Splitting, Abandonment, and the Fantasy That Almost Killed Me

What I Know Now That I Didn’t Before Therapy—and Before The Borderline Between Us

I used to think love was supposed to hurt.

I thought it was supposed to feel like longing. Like chaos. Like constant overthinking and rewriting texts and rereading conversations. I thought needing someone so badly it broke me meant it was real. That the highs and lows were proof of passion.

But the truth is: I was splitting.
I was stuck in abandonment panic.
I was idealizing people who weren’t safe—because I didn’t know what safe even looked like.

Let’s talk about splitting.

If you don’t know what that means, splitting is when your brain goes from “this person is everything” to “this person is the enemy” in about .03 seconds. All-or-nothing thinking. You’re either the love of my life or I never want to see you again.

It’s not fake or manipulative.
It’s not something I chose.
It’s a survival strategy.

When you’ve been hurt, when love has meant danger, when you’ve never had emotional permanence—you learn to live in extremes. I couldn’t hold the gray. I couldn’t tolerate discomfort. So I swung. And it cost me. People. Stability. Peace. Myself.

Abandonment wasn’t just a fear—it was a wound.

It didn’t take much. A delayed reply. A sigh. A canceled plan. A shift in tone. And suddenly I’d spiral:

“They hate me.”
“They’re going to leave.”
“I’m too much.”
“I’ll ruin everything.”
“I knew I wasn’t enough.”

It didn’t matter if it was true.
My body believed it. My heart went into panic mode. I’d shut down, lash out, cling, withdraw, or beg—depending on the day and how raw I already felt.
And then, when they did leave? It confirmed the story I was already telling myself.

And then there was the idealization.

The fantasy.

I’d meet someone and suddenly they were everything. The answer. The safe place. The home I never had. I’d create a version of them in my head and fall in love with that. And when the real person showed up—flawed, human, disappointing—I’d crumble. Not because they did anything awful, but because they weren’t the fantasy.

Because when you have BPD, fantasy is often safer than reality. It’s controlled. It’s beautiful. It doesn’t hurt you unless you open your eyes.

What I know now, that I didn’t before therapy (and before writing The Borderline Between Us):

• A feeling is not a fact.
  Just because I feel like I’m being abandoned doesn’t mean I actually am.

• I can sit in discomfort without reacting.
  My body still floods. But I can pause. I can breathe. I can check the story I’m telling myself.

• People are allowed to be flawed.
  I don’t have to devalue someone the moment they disappoint me. I don’t have to run. I can hold space for the complexity.

• I am not too much.
  I am learning how to regulate, how to soothe, how to ask for what I need instead of demanding or withdrawing.

• Love doesn’t feel like a rollercoaster.
  It feels like safety. Like being seen. Like consistency. Love that feels like danger isn’t love—it’s reenactment.

Writing The Borderline Between Us cracked me open.

I wrote through the breakups, the spirals, the ghostings, the gaslighting, the regret. I wrote through the moments I begged to be loved. The nights I thought about disappearing. The mornings I clawed my way back to reality.

And through it all, I met me.

The me beneath the splitting.
The me who still deserves love even when she’s scared.
The me who knows now: I am not broken. I’m becoming.

If you resonate with this, you’re not alone.
If you’ve ever gone from “I love you” to “I hate you” in your head—same.
If you’ve ever panicked over a text—same.
If you’ve ever created a fantasy because reality was too painful—same.

But there’s a life beyond the chaos. I’m living it now. And it’s not perfect. But it’s real.
And that’s better than fantasy could ever be.