BPD Talks

You found someone else. You got married. And just like that, you didn’t just close the door—you boarded it up, leaving just a crack. Wide enough to peek through, to make sure I’m still breathing on the other side of the glass. But never wide enough to reach. Never enough to actually touch. You kept me alive in a cage of your own design, giving me just enough access so you didn’t have to carry the guilt of a full burial. And I choked on it. I chose to walk away into the freezing dark. Now, sitting in the wreckage of that choice, the silence is a physical weight, pressing down on my chest like always. I am talking straight into the dark, straight to you. Was It Worth It? Was it? Was the pride—that desperate, bruised shred of dignity that told me I won't beg, I won't accept a fraction of a soul —actually worth this suffocating ache? I cut the cord. I chose to leave you behind. But why does walking away feel so much like bleeding out on a sidewalk? I gave you the architecture of my...

The tea is cold by the time I remember it’s there. That’s usually how the quiet sets in—not with a sudden crash, but in the small, empty spaces where a habit used to live. For a long time, my entire internal weather was dictated by a single person. Every text notification was a lightning strike; every hour of silence was a slow, suffocating barometric drop. They were the lens through which I saw the world, the anchor that kept me tethered to the surface. And then, quietly, the anchor was cut. The Silence of Losing a Favorite Person (FP) People talk about breakups like they are dramatic productions—shouting matches, packed boxes, slammed doors. But the loss of an FP is different. It’s an amputation performed in total silence. One day you are sharing the entire architecture of your mind with someone, and the next, you are staring at a stranger across an invisible, uncrossable chasm. The hardest part isn't even the absence. It’s the phantom limb syndrome of the soul. I find myself dra...

Hey, Good news. I have abandoned the idea of suicide for now. The weight on my chest is still there, pressing down as always. The financial mess, the loneliness, the uncertainty—none of it has magically disappeared. But something inside me has shifted. T he same reasons I once had for wanting to leave it all behind are now the very reasons pushing me to stay. I see now that life, however painful, is still full of possibilities. And death? Death is final. Unchangeable. It offers no second chances, no unexpected joys, no moments of peace after the storms. We’re all going to die eventually—so why not live until then? So, I am not going to kill myself on the appointed day. Instead, I will live. I will live fully, even with the weight. I will carry it differently. I don't know how long this feeling will last. I’ve climbed out of this pit before, only to slip and fall back in. But this time, I want to believe I can hold on a little longer. Maybe even climb higher. I just hope that ...

Today, after a long, long time, I felt something unfamiliar—hope. It wasn’t overwhelming or blinding. It didn’t flood me like a revelation. It was quiet, fragile, like the first hint of light before dawn. A whisper rather than a roar. But it was there. For the first time in what felt like ages, I want to try again. I’ve done this before—started over, rebuilt myself from the wreckage, only to collapse again. But today, something feels different. There’s a shift, a new kind of energy stirring inside me. I am taking baby steps into a world where I am not a burden. Where my presence doesn’t force the people I love to walk on eggshells. Where I don’t have to shrink myself to make room for their comfort. At the end of the day, I feel determined. Not healed. Not whole. But ready. A Clearer Vision and the Choice for Control I have a vision now—a clearer one. I know what matters and what doesn’t. What deserves my energy and what I can let go of. I refuse to let my impulses dictate my story. I r...

Last night, sleep eluded me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw angry faces. Their mouths moved, but I couldn’t understand the words—only the rage, the contempt, the dismissal. The sounds were worse. Screams. Accusations. They filled my head, growing louder, twisting into something monstrous. I turned on my side, then the other, pulling the blanket over me, then kicking it off. The air felt too thick, the silence too heavy. My mind was racing, spiraling into memories I wanted to forget but couldn’t. I reached for my phone. The screen glowed in the darkness. 2:47 AM. Too late to text anyone. Too early for morning peace. The 2:47 AM Spiral and the Search for Calm I opened YouTube and searched for Surah As-Saffat. I pressed play, letting the recitation fill the empty spaces around me. The voice was soothing, each word washing over me like a tide pulling me away from my thoughts. I lowered the volume to a whisper, just enough to keep the darkness at bay. And then I did something I hadn’t d...

Okay. It’s broken. The normal spell is shattered, and everything is chaos again. It happened today—sudden, sharp, like a switch flipping without warning. One moment, I was holding it together. The next, I wasn’t. Words were spoken, actions followed, and just like that, I was unraveling. I tried to contain it. Swallow it down. But the weight of it pressed against my ribs, lodged in my throat like something jagged and unrelenting. I was at a friend’s room for Iftar, surrounded by people, playing my part. For the most part, it felt as normal as things could get for me. But then it happened. Someone said something—offhand, derisive, laced with accusation. They called me nagging when all I had done was confirm something that involved them. A small fracture. I told myself to ignore it. But then came the second blow. I asked the same friend to bring something. Something simple. They refused. I thought they were joking because why wouldn’t they be? It wasn’t as if I had asked them to bring me ...