(Best read while listening to “Chalked Outline” by Ren)
A pause from dating
After a series of intense — and honestly terrible — dates, I had to stop and ask myself: “Should I completely stop dating?”
The answer, surprisingly, was yes. There are certain periods in life when the stars simply aren’t aligned, and dating should take a backseat.
I’m not a big fan of leaving my future in the hands of fate, but I do believe in karma. Recently, after restarting therapy, I came to a difficult realization: my BPD and bipolar disorder have been the common thread in every broken relationship I’ve had.
That’s not to excuse the behavior of the men — or boys — I dated. But in the end, they were my choices. And if I’m being honest, every one of those “love seasons” began during a manic phase.
The beauty and danger of mania
There’s an intoxicating kind of beauty in falling in love when you’re manic.
Men fall for the obsession — they mistake it for passion. But they don’t appreciate the splitting that comes with it.
My last boyfriend was fascinated by my BPD at first, almost thrilled by the intensity of my attention. He said he’d never felt so desired, so completely seen. But when my splitting finally made its way into his apartment — when love turned into fear, when the worship became withdrawal — he disappeared.
Honesty, myths, and misunderstandings
My feelings for him stayed intense long after the breakup. Even when I was with someone else, a part of me still believed that the man I’d spent the last year of my life with would one day return — that the BPD and bipolar disorder we’d discussed from day one wouldn’t be obstacles to our “real” love story.
The truth is, even though I try to be honest about my condition from the start, most men don’t understand the depth of it. Some believe the myths about BPD and bipolar disorder and run away immediately. Most, however, enjoy the attention, the high, the sex. They fall in love — or at least believe they do.
To this day, I’m still not sure whether they were love-bombing me or if I was doing it to them.
The pattern that keeps repeating
Every relationship I’ve had has been intense — full of big dreams and promises. The endings, though, have been almost identical.
The only real change I see, thanks to therapy and medication, is in me. I regulate better now. I walk away from toxic situations earlier. But one thing remains the same: the kind of men I choose.
Like my last “boyfriend,” every one of them is, in some way, damaged. And like a butterfly drawn to fire, I form passionate, self-destructive relationships with them. The ending is always the same.
“Deep down, I know I deserve someone better. But in my attempt to fix them, I destroy our connection — and I’m left alone to face the consequences.”
Because the truth is, they learn. I’m the one left stuck with my diagnoses.
I’m not excusing myself; I’ve come a long way in learning to live with who I am. But I mourn, in a strange way. I celebrate seeing them happy — becoming the men I once believed they could be — yet I still mourn the part of me that stays trapped in this cycle.
When love becomes a mirror
Since then, I’ve dated, fallen in love, and fallen apart again. But I still can’t forget the man who once told me, “Your BPD is the best thing that’s ever happened to my self-esteem.”
And he was right — for a while. He was going through a painful divorce, and my BPD made him feel like a king — adored, worshipped, almost godlike. Until it didn’t. That was the last time I saw him.
“Sometimes, he still tries to chase that high again — and sometimes, I let him. Maybe because I know that, in the end, I destroyed his last illusion of love — the toxic one.”
The project phase
The truth is, men do become better partners after me. Because they learn to walk on eggshells, their next relationship feels like a piece of cake. I can proudly say that all my exes got married after me.
After turning thirty, I stopped referring to them as “boyfriends” and started calling them “projects.” And in a way, they were. I taught them what “crazy” really looks like — and in doing so, they learned that the bare minimum is not trying.
It takes a lot to love someone with bipolar disorder and BPD, and I don’t let them have it any other way.
But lately, no one has fit the new project criteria. So instead of wearing myself out, I paused dating altogether.
The slow rebuilding
Then I started therapy again — and picked up Communion: The Female Search for Love by Bell Hooks.
What stood out at this phase of my life was the accountability she holds herself to. Yes, she explores all the myths and societal pressures placed on women, but she also holds a mirror up to herself.
After one of the most difficult breakups of her life, bell hooks began to recognise the pattern in her romantic choices — the people who let her live “free,” but were never really there for her. And instead of waiting for love to change, she decided to change herself first.
Living with bipolar disorder and BPD has shaped my idea of love into a repeated cycle: tolerating, teaching, loving, getting abandoned. I know I’m not the only one who’s been caught in that loop.
What keeps me optimistic is that I’m medicated and in therapy. If I’ve managed to change my work behavior — I used to get bored and change fields every six months — then maybe I have a chance at love, too.
The more work I put in (read my previous piece, The Art of Loving), the greater my chances of experiencing a healthy relationship.
Not an everlasting one — but a healthy one.
Maybe one day, someone will fall for me — not my BPD.
Author Note
As a writer based in Bremen, exploring love, recovery, and self-awareness, my work tries to blend memoir, psychology, and feminist reflection — always circling back to the question: what does it mean to love when you’re still learning to live with yourself?
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