sm1981,

Unlike NPD, in BPD they know that they don't function well. Though knowing they are mentally ill isn't enough to compel them into treatment. Instead, the loss of your relationship with him seems to have been the driving force. Therefore, by staying firm, you are doing a lot of good for him.

By the way, I don't endorse this pharmacological treatment for BPD (SSRI and mood stabilizer) since all studies show that they are completely ineffective in reducing BPD symptoms. If it is just for him to engage in therapy, then hopefully the drugs should be used for a brief period. On the other hand, treating ADHD and addictions does help with BPD a great deal.

Hi Princess Ruth, and welcome to the BPD family.

The fact that he has stepped back and come forward to explain about his diagnosis is a very good sign of self-awareness, which most don't have. However, as you saw, it does stop the outburst from happening, and the tendency is that they become more frequent. And if you lived together or started a family, it would certainly get more severe.

There are success stories, but the norm is that the relationship won't work. In the special cases of success documented here, I noticed that something drastic made the pwBPD feel compelled to seek treatment.

His current attitude is related to feeling unworthy and believing that you will eventually point fingers at him and reject him. My wife has done that some times in the past, and once it took a lot of effort to revert her mindset. Though the pleasure moments together speak for themselves.

Thank you for your advice it was so sudden to see him go from this loving person to saying awful things and breaking up with me at of the blue it was only later that he disclosed his diagnosis. I am neurodivergent so used to looking for ways to communicate and have spent so long trying to understand BPD and how I can be supportive but was at a loss on what else to do as I don’t want to make anything harder for him

Let me pivot before I continue with this story.  I probably should have put some of this stuff up front, but I can't edit what I've already posted (or can I?).  Oh well.

This current season of my life, the one that's got me picking through the bones, autopsying everything, asking all these questions, started a few months ago. 

I was a couple weeks in to another breakup from J2, the second of the "J's".  J2.  The second iteration.  J2.0.

At first blush J2 was totally different from J1 in every way.  And the me that came alive in that relationship was different too.  I was vital.  I was and open and ready and excited. I was alive. 

So there I was.  The day before my 45th birthday.  I was in the Target parking lot having just bought cat food.  Sitting in my truck.  Listening to "Hear Me" by Tedeschi Trucks Band. 

"I don't wanna live in pain.  I don't wanna love in vain.  Can you hear me?"

And I was sobbing.  I couldn't breathe.  I felt that feeling in my stomach and my chest. In my throat.  Like someone was slowly squeezing my neck.  Fvck.   

It was the first of many panic attacks I would experience over the coming weeks.

I was holding my phone and my hands were shaking.  My thumb hovered over her name.  I wanted to hear her voice.  I wanted her to hear mine. I hadn't spoken to her in a few weeks. 

I was willing to trade dignity for connection.  I knew I was. I had done it so many times before, what was one more going to hurt?

If my good can't make me real enough then maybe my pain is an acceptable substitute.  I need to become undeniable.

By some miracle I didn't call.  I chainsmoked and played all the Father John Misty songs that made me feel her again.  Fun Times in Babylon, Goodbye Mr. Blue, Just Dumb Enough to Try, I Love You, Honeybear. The tears flowed.  But I didn't call her.

I drove around some more, got a coffee. Then I called an acquaintance of mine, someone I knew from my days as a cop. He had been a firefighter and left to start a wellness practice geared towards helping first responders, veterans, etc.  I gave him a quick rundown of what I had been experiencing somatically.  I left all the relationship stuff out.

"You know this is PTSD, right?" he asked confidently.
"But I'm not scared all the time.  I'm not shell shocked.  I don't have nightmares."
"Not yet, you don't."  His confidence was jarring.  I knew then that I was exposed.

We only chatted for a few minutes but I was convinced.  The way he laid everything out really made me think that I had hit a breaking point.  The point where my body--my soul, even--could no longer keep floating checks.  I couldn't outrun my life anymore.  All of the guilt and anxiety, the fear and the worry, all of the bills were coming due.  In fact they were past due. 

