idk123
 Offline
What is your sexual orientation: Straight
Who in your life has "personality" issues: Friend
Relationship status: Discarded
Posts: 53
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« on: May 23, 2022, 12:04:48 AM » |
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I fell in love with a man with quiet BPD, I have severe contamination OCD as the result of an assault and was recovering from a 5 year relationship with another person who ghosted out of our relationship. He seemed to reciprocate my feelings but couldn't handle it and discarded me when I confessed my feelings after 9 months. I am tempted to send him this letter I wrote, but I know it would push him away further because he "can't handle when someone likes me for me." It's long. Sorry, but I'm hoping posting here will stop me sending it:
You wanted to know when I fell in love with you, well there was no set time. I’ve told you before, I’m not like you. You seem to find a target, place them in a role, and dive into loving them. If you get lucky the water is deep, you survive and paddle around for a while. Sometimes the depths are an illusion, and you break yourself in the shallows.
I’m not a strong swimmer and I never learned how to dive. I dip my toes in slowly, take my time to figure out if I even want to swim. I need to know that the water is deep and safe.
When we started talking to each other, I was already drowning in someone else anyways. I had dragged myself to shore and there you were. Another victim of another lake, retching and coughing, but still staring back at the water and wanting to dive again. There was something inspiring about that, or maybe It was comforting just to know I wasn’t alone in my stupid pain.
When I met you that night at your apartment, I didn’t recognize you when you came out. I guess my eyes were always so glued to James, I didn’t really look at other men. I’d remembered you as short, but you came looming out of your lobby, tall and looking like a Russian Johnny Depp. It surprised me that I was so immediately attracted to you physically, that isn’t something that usually affects me much. Looks and physical attraction are usually an afterthought for me, but I felt it with you quite quickly. You scared me though. You scared my OCD. The similarities to the other Russian who had hurt me so badly were overwhelming. But you let me touch you on my terms. You turned your head and stared into your kitchen while I inspected your neck and tried touching another human for the first time in so many months. It made me feel in control and safe, gave me back a sense of power I had lost that night. If I told you to stop, I knew you would. It felt like reliving that horrible night, but on my terms. As much as you do confuse me sometimes, and as much as you confuse yourself, you are a good person. I saw that and it comforted me. I guess I fell a little after that first night. Only a little.
Then I realized you were making me laugh all the time. I hadn’t genuinely laughed in so long. I enjoyed our banter. Our odd little comedic double act. And feeling happy again inspired me to start some art projects. I felt like I was having my own little Renaissance. I found myself wanting to know what you thought about different things, how you would view them in your unique little Vitaly way. Excited about what new songs you would send me, wanting to know how you experienced them and why. I turned my obsessive little eyes on you and took everything in.
When you dated Ashley, I was sad to hear from you less, but happy you seemed to be swimming again. I wrapped myself back up in my trauma and lowered myself back down into the weird oubliette I occupied as I waited for him to come back. Settled into the numbness and consoled myself that I couldn’t be with you even if you had wanted me. I couldn’t be with anyone really, and I would have run if you had been delusional enough to want me back.
When you broke up with her, I was so sad for you. I hated seeing you cry, but a greedy little part of me was happy to have part of you back again. I told myself it was just your friendship I wanted, that was all. And I always knew I was just a broken toy you were playing with for a while until the real prize arrived. But that was okay with me because I was only a borrowed toy anyways. I was still waiting for my real owner to come back, patch me up, and take me home.
But the more we spoke, the more times we saw each other in person, the more I cared about you. I worry for all my friends, but you seemed to require extra care. Always on the verge of accidentally maiming yourself, in the throes of a broken heart, or lost and confused in the fog of your BPD. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to console you when you were sad. It hurt me to see when you felt lost and scared. I wanted so badly to be able to comb out the tangles in your brain because, without knowing it, you were helping me comb out my own.
That feeling of protectiveness was manageable and familiar, but the bad part was I wanted you physically too. I wanted to touch your hair and taste the skin on your neck. I wanted to feel you lose yourself in me again, as I lost myself in you. The BPD flirting was never something that hooked me. I watch you so often, I see when you flick it on and off like an old habit you’re trying to beat, like the scar tissue in your thumb you keep pushing down.
It was the moments you opened up to me about your past, your plans for the future, and your fears that really got me. It was staring into your eyes as you panicked and seeing you shift from lost to found again. Laying with you on Valentine’s Day when you’d calmed down and you roping your arm around my waist to pull me against you. It was when you slow danced with me and held me for a moment afterwards with your chin resting on my head and your hand in my hair. It was your witty puns, and daddy jokes, and dressing as a banana randomly to make me laugh. The way you take on projects and focus so intently on making them just right. Taking the perfect picture. Constructing the perfect playlist. All of those little things and moments are why I fell for you, there really was no when. I ignored the warning signs on the cliff, slipped on the stones, and fell into the water like an idiot.
Now it’s been months and I realized everything that meant so much to me, meant so little to you. There is nothing more painful than knowing that. You were a big factor in so many improvements in my life, and I wanted so badly to repay that somehow. To know that you hated who you were while you were around me makes me feel useless. I know I can’t fix you. I know you can’t fix me. We can only fix ourselves. But I wanted at least to have been supportive and kind, and to have made your life more enjoyable as you did mine. I failed where you succeeded without even trying and I’ll always be sorry for that. Getting over you romantically wasn’t that hard, I told you from the beginning that romance wasn’t ever as important to me as friendships are. Getting over that I failed you as a friend is the thing that keeps me awake at night hoping to see your name pop up on my phone.
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