Found this thread on BPD. I'm using it coz it's the one I remember from way back when after reading it and learning something. There are some links on page 1 to other great BPD posts here at RVF if you want to explore the topic further.
So...
After having my mind blown in to smithereens by AnonymousBosch on a couple of his recentish threads (and thanks to Leonard D Neubache and Aurini too who consolidated a lot of stuff), I've been undergoing a bit of a journey with regard to cluster B personality disorders - namely BPD and NPD. Borderline and Narcissistic, respectively.
In fact, one of the most mind-blowing teachers with regard to BPD is a guy called Brother John who thinks the world of Aurini and Roosh. I found Brother John all by myself, so that was a nice bit of synchronicity.
It's too much to go in to here, and I don't want to get too personal, but suffice it to say, I felt as if a whole new world of understanding and growth had opened up to me. Painful, yes. Enlightening, yes. Necessary, even more so. The time had come
So, feeling a little stronger and with a more sure-footed understanding of things, I decided to stick my hand back in to the hornet's nest one more time, as fools are want to do when they are feeling a new found confidence.
I telephoned my ex-girlfriend. The one with BPD.
She is a text-book case. A classic case. A more stereotypical version of BPD you would not be able to find. This shit is uncanny. These fuckers are all the same. The way they are broken. And a good psychologist can read them like an open book in large print. It's like they are all made in the same factory.
Ok, it helped, that my ex let slip that she had been diagnosed with BPD many years ago. A mistake she never made again, always trans-muting it to the more funky, fashionable 'Bi-polar' - but she was Borderline alright. From the very core of her being. Being co-morbid with NPD as well. Like I said, a text-book, classic example.
I called her because I wanted to see if the 'other shoe had dropped'. This was to fill in my understanding of past (and future) events, a bit more. I just couldn't resist. I was on a roll.
I call her land-line (knowing she will still be there because she is a creature of habit - it's her one solid foundation in a world of turmoil). Bring bring... phone dead! Shit. Wtf? Something up here.
I must explain, my ex is Australian, born and bred but with a British passport too and been living here for many many years. She fucking hates Aussie shit-lords with a vengeance and truth be told, I think she's actually a little bit embarrassed about being an Aussie herself. Newcastle, if you're interested. Add in the fact that her mum is half Greek and she has strawberry-blonde (read red) hair, then what more a recipe for human disaster do you want? Oh, and her dad was a chronic alcoholic. Fair dinkum, it's like a bad script, I know.
So, no one home at home. Phone dead. Not a good sign. I call her mobile. It's dead. I start to get worried now. Not coz I care. I don't know why I got worried. Just that 'something really not right here' sense. I leave it thinking 'just stop being a prick and let it go'. She fucked me over good, and some day I may go in to it all, but let's just say I had the kind of insanity that anyone with a true BPD gets. 'Nuff said.
Something still nagging at me though. I give it one more go. Bring bring. It's on now. Bring bring. Just about to hang up, but don't, seeing as the phone is now alive where as before it was dead.
Then she answers: "Hello". (is it me you're looking for?)
I say: "Hi, it's Rigsby - is this a bad time - are you busy?".
"Oh, Hi..."
Turns out she was in Bedlam. Yup, that Bedlam. The famous mental hospital on the outskirts of London. She had tried to kill herself. She told me she had not been sectioned, but this was a triage and assessment ward and many of the patients there had indeed been sectioned. I think she was lying, as all BPD types do, all the time. "I'm not sectioned, but if I go to leave, they will section me". Ok. Gotcha.
She told me she had taken an overdose. 130 paracetamol. That is (at 500mg a pop) 65 grams of paracetamol. I think the LD50 of that drug is something like 25 grams (that is considered a fatal dose), and she had taken three times that amount. Wow. I asked her if she had any complications, i.e. a fucked liver, but no, she was fine, just a coma for a few weeks. Righty-oh. The lies Chico, they always lie...
"What happened to your place? Why are you not living there anymore?"
No straight answer, taking ages to answer while they stall for time to work out more lies and piece it all together. She has lived there 20 years. Something kicked off. I won't ever know what it is. But I know that even though this is all shocking to me, the real truth will be ten times more shocking.
