just a kiss. What’s the big deal? And that’s exactly the point. It wasn’t a big deal objectively. But it nearly ended me.

That’s what mental illness does. It warps the meaning of things. It inflates minor moments into existential crises. And it doesn’t care how much sense it makes.

Thankfully, I’m still here to tell the story.

And then my borderline personality took hold.

The pattern that would go on to ruin every serious relationship I’ve had started to show itself. Not long after that first kiss, I had my first girlfriend—hint: it might’ve been the same girl. And that’s when it all really began. The cycles. The spirals. The emotional instability. The fear. It’s a pattern I haven’t talked about much on the podcast—but I’m ready to now. Because this is the stuff that almost ended me. The stuff that still causes pain. Still causes guilt. Still brings shame.

This is the real stuff.

You thought I’d been open before—well, this is another level. As I speak, I can feel that part of me—that 16-year-old version—right here with me. We’re remembering together. And he’s saying, “Mate, that was brutal.” And I agree. It was.

But we need to move on. We need to find a way where all the parts of me—those from different ages, different wounds, different stories—can walk together in today’s world. Because the truth is, I still live in the past far too often. I still ruminate. Not so much about that first kiss anymore, but what came after. That’s where the damage really began.

And unfortunately, it didn’t just affect me. As I said in my BPD episode—which I highly recommend you listen to if you haven’t—it affected those around me too. That’s one of the brutal truths about BPD: when we go down, we often take people with us. And I’ve burnt people. People I cared about. People who didn’t deserve it.

So much of that destruction links back to this origin story—this idea that I was somehow defective for being late to kissing, to intimacy, to social milestones. That I was weird. Behind. Mocked. It sounds so small, but the impact has been enormous.

I didn’t know what was going on back then. I didn’t have the insight. I didn’t get my BPD diagnosis until I was 27—after four broken relationships, and after crashing and burning in ways that left others scorched in the aftermath. I never meant to hurt anyone. But that’s the thing with mental illness—you don’t always get to choose the collateral damage.

And I know I’ve rambled a bit in this one—but honestly, I don’t care. This episode cuts deep. This is unscripted, raw, and straight from the heart.

So again, check out that BPD episode if you haven’t. It helps fill in the blanks and gives more context for what’s coming next—because what comes next is huge. What comes next is retroactive jealousy. The big one. The podcast-defining one. The one that has wrecked relationships, filled me with shame, and left deep scars I still live with today.

But back to the kid I was at 16—naïve, autistic, anxious, doing his best to mimic others just to fit in, just to avoid being seen as different. It’s heartbreaking. I look back and feel such sadness for that version of me. He was fighting battles with no name, no support, no understanding. And he fought bloody hard.

And even though it hurts to go back there, I’m proud of him. Because he was tough. He kept going. And so have I.

That’s why I do what I do—why I work with Black Dog, with Everymind, why I do this podcast. So people can learn. So people can see themselves or someone they love in these stories and maybe feel empowered to do something about it. To get help. To understand.

And yeah, ask anyone close to me—my friends, my family—there’s still a big part of me that’s 16. That part never really left. But the fact I can talk about it now, publicly, is huge. That’s growth. That’s healing. And I’ll give myself credit for that.

So if you’ve made it to the end of this long one, thank you. Truly. I’ve got a feeling I’m not alone in this. Maybe you’ve felt the same. Maybe you’ve been through similar. And maybe, like me, you’re still carrying wounds from when you were a kid, still trying to prove you’re worth something.

But if telling this story helps even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

I used to wake up thinking about this stuff. I’d fall asleep thinking about it too. It was relentless. And it got worse. This negativity I’ve talked about today—it got injected with steroids not long after. And that’s the next chapter. The retroactive jealousy episode is coming. And it’s going to resonate. Big time.

So until then, if you want to get a deeper understanding of how BPD works, check out my episode titled “Borderline Personality (BPD)” on Spotify, Apple Podcasts, wherever you listen. I’ve had great feedback on it. It might just fill in some missing pieces.

As always, thank you for being here. Thank you for supporting the show. If you want to help out, hit follow, give it a rating—five stars if you can, because hey, I’m human and I love a bit of dopamine! I’m sitting at 4.9 stars with nearly 100 reviews, and that’s pretty damn cool.

You can follow me on Instagram @elliott.t.waters. I’ll reply when I can—though lately I’ve been swamped with anxiety and needed to step back for my own well-being. But this episode feels like a release, like I’ve cleared some space to reconnect again.

And again, if you’ve listened all the way through—thank you. This has been a huge one. But there’s more coming. Some great interviews. Some powerful stories.

And of course, the big one—My Greatest Challenge: Retroactive Jealousy. That episode is going to be raw, real, and incredibly personal.

Thanks again. I’m Elliot Waters, and this is The Dysregulated Podcast.