one month. we were together for one month, and yet i still find myself thinking about you every waking minute of my sad life; how is he? what would we even be doing right now if the bpd monster inside of me didn’t absolutely ruin everything to the point of no return?

i don’t want to sound selfish, it’s already been a few days and i’m already trying to initiate contact and it’s driving me crazy with the possibility that you’re reading the stuff i’m saying to you but you just won’t reply. the possibility that you’re doing so much fucking better without me that i don’t even cross your mind for a second.

(i just need to be patient. i know you’re healing. and if i love you as much as i’m convinced i do then i’m going to do everything in my power to get myself better. i know i’m not alone. you’re getting better, too, right?)

everything we had, everything we had up until our mental illnesses got the better of us was fucking brilliant; and you may think, well, it’s just the bpd making you feel this way—but it’s not. all those times i stared at you and you got all funny about it? i was just in awe. to me, you’re perfect, and that includes every fibre of your being that you think isn’t. 

i don’t know what i’m trying to gain from this. maybe i just want to be honest, maybe i just want to finally talk about how i feel because every time you wanted me to i got too shy in fear that you would be scared, and abandon me. my fears have come true and i’ve realised that i’m going to stop at nothing to at least fight for you. for us.

— r 💜