Apparently, her mum came over from Oz and stole 3K off her in GBP. Yup, 3 grand. Her mother. Stole it. From her draw. She actually had 8K in there, but her thieving mother only took 3K of it. Right. I didn't like to ask her why she didn't have it in the bank. She was anal and cheap with money. A real control freak. No way did she have that kind of cash in a draw in her flat for her mum to steal. She also told me she lost 20K after being ripped off by someone in a bad property deal. I probed. I got the usual BPD stalling and all-evasive non-answer.
Quick interjection for a joke: How do you know when a BPD person is lying to you? Their lips move! Ah ah.
She also told me, for some reason, that when she was coming out of her coma or whatever, that she had been talking gibberish, saying that she had told her mother that she had caused trouble in the amateur dramatics group she was in (yes she was a good little actress) by shit stirring and trying to break up the relationships of everyone in the troop. Bizarre. It was almost as if she was trying to construct a narrative for reality. As if she was trying to convince me, and in doing so it would actually fabricate the reality a bit stronger. When all the time it sounded as if it was herself she was trying to convince.
BPD and NPD project all the time, so maybe there was a seed of truth in this. That she did fuck up relationships around her (classc BPD) and she was trying to justify that it didn't happen because she talked about it when she was delirious, therefore it wasn't real. My fucking head was spinning at this point.
I still couldn't hate her though. Even though I have hated her for what she has done and the massive damage she has caused in my life. I would have thought I would be happy. But I just don't have it in me. I'm healthy. I can take no pleasure in misfortune as deep as this. Vindicated? Very much so. But it's a bit late for 'I told you so's' - even though I did tell her how things would end up.
She had it all. A nice stable flat in London. 3 jobs - she was a workaholic as opposed to the usual alcoholic stereotype for BPDs. Money in the bank. Her health. No friends of course. BPDs never have friends. For obvious reasons. They leave a trail of destruction behind them and it's hard to cover your tracks when people are still in your life, so they ghost and 'silent-treatment' people. But then again, most decent people shun them anyway. It's a two-way street going nowhere.
But most of all. She had me. A truly rare catch. One of the good ones. A young god, in fact. But it just wasn't enough. When the chemical romance wore off after a month or two (it didn't take longer than that), she set about doing what all BPDs do: devaluing before distancing. Demonizing in fact as much as devaluing. All part of the process of 'splitting'. The only time a BPD feels remotely human is when that Oxytocin (is it? I forget - the love chemical in our brains) balances out their mal-wiring of neurons. And that is how they can fool you. Sure, they love bomb you. And they are convincing, because they really mean it. They really do love you. It's not an act. Well, it is an act. Very much so. But let's not get too deep here.
It got beyond ugly. The police got involved. She would call them about once or twice a week in the end. And they would come and say, sorry, it's her place, you have to leave. And that was that. They facilitated her in her abuse of me. Nothing I could do. A man who did that to a woman would be up on domestic abuse charges, but you know the game chaps. One law for them and another for us. And that is how I kind of ended up being homeless. My fault really for getting in to that kind of scrape. I take full responsibility. Let's just say I was shown no mercy. It was fucking barbaric.
And fast forward.
She's in the fucking loony bin! Kicked out of her flat, on the street, so to speak, just like she did to me.
She also said to me her landlady (another psycho) had told her that she didn't think she was mad at all and that she just thought she was playing a game and being the 'good little actress' that she always was. This person defrauded the family housing association so much by sub-letting her flat to my ex (illegal in the uk) that she bought a fucking house with the proceeds. But no word on why she turned on her.
One thing I know is I will never know the truth. I'm sorry I called now. Yeah, it was a good exercise in being vindicated - of putting the final pieces of the jigsaw back in place. But it threw up more questions than answers.
I know she always wanted kids, but left it too late being a drug-fuelled slut (before she settled down respectfully with her 3 jobs). She had a miscarriage which fucked her up a bit as well I think. Thank fuck. Not being callous or spiteful here. That kid would have been taken in to care. For the best.
