Tag Archive for: Mental Health

BPD: The Beauty and Violence of Feeling Everything

/in /by

 

BPD: The Beauty and Violence of Feeling Everything

Home » Mental Health

Wikipedia uses “The Brooch” by Edvard Munch as an illustration for Borderline Personality Disorder. A soft and uneasy face surrounded by an imposing amount of dark mass and uncontainable wavering lines, her gaze feels distant like the one of someone who’s finally unwillingly surrendered after fighting for too long. Her brooch at the bottom centre of the painting, a fixed point in the midst of it all, a weak attempt to hold it all together. 

When I was diagnosed with BPD 3 years ago, I felt my heart sink to my guts, I was hit with the realisation that this was my forever. I sat in my psychiatrist’s office as he handed me a prescription  of pills, my vision blurred by all the tears. I asked myself in that moment if it was worth being alive if it meant that I had to be medicated to feel normal. It was a tough and lonely battle for months, trying to keep it together and to appear as stable as possible. It was coincidentally during the first relationship that felt real to me, the first time I think I really fell in love. I was terrified to lose that because of my state, to be seen differently, to be misunderstood.

But when the pills didn’t work and I dragged myself back to that stale office, I was told that it was maybe time to take “a breather”, that I was to expect a call for them to pick me up, so that I can be amongst big trees and by the river, where I’d make friends with people that’ll understand and I would be fed a cocktail of more pills that will allow me to “relax”. Funnily enough, because of the medication I was on, I had really deep sleeps that made me miss the phone call. I never called them back because I didn’t want it to win. It was the first and best step I have taken to growing out of it and although the path has been rocky ever since, I have never hit a low that bad in a very long time. All it took was showing up for myself whenever I could. 

I didn’t tell anyone apart for Ruby, because I have never hid anything from her. I carried that shame for a very long time. 

I have the type that is incredibly concealed and controlled, some call it “quiet BPD”. Externally I am high functioning, I have strong friendships and maintain them well. I hold commitments and am able to keep jobs. I have been told many times that I am a calming presence and complimented me on my emotional intelligence. It takes a lot for me to lose it during arguments, I’d have to be very comfortable or pushed to the limit. Many actually come to me for advice for the matters of the heart or to find guidance in complex relationship dynamics. I listen intently and am careful with my words adjusting them to the person in front of me. From the outside I look like the opposite of it all. 

BPD is constantly portrayed by chaos and volatility, I am none of that. All that external madness that is expected of me is turned inwards, despite the occasional moodiness in front of those I feel most comfortable with, everything happens inside. This happens because I understood from very early on that showing these big emotions and having these big reactions can lead to abandonment and rejection, BPD’s biggest triggers. 

Once triggered, this distress is silently brutal, lonely and dark. Chronic shame and intense self-criticism that if heard out loud would make many fall to their knees and breakdown. Days on end ruminating and over-analysing relationships dynamics, day dreaming about scenarios and coming up with solutions to get ahead if they ever were to come true. Working over time to stop myself from doing insane impulsive decisions to not let the mask fall that leads to such emotional exhaustion that I end up feeling so numb and dissociate for days. Many may not know this but one of the main symptoms of BPD is severe body dysmorphia. I have no idea what I truly look like as a whole. Every mirror feels like a fun house mirror, constantly shape shifting. This is equally true when it comes to my self-worth one instance can take me from one extreme to the other, one moment I am god and the other I do not deserve anything good to happen to me ever. Those who truly know me and have had a glimpse of this often sit there perplexed by this all, asking how is that I cannot see what it is they see in me, why it is so hard for me to be kind to myself. I just tell them that my own brain and the way that I am wired makes it very hard to do so. I wish I was as brave as the people with regular BPD, the way they allow themselves to reveal their true selves despite sometimes being perceived as crazy and unruly. How free they are in their madness, how freeing it must feel to play out impulsions letting it all go and have nothing pent up anymore. But I find peace in knowing that at least I am not hurting others and that I love myself enough to not let this condition rob me from the connections I cherish most and to let make me make irreversible decisions that will harm me later. 

I pride myself on working very hard to finding ways to soothe myself and to heal the effects of the things that happened to me that led me to be the way that I am. I try to give myself grace and reassure myself that it what happened is not my fault. I try my best to not be angry and instead keep it pushing because what happened happened and I can’t reverse it. Those who have harmed me will not be the ones that will fix it, so all I can do is take matters into my own hands. 

And of course, to see beauty in it. There are such beautiful traits in Borderline Personality Disorder. And if you, reading this, have BPD let me remind you of the wonderful things of this condition of ours. 

Never loving halfway.  

I recall having a group conversation with a few people somewhere in Manhattan about girls with BPD. Two young men had opposing views on their experiences dating them. One had a difficult time dealing with the mood swings and outbursts and the other well saw it differently. He said that he had never been loved by someone like this particular girl, sure she may have reacted oddly to certain things and needed more reassurance than most but, there was something pure about the love he experienced with her. She never loved half way.

They conversed about this not knowing about my condition yet it was interesting to see an outside perspective on the matter. I have always wondered if people felt the intensity that we as BPD people, feel. When we love, admire, or trust someone, it can feel consuming, immersive, and emotionally total. I sometimes even have strong physical reactions to feelings for others. It feels like I am about to burst open. It resembles child like adoration, curiosity arises and I find the need to understand the ins and outs of the person. Everything about them matters. Deep questions about them may feel like probing but it is just just genuine interest, I feel the need to know it all. And after observing them so much, I find myself loving things that they have not even noticed about themselves. I may have just met you but if I like you already I will have no trouble giving you anything, people close to me tell me all the time that some moments are not appropriate and some are not deserving however it feels like second nature. And when well received, I know that I can make anyone’s life better and it will never feel like work, my heart is big enough. And I personally think that’s an awesome skill. 

