When we first met she wanted to know everything.
I loved the way she asked me questions all the time.
When we first got together she loved how interesting my mind was,
she was fascinated that I heard and saw things others didn’t.
When we first got together I started to trust again.
When we first got together, I told her how I didn’t feel scared or vulnerable with her.
I felt so safe.
Because when you have BPD; nothing feels safe, everything is terrifying and unpredictable.
When we first got together, she ran her fingers over my scars
and fresh cuts, and she wasn’t upset, or disappointed in me.
I loved how she made an effort to understand me.
I loved how she listened to me when I felt suicidal, no matter how hard it was for me to talk. I loved the way she held me close for hours and it felt like home. I don’t think she realised how much that meant to me.
When we first got together I told her she could walk away if she wanted to,
So it wouldn’t hurt when she realised she couldn’t love me anymore.
But she stayed, and when I was doing really badly, she was the one constant in my life. She was the stable cornerstone as my BPD house of chaos was being torn down over and over.
When we first got together she wouldn’t mind if I couldn’t make it out of bed that day.
I loved the way she would check up on me, her face was full of concern, her mind was full of ideas to help.
When we were dating, she was by my side whenever I dissociated. Her voice was warm, calm, genuine, soothing, trustworthy. I don’t think she realised that I had never felt so safe with someone before.
When we were dating she told me how much she loved spending
time with me, how she couldn’t bear to be apart from me, how
she loved finishing work just so she could see me again.
When we moved in together she told me, “I will support you.”
When we moved in together she said how it “Just felt right.”
After we moved in together, some days she wouldn’t ask me so many questions.
When we lived together she started saying that I was being overdramatic, exhausting, holding her back.
She would look at my cuts and sigh, “Why?” and when I was suicidal, she would grow impatient when it was too hard for me to talk about it. She stopped making an effort to understand me.
When we lived together she said that I spent too much time in bed.
She would check up on me, but now her face was resigned, she didn’t want to think of any ideas to help.
She stopped holding me so close, and when she did, she would pull away after a while.
When we lived together, she was by my side when I dissociated, but now her voice was cold, detached, regretful, empty.
When we lived together she told me how we had moved too quickly.
She started staying later and later at work every night.
When we lived together she stopped wanting to come home.
I could feel my cornerstone finally crumbling.
The one piece of stability in my life was ebbing away.
When we lived together she told me, “Of course I still love you.”
But I knew that she couldn’t anymore.
When we lived together she realised that I was right all along:
she realised she didn’t want to be with me,
it was too hard, too much, too real.
It did hurt, when she realised she couldn’t love me anymore.
And I don’t feel so safe anymore.