My nervous system had been sent to collections.  The notice came in the form of a weeping collapse in the Target parking lot.

That phone call started me down this path.  A path that has me asking:

Why was I so good at surviving everyone else's crises, but helpless in my own?

Because these panic attacks weren't random.  I was seeing them clearly now.  In fact every panic attack I've ever had (J1 at rehab and one other) happened in November. And they happened in the absence of chaos. There has to be more to this.  It was time I started figuring out who I am.

"Who am I?"  It sounds so silly to ask, as a relatively actualized, attuned, self-aware 45 year-old man.  Certainly I should have figured that out by now. 

Not only have I never answered that question, I didn't even know it was a question I was supposed to ask.  I never knew that I was supposed to have my own identity.  I didn't know that I was supposed to have a border around me, something to distinguish me from everyone else. 

So I started with the one thing that always felt unique to me.  My own name: Matthew Vincent.

Since I was young I've been fascinated with my middle name.  Vincent.  Conqueror.

I was given that name in memory of my paternal grandfather: Vincent Raymond.  Vincent is more common nowadays (my son is named Vincent), but when I was a kid it was rare.  It felt special.  Like I was born with a story, one that I had to uphold. 

Except no one told me what that story was.

I never knew Vincent; he died in 1969 when my dad was 13.  But even as a young kid I knew that I wanted to know him.  I felt his absence.  I knew that the answers were found in Vincent but he wasn't around to ask the questions. 

So I asked my grandmother instead.  His widow, the one who kept everything together when he was gone.  Through war, his time in captivity, and after his death.  The woman who received the telegram: "Missing.  Presumed Dead."  The same woman who received another months later: "Rescued.  Still Alive."

The woman who never went on another date, never touched another man after Vincent.  Surely Grandma will tell me who Vincent was.

Instead she guarded that man's legacy like precious jewels.  Or like a dark secret that needed to stay hidden.  She wouldn't--or couldn't--tell me who this man was.  On the rare occasion that she even mentioned Vincent she wouldn't refer to him familiarly, i.e. "your grandfather" or "Grandpa".

She called him "my Vinny."  He was hers and no one else's. 

It felt like I was named after a man I wasn't allowed to know.  Like I carried a secret that no one let me in on.

The same went for my dad and his siblings.  They hardly ever talked about Vincent.  Not sentimentally, not even anecdotally.  I remember the rare occasions that they did mention him.  My ears would perk up.  Like I was about to be brought into the inner sanctum.  I was about to be let in on the family secrets. I'd calmly rush in from the other room.  I couldn't seem too eager, but I didn't want them to stop talking.   

When they recounted these stories they called him "Daddy".  These were grown adults, with children of their own, yet when they talked about their own father they became kids themselves.

"Daddy".  This man has been dead since 1969.   

I wanted to hear more.  But you know, it's funny.  They would shut down when I asked for more. 

A story about Vincent coming home after work got me asking, "What kind of car did he drive? What was his job?"  It's not that they would ignore me, nor would they get choked up and emotional.  It was as if there was this secret that they decided I couldn't understand.  Or I wasn't privy too.  Or I couldn't be trusted with.

But I have his name.  You don't.  Why am I carrying not only a name, but a mystery?

I felt oddly close to this man who I never knew.  My father's father.  His male role model.  I knew there was a connection, but I didn't know what. 

I can look back now and realize that my father was raised by two people who endured unspeakable pain, trauma and uncertainty.  I may never truly know the effect that had on him or his parents.  But I have no doubt that it lives in me today. 

I really couldn't discover Vincent in words, so I moved to objects.  Trinkets and artifacts.  His dog tags.  Medals.  Newspaper clippings.  Anything with his name on it.  That's what I asked for every Christmas.  Oddly, my grandmother seemed to have no problem giving me those things.  She could part with the mementos of a man that she never acknowledged was my relative. 

I volunteered at our local historical society during that six-month administrative leave from the PD.  I was working on a genealogical project and agreed to help them with sorting and cataloging in exchange for unfettered access to their archives. 