This is something that I show even more in my friendships, there is nothing more important to me than making those around me feel special, heard and seen. I have been blessed with friends that understand me and have big enough hearts to receive all this love I have for them. 

Now that I know I am capable of loving this deeply, I’ve had to learn not to cross my own boundaries in the process. Just because I can give the world to someone does not mean I should. That kind of care should be earned too; just because devotion comes easily to me does not mean everyone deserves access to it. I had to fight the quiet panic that told me I had to give everything of myself in order to be worthy of staying for, as if abandonment could only be avoided through self-sacrifice. But I am learning that people leaving will never kill me, because I will always have my own back. I am beginning to understand that love was never meant to feel like the slow exhaustion of oneself. It is also meant to feel peaceful. Gentle. Easy.

You are not too much, you may have just been giving your love and care to someone that is not able to receive it. It may feel tiring that it seems to always feel one sided, but you probably have just been pouring it all  in the wrong places. When done right, I promise it will be cherished and reciprocated. 

Deep Empathy and Emotional Insight.  

Because relationships to others can feel emotionally high stakes, we become extremely skilled at catching things that other’s don’t—micro expressions, minor shifts in demeanour and tone, body language etc. And because we have feel everything so intensely this has led us to feel deeper empathy for others. This means if anyone is going to clock you are feeling unwell or uneasy it is a person diagnosed with BPD and on top of that we are going to work overtime to fix it. I have found myself unable to enjoy a social gathering because I can feel that someone feels left out of uncomfortable and try my best to fix that. Someone with BPD may feel like home in a new space and will know how to make sure you are okay and feel seen.

Everything and more. 

I always say that having Borderline Personality Disorder is, in some ways, the most intense form of experiencing life to its fullest. Every emotion feels amplified, every feeling on steroids, and it’s difficult to fully put into words. There have been times when I’ve dreaded being this way, times when I’ve grown exhausted by the intensity of it all, but with a shift in perspective, I often find myself feeling grateful for it too. When even the smallest things go right, it can feel like heaven exists on Earth. A day spent rotting in bed with my friends or sharing a good meal with my mum can suddenly become something overwhelmingly beautiful, almost painfully wonderful in its intensity. And the bad feelings can feel just as consuming, like they might physically destroy me, sharp pains in the chest, a heaviness that makes everything seem dark even on the most beautiful day. It becomes difficult not to spiral into oblivion, difficult to believe there is any way out of something that, objectively, was never that deep to begin with. Yet despite it all, those moments also remind me how profoundly alive I am. They are proof that I am capable of feeling everything in its fullest form, even when it hurts. But maybe the best part is that when everything feels like it has burned down and the dust has finally settled, I somehow bloom back to life through the ashes. Each time, I return a little stronger, carrying a kind of peace that I imagine some people only ever experience in death.

Vahine Blaise, Bali, Indonesia,

May 2026

Virgin Slut

/in /by

 

Virgin Slut

Home » Mental Health

“Virgin Slut” was a term I came up with whilst trying to describe what type of dress I wanted to buy in Napoli for the day I was going to spend on the Amalfi coast. I wanted to feel like a nun with big breasts under her habit as her cross bounces off her chest every step she took through the halls of the coven. I wanted it to evoke the same feeling as a woman’s dress clinging to her as she steps out of the pool, still in shock, after being pushed in at a party. Undeniably alluring with no intent to be. Of course, it had to be white. I didn’t find the ideal dress but did find one good enough, on the side of the street for 5 euros. But it wasn’t until I found myself scrambling to articulate the essence of the concept over dinner with the heir of one of the oldest Italian families on the coast, in the very hotel his familyowned, that I realised it carried a deeper meaning, one that came to define how I lived every summer. 

Lust and loneliness has taken me to places I’ve come to regret, nights spent in beds I wished I hadn’t stayed in, lying awake beside someone I no longer wanted to be with once the adrenaline faded and the thrill of the chase was over, the realisation that the void of feeling alone was not filled. I’d turn to look at the man next to me, let out a sigh of quiet disappointment, and feel a lingering ickiness for days, wondering why I did it in the first place. Or when it made me too eager, too hungry, so I dove in completely with a guy I actually ended up liking. But he got the cake right away and got too full too fast. 

I have tried to combat lust with celibacy, however as we know restriction makes everything more sexy. Ask a bulimic. I am also far too young to restrain myself from the pleasures of flirting, affection and sex. I always wanted to avoid the negatives of lust but still experience the beauty of romance.

But when the Summer Solstice hits and I’m spinning through the block parties at Fête de la Musique, the moment the clock strikes midnight, I transform. In comes: The Virgin Slut. 

She embraces her sexuality without surrendering to it. She walks freely among desire, inviting it, resisting it, never owned by it. In her, contradiction is not a flaw but a form of freedom.

Like every summer since I turned seventeen, I meet a few gentlemen I spend time with, when I’m not wrapped up in my friends or content in my own company. Some might call it “summer love,” but some of these connections don’t run deep enough to earn the title. I’ve had momentary lovers in different cities, men who showed me around, fed me, courted me. And when it felt right, made love to me. There’s always just enough tenderness a soft kiss on the forehead, an affectionate smile, to make it feel real, even though we both know it’s only play-pretend. I do grow attached, and I miss them for a little while, before they fade, leaving only flickers of memory I sometimes revisit in moments of boredom or daydreaming. In busy cities, I find my most tender encounters. I do adore romance by the ocean but summer in the city is far more romantic to me. Because love by the seaside is a given, of course you’d fall in love with anyone when they look like they’re dripped in gold as the sun sets. Of course your heart grows fonder when the kiss tasted like berries and wine, and how intense your love making can feel when your skin is touched by the salty breeze accompanied by a chorus of crickets. But city romance is in the subtleties. It’s the quiet intimacy of sitting together in a grimy metro station, discovering beauty in each other’s faces despite the harsh, flickering lights. It’s still being drawn to one another in the midst of huge, humid crowds. It’s rediscovering a city you thought you knew like the back of your hand, feeling excitement roaming the streets you’ve passed through everyday. 

