
I’m sitting here in my room with your pet rats (who I took for you when we broke up, because you discarded them the same way you discarded me). My mom is out in the living room blatantly disrespecting me as usual by playing her music loud af on the bluetooth speaker (even though I have asked her countless times not to blast music because I’m sensitive due to my anxiety, and the rats are sensitive to loud noise as well). 
I’m feeling so angry at you. I’m angry that you ended our relationship over the smallest thing that we could’ve fixed if you had actually tried. I’m angry because we would be living in our own place together right now like we had planned, I wouldn’t be stuck here anymore. I’m angry and hurt that you went back on every single promise you ever made to me, in a fucking instant. I’m angry because you’re off living your life, probably not even thinking twice about what you did to me, probably telling someone new that you love them. You completely destroyed my trust in people, when I already had trust issues from my past. And it’s going to take a long fucking time to trust again. 
As I’m sitting here crying with the rats running around on the bed, I’m reminded of how you abandoned us, how you didn’t even fight once for us. I’m so angry that you stopped loving me, when I’m here wondering how that’s possible, because I still love you after all the ways you hurt me. You don’t know what love is, and I don’t think you’re capable of it. I was there for you every single time you needed somebody, I did so many things for you out of love because I knew you struggled to do basic everyday things. I wanted to make life easier for you in all the ways I possibly could. And you barely ever acknowledged it. Christ, I drove a three hour round trip just to visit you in the psych ward for a couple hours and brought you clothes, shampoo, books, and food. We slept and I held you, I remember waking up crying because you didn’t deserve to feel that sad and hopeless. 
I’m angry because I’m the most anxious, depressed, and loneliest I’ve ever been, and I can’t turn to you like you always said I could, because you don’t care. 
I wish I had seen the signs earlier of BPD in you, but I probably still would’ve stayed because leaving you wasn’t an option for me. 
You hurt me more than I think you’ll ever admit to yourself, and yet I still love you and miss you. 
I’m in outpatient rehab currently because I couldn’t cope with you, of all people, the person who wasn’t supposed to be like the others, giving up on me. But you were like them. You were such a disappointment. It hurts to think about you, and how I didn’t even know who you were. It was only an illusion. 
I want to hate you, but I don’t. I just want you to get better, so that you never hurt somebody who only has good intentions for you, like this ever again. 
And for anybody else going through an irrational breakup with a pwBPD right now, I promise you, you aren’t crazy and you’re very much so not alone.