I actually even doubted she was in a mental hospital until she opened the door to some mad banshee bitch screaming and threatening someone. It was scary. I mean, full on. I've been around people that lost that amount of control before and it rarely ends well. It was fucking horrendous. She was in Bedlam alright.
I thought I would have felt some kind of schadenfreude about it all, but no, there was none. I felt a bit of pity, but I wasn't going to get emotionally roped back in to someone else's insanity again, not this cunt. Coz that is what she was, pure and simple. Made me out to to be her abuser. Even got me locked up briefly at one point. Pure fucking evil, whilst still being hollow and not being a human at all.
The vindication was enough. Not anything to be happy about at all. Damage done now anyway. Gloating would be the mark of a lesser man.
BPD types really are fucking dangerous. But they damage themselves quicker and burn out sooner than NPD types, who really can do a number on you.
I could keep on, but that's enough for now.
She told me that she had had enough, and that she really would take her own life when they release her. I didn't believe her about her OD, but in essence I did believe her about the fact that she would do herself in. She has nowhere left to go. She has alienated every single person around her. She has nothing. Nothing, left at all. And one day, earlier, she had it all. Sad.
But BPD types can't exist in a vacuum. They need victims. Literally. And if you have been the prey of a BPD type then you have to take a bit of responsibility yourself for being at least a little co-dependent. I know I was. I was broken from an early age and it's taken me half a lifetime to overcome my programming. I got there in the end. Better late than never.
If you don't break the chain and the cycle of this fault in your personality, then you will find it happening again and again to you. This is the hardest thing to face up to. Not that you asked for it, per se, but that you did contribute somewhat to your own demise.
So I put that out there for others to learn from.
They say you can't teach on old dog new tricks, but I disagree.
It's never too late to learn, to pick up and start again.
This is what this forum is about. Self-improvement. For many of you that means going from strength to strength and doing better, but for others of us, it means rebuilding, re-constructing, no matter how painful that might be.
I owe those I've mentioned in this thread (and Roosh himself) an enormous debt of gratitude.
There will be no healing for that little lady. I wish her well.
But not my problem now.
So...
After having my mind blown in to smithereens by AnonymousBosch on a couple of his recentish threads (and thanks to Leonard D Neubache and Aurini too who consolidated a lot of stuff), I've been undergoing a bit of a journey with regard to cluster B personality disorders - namely BPD and NPD. Borderline and Narcissistic, respectively.
In fact, one of the most mind-blowing teachers with regard to BPD is a guy called Brother John who thinks the world of Aurini and Roosh. I found Brother John all by myself, so that was a nice bit of synchronicity.
It's too much to go in to here, and I don't want to get too personal, but suffice it to say, I felt as if a whole new world of understanding and growth had opened up to me. Painful, yes. Enlightening, yes. Necessary, even more so. The time had come
So, feeling a little stronger and with a more sure-footed understanding of things, I decided to stick my hand back in to the hornet's nest one more time, as fools are want to do when they are feeling a new found confidence.
I telephoned my ex-girlfriend. The one with BPD.
She is a text-book case. A classic case. A more stereotypical version of BPD you would not be able to find. This shit is uncanny. These fuckers are all the same. The way they are broken. And a good psychologist can read them like an open book in large print. It's like they are all made in the same factory.
Ok, it helped, that my ex let slip that she had been diagnosed with BPD many years ago. A mistake she never made again, always trans-muting it to the more funky, fashionable 'Bi-polar' - but she was Borderline alright. From the very core of her being. Being co-morbid with NPD as well. Like I said, a text-book, classic example.
I called her because I wanted to see if the 'other shoe had dropped'. This was to fill in my understanding of past (and future) events, a bit more. I just couldn't resist. I was on a roll.
I call her land-line (knowing she will still be there because she is a creature of habit - it's her one solid foundation in a world of turmoil). Bring bring... phone dead! Shit. Wtf? Something up here.