Summer romance feels sweet and light. Unlike other times, I never feel pressured or obligated to do anything. I’m not worried about when to call back out of politeness, or why sometimes there’s no call at all. I follow my own rhythm — if my heart wants to see someone again, I don’t hesitate. I don’t stress over timing, whether it’s the right moment to have sex or if it’s okay not to kiss someone even after they’ve treated me to a meal. Everything happens on my terms, and usually, my confidence in those choices leaves no room for challenge.

I have come to realise that the Virgin Slut is what true sexual freedom is. For a long time, I misunderstood sexual freedom to mean shameless sex—anytime, with anyone. But as I grow older, I’m beginning to understand that true freedom lies in mindfulness, not mindlessness. It doesn’t mean abstaining from pleasure, but rather being intentional about it. Also discerning that sex is for pleasure and not a way to combat some kind of malaise is key to true sexual freedom. The sexy aspect of dating isn’t always what happens in the sheets, but lies in the tension, the ambiguity, and the unspoken words. Sometimes leaving it all at the dinner table and going home alone is far more fulfilling than ending up in some man’s bed. There’s also beauty in waiting, in letting desire build slowly until it feels right. Maybe that old-school rule about not giving yourself away too quickly wasn’t prudish after all, maybe it was wisdom in disguise. Not a warning against society’s judgment, but a protection from the inner emptiness that can follow rushed intimacy.

True sexual freedom, I’m learning, isn’t about doing everything, it’s about knowing why you’re doing it, and honoring your own pace.

I’ve come to wonder why is it that I do not apply this same philosophy throughout the year and still couldn’t find the answer. It may be how free I feel when in the sun. I may feel more beautiful when my skin is golden brown, no longer relying on anyone else for validation. Maybe it is simply the joy I feel seeing other people so much more relaxed when simply no longer fighting the cold. Having never had a corporate job, maybe I still feel associate summer holidays to the times I was still in school where those were the moments I felt complete freedom and independence. Having had this realisation, things will hopefully change from now on. 

Wishing you all a wonderful Virgin Slut summer! 

Yours,

V.B 

Vahine Blaise, Nova Scotia, July 2025

Love Me, Love Me Not.

/in /by

 

Love Me, Love Me Not.

Home » Mental Health

I’m smoking a cigarette at the kitchen table ashing into a used glass of wine with dried up residue.  In front of me, beautiful Naples. My brother’s apartment is on the top floor, overlooking old uneven buildings in different shades of yellow. Occasional flocks of birds fly past yet the chirping sounds are constant. The bright blue sky with big cloud chunks, that I once thought was the kingdom of God as a little girl. It’s relatively quiet with the subtle brouhaha of the chaos below. Sometimes, the aggravating sound of airplanes takes over. I hate it. 

I can’t see her, but constantly feel her— Vesuvius is on my right. If I just popped my head out the window, there she would sit quietly. Her presence felt no matter where I am in the city. I wish the weather was always this pleasant everywhere I went, at any time. But upon further thought, I know I’d miss the rain. The morning breeze caresses my skin, bringing my attention back to my body. Its soft touch reminds me how dry my skin is in Europe. As much as I try to moisturise, it is always parched. 

I haven’t felt in tune with my body in a long time. Dare I say, I’ve actually been repulsed by it — also repulsed by the idea that I could be so vain and shallow as to worry about such a thing when I’ve come all this way, gifted myself a trip I’ve dreamed about ever since I was just a small girl. I am 24, turning 25 in a month and a bit, yet I still feel the same awkwardness I’ve always felt since I was an adolescent. I’ve found it hard to accept that I’ve got no control over it, and yet am deeply convinced that I do at the same time. It drives me silently insane that no matter what I do, and how many products I lather onto my face and body, I still bloat and am met with pimples, hyperpigmentation, hair, scars that heal weirdly, dried lips, and cuticles. I view my body like a field covered in invasive species that I am constantly needing to tame. I feel less than when I am not perfectly “groomed”. I almost feel dirty. I do not feel like I can move freely in the world without my nails done and my legs and armpits shaved. Sometimes, the feminist in me finds the courage to just “not give a fuck” and raise my arms despite having a little stubble under there. However, the other patriarchal voice quickly reminds me how disgusting I am, leading me to keep my arms down, my hands hidden unless needed, and to wear only closed shoes until my next pedicure appointment. He always wins.

My first memory of feeling uneasy in my body was just after I turned 13, while on vacation with my family in a small beach town near Biarritz in the South West of France. I was sitting under an umbrella in a lavender lace dress I’d picked out for my birthday trip to Disneyland a few weeks earlier. The sun was relentless, and I was sweating, restless, watching other kids splash and play freely in the sea.

My mum kept asking why I wouldn’t change and go swim. I finally told her, flatly: “I’m too fat.” I saw the shock in her eyes before she quickly masked it with frustration. “You’re wasting your time worrying about such dumb things,” she said. Then, trying to make her point, she discreetly nodded toward a very heavyset woman nearby. “Do you think she cares how you look?” she asked. Then she pointed to a group of teenagers. “Do you think they care? No one cares. Go change and go swimming—you look ridiculous wearing that to the beach.” So I did. I got changed and spent the rest of the day in the water. I only wish I could hear her say those words every time I have to undress to swim.

