You don’t walk into a relationship with someone who has Borderline Personality Disorder knowing that’s what it is. You just think they feel more. You think they’re intense, emotional, alive in ways you aren’t. You mistake it for depth. You mistake it for honesty. But it’s not honesty. It’s panic disguised as love.
When we met, she told me I was different. She said I felt safe. That I saw her in a way no one else ever had. And maybe I did. Or maybe I just didn’t look away fast enough. She latched onto me like I was a life preserver—and I mistook that for affection. What it actually was, was survival.
She moved fast. Not in a creepy, clingy way—at first. It felt romantic. Magnetic. She told me things about her childhood on the second date that most people wouldn’t say in a year. There was something sacred in that, like she was handing me a fragile heirloom wrapped in trauma. And I cradled it like it was mine to protect.
In the early days, she gave me everything. Every thought. Every feeling. Every second of her time. It felt flattering. You start to believe you’re the one person who can make this woman feel whole. It feels like meaning. Like purpose. Like love at full volume.
But it doesn’t last.
There’s no gradual shift. One day you’re the sun, and the next you’re the virus infecting her life. You say one wrong thing—or not even wrong, just not right enough—and the ground drops out. Suddenly you’re the person she can’t trust. The reason she’s in pain. She accuses you of things you never did. Says things you never thought anyone would say to you. And then ten minutes later she’s in your arms, crying and saying she didn’t mean it.
That’s how it goes.
You spend your days managing landmines. You learn to analyze her tone like a bomb technician. Is she okay? Is she upset? Is she spiraling? Is she about to run? Is she testing me? Is she about to say she wants to die? You live in that cycle. You stop reacting to what’s happening and start bracing for what’s coming.
When she’s angry, it’s personal. Everything becomes evidence. She’ll bring up something you said six months ago and twist it into proof that you don’t love her. You’ll try to defend yourself, but logic doesn’t work in a fight that’s being waged entirely on feeling. Facts become weapons. Silence becomes betrayal. Calm becomes coldness. There is no way to win. There is only escalation or retreat.
But when it’s good—when she’s feeling safe—it’s unbelievable. She’ll look at you like you’re sacred. She’ll plan a life with you after a week. She’ll tell you you’re the only person who’s ever made her feel okay. And a part of you starts to need that validation just as much as she does. It becomes addictive.
I stopped seeing my friends. I stopped sharing how bad it was. I was afraid that if I told anyone the truth, they’d tell me to leave. And I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave someone who’d told me they’d fall apart without me. I couldn’t walk away from someone who’d handed me their trauma and said, “Please, just hold this.” So I stayed. I kept holding it. Even as it broke me.
Sex was complicated. Sometimes it felt like connection. Sometimes it felt like punishment. Sometimes it felt like the only thing keeping us glued together. But afterward, she’d cry. Or push me away. Or accuse me of not caring. It was never just sex. It was never simple. Everything—every act, every gesture—was freighted with meaning and insecurity and old wounds that had nothing to do with me and everything to do with me.
And I know what people will say. That I should’ve left. That I enabled her. That I was codependent. And maybe I was. But here’s the thing they don’t tell you: when someone makes you feel like the only thing standing between them and the void, you don’t walk away. You lean in. You try harder. You give more. You let yourself erode.
She left before I did. That’s the part that still stings. After all the nights spent calming her down. After all the times I stayed up, afraid she was going to hurt herself. After sacrificing parts of my life, my sanity, my peace—she still left. Said I didn’t understand her. Said I made her feel judged. Said I made her feel abandoned.
And the worst part?
A part of me still misses her.
Because it wasn’t all bad. Because the part of her that was soft and scared and desperate to be loved was real. Because I saw the little girl in her who never felt safe. And because I thought maybe if I could just love her hard enough, I could make her feel safe.
But love doesn’t fix everything. Love isn’t a substitute for therapy. And being someone’s emotional parent, their punching bag, and their savior is not a relationship. It’s martyrdom with better branding.
So here’s what I learned:
You can love someone with everything you have, and it still won’t be enough if they don’t love themselves. You can try to save someone from drowning, but if they keep pulling you under with them, eventually you have to let go—or you both die. And there’s no nobility in that kind of loyalty. Just damage.
She told me once, “I hate you, don’t leave me.” I didn’t understand it at the time. I thought it was poetic. I thought it was sad. Now I know it’s the blueprint.
That phrase isn’t an expression of love. It’s a warning.
And I should have listened.
