My Two Cents on Who You Choose
Alright, so people ask me for advice sometimes. Life advice, relationship advice, you name it. And usually, I try to be balanced, see both sides. But there’s one piece of experience, a real hard-earned lesson, that I just gotta be straight up about. If you’re looking for my honest take, from my own personal playbook of what not to do, well, here it is.
I got involved with someone, years back. And at first? Man, it was electric. Everything was super intense, super exciting. You know that feeling? Like you’ve finally met someone who gets you, and the connection is just off the charts. I thought, “This is it. This is the real deal.” I was all in, head over heels, the whole nine yards.
Then the ground started shifting.
It wasn’t overnight. It was little things, at first. One day, I’m the greatest person alive, the sun shines outta my backside. The next day, or even a few hours later, I’m suddenly the enemy. Accused of things I didn’t do, or things I said that got twisted into something monstrous. My head would spin. I’d be like, “Wait, what just happened? What did I say?” I’d go over conversations in my head, trying to pinpoint the moment things went south. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I came up empty.
So, what did I do? Well, I tried to adapt. That’s what you do, right? You care about someone, you try to make it work.
- I started watching every word I said.
- I’d try to anticipate moods, like forecasting the weather.
- I’d apologize for things I wasn’t even sure I did wrong, just to keep the peace.
- I spent a lot of time feeling confused, and honestly, pretty stupid for not being able to “fix” it.
I remember thinking, “Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m just not understanding.” I read articles, I even discreetly asked a buddy who’s a therapist some vague questions. I was desperate to find the instruction manual for this relationship. It felt like I was constantly walking on eggshells, and the floor was covered in them. One wrong step, and bam, explosion.
The Breaking Point
There was this one evening. No big deal, just a regular Tuesday. And something I said, totally innocent, was taken completely the wrong way. And it just escalated. The anger, the accusations, the tears – not mine, hers – it was like a hurricane in our tiny apartment. And I just stood there, taking it. Because that’s what I’d learned to do. Absorb it.
But that night, something snapped in me. I looked at her, and I looked at myself, and I had this crystal-clear thought: “This isn’t love. This is a battle, and I’m losing myself.” It was like a switch flipped. I realized I couldn’t keep doing it. I couldn’t keep setting myself on fire to keep someone else warm, especially when they just seemed to enjoy the bonfire.
Getting out was tough. No sugarcoating it.
It was messy. There were more fights, more drama. It felt like trying to escape quicksand. But I knew, deep down, I had to. For my own sanity. I remember the sheer exhaustion of it all. It wasn’t just the emotional rollercoaster; it was the mental gymnastics, always trying to stay one step ahead of the next meltdown.
Once I was finally out, the silence was deafening at first. And then? Peace. Actual, genuine peace. It took a long time to unpack everything, to stop flinching at sudden changes in tone, to trust my own judgment again. I had to basically relearn what a healthy interaction felt like.
So yeah, that’s my story. That’s the “practice” and the “record” you asked for, right from my own life. It’s not a judgment on everyone, or some kind of scientific study. It’s just what happened to me. And it taught me something I won’t forget. When I say, “never date someone with BPD,” it’s not because I read it somewhere. It’s because I lived it, and I carry the scars. It’s my hard-won, very personal piece of advice from the trenches. Take it or leave it, but that’s my truth.