I wish I could say that day was a turning point—that after that moment, I stopped thinking negatively about my body. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Things only got worse from there, especially as I got older and boys started entering the picture. Suddenly, it felt like they had the right to judge how we looked, as if their opinions were the ultimate authority on our worth. As I grew older, I am starting to not care about their opinions on me but I will not lie and say that I fully couldn’t care at all. As a young woman, I too want to be desired. I’m somewhat relieved that I’m far from being in a relationship, because it eases the shame I feel when I don’t look my “cleanest.” I know it’s a sick and twisted thought—to believe I’m unworthy of love just because I don’t always look “up to par.” But I was taught this ever since I was a little girl by my stepfather, who simply reminded me that if I was not perfect, I would never be loved. This idea was also confirmed by my past partners, who would subtly remind me to keep up with my looks — tiptoeing around comments like “I love when you wear that to bed” or “I just thought you’d get your nails done before our vacation.” It almost felt like a threat, as if, if I decided not to upkeep as much as I usually do, they might stop desiring me. So, sex isn’t enjoyed as much if I haven’t spent 45 minutes on my back trying to not to scream out of pain as a lady I do not know yanks strips of hot wax off my pussy. Because if not, all I’d think about how disgusting they might think I am and there is nothing arousing about that. 

The constant internal tug-of-war between self-love and metamophosis is always playing out in my mind. Let me explain: I’ve always bounced between two beliefs—either I’ll find peace by learning to love myself as I am, or by changing everything about myself.

So, I start with acceptance. I tell myself this is how I look, and it has to be enough. I try not to say anything negative about my appearance. I force kind words out loud in front of the mirror. I avoid body checking. I even try “mirror rehab”(not looking in mirrors for stretches of time). I focus on external things that make me feel “fulfilled and happy”, hoping they’ll anchor me.

But when the self-loathing creeps back in—and it always does—I shift into makeover mode. I start making mental plans: lose the weight, get the injections, change the makeup, change the hair. In those moments, I’m convinced that once I hit a certain size, perfect a certain style, or achieve a specific look, I’ll finally be able to enjoy life. That my appearance will stop being the barrier between me and everything else.

It is a never ending cycle.

Before arriving in Naples, I had spent seven months in Bali with daily trips to the gym and religiously going to the sauna before freezing my clit off in the ice bath. I tried the Keto diet before having to stop because of severe constipation, then tried to heal my relationship with food through intuitive eating but was also intermittent fasting—which literally goes against the whole concept of intuitive eating. I was convinced that I would be able to metamorphose into this svelte woman and would finally be able to wear a bikini top and shorts during Fête de la Musique. My newly revealed abs would glisten with sweat as I danced in the midst of other bodies; the definition of my back and legs would show how physically strong I am. My thin arms wouldn’t be in the way of my double-D breasts from the side profile, making my surgery scars charming now. I fantasised and tried my best. I imagined what it would be like to be so in tune with this new body of mine that I could finally be solely in the moment and feel the music, unbothered by whether my top was covering all the right places and not distracted by my thick thighs rubbing up against each other. Unfortunately, my fitness goals were not met due to the fact that, as hard as I tried, my consistency was not enough and my diet was not monitored correctly.

I will not say it was a fully bad experience—I quite enjoyed it. I learned many things about nutrition and the positive effects of exercising. I also tried to focus on how I felt instead of only focusing on how I looked, but this is something extremely challenging for someone who has had a hyper-fixation on their looks and has also made a living from it. I could say that, generally, I felt good and had a clear mind; it helped my mental health a lot. But it made me look inward too much, and in some sense, it made me egotistical. Because whether you want it or not, a fitness journey requires you to deeply focus on yourself: keeping yourself in check to follow the routine, holding yourself accountable, taking progress photos of your body all the time, really making sure that your muscles work correctly when lifting, paying attention to what comes in and out of your body, tracking your weight and muscle mass—you watch your every move and your body so closely. It almost made me feel a little claustrophobic. I was too aware.

Once I stepped foot on the land of dolce far niente, all routines were left behind. I wanted to indulge in the culture and the food. I have three weeks to discover Italy and meet the people I have always been so curious about. How could I possibly worry about my looks when admiring what’s around me, dodging motorbikes flying past on the hot and narrow stone roads, and trying to find the right words to speak to the grandpa who sells wine down the street?

I shouldn’t be worried about how my body looks as I float in the cold water, volcanic sand between my toes, after lunch at Da Adolfo on the Amalfi Coast — embracing the belly I’ve gained from the six courses at Lulu’s. I am far too focused on not moaning too loudly at the table from the ricottini served with tomato and peach jam, sprinkled with peanut crumbs; the Roman tripe served in a fresh tomato ragù; and of course, my childhood favourite: spaghetti vongole, finally tasted in its homeland — every bite a perfect mix of ocean flavours, tanginess from the wine, and a splash of freshness from the parsley.

I was taken aback by Peppe Guida’s Villa Rosa, nestled in the heart of Montechiaro in Vico Equense — a place where the sea and Vesuvius stretch out on one side, the mountains rise on the other, and a typical Italian family meal is prepared with ingredients straight from their own garden.

How could I be worried about the way my skin looks when I’m sitting in front of The Ecstasy of St. Teresa — an orgasming nun, touched by God, carved out of marble, seated in a tiny church in the middle of Rome, glistening under ethereal yellow light piercing through stained glass? How could I possibly be worried about how my hair looks in the humid weather when I’m lulled every night by the summer breeze drifting in and out of my room?

I still worry, despite it all. When I’m alone in the bathroom, faced with my own reflection, the kind words I try to say to myself do not come, and I am overwhelmed by the need to fix it all — pondering how I could make it happen. How will I ever be freed from this body, this prison that causes me so much shame and pain? I almost cry at how cruel I am to myself, how I want to beat myself up for being so mean to the very vessel that has allowed me to experience the world. How can I be so ungrateful for the health I was blessed with? When did I become so vain?
Will I ever find peace of mind and finally let go of all of this pressure?

I’m not saying I don’t enjoy self-care and pampering myself — honouring the body I was given by adorning it and tending to it. I think it’s a beautiful process and a powerful way to ground myself.
However, when it stems from fear or disgust, what was meant to be a sacred ritual becomes a soulless routine — done only because it simply doesn’t feel right when it’s not.
Something that was meant to connect you with your body and help you cherish it turns into the very reason you see it as a burden.