I must explain, my ex is Australian, born and bred but with a British passport too and been living here for many many years. She fucking hates Aussie shit-lords with a vengeance and truth be told, I think she's actually a little bit embarrassed about being an Aussie herself. Newcastle, if you're interested. Add in the fact that her mum is half Greek and she has strawberry-blonde (read red) hair, then what more a recipe for human disaster do you want? Oh, and her dad was a chronic alcoholic. Fair dinkum, it's like a bad script, I know.
So, no one home at home. Phone dead. Not a good sign. I call her mobile. It's dead. I start to get worried now. Not coz I care. I don't know why I got worried. Just that 'something really not right here' sense. I leave it thinking 'just stop being a prick and let it go'. She fucked me over good, and some day I may go in to it all, but let's just say I had the kind of insanity that anyone with a true BPD gets. 'Nuff said.
Something still nagging at me though. I give it one more go. Bring bring. It's on now. Bring bring. Just about to hang up, but don't, seeing as the phone is now alive where as before it was dead.
Then she answers: "Hello". (is it me you're looking for?)
I say: "Hi, it's Rigsby - is this a bad time - are you busy?".
"Oh, Hi..."
Turns out she was in Bedlam. Yup, that Bedlam. The famous mental hospital on the outskirts of London. She had tried to kill herself. She told me she had not been sectioned, but this was a triage and assessment ward and many of the patients there had indeed been sectioned. I think she was lying, as all BPD types do, all the time. "I'm not sectioned, but if I go to leave, they will section me". Ok. Gotcha.
She told me she had taken an overdose. 130 paracetamol. That is (at 500mg a pop) 65 grams of paracetamol. I think the LD50 of that drug is something like 25 grams (that is considered a fatal dose), and she had taken three times that amount. Wow. I asked her if she had any complications, i.e. a fucked liver, but no, she was fine, just a coma for a few weeks. Righty-oh. The lies Chico, they always lie...
"What happened to your place? Why are you not living there anymore?"
No straight answer, taking ages to answer while they stall for time to work out more lies and piece it all together. She has lived there 20 years. Something kicked off. I won't ever know what it is. But I know that even though this is all shocking to me, the real truth will be ten times more shocking.
Apparently, her mum came over from Oz and stole 3K off her in GBP. Yup, 3 grand. Her mother. Stole it. From her draw. She actually had 8K in there, but her thieving mother only took 3K of it. Right. I didn't like to ask her why she didn't have it in the bank. She was anal and cheap with money. A real control freak. No way did she have that kind of cash in a draw in her flat for her mum to steal. She also told me she lost 20K after being ripped off by someone in a bad property deal. I probed. I got the usual BPD stalling and all-evasive non-answer.
Quick interjection for a joke: How do you know when a BPD person is lying to you? Their lips move! Ah ah.
She also told me, for some reason, that when she was coming out of her coma or whatever, that she had been talking gibberish, saying that she had told her mother that she had caused trouble in the amateur dramatics group she was in (yes she was a good little actress) by shit stirring and trying to break up the relationships of everyone in the troop. Bizarre. It was almost as if she was trying to construct a narrative for reality. As if she was trying to convince me, and in doing so it would actually fabricate the reality a bit stronger. When all the time it sounded as if it was herself she was trying to convince.
BPD and NPD project all the time, so maybe there was a seed of truth in this. That she did fuck up relationships around her (classc BPD) and she was trying to justify that it didn't happen because she talked about it when she was delirious, therefore it wasn't real. My fucking head was spinning at this point.
I still couldn't hate her though. Even though I have hated her for what she has done and the massive damage she has caused in my life. I would have thought I would be happy. But I just don't have it in me. I'm healthy. I can take no pleasure in misfortune as deep as this. Vindicated? Very much so. But it's a bit late for 'I told you so's' - even though I did tell her how things would end up.
She had it all. A nice stable flat in London. 3 jobs - she was a workaholic as opposed to the usual alcoholic stereotype for BPDs. Money in the bank. Her health. No friends of course. BPDs never have friends. For obvious reasons. They leave a trail of destruction behind them and it's hard to cover your tracks when people are still in your life, so they ghost and 'silent-treatment' people. But then again, most decent people shun them anyway. It's a two-way street going nowhere.