I remember going through city records, old photographs, phone books, stuff like that.  I just wanted to see my name.  Our name.  I learned where their businesses were located.  I could go stand on the same spot they stood.  I learned where they lived.  I realized that a kid I played Little League with for years lived in the same house in which Vincent grew up.

I learned that many men in my family were painters.  House painters, sign painters, even painters of cars.  My first job was as a house painter.  I'm one of the few people I know who loves painting.

I also found death and pain in those records.  Suicide.  Bankruptcy.  Scandal.  Addiction.

I found Census records.  It wasn't the information therein that intrigued me.  It was the vision I had of someone actually knocking on my family's door.  Looking at those records, I pictured someone actually standing in front of my family and writing this stuff down.  Someone actually talked to them.  And here I am looking at the  record of people who once lived, who were alive in the moment that this data was being recorded.  Name, age, language, address.  These were real people.  These entries, in beautiful mid-1900s penmanship, were proof.

So where did they go?  Where are Rose and Joseph and Terenzio and Vincent?  Did they ever imagine me like I imagine them?

(Thank you for reading.  I'll continue as soon as I'm able.  Hopefully later today or tomorrow)




 

Hello and welcome to the family- those are all excellent questions.

Years ago, it helped me to think of BPD like a physical handicap.  Let's say I broke my leg, and you and I have plans to go skiing this week with some friends.  You'd say, "Don't cancel, we'll still have a great time!"  But I'd be thinking how I'm just going to ruin things for everyone on the trip as they try to change plans to make me feel welcome.  I'm thinking about how much the trip costs, how everyone had to take time off work, get all their gear on the plane, etc.  I'd just be a burden and I'd rather stay home.

That's what your boyfriend is doing now, making excuses because he's doubting himself.  Not because he doesn't care, but because he feels like he'll never be enough and it's so unfair to you.

And in a way, he's right.  These relationships are a real challenge at times.

For your last two questions- those are double-edged swords.  Should you give him space?  Yes, but space is also working against you since he'll likely double down in his disordered thinking.  So you should reach out sparingly, even if it's to say that you're there for him when he's ready to talk.  You absolutely can't push though or he'll run for the hills.

One more thing to keep in mind.  BPD leads to disordered thinking, or splitting, which is a period of time where the person is thinking emotionally and relying almost entirely on feelings.  Things can do downhill fast and in those moments, it's not the time to argue or find reason.  Maybe they say something hurtful in the moment, and it's true for that moment.  But it may not be true a few minutes later because it was an explosion of unstable emotions.

just about 3 months? This was a very short lived relationship. His mirroring and mask wasn't very strong. At least he walked away as to not say or do anything horrible.

Push-pull isn't only during splits, it's truly how they exist. You can wake up feeling like a God...then come home to verbal lashings because you left your toothbrush by the sink. Nothing makes sense.

Given that you know these situations are common in BPD, and you've only been dating for ~3 months, why are you so invested in possibly choosing this dynamic? Given what I know and have experienced, yes, this is sad and hurting you...but run away and don't look back. Give that energy and love to someone else?

After a couple of pretty turbulent weeks where he's caused a scene at our local pub (he's now barred) and just generally cycled between hating and adoring me in equal measures, he has asked this therapist about medication (I think he will struggle to do the therapy in his current state.  They've prescribed and SSRI and a mood stabiliser- he went to therapy on Wednesday and explained how the weekend had gone with the scene and how he behaved and felt. I know it wont be a magic bullet but if it helps him better utilise the therapy its got to be a good thing.

We're in a period of relative calm and I'm back on my pedestal (though he's still staying at his mums which I'm happy about for the time being and we will see each other a little in between)

His acceptance and willingness to engage with the therapy gives me some hope- though I'm not sure if losing me was the major trigger or he's totally convinced he's not well.

Hi everyone,
New here

I’m hoping for some perspective from people who either live with BPD or have been in relationships with someone who does.

I was dating someone for about three months. We saw each other most weekends, got on incredibly well, and were talking about future plans over the next few months. Our families knew about each other and it all felt warm, consistent and genuinely happy.

