It starts small—

a shift in tone,

a breath too sharp,

a glance that feels off.

Her brain lights up like a battlefield:

_He’s mad. He’s tired of me. He’s going to leave._

She asks,

**_Are you okay?_**

He says,

**_Yeah, I’m fine._**

But his “fine” feels like the first crack

before everything shatters.

And then it hits—

a tidal wave of too much.

Her thoughts spiral fast:

_What did I do?_

_Why is he cold?_

_Why does this feel like love slipping_

_through her hands again?_

She raises her voice.

He shuts down.

She pushes.

He walks away.

And in that moment,

it’s not just him she’s losing—

it’s every person

who ever left her standing alone.

BPD isn’t drama.

It’s drowning in your own mind,

while begging the people you love

not to walk away mid-storm.

She hates herself while she’s yelling.

Hates herself more after.

Sits on the floor, shaking,

while her baby cries in the next room

and her partner breathes in the other,

not knowing how close she is

to breaking.

Postpartum has only deepened the cracks.

Her emotions come in extremes:

joy that burns,

sorrow that swallows,

rage that arrives with no warning

and leaves her weeping

into her daughter’s clothes.

She’s tired.

Of the fights.

Of the guilt.

Of walking on eggshells inside her own body.

Her partner says,

**_“You always overreact.”_**

And she wants to scream:

This is not overreacting.

This is reliving.

This is remembering abandonment

in real time.

She sees his detachment as rejection.

His silence, as proof.

He wants space.

She wants reassurance.

But space feels like exile

to someone who’s been left too many times.

She’s not trying to be difficult.

She’s trying to feel safe

in a nervous system

wired for danger.

She doesn’t want to fight.

She wants to be held

before she explodes.

She wants to be told,

**_“It’s okay.

I’m not leaving.

You’re not too much.”_**

And to actually believe it.

But most nights,

she lies in bed

next to someone she loves

who doesn’t know how to love her

in the way she bleeds for.

And still—

she wakes up.

Feeds her baby.

Apologizes again.

Tries to be calm

with a heart built from wreckage.

Because every day,

she’s still choosing to stay

in a body

and a mind

that tell her everyone

will eventually leave.