I fear that I am wasting precious time worrying about these silly, small things, causing me to ruin beautiful memories. I fear that I will never find the balance I crave so badly, and that I’ll never let go of these old and tired expectations that have been instilled in me from a very young age. I know I am more than my looks — I have so much to offer the world — but why is it that I fear I won’t be seen or loved if I’m not pleasing to the eye?

My only solace, for now, is watching Vesuvius lie silent beneath the kingdom of God, a still giant wrapped in light, reminding me of how small I am, and how weightless my troubles truly are.

V.B, Napoli, July 2025

Come Home

/in /by

 

Come Home

Home » Mental Health

We don’t see you around much anymore.
I still remember when you first told us about him. You came running to us, eyes wide, barely able to contain your excitement—“I think I like him.”

That moment always makes me nervous.
It never ends well for you. And honestly? It never ends well for us either.

I can already picture what comes next: you showing up with tears streaming down your cheeks, skin now sticky and shining from the layers of serums and creams. We hate seeing you like that. But a small, selfish part of us feels relieved. It gives us hope—maybe this time it’s finally over, maybe this time you’ll leave him.

But you rarely do.

You come to us for comfort, to be seen, to feel what he can’t give you. And once you’ve steadied yourself, the amnesia kicks in. You return to him like nothing ever happened, like he never made you cry in the first place.

It scares us how easily you bend around him, how your every thought, every choice, now seems dictated by his moods.

I started reading about cults the other day.
Did you know a cult can be just one leader and one follower?

It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes—between what you’re in and what the textbooks describe:

“A leader who inspires both love and fear.
A transcendent belief system—not always religious—offering purpose and commitment.
A system of control.
An engine of guilt.
A framework of influence.”

You think you’re in love. But from where we’re standing, it looks a lot like worship.

It always starts smooth, the 3 month honeymoon phase. It’s so wonderful to see you so happy and appreciated. You are glowing. 

We enjoy sitting in your room as we watch you get ready for yet another big date. And yes, we will give our opinions about what top is better and what makes your ass look nice. We will be there to let you know that you have nothing to worry about, that he is a man and will not notice the very little pimple next to your left eyebrow. 

We know it probably would not last and that we will most probably be in the same position again but for another man. But, it doesn’t matter. 

He is so lucky. If only he knew about the every single “everything showers” and the contorted positions you put yourself in to shave every single crevice. The tweezers to remove any hair that is not wanted on the face. The face masks and the expensive moisturisers. 

How meticulously you put that eyeliner on and the many minutes you stand in your underwear to find an outfit that will take his breath away but “effortlessly”. Panties also strategically thought about in case things get heated. 

We kiss you goodbye and wish you a wonderful evening, to be safe and let us know if you ever need anything. Your perfume lingers as you run off to make it on time. 

Then there comes the moment you bring him around and you are proud to introduce him to your friends. As we all smile politely and silently observe him. We read his every move, his choice of words, and how he positions himself in the environment. All silently sitting there, watching him like hawks. 

You seat next to him, your eyes peeled on his face, in awe. You look at us sometimes, like you’re trying to say “Isn’t he great?” with no words. Well, my darling, we’re trying to figure that out. 

Any red flags arise, we do not want to upset or alarm you. So, we discuss amongst ourselves to see if this is something worth bringing up to you and will protect you or was it something we were overthinking. Even if we did, will the way you see him change truly? 

You seem so happy, who are we to yuck your yum? 

Slowly but surely, you come to drinks every other time, now. Then it’s a couple of times a month. We check in to see if everything’s alright, “I am just super busy at the moment”. When we do convince you to come out, it’s hard to talk to you. 

You’re somewhere else. You glance at your phone every few minutes, debating when is an acceptable time to ditch your friends. You’re anxiously awaiting to be back with him. I sit a few chairs away from you and can predict when —

Alright, guys well I’m going to go. Yeah, sorry, he’s waiting at home. It was so lovely to see you all, missed you guys! 

And poof you disappear, Lord knows when we’ll see you again. 

The big fight. 

Eyes bloodshot and snotty. A full nervous breakdown, a whole lot of confusion and deep pain. Where is this coming from? You wonder. How could he say such things? 

Many questions are thrown our way, as we rub your back and tell you that it’s going to be okay. Yet, we let you know firmly, that what he did or said is not okay, that no one who loves and respect you would say such things even out of anger. 

You’re better off ending it now, we all say. 

That very sentence makes you perk up, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. 

But I guess it’s my fault as well, I shouldn’t have, you know? 

And many excuses and self-blame regurgitated out of your mouth because this was now something you’ve got to protect. But, it is too late, we have made up our minds about him. 

Everything has settled, you’re all happy again. We still don’t see you as much but at least, you seem okay. The hangouts are still cut short and getting you to do anything is close to impossible. 

He can come, we sigh and say. And he does. 

We all can’t stand him, we notice more and more behaviours that we can not believe you are unable to notice or able to just ignore. 

He comes to everything now, and it genuinely changes the dynamic. But it’s the only way we get to see you. 

The only times we have you to ourselves is when you are crying. You are hurting because of something else he’s said. We’re getting worried, it’s getting worse. 

Now the pain is showing on your face and body, you look ill and tired. 

Now you seriously contemplate on leaving and we’re ready when you are to comfort you when the time comes, to be there no matter what. 

We can put aside the fact that you didn’t give us any of your time these past few months and only came for help. But we love you and it’s unconditional. You know this and eventually you’ll use it against us. 

Your life is crumbling apart, your relationships deteriorating , you have lost all control to save the very thing causing it all. 

But guys, we talked it out, it’s going to be okay. He said he was sorry and it will never happen again. Trust me, I have it all under control. 

You don’t. Look around you, everything is burning. 

It does happen again and it comes tenfold, we are seriously worried, we fear for your life. We fear he may hurt you beyond words or push it so far you wind up hurting yourself. 

