My BPD - Elaborating On My Black And White Thinking

The world... my world, often feels like a switch flipped with brutal, almost violent force. There is no preamble, no gentle warning. One moment, everything is bathed in searing, brilliant light… and the next, I am plunged into a suffocating, disorienting darkness. There’s no star light here, no soft in-between. It's stark and dark. Immediate. And it consumes me. This isn’t about merely viewing life through a binary lens of good and bad. It’s about feeling those extremes in my very bones, my blood, my breath. It is an all-encompassing emotional flood that seeps into how I see myself, how I relate to others, how I understand the world. It dictates my inner landscape with a power so intense it’s as though I am a marionette pulled by strings of emotion that never loosen.

When someone new enters my life… or when someone already dear to me does something that resonates deeply with a desperate and unmet need… something inside me ruptures open. A dam breaks, and out rushes a torrent of adoration, longing, hope. It’s not just affection… it’s an overwhelming surge of reverence. Suddenly, this person becomes everything… flawless, sacred, essential. They are a balm to wounds I often forget I carry. In their presence, I feel seen, known, held. Thoughts race through me like lightning… "Finally, someone who understands," or "They will never leave me." …This isn’t the measured appreciation that most people might feel. It’s a desperate hunger to remain close, to remain needed, to remain worthy of the light they shine on me. I want to pour my love into every crevice of their life, to become indispensable to them, to drown out the ever-present terror of abandonment with their nearness.

But it never lasts. Inevitably, they say something that doesn't land quite right. They forget to respond to a message. They prioritize someone else. And just like that, the brilliant light is extinguished. My heart, so recently flooded with hope and warmth, now constricts in agony. The switch flips. This person who was once my haven now feels foreign, cold, dangerous. In that moment, it’s not a gentle disillusionment. It’s betrayal. The kindness I clung to vanishes from memory, eclipsed by a new and overwhelming certainty… “they don't care. They never did. I was foolish to believe otherwise. "I knew it," whispers that corrosive inner voice. "You're unlovable. They’re just like everyone else."

What follows is not just sadness, but a consuming grief laced with rage. It’s a mourning for the version of them I thought was real. It’s the fury of feeling tricked by hope. I might lash out, withdraw, spiral. The emotional whiplash is so swift, so total, that I’m left disoriented. And the people around me… those I’ve placed so high and then cast so low… are left bewildered, hurt, and often, gone. I don’t blame them. I can barely keep up with myself.

This black-and-white lens doesn’t spare me, either. Some days, I manage to feel okay. I complete a task, receive a compliment, experience a fleeting sense of self-worth. In those moments, I think, "Maybe I’m not so broken. Maybe I can be loved." But it is fragile, that belief. It shatters with the gentlest pressure. One misstep, one critique, one failure… and the bottom falls out. I plummet into a chasm of self-loathing so visceral it takes my breath away. "Of course," says that voice again. "You’re a failure. An emotional burden. No one could love you for long."

It’s as though I am standing on the thinnest sheet of ice, and with every step, I hear the cracks. There is no consistent self to return to… only versions that depend entirely on the emotional weather of the moment. Who am I? Am I the woman who writes with aching beauty, who loves fiercely and longs to heal? Or am I the shattered thing, the broken vessel, the girl too much and never enough?

This constant tug-of-war between extremes reduces the world around me to a dichotomy devoid of grace. Ambiguity feels like a silent scream. My mind craves resolution, demands clarity. If something cannot be cleanly categorized as good or bad, safe or dangerous, I flounder. I dissect tone, reread texts, agonize over silence. A delayed response becomes a rejection. A neutral expression feels like contempt. I connect dots that aren’t there, forging patterns out of shadows. It’s not paranoia…. It’s hyper-vigilance born of years of pain. It’s a survival strategy that’s outlived its usefulness.

Even my memories aren’t immune. The past, when filtered through the lens of my current emotional state, becomes either a fairytale or a horror story. A relationship filled with both laughter and heartbreak becomes entirely one or the other. Nuance erodes under the tide of my emotional certainty. It’s easier, in the moment, to believe in absolutes than to sit with contradictions.

Relationships, for me, are both salvation and peril. The high of new connection is intoxicating. I attach quickly, deeply, with everything I have. I idealize, envision futures, invest emotionally at a pace that feels natural to me but overwhelming to others. But when the pedestal cracks… and it always cracks… the fallout is devastating. It’s not a choice, this fall from grace. It’s a coping mechanism wrapped in trauma and fear. If I believe they are entirely bad, I can protect myself from the heartbreak of discovering they are merely human.

Conflict becomes a battlefield where nuance dies. A disagreement isn't a difference of opinion… it's a verdict. It affirms the worst fears… that I am misunderstood, unloved, rejected. I cling to being "right" not out of arrogance but desperation. To be wrong feels synonymous with being worthless. So I dig in, I escalate, I flail… emotionally, sometimes verbally… trying to claw back a sense of safety. But all too often, I push people away. Not because I want to. Because I don’t know how not to.

Then there’s the splitting… this strange and painful inability to hold the full truth of a person in my mind. They are either saint or sinner, beloved or enemy. There is no in-between, at least not in the moment. It’s like my mind files people into folders labeled "Safe" or "Dangerous," and once they’re moved from one to the other, I can’t remember why I ever trusted them. This isn’t malicious. It’s not vindictive. It’s neurological. It’s protective. But it leaves those around me confused and hurt, and it leaves me feeling monstrous.

Living like this is a form of quiet violence… against myself, against my relationships, against the possibility of peace. It is exhausting in a way that sleep cannot fix. Not that I can get much of that... The emotional labor of navigating each day, each interaction, each thought, is immense. I am constantly checking the temperature of every room, bracing for impact, scanning for signs of danger or rejection. Even when things are calm, I fear the storm.

And yet, I continue. I survive. I seek understanding. I write, because words give me a lifeline, a way to articulate the things that feel unspeakable. I search for the gray… the elusive middle ground where people can be both flawed and loving, where I can be both broken and beautiful. I want to believe in that place. I want to build a home there.

This isn’t just about the struggle to manage feelings. It’s about identity, about safety, about the aching, unending longing to be held as a whole person. I want to be seen not just in my light or my darkness, but in the places in between. I want to love without losing myself, to trust without collapsing, to exist without this internal war.

Understanding this pattern is only the beginning. The real work is in unlearning it… in rewiring a mind trained by trauma to expect pain and abandonment. It’s in sitting with the discomfort of ambiguity, in allowing people to be human, in forgiving myself when the switch flips. It’s in seeking therapy, in building support, in holding on even when the world feels unbearable.

The journey toward healing is not linear, as its often said. It is not clean. It is filled with relapses and reckonings. But it is also filled with growth, with grace, with moments of startling clarity. And in those moments, I see it… the possibility of a life where the light and the dark coexist, where I am not imprisoned by extremes, where love is not a threat but a refuge.

I am learning… slowly, painfully… to stay. To stay with discomfort. To stay with myself. To stay with others, even when my mind screams to run. I am learning that the world is not just black or white. It is filled with color, with shadow, with contrast. And maybe, just maybe, I am too.