ThemApples,

This doesn’t read reactive. It reads exhausted and clear.

Twenty years of hoping something fundamental would shift is a long time. Grieving that makes sense. Especially when the loneliness has been happening inside the marriage, not outside of it.

The part about staying for your son hit hard. Most of us made the best decision we could with what we knew then. Hindsight is sharp.

You’re right - both staying and leaving have a cost. There isn’t a painless option. It sounds like you’ve already been carrying one version of that cost for years.

Whatever you choose when the time comes, I hope it’s something that includes your well-being too.

You matter in this equation.

This post is kind of a mess. 

Our Daughter is about to turn 31.  She is in her fourth involuntary mental health commitment in the last 6 months.  In between, she lives in her car.  It was stolen recently, though, so hopefully that won't be an option once she gets streeted from this go around.

As many of you have done, we've run the BPD-gamut with her since this emerged in adolescence. So many treatments.  So many therapists.  So many psychiatrists.   We've done it all.  She was violent, and we had the police out many times. 

I have spent what feels like hundreds of hours being trapped and harangued by her. She cycles herself up into these circular arguments that just go round and round, never ending.   Listening doesn't help.  Active listening doesn't help. Compassionate listening doesn't help.  Setting boundaries doesn't help.

When she was a teenager, if we left the house she would break things, if we retreated to a room she would kick the door and throw things.   She put a brick through our car windshield.  She put rocks through our kitchen window.

Since she’s been out on her own (we pushed her.  She showed no desire to leave.) her life has been lurching from one crisis to the next.   For over a decade now.

She is unable or unwilling to take interest in the details of her life. she doesn't know what meds she takes or what they're for, ('they give me all kinds of stuff'), doesn't know her diagnosis ("They diagnose all kinds of things, who cares?").   The things in her life are very vague, and, of course, it's everyone else's fault.

It is hard to find anything positive to say.   It's depressing and heartbreaking.

I don’t know how to do anything that’s helpful.  She cannot live at home.   Just to talk to her is heartbreaking for me.  I am still grieving the lost child and the adult who will never be.

BPD, like so many other things in life, exists on a spectrum.  It may be comparatively mild for some people whereas it can be quite extreme in many others.  BPD is a disorder or dysfunction that impacts most the close relationships.  Others who may be on the periphery with little or occasional contact may notice something "off" but not greatly impacted.

We have no way to know to what extent your former BF is impacted in his relationships.  So we are limited in what to predict.  That he has BPD is a serious caution as you ponder a relationship, but whether it can be a successful one is still a big question.  That he is aware to step back when triggered is good, he is applying the therapy he has received.  A pattern often observed is high levels of negativity: Denial, Projection, Blaming, Blame Shifting, to name some of the hallmark traits.

As already mentioned, the deeper the relationship develops, the more easily the discord and conflict erupts.  There's a saying, over time everyone relax and lets down their hair.  However, with BPD it typically worsens over time.  Many here reported it got worse after marriage, others after they had children, others after  the spouse retired.

Can you continue communicating from a distance?  That can be problematic.  People with BPD traits (pwBPD) are easily triggered (that emotional vs illogical perception) from one extreme to the other, all good to all bad, rinse and repeat.

Many here concluded it was better - or necessary - just to Let Go and Move On.  It's for you to decide which path to take depending on all the factors you've learned.

There a lot of pain here.  I'm glad you're getting it out.  And figuring some of it out.

I recall when I was in my early 20's I saw a coworker working on his family tree.  I knew my grandparents' names but nothing more.  And only one grandparent was alive during my youth.  Within a year I wrote and distributed my first family newsletter.  By then I had found my paternal immigrant family who arrived in 1817.  Mount Tambora in Indonesia had erupted in April 1815, the largest in recent centuries, which disrupted crops in 1816.  That year became known as "the year without summer".

My ex complained about my interest in my genealogy, saying "they're dead!"  (She was always complaining about her horrid family.)  True, but knowing their names, where my ancestors lived, how they spread out across the country, who their kids were, which ones survived childhood, all those details brought them to life for me.

Most people don't start researching their ancestry until they're retired.  By then the prior generations are long gone.  I got to correspond with and meet many distant relatives in the 1980's.  Back then we didn't have the internet.  I traveled to libraries, county court houses, even the National Archives.  The detective urge to dig deep also helped in later years when I became a programmer.

As with you, genealogy has been a significant part of my life.

It's actually pretty common with BPDs because they think, "If they knew who I really was and how messed up my thoughts are sometimes, they'd surely leave."  So things are hidden as they try to work through problems emotionally...not logically...and that's like trying to fix your car with a rubber spatula.  The two things just don't go together and eventually frustration boils over.

Just know that he does not hate you and this is not your fault.  He is sick and struggling, spiraling.  Don't take the hurtful words he said to chase you off as his actual identity.  In stressful times, we all say things that we wish we could take back.  That's 100x true for BPDs when they're in crisis. 

And to make matters worse, they may not even remember what they said or how it could be taken as hurtful.

Why?  Let's go back to a physical example.  I slam my hand in a car door and at the same time, you're asking me if I like chocolate chips on my pancakes (well duh, who doesn't?!?).  In that specific moment though, it would seem like the dumbest question in the world because I'm ONLY focusing on how badly my fingers hurt.  And if you were there to see what happened, you would never ask that question to begin with because you understand how painful it must be.

For BPDs though, they could be in the same level of emotional pain (which we can't see) and when you engage them, they're thinking, "How can this person who says they love me not see how my world is collapsing right now?!?"  So they say something to you about what we think is an ordinary thing, we respond in an ordinary way, and they explode. 

The thing they're saying is rarely the actual problem though- that's what they're complaining about to mask the actual problem (mental health and disordered thinking).  I hope that helps.

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.