You come and run back. Come and run back. Come and run back. 

The same words are repeated by us, in hopes to wake you up. You listen so intently to the advice and even agree. But you run right back. 

We try to remind you of who you are before all of this before him, to pick the pieces up of all the self-esteem he has shattered, struggling to hold it up in front of you. Reminding you of how wonderful you are. How talented, beautiful. Your achievements and what you can achieve. The future ahead of you. Try our best to help you picture what life can be like, if you just left. 

For a tiny moment, you too have hope. And you will motivated and empowered. 

But something always happens where you let yourself back in. 

I think you fail to understand that we are now all involved. We may not feel the pain you are enduring but we feel some of it too. Because we love you. We now live in fear for you. Anxious that the next phone call won’t come from you but someone announcing that things took a dark turn. 

That he has successfully won. 

It comes to a point where it has become too much to handle. We are put in a position where we do not want to know but we fear that leaving you alone might isolate you and tighten his grip on you. 

We feel guilt for putting boundaries, you make us feel like bad friends. But we have done what we could. 

The boundaries bring out a side of you we have never seen before, something we know is his doing. The aspects of him, you always said you hated, you start showing signs of those too. 

You start lying in order to clumsily try to keep your friends and him around. You manipulate when the lies don’t work anymore, gaslighting us into thinking we are cunts for not letting you be. 

Who are we to judge your personal life? You ask over and over again. 

You put us here. You put us here. You put us here. 

There comes to a point, where you are no longer a victim. If your life isn’t threatened if you leave, you have the choice to walk.

I empathise with you and understand the strong emotional pull the relationship can have. But, you must see things for how they are. Accept that your life will remain the way it is if you stay. No matter how many new friends you get or how many jobs you apply for. 

It may be too late when you do decide to wake up and do the right thing.

When we’ve all moved on and think we were just a source of comfort for you. That we’ve come to a point that we think we were never truly your friends and that we are filler people for whatever relationship comes your way. 

That’s the reason why we are holding on, to avoid it to be that way. 

If only you could see the way we see you. How exceptional you once were and still are, and how you made all of our lives better.

You are so loved. You are so loved. You are so loved. 

Come home when you feel ready, there’s a space on the couch for you. 

V.B, Napoli, June 2025

Crazy, forever.

/in /by

 

Crazy, forever.

Home » Mental Health

“I think we’re done here. I don’t think we need to schedule another appointment for the moment. It really feels like you’ve got it under control. I’m truly impressed by your progress. Call me if you need me, but I feel like you’re doing just fine.”

When these words came out of my therapist’s mouth, I was elated. I had been seeing this man for years, ever since I started university. He knows my life story better than anyone else. I’ve cried and cried on his couch so many times while recalling painful events from my life—him listening quietly, nodding, and then offering clarity on my actions and feelings. Hearing him say that to me almost felt better than finding out I’d graduated university after failing a few classes.

The usual post-session snack run and walk home felt like a breath of the freshest air. This is it, I’m turning the page.

Obviously, it’s not that easy. It never is.

I’ve had a few more sessions with him ever since then but much less frequently. To be honest I should go way more but I am clinging onto the fact that I already figured it out, he told me. Clinging on to the crazy-free future I imagined for myself where I’d be at peace for eternity, freed from my own brain. Going back to him now, is a reminder that it’s not going to happen and life will continue to raw dog me and that the way my brain is wired makes it more difficult to process. 

Like what the f*ck do you mean? I did the work, I deserve to waltz through life as a proud alumna with acquired skills and no longer be a sleep-deprived miserable student struggling to make it out. 

Unfortunately, it’s easier to remember that omnichannels are essential to a marketing strategy than to remember that the reason I keep running back to the something-something-aholics is because I’m apparently hellbent on proving I’m special enough to be someone’s reason to change because some fuck shit happened to me as a child. It’s fucking boring and repetitive. Yet, here I am needing to sit my ass down on that velvet couch on the verge of tears as he explains to me that I must use my mental tools to overcome whatever it is I am going through.

 “Remember the tools.” 

As a borderline personality disorder girly, I rely on these tools. All I ever wish for is going through life without having to meticulously analyse why is it I feel things intensely and then having to take a moment to deescalate if it’s not too late— and if it is, having to fix it and apologise for my impulsivity. Or having to consciously remember that people don’t just become evil because they didn’t react the way I wanted them to. That no I am not actually in love with that man I saw twice. 

It’s like watching everyone ride through life in a smooth automatic vehicle as I am having to figure out how to change the gears of a beat up 1995 Toyota Camry, hoping to God that it doesn’t stall. 

I am so tired, I could cry. 

Struggling with mental health isn’t something to be ashamed of but it can lead you to say or do things that are. My reality gets so warped sometimes that whatever I feel like saying in the moment seems valid, even insightful, until I come to and realise it wasn’t. By then, the tools and coping strategies show up too late, and I’m left looking at something I said that now feels wildly off. It’s terrifying, this moment when I realise I wasn’t thinking straight, that I’d convinced myself of things that aren’t even close to true. And I wonder: how did I get there? How was I able to take it that far? It makes me feel unhinged, like someone who should be locked away. Honestly, if anyone even remotely interested in being with me saw the inside of my mind, they’d probably run for the hills. And I wouldn’t blame them. There are days I want to run from myself too.

Still, I can acknowledge that my immediate impulses aren’t inherently dangerous—if I’m able to stop myself from acting on them. Like I often have the impulse to stalk people who’ve rejected me however I’ve very rarely acted on it and if I did it was always a healthy amount, stalking in a charming way, if you will.  But reining my impulses in when my emotions are dialled up to a hundred takes an exhausting amount of energy. It often feels like I’m one body housing two people: one, a stubborn, impulsive child; the other, a calm, patient caretaker. They’re in constant, maddening dialogue. Honestly, sometimes I just want them both to shut the fuck up or, at the very least, have Scarlett Johansson’s voice from Her narrate whatever the hell I’m doing instead.

