Sometimes, I wake up and I don’t know who I am.

Not in the poetic way — not like I’m lost in self-discovery —

but like I can’t find the person I was yesterday.

She had hope, she smiled at someone and thought maybe she mattered.

I can still feel her heartbeat echoing inside me,

but today I am someone new —

someone tired, someone empty, someone unsure if love is still safe.

My mind moves fast — faster than my own hands can keep up with.

I overthink every glance, every pause, every unanswered message.

It’s like I’m wired to feel rejection in places where it doesn’t even exist.

And when it does — when someone actually leaves —

it feels like dying in slow motion.

Like my skin can’t hold me together anymore.

I tell myself to stop caring so deeply.

I promise I’ll stay calm next time.

But when I love, I don’t just love.

I pour.

I pour until there’s nothing left of me,

and when the glass is empty, I wonder why I’m so dizzy.

People say I’m intense, dramatic, too emotional.

But if they could feel what I feel —

the way sadness floods every inch of your chest,

the way happiness feels like an explosion you can’t contain —

they’d understand it’s not exaggeration.

It’s survival.

Sometimes I cry for no reason.

Sometimes I laugh so hard I forget I was ever sad.

Sometimes I stare at the ceiling,

numb,

and other times I feel everything all at once —

like every emotion is standing in line,

waiting for its turn to take me apart.

I hate that I need reassurance so much.

It makes me feel needy, small, broken.

But the silence — God, the silence —

it’s like standing in a room where all the walls are mirrors,

and every reflection whispers: you’re not enough.

I push people away before they can leave me.

Then I ache for them the second they’re gone.

It’s not that I want to hurt anyone —

I just don’t know how to trust that someone will stay

when even I can’t stay the same.

Sometimes I feel proud of my heart, though.

Because it keeps beating even when it breaks.

It keeps hoping even when I swear I’ve given up.

It’s bruised and scared and messy —

but it still wants love.

And isn’t that something?

To still want love, after every storm,

after every tear and apology and burned bridge.

To still want to be understood,

even when words never seem big enough to explain

the chaos inside me.

When I say I have Borderline Personality Disorder,

people think it means I’m dangerous, or manipulative,

or impossible to love.

But really, it just means I feel things differently.

I care too much.

I notice every tone shift, every sigh, every goodbye that lingers too long.

It means I have a heart with no skin —

everything touches it directly.

Some days I hate it.

Some days I wish I could just turn it off,

to feel neutral, steady, unbothered.

But other days —

I catch a sunset,

or someone laughs in a way that fills the air with warmth,

and suddenly I’m overflowing with something that feels

like being alive for the first time again.

That’s what people don’t see.

The way we love.

The way we care.

The way we find beauty in brokenness,

because we know how it feels to shatter.

So yes, I cry easily.

I love too deeply.

I fall apart, then rebuild,

again and again,

like it’s the only thing I was ever taught to do.

I am not my diagnosis.

I am the spaces between the labels,

the small victories no one notices —

getting out of bed, replying to a message,

choosing to stay one more day.

Borderline Personality Disorder isn’t just pain.

It’s a spectrum of humanity turned up too loud —

colors too bright,

feelings too big,

love too strong for fragile places.

I am not crazy.

I am sensitive.

I am fierce.

I am learning how to love without losing myself.

And maybe one day,

I’ll stop apologizing for the way my heart feels —

like fire and ocean and thunder and silence,

all at once.