Borderline Personality Disorder: Bleeding in Colour on Mosher Mag

Borderline Personality Disorder.

Three words that sound clinical, manageable, maybe even tame if you've only ever read about it in a psychology textbook.

But if you live it? It's a fucking crucifixion. Every. Single. Day.

BPD isn't a quirky personality trait or some misunderstood emotional phase. It’s not "being dramatic" or "too sensitive" or "having a hard time letting go."

It’s being a raw nerve in a world made of sandpaper. It’s drowning in an ocean of feeling and still being told you're "too much" for gasping for air.

You wake up in a haunted house every morning. And the ghost? It’s you. Or, at least, what’s left of you.

Because BPD isn’t just about emotional intensity — it’s about identity death on loop.

Who you are at 9 AM might be a confident firestarter, ready to love, ready to create. By 2 PM, you’re a shattered child, clutching your own ribs like they’re the last thing holding you together. By night? You’re empty. Hollow. A shell filled with echoes and screams that no one else seems to hear.

"Who am I?" It’s not some philosophical musing. It’s an everyday panic. You shapeshift to survive. You mirror others to feel seen. You play the part, wear the skin, talk the talk — because being your real self feels like a suicide mission.

And maybe it is.

Let’s talk about relationships — because they’re never normal. Not with BPD. It’s exhausting. You want connection. God, you crave it. But you also push it away.

You want love like a junkie wants a fix: desperately, recklessly, dangerously. You fall fast, like gravity is ten times stronger in your world. You cling hard, not out of weakness but out of terror — because abandonment isn’t a fear, it’s a goddamn prophecy.

They text a little less. They seem distracted. They say, “I need some space.” And suddenly your brain is in DEFCON 1.

You’re spinning stories, tearing apart memories, convincing yourself they’ve already left you — emotionally or physically — and it’s all your fault. Always your fault. Too needy. Too much. Not enough.

So what do you do? You blow it up. Push them away before they can run. You test them, bleed for them, rage at them, beg them, punish them, adore them — all in the same breath.

You’re not trying to hurt them. You’re trying to see if they’ll stay through the hurricane. If they’ll love you with the sharp edges included.

But most of them don’t. They call you crazy. And maybe you start to believe them.

No one self-sabotages with the elegance of someone with BPD. It’s not impulsivity — it’s ritual. It’s a coping mechanism dressed in leather and lace.

You drink, you fuck, you cut, you spend, you scream, you run — anything to make the pain real enough to understand.

Because emotional agony? It’s abstract. Invisible. But blood? Bruises? Ashes? That’s tangible. That makes sense.

You destroy things — good things, soft things, yourself — just to feel something that isn’t pure, white-hot chaos. You torch bridges and bury yourself in the rubble because at least then, you’re in control of the collapse.

And sometimes? You don’t even regret it. You light that match with shaking hands and say, “At least it was me. At least this time, it was me.”

There’s a hole inside you that no amount of love, attention, or affirmation can fill. It’s not sadness. It’s void. And it’s fucking hungry.

You try to stuff it with dopamine: validation, sex, social media, chaos. But nothing lasts. It’s like water through your fingers. Temporary highs that nosedive into existential lows. One moment, you feel like a god. The next? You’re nothing. Less than nothing. A shadow of a thought someone once had and forgot.

People say, “Just learn to love yourself.” But how the fuck do you love something that feels fake half the time and monstrous the other half?

Let’s get real: no one talks about BPD rage.

The nuclear-core fury that bubbles under the surface — silent until it’s not. It doesn’t come from nowhere. It’s not “irrational.” It’s grief turned inside out. It’s abandonment calcified into wrath.

You’re not angry because of one little thing. You’re angry because you’ve been bleeding for years, and no one noticed. You're angry because people keep touching your wounds and then acting surprised when you scream.

When you snap, when you lash out, when you burn down your own world — it’s not cruelty. It’s desperation. It’s a last-ditch effort to be heard, to be felt, to be real in a world that keeps erasing you.

You’ve survived every implosion. Every sleepless night. Every panic spiral. Every “I can’t do this anymore” moment.

You’re still here. Broken, bleeding, haunted — but breathing. And that’s not weakness. That’s not failure. That’s resilience.

You’ve turned self-destruction into poetry. You’ve taken a brain that tried to kill you and used it to create art, to scream truth into the void, to love louder than most people even know how. You’re not crazy. You’re not too much.

You’re just living at full fucking volume in a world that keeps asking you to whisper.

BPD is hell. Let’s not sugarcoat it. But inside that hell is beauty.

Because when you feel this much? You see things others don’t. You see the cracks in the system. The beauty in brokenness. The worth in wounded things.

You love harder. You fight harder. You care more than anyone has a right to. And that’s not weakness. That’s your gift. That’s your fire.

So stop apologizing for being intense. Stop shrinking to fit into the mold of "stable" and "safe."

Start building something from the ruins. Something feral. Something real.

You are not meant to be soft-spoken and sane.

You are meant to burn, to bleed, to become.

Because here’s the secret no one tells you: Even rot can be holy. Even chaos can be sacred. Even you — yes, you — are a masterpiece of madness.

For the freaks, by the freaks.

Thanks for reading. Stay strange.

✦ moshermag.wixsite.com/mosher-mag