When the Spiral Ends in Softness

This past weekend was one of those weekends. The kind where everything in me started to unravel without warning. The kind that sneaks up slowly until suddenly I’m in a dark place, and the only thing I can think about is how to make it stop. I came terrifyingly close to self-harming — something I haven’t done in a long time, but that still lingers like a shadow in the corners of my mind when things get heavy.

It was a hard weekend.

My boyfriend was away, and even though he did everything he could to be there for me from a distance — calling, texting, checking in, loving me through it all — I still spiraled. That’s the thing about BPD and mental health in general: sometimes it doesn’t matter how much support you have, the storm just still comes. I felt this strange guilt, like I needed to atone for falling apart, like I owed him something for loving me through it. I know that’s not how love works, but when you’re in it — really in it — it’s hard to see clearly.

By Monday, I was drained. He came home, and we both knew we needed a day that was just for us. Not to fix what happened, not to pretend it didn’t, but to remind ourselves what we’re building, what we hold, and how far we’ve come.

So we had a date night.

We went out to dinner, and I’m still dreaming about the whipped ricotta with honey on sourdough bread. Warm. Creamy. Sweet and savory and light and perfect. The kind of appetizer that makes you close your eyes after the first bite.

Afterward, we walked to the Ben Franklin Bridge and stood at the top overlook, just taking it in — the lights, the skyline, the river below us, quiet and constant. I took a photo of us, and I remember thinking, This is a moment I want to keep.

Then we wandered to the Chinese Lantern Festival at Franklin Square, where everything glowed in color and magic. We laughed, held hands, and played mini golf — where, by the way, I beat him (rare moment, had to brag).

It was perfect. It was soft. It was us.

I still have healing to do. I always will. But this is what healing looks like sometimes — not just surviving the hard nights, but letting yourself be held in the aftermath. Choosing light after the darkness. Taking the hand that’s offered. Smiling again, even if your heart still remembers the ache.

And that’s what this week is about for me: remembering that even after a fall, there is always a way back. Sometimes the way back is through whipped ricotta and honey. Sometimes it’s through laughter at the top of a bridge.

I’m still here. We’re still here. And that matters.

— Devon