But most of all. She had me. A truly rare catch. One of the good ones. A young god, in fact. But it just wasn't enough. When the chemical romance wore off after a month or two (it didn't take longer than that), she set about doing what all BPDs do: devaluing before distancing. Demonizing in fact as much as devaluing. All part of the process of 'splitting'. The only time a BPD feels remotely human is when that Oxytocin (is it? I forget - the love chemical in our brains) balances out their mal-wiring of neurons. And that is how they can fool you. Sure, they love bomb you. And they are convincing, because they really mean it. They really do love you. It's not an act. Well, it is an act. Very much so. But let's not get too deep here.
It got beyond ugly. The police got involved. She would call them about once or twice a week in the end. And they would come and say, sorry, it's her place, you have to leave. And that was that. They facilitated her in her abuse of me. Nothing I could do. A man who did that to a woman would be up on domestic abuse charges, but you know the game chaps. One law for them and another for us. And that is how I kind of ended up being homeless. My fault really for getting in to that kind of scrape. I take full responsibility. Let's just say I was shown no mercy. It was fucking barbaric.
And fast forward.
She's in the fucking loony bin! Kicked out of her flat, on the street, so to speak, just like she did to me.
She also said to me her landlady (another psycho) had told her that she didn't think she was mad at all and that she just thought she was playing a game and being the 'good little actress' that she always was. This person defrauded the family housing association so much by sub-letting her flat to my ex (illegal in the uk) that she bought a fucking house with the proceeds. But no word on why she turned on her.
One thing I know is I will never know the truth. I'm sorry I called now. Yeah, it was a good exercise in being vindicated - of putting the final pieces of the jigsaw back in place. But it threw up more questions than answers.
I know she always wanted kids, but left it too late being a drug-fuelled slut (before she settled down respectfully with her 3 jobs). She had a miscarriage which fucked her up a bit as well I think. Thank fuck. Not being callous or spiteful here. That kid would have been taken in to care. For the best.
I actually even doubted she was in a mental hospital until she opened the door to some mad banshee bitch screaming and threatening someone. It was scary. I mean, full on. I've been around people that lost that amount of control before and it rarely ends well. It was fucking horrendous. She was in Bedlam alright.
I thought I would have felt some kind of schadenfreude about it all, but no, there was none. I felt a bit of pity, but I wasn't going to get emotionally roped back in to someone else's insanity again, not this cunt. Coz that is what she was, pure and simple. Made me out to to be her abuser. Even got me locked up briefly at one point. Pure fucking evil, whilst still being hollow and not being a human at all.
The vindication was enough. Not anything to be happy about at all. Damage done now anyway. Gloating would be the mark of a lesser man.
BPD types really are fucking dangerous. But they damage themselves quicker and burn out sooner than NPD types, who really can do a number on you.
I could keep on, but that's enough for now.
She told me that she had had enough, and that she really would take her own life when they release her. I didn't believe her about her OD, but in essence I did believe her about the fact that she would do herself in. She has nowhere left to go. She has alienated every single person around her. She has nothing. Nothing, left at all. And one day, earlier, she had it all. Sad.
But BPD types can't exist in a vacuum. They need victims. Literally. And if you have been the prey of a BPD type then you have to take a bit of responsibility yourself for being at least a little co-dependent. I know I was. I was broken from an early age and it's taken me half a lifetime to overcome my programming. I got there in the end. Better late than never.
If you don't break the chain and the cycle of this fault in your personality, then you will find it happening again and again to you. This is the hardest thing to face up to. Not that you asked for it, per se, but that you did contribute somewhat to your own demise.
So I put that out there for others to learn from.
They say you can't teach on old dog new tricks, but I disagree.
It's never too late to learn, to pick up and start again.
This is what this forum is about. Self-improvement. For many of you that means going from strength to strength and doing better, but for others of us, it means rebuilding, re-constructing, no matter how painful that might be.
I owe those I've mentioned in this thread (and Roosh himself) an enormous debt of gratitude.
There will be no healing for that little lady. I wish her well.
But not my problem now.