2nd instalment.
I mentioned in my last post that I was in a relationship with somebody suffering from BPD.
What Wim mentioned above holds true for me, that you are more forgiving or understanding if someone shows insight in to their condition. In my case though, it came to feel that these moments of insight were used to keep me there. They would generally come only after pretty terrible episodes where I was hurt and distressed by her actions, words or whatever else, and she sensed an impending abandonment.
For the best part of two years I was effectively a carer. Sometimes when things seemed stable she was the most loving partner, but I later learned that even this was just the “upside” of her condition.
People with BPD can be very, very attractive, vibrant, charming and open when they are on an up. I trusted her and confided in her about many things. As I mentioned yesterday we developed a very deep connection in a short time. I got hooked on the “up” version of her.
Her first “down” episode came not long in to the relationship. In short, we were in Melbourne, we’d had a beautiful dinner at which she partook quite freely of the drinks. She started accusing me of “looking at waitresses” etc. it culminated in her yelling at a woman at the next table “Do you want to ■■■■ my boyfriend? Because he wants to ■■■■ you and everyone else here”. and then storming out.
I had no idea what to do. I was embarrassed and shocked. I had no idea where this had come from. I apologised and ran after her.
In short, I spent from 10 pm until 3 am following her around the CBD trying to get her home in a cab. Twice she jumped out of moving cabs in traffic when she spotted a bar, I followed, waited for her to finish her drink while trying to calm her. She toyed with me for hours, apologising and agreeing to leave before sprinting away again.
When I eventually got her home she physically assaulted me for the first time. I had my back to her. She took off a long necklace she was wearing and whipped me around the head with it, missing my eye by about a centimetre, leaving me with a gash on my cheek and in total disbelief. I slept in my car and in the morning she was apologetic, distraught. She explained it away by saying she was “scared of how in love she was”, or words to that effect.
You’d think the only course of action at that point was to leave immediately. You’d be right. But I didn’t. I believed her remorse and had no reason to think this was anything other than a bad drinking reaction. At this point I still had no idea of her alcohol dependency or mental health issues. It was easy to forgive this person that I was in love with. It was also a massive mistake.
This pattern would repeat in various forms every month or two for the next two years. During that time I was abused, attacked (both physically and emotionally), publicly humiliated, lied about, manipulated, cheated on, once even stabbed (though only with a butter knife, but still… fark that).
I kept forgiving. Every episode was followed with remorse which, I believe, was probably genuine. By this time I had come to realise that she had severe mental health problems, but I was committed to her. I discussed during this time with a psych that a big part of that was probably me wanting subconsciously to make amends for what I’d done to my marriage.
And even though I’d never said that to her, she knew it. In fact, she would use it against me whenever I stood up for myself. “Go on, abandon me like you abandoned your wife and child”. She knew it about me before I figured it out myself. She was a master manipulator, and it worked on me. It worked a treat.
By the time I finally left the relationship I had lost everything. I had neglected my business to a point that it failed. I had no savings, no income, no plans. I had isolated myself from family and friends. I hadn’t seen my son for seven months. I poured everything in to her at the expense of my own well-being.
Strangely, my anxiety only returned when I first started gathering the strength to leave her. Maybe spending most waking moments focussed on someone else’s problems kept it at bay. But when it came back, ■■■■ it came back with a vengeance.
I knew I needed help after I experienced the worst panic attack of my life one night when she was out somewhere drinking. I had no idea with who, where, if she was safe.
I ended up on my lounge room floor hugging my knees to my chest, screaming. For what felt like hours. No even just terrified of my own life, but experiencing thoughts that my son was at that very moment being harmed in the most horrible ways. It was pure torture.
It ended when she turned up on my doorstep at about 2 am. I let her in and she proceeded to abuse me for being “weak” and “pathetic”. “Not even a man”.
It was probably the first sign of “weakness” that this person I had been so committed to and supportive of had ever seen, and she used it, without hesitation, to hurt me.
It was a wake-up call. I saw her three times after that over the course of a week. One night she had cooked dinner for us and was underwhelmed with the compliments I had given. She started an abusive tirade about how I was just using her and probably a bunch of other things. I didn’t hear them. It was as if my brain just switched my ears off and commanded my legs to walk out.
I have never seen or spoken to her since.
But the relationship damaged me as a person. The anxiety and panic attacks continued, my sense of self-worth was less than zero. I was unemployed, living with my mother again. Depressed. Drinking. Not eating. Not able to connect with people. Thinking once more that not being alive would be the easier option.
It took a year to get back to anything approaching normality. I took a few contract jobs and felt like a complete fraud the whole time. No confidence that anything I did was adequate or right. But I was seeing my son again, rebuilding what felt like a catastrophic loss of relationship and connection with him, and it helped. It got me through the week as the only thing I had to look forward to. I have no doubt that without him I wouldn’t be here now.
Once, when he was about three, I was having a particularly bad bout of anxiety. He was painting in the lounge room while I lay on the couch listening to a guide meditation. It wasn’t working. Even though I was trying my hardest not to let him see that anything was wrong, he put down his paint brush and came over to where I was laying. He smiled at me, patted me on the forehead and said “gonna be alright, Dad”, gave me a hug and then quietly resumed his painting.
I ended up back with a psychologist to try and get myself right. His opinion was that I was now dealing with mild PTSD as a result of the relationship. I haven’t really dealt with that to this day and I should. I’m not sure he was right. I mean, in retrospect the relationship was harrowing, but it feels odd comparing what I’ve been through to the experiences of dmorg1 above.
In a way, being treated by this psychologist worked. I’m still here. I have a career, a roof over my head, almost enough money (there could always be more), and most importantly, an iron clad relationship with my son.
What I never got back though was the ability to unreservedly trust a partner again. I’m not talking about trust around fidelity, but trusting someone not to destroy you. That if you give them your history, your emotions, your fears and hopes and even your present emotions towards them that they won’t turn them against you. I had built walls around that part of myself so that very little could get in or out.
I’ll have to stop again here. This feels therapeutic, but I need a rest.