But Scarlett’s voice will never be my reality. That’s a fat fucking pill to swallow, and I’m choking on it.

I may have been embarrassed many times from the ways I have acted however I do take great pride for trying to strengthen my coping skills without any crutches. I love being independent and always strive to be that way in every aspect. So I did stop taking my pills and believed that I could better myself. BPD has no cure so I’m better off figuring it out. And I must say I am seeing results and I do feel stronger. 

However, sometimes I do think about that one time my psychiatrist offered me to go to this “retreat” a couple of years back. I mean I know it was probably a psych ward but I won’t pretend I haven’t fantasised about it, even though the thought also terrifies me.

It actually sounded kind of nice. He described it as “rest time,” somewhere on the outskirts of Paris, with lots of trees and a big garden. A place where someone would tell me when to take my pills, when to eat, when to sleep. When I could go outside and feel the sun, and when I had to go back in. I wouldn’t have to think for myself anymore, and I’d be pleasantly numbed by medication. Maybe I’d even make a friend, someone I could sit and read with during outside time.

Maybe what I really needed then was rest. Maybe it was time to surrender a little, to let myself be tucked into bed by someone else, to give up—just a bit.

When I had meningitis and was hospitalised for ten days, I didn’t feel like I had to suck it up or push through. I was overworked, I was tired, I knew I needed rest. And weirdly, I had a great time. I wore sunglasses in my hospital bed because I was sensitive to light, and hot medical students would pop in to ask how I was doing. My biggest concerns were which YouTube video to watch next, and whether the food tray would come with yogurt. Not once did I feel like I had to be strong. 

I wish I could give myself some grace sometimes when it comes to my mental health. To trust myself enough that I will be back on my feet faster than I used to, and that I won’t be rotting in bed for 3 weeks at a time anymore. Trust in the work I’ve put in, the tools I’ve come up with to guide me through everything. That it is okay to not always be the most emotionally intelligent, to not be the bigger person, to say the right things. If sane people make mistakes and get depressed sometimes, I’m sure it’s okay for me to go through similar things too. It’s okay to feel tired and weak and sure as hell is okay to go back to therapy when needed. I am learning to accept that not everything is a straight line. 

Anyway, yeah I’ll probably be crazy forever and everyday will continue to be a fight to be more stable and there will be days I’ll be tired and will have to go back to my therapist. And then he’ll tell me again that I am doing well and I probably will be—before, of course, I come back to him again. I’m doing my best to surrender. 

Sizy always says my “condition” makes me special, that it’s not a flaw, but a gift. It means I ache for depth, crave connection, and feel everything in vivid, unrelenting colour.

There is a wild, aching beauty in this way of being. I can never quite capture it with words—how gratitude swells in me until it spills over, how joy with my friends burns so brightly it feels like the sun itself lives in me. Heartbreak doesn’t just sting; it devastates. But even in its ruin, there’s a strange sort of grace. It reminds me I’m alive, that I’m still capable of love, of longing.

And when I fall for someone, it’s not subtle. The butterflies eating me inside out. My breath catches. A velvet warmth floods through me, soft and all-consuming. 

Maybe she is right and that it just means that I am a constantly living life at its fullest, that I feel very much alive every single second. Not a single moment wasted. 

V.B, Bali, April 2025

The Quiet Between Us

/in /by

 

The Quiet Between Us

Home » Mental Health

“So, what was it you didn’t want to tell me?” He asked as we were driving in his father’s car. I started to cry from nervousness and maybe a little bit from embarrassment. I went to the psychiatrist for the first time a couple of days prior. My therapist recommended it; for the first time, he thought it might be necessary. I mean, looking back now, I think it was, too. I had trouble keeping my emotions from bouncing off the walls of my brain. Sleep made me, strangely enough, more tired. I knew I struggled with anxiety, but not like this, not the type that made it feel like my body weighed 1000 pounds, completely paralysing me from doing anything at all. But the one thing that bothered me most was the incessant thoughts of dying. It took over everything. I thought about the peace I would feel if I ended it all and the different ways I could do it without suffering too much. Unlike my teenage years, where I thought about all the ways I could inflict pain on myself, I now just wanted to go away peacefully. I felt like I was already hurting enough. I deserved to go away as fast as possible.

On the other hand, I feared being murdered or killed accidentally; I had to have control over how I went. I felt like I had no control over anything else. I deserved to choose when I would go. No one could take that away from me. So, I stood as far away as possible from the metro tracks in case someone with bad intentions was standing too close to me. I looked behind my back every other minute to make sure no one was trying to stab me. I smoked every cigarette with a deep fear that the one currently burning was the one that was going to give me cancer. 

The cold man with a slight lisp behind the desk looked at me straight in the eyes and calmly said, “You have BPD.” My world came crashing down because this meant dealing with this forever. This meant a constant battle with myself for the rest of my life. He prescribed me a low dosage of epilepsy medication, which apparently has side effects that can help with BPD. I was so upset with myself. I  always struggled with my mental health, and even when my family denied getting me help when I was younger, I achieved plenty of things. I was able to deal with it all, and I may have had issues suppressing certain impulsive decisions and random outbursts, but I was still functioning. Never in a million years did I think I was going to be the one on meds. I never thought it was something someone should be ashamed of, but I just didn’t want to depend on anything to be able to be “normal”. Finding this out on my late father’s birthday was also not helpful either. 

I sat silently for a moment and looked at my fingers. I felt suffocated by my seat belt, and all I wanted to do was jump out of the car. The tears kept coming, and I struggled to find the words to tell him. “Vivi, you can tell me anything. I’m here for you.” But was he going to be? After all, we’ve only been together for three months, and he’s only seen one side of me, the one everybody would like. How do I know he’s not going to leave me on the side of the road the instant he hears that I can think he is the most perfect person in the whole wide world one day and think he’s an absolute monster the next when he does something I didn’t like. Will he still be around when he realises that this means I have abandonment issues, that I’ll act certain ways because I am so scared that he’ll leave me?  How about the times I’ll have my super highs and then suddenly hit my super lows? Will he be able to keep up? 

