BPD Talks

  How do I navigate life? I don’t know anymore. Today was the worst day of the month. What triggered it, I can't say for certain. Maybe it was a culmination of things, a slow build-up of unspoken words and unseen wounds. Maybe it was nothing at all. You are a very bad person. My wife said this to my face. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard those words. They’ve been thrown at me before—by the very people I once thought would stand by me. By those I’ve given everything to, sacrificed for, tried endlessly to please. And every time, a part of me wonders: Are they right? Am I really a bad person? I try to look at my life rationally. On paper, it should be enough. I have a job that pays well, one I actually enjoy on most days. I have a family—caring, loving, present. I have an adorable daughter who fills my heart with immense love. Objectively, I have everything a person needs to be happy. There are people who would trade places with me in an instant. I know that much. And yet—this feeli...

  If I look back and trace the timeline of my life, I can say with certainty that something went terribly wrong when I was 14. That’s when I first started noticing the symptoms—not fully formed, not yet consuming, but present. Back then, it wasn’t a storm, just a whisper in the wind, a quiet sense that something was… off. At first, it was subtle. The way I felt things too deeply, or sometimes not at all. The way I could be laughing one moment and feel hollow the next, as if the world had drained of all color. The way certain words or actions from others stung me in ways I couldn’t explain. I didn’t know what it was, only that my emotions felt like a foreign language no one had taught me how to speak. But as I interacted with the world, as I endured the things that shaped me, the disorder began to take form. It solidified, like wet cement hardening around my mind, until it became impossible to separate myself from it. Now, I’m about to turn 30. Sixteen years have passed since the fi...

  Today didn’t crush me the way the last few did. The weight was still there, pressing against my chest, but just a little lighter. I stepped outside, felt the air on my skin. I even got something I had been waiting for—a moment I had envisioned countless times, believing it would bring relief. But when it arrived, it was like unwrapping a long-awaited gift only to find it hollow inside. I didn’t do any work today. I tried—I really did. Opened my laptop, stared at the screen, ran my fingers over the keyboard as if the right words or logic would just appear. But my mind felt fogged, heavy, unwilling to cooperate. After 3 PM, I gave up. There was no point in forcing it. I dropped an email explaining that I was sick, turned off my laptop, and let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Then around 4pm I actually felt sick. This happens to me. Some days, I work relentlessly, losing myself in the flow, achieving more in hours than some do in days. And then there are days like this—...

From February 13th to February 17th, I felt normal. Stable. Five whole days of something that almost resembled peace. For a brief moment, I let myself believe it. That the new pill had finally kicked in, that maybe—just maybe—this time, things would be different. But the night of February 17th shattered that illusion. I felt it slipping away—the normal version of me fading like a mirage, dissolving into something darker. And I could do nothing but watch as I spiraled, deeper and deeper, back into the pit I thought I had finally escaped. I tried reaching out. Called someone. No answer. Tried again. Still nothing. I was alone. Work was done for the day. I had nothing to keep my mind occupied. I tried watching Marvel movies—the ones I used to love—but they felt distant, meaningless. My thoughts were racing. A crushing anxiety wrapped around my chest, and I felt like my head was going to explode. Panic took over. I picked up the blade again. A few more cuts and an emoji on my right wrist—s...