Around ten days ago, we had a huge argument that felt like it came out of nowhere to me. He ended the relationship very abruptly, saying he didn’t see it going anywhere. At that point, I didn’t know he had BPD.

After things calmed down, he came back to talk and hug me and explained that he has BPD and that he’s supposed to walk away during arguments so he doesn’t say things he regrets. He also said he thought we should stay finished because he couldn’t give me what I needed.

Since then, he removed me from his social media, but continued watching my stories for a few days before removing himself. He blocked me on WhatsApp, then unblocked me a few days ago and has been viewing my WhatsApp stories.

I’m completely heartbroken. If I’d known about the BPD earlier, I feel like I could have responded differently and maybe handled conflict in a more supportive way.

I’m not looking to blame him — I just genuinely want to understand:

• Is this kind of push–pull dynamic common during splits?
• Does unblocking and watching stories usually mean anything?
• Is space the best thing to give right now?
• If you were in his position, what would feel safe or supportive from an ex-partner?

I care about him deeply, but I also don’t want to make things worse or push him further away. Any insight would be appreciated.

Thank you.

SuperDaddy and CC43, thank you for your replies. SuperDaddy, you are right that I did argue and defend a bit. It is so hard not to JADE any at all, especially when the accusations seem so ridiculous. I really try to hold back on that, and make an effort to use support and empathy statements, and ask questions. In this case, I didn’t have much of a chance to ask questions because she just flooded me with her interpretation and how she felt about it all. She was just sure that I was saving the boxer shorts for some future time when I have a woman here alone and I’m trying to be seductive. That will never, ever happen.  So after staying as calm as I can, and trying not to react, I do slip into my old ways a little bit. But I did try to reassure her in numerous different ways. And you were right about throwing away the boxer shorts. She suggested it, and I said I agree 100% because they really meant nothing to me. I went and got the boxer shorts and threw them in the trash right then as she watched. This seemed to calm her down quite a bit at least for the time being. Of course, her upset extended through most of the morning the next day, but we had a pretty pleasant afternoon and evening.

CC43, I appreciate hearing about some of your personal experiences. It sounds like we have a lot in common.  What makes this really painful is that she brings out the divorce threat more than half of the days lately. She says she feels she can trust no one, although she does confide in a couple of her sisters. These sisters over the years have really shown that they like me, but as they live far away, and I rarely see them, I believe their opinion of me may be fairly negative by now. And it’s so ironic, and such a projection, that she graphically describes our conflict as her licking up all my vomit!  I’m not telling her I want a divorce; in fact, I’m very supportive of her and the marriage. I’m not dumping on her, she’s dumping on me. I feel like I’m licking up all her emotional dysregulation. But pointing something like this out to her would take her rage to even higher levels, so I just try to be calm and gray rock, to which she responds that I have “dead eyes” and I don’t care about her.

It’s just such an emotional roller coaster. I don’t provoke these things. She just gets dysregulated by a thought, a song, or more frequently some blog, reel, or AI-generated video she sees online. It’s exhausting, but I’m patient and forgiving, trying to live one day at a time, and I’m getting pretty good at various self soothing techniques. 

ThemApples,

I understand your grief. That's because you have spent many years putting hope in something that didn't happen. Because we need to have hope in something to move forward.

Assuming that things will improve just because there is love is a mistake. People make this mistake because they tend to focus too much on psychological factors while not paying attention to the biological and biochemical factors of the disorder (they are poorly understood, but they exist).

Some prefer to be loyal, hoping it will pay off, but being unhappy while loyal isn't worth it. The sense of protection and fear of change may also prevent us from making the change. But things tend to get worse, and it gets to a point in which it boils over.

And it hurts when we see that we could have followed a much better trajectory. But analyzing our past is important. Some benefit from keeping a journal of how they feel and then reading it at a later moment.

There is also the option of just living apart while still maintaining the relationship to avoid going through a full reset. This is what I did. And in my case I'm very optimistic that my wife will recover, but only because I got the right treatments for her. I even think she is already recovering. But I wouldn't walk all of those miles if she wasn't worth it.