“I have BPD.” “What’s that?” I gave him a quick rundown of what that meant. I tried my best not to make it sound too scary. He kissed me on the cheek and said I didn’t have to be scared to tell him and that he didn’t see me differently. This relieved me for a second, but some part of me knew that he believed it now, but it might not be the case when he actually experiences it. I promised myself I would do everything to hide this side of me from him, that he didn’t need to see it all. At the time, I saw this as protecting him from me, but was it actually just that fear of abandonment I mentioned earlier? 

The relationship ended five months later, but not because I had done anything. I’m sure it was the case because one of the last things he told me was, “If I had to wait for you to do something wrong to leave you, then that meant I would be with you forever.”

The relationship was a happy one; communication was clear, fights were tamed and respectful, and surprisingly, I had matured a lot and had very few impulsive reactions. I kept my word. It was odd because I was super happy, the happiest I had ever been with someone, but also terribly suffering on my own. I kept most things negative away from him and tried to keep a positive attitude at all times, and then when I went home, I could take the mask off. He could hear it in my voice at times on the phone when I wasn’t feeling well, but I always finished it with, “But don’t worry, I should be fine!”. The suicidal thoughts were incessant; the medication made me sleepy, so sometimes, when we were out together, I was fighting off the fatigue while still trying to stay present. It was a lonely fight like it has always been. Sometimes, I wish I had shared my pain with him more, but I refused to be the one to bring someone down with me. I admitted to him once when we were fighting that I didn’t share it all with him, to which he responded with “Thank you.” From that moment, I understood that he also didn’t want to hear it. It stung a little bit, and I didn’t know why then. I think because deep down, I wish he cared more and he actually wanted to know, but at least he was honest, and I should’ve seen it as a sign that the relationship would not survive for long. My mental health declined as time went on, and the medication didn’t seem to work very well. It came to a point where I found myself sitting in front of the psychiatrist again, balling my eyes out, asking him if my deep desire to die was a normal thought. He told me that no, it was not and that I would really benefit from going to a “retreat” for a few weeks. My heart sank, but I agreed. It was the last resort. I had officially hit rock bottom, and this I was deeply ashamed about. I really didn’t have any control anymore. I was scared to share a space with other mentally ill patients. The first thing I thought about was how self-harm scars so very easily trigger me, and I can’t handle seeing them even in movies. I was so afraid to see other patients with them. I was afraid of being force-fed medication. 

I naturally didn’t tell my boyfriend about this conversation, which I knew he couldn’t handle. 

Every time I hear that one line in Billie Eilish’s What Was I Made For?, “I’m sad again, don’t tell my boyfriend”, I think about this moment right here, comforted and yet deeply disappointed at the realisation that this isn’t an uncommon thing to go through as a woman. 

I missed the call from the “retreat” and ultimately decided not to go. I didn’t go because I was afraid but mainly because I was tired of letting it win. Something in me switched; a calm took over, and I have not spiralled as much as I used to ever since. The thing is, BPD is something that you can’t cure, but with the right tools, you can control it, and it only gets better with practice and time. So once I understood that I truly held the power, this changed everything for me. I didn’t realise it at the time, but I found a lot of my tools when I was “shielding” him from my condition. My fear of losing him forced me to have a grasp on my impulsivity and control over my intense emotions and the words that came out of my mouth. I practised patience when we would take some time from each other, forcing me to sit face to face with my abandonment issues, facing them head-on. When he eventually left for real, I was surprisingly okay. 

It saddens me that it took a man for me to make the effort to make the changes I needed yet I also feel this sense of pride that I am the type of person capable of wanting to better myself out of love and care for somebody else. 

I came to realise that I was too focused on doing what is “right” on my own and didn’t even think that getting support from my partner was an option for me, maybe subconsciously I thought I didn’t deserve it. I think I should’ve opened up a little more and tested the waters, communicated a little clearer still with a little caution. He on the other hand, was probably not ready to be in a relationship serious enough to have deep conversations about mental health or simply didn’t want to.

Now I wonder how it is I am supposed to balance things when I eventually get into another relationship. How do I ask for help and comfort without crossing anyone’s boundaries? Is it possible or even healthy to share everything with your partner? 

Honestly, I truly believe I won’t be able to know until I meet someone new. I feel like it’s one of those things where you learn as you go. And, having a playbook for this would be absurd because as cliché as this sounds, we are all so fundamentally different and all relationships have unique dynamics. All I know now is what it is I do not want, which to feel alone in a relationship. I do not want to feel ashamed of who I am and picking and choosing what side of me I will show and what side I will not. I’d like to know that every part of me is loved even if some can cause some complications. 

Sometimes, I wonder what my relationship would’ve been like if I had exposed myself fully to him. I even wonder if it would have flourished and if he would have loved me the same. I wonder if he struggled too and did not want to tell me because he was always committed to keeping things light. Did we both lie next to each other, silently suffering?  This is something I will probably never know. I am left with many unanswered questions but so many lessons learned. I’ve understood that hiding a huge part of myself has no benefit whatsoever, and even though I could do so in my previous relationship, it was a very short one, so god knows how long I would have realistically been able to keep that up. I had never expected him to save me and knew he didn’t have the power to do so, but I still wanted to feel like I was worthy of love despite what I was going through. It wasn’t all his fault and he did as much as he could with what was given to him. I wish I had expressed more and been brave enough even though there was a risk of him leaving me. Because at least I would’ve known that it was all real. However, I also strongly believe it is super important to understand other people’s limits, identify what things they can help you with, and what issues you should deal with with a professional because no one is capable of dealing with it all. It is unfair to expect them to do so.

Paris, March 2023