Kristiana Koutsi

Better read while listening to “Sunday Kind of Love” by Etta James.

No one understands solitude better than someone who has lived inside it.

Being alone does not mean being lonely. And some people, I believe, are born with a quiet sentence written in the stars — you will learn how to stand on your own.

For most of my life, I dreamed of being saved by someone else’s love. I searched for someone who would love me back into one piece. I believed I was broken and needed fixing — that if someone loved me enough, I would finally become whole.

It never crossed my mind that everyone is a little broken. Or that love is not meant to repair us — only to meet us where we already stand.

BPD had other plans for me.

For years, I carried the shame of being officially “broken.” I read the statistics. People with BPD often end up alone. Many don’t finish university. Too many die by suicide. It felt as if the prophecy had already been written for me — a hundred years of solitude.

I convinced myself that I didn’t need love to flourish or to become whole. Instead of learning how to be loved, I chose relationships that offered neither safety nor ground — no space where I could learn how to exist without apologising. In hindsight, it was a self-fulfilling prophecy.

In the beginning, I hid my diagnoses from my partners. I hoped I would “get better” through the love they showed me. I believed affection could stabilise me, that patience would cure me. Instead, I collected breakups and heartbreak.

After my first year of therapy, I stopped hiding. I began disclosing early — especially my dual diagnoses, BPD and bipolar disorder. Not to excuse my behaviour, but to protect the bond I felt forming.

Living with a mental illness that primarily affects your love life is a particular kind of cruelty. Most other areas of my life are stable — work, friendships, ambition, routine. But romantic relationships demand skills most people were never taught: emotional regulation, consistency, staying.

And it seems few are willing to learn.

That is why I often feel I was never loved enough. Not because I am unlovable — but because no one stayed when I became difficult. I stayed through their darkest moments, their breakdowns, their rock bottoms. But when I was the problem, no one had the stomach to remain.

That is the paradox of these disorders. In the beginning, you are the perfect girlfriend. You adore without restraint. You mirror desire. You love as if the other person is divine. You cannot do wrong.

But slowly, something shifts.

Not always because they hurt you — though sometimes they do — but because you begin to feel the imbalance. The love you give is not matched in depth. They can spend hours confessing devotion, and all you hear is distance. All you see is absence. All you feel is your own pain growing louder.

The bond begins to fracture — not because they stopped loving you, but because they don’t understand the change. They cannot reconcile being placed on a pedestal with the sudden discomfort of being confronted. They cannot tolerate the truth spoken plainly: I feel alone in this relationship.

And yes — I know my level of “craziness.” On the absurd scale of hot and crazy, ugly and normal — I lose in every category. Not hot enough to justify intensity. Not normal enough to be forgiven for it.

But that joke hides something real.

The most painful part of my breakups was never the anger. Not the cruel messages. Not even the self-hatred those moments fuelled.

The most painful moment was always the same line:

“I want you to be happy.”

That sentence meant the ending was final. That there would be no flowers. No apology. No return. That I had to stop waiting.

Before that, though, comes the real torture.

Many of my partners began reading about my condition. For a brief moment, I felt safe — hopeful that language would create understanding. I began expressing my needs more clearly. I spoke my fears out loud.

That was when everything collapsed.

Learning about my diagnosis did not soften them. It armed them.

Suddenly, every emotion was pathology. Every complaint was an episode. Every boundary was dismissed as illness. I was no longer a woman in pain — I was a symptom.

This is how diagnoses become weapons.

You are no longer the “perfect girlfriend.” You become damaged goods. A problem. For women especially, BPD carries a unique sentence: unlovable. Broken beyond repair. Not even fully loved by your own parents.

Is it true?

Of course not.

We are as lovable as anyone else. We simply need an additional language — one that requires patience, listening, and care. And without being heard, we don’t just hurt.

We fall into disrepair.

That’s one of the most painful moments of my life — and it repeats with every relationship. When it happens, it feels like dying. Of course I know now that it’s not. But in that moment, it’s as if the ground slips out from beneath me. The image of the “perfect girlfriend” shatters. And without admiration, a person with BPD struggles to survive.

Every “no” doesn’t register as a healthy boundary — it feels like rejection. Every moment they pull away doesn’t feel like space — it feels like love’s battery draining to zero.

Until there’s nothing left.

Just a hollow version of the relationship you once had… And your own obsessive mind trying to bring it back to life.

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The truth is: yes, my condition makes relationships harder. But I’m proud of the way I love.

I am a devoted partner. I am a fiercely loyal friend. I want my person to grow, to thrive, to be better in every part of their life. I love deeply — sometimes too deeply, yes — but never half-heartedly.

I may come on strong about my wants and needs. But I’ve spent years in therapy learning how to name them.

And if that sounds intimidating, so be it.

Because here’s the reality: Like all 8+ billion people on this planet, I have trauma. Surprise.

The only difference between me and most of the people I’ve dated is this:

I have a name for my emotional pain — and I do the work every single week.

So I can’t help but wonder — is my soulmate dead… or do I just not have a soul? 😌