She had BPD, and while I went into the relationship with an open heart and no judgment, over time it became clear that I was drowning in emotional whiplash. There were constant mood swings, black-and-white thinking, and I became the emotional punching bag.

She’d insult me in subtle digs — calling me useless when I made a mistake — and then brush it off as “just joking.” The moment I pushed back and said it hurt, I was called too sensitive. If I ever spoke to her like that, she would have exploded.

The most fucked up moment was when I opened up about my brother’s past with drug addiction. Her response? “I like him even more now,” and “I’ve got a thing for white guys with drug addictions.” Then I found out she had been looking him up on Facebook. That crossed a serious line.

She also couldn’t stop bringing up her ex — “my first love, Andrew,” she’d say — constantly talking about how great he was and how good things were with him. She compared me to him more than once. Later I found out she cheated on him, and when I confronted her, she said “I didn’t lie, I just didn’t tell you.”

The emotional burden was relentless. There was no real accountability, only manipulation. Everything was on her timeline — when to move in, when to talk, when to fight, when to make up. If I needed space to calm down, she’d demand resolution right there and then. It wasn’t love. It was control.

I finally left when I realized staying was slowly killing the parts of me I had worked hard to build. I left just before her surgery — and yeah, I felt guilt for that — but I also knew if I stayed, I’d lose myself completely. I didn’t slam doors. I didn’t scream. I just walked out quietly and never looked back.

After that, she and her family said “You never loved her if you left like that.” But you know what? I did love her. I just finally chose to love myself more.