Monday, July 20, 2009

The Last Bin

After we broke up, I always had a hint of trying to get back together with the BPD. I wanted to heal, but if she had come begging back to me and had promised to try to fix herself, I might have considered staying in the relationship.

After all, she and I had been together for nearly 2 years. I didn't want to throw that much history away, and if she could stabilize, I would have considered a reconciliation.

So, we had sent a flurry of text messages and emails back and forth during the early part of March, and of course, there was drama where she accused me of a bunch of things, was downright mean and nasty, then rejected me once again...all in a chain of emails and text messages.

Amazing. The BPD could make you feel terrible without even talking to you. The nice thing was that I didn't have my hopes up high.

I remember that even in our text messages, we were communicating well, then, she turned; it was like you could have snapped your fingers with the way that a Borderline turns on you.

If you're going through this or in a relationship with a Borderline, that's how you can tell that they're truly Borderline -- you could be on great terms and having a great time with them, and in the snap of your fingers, they'll turn on you for a reason that makes no sense to you.

Anyway, back to the story. We had communicated a number of times, but in the end, she once again pushed me away.

I would normally try to pull her back in. I was done. I knew that there was a big world out there, and remaining with her was only going to be detrimental to my well-being.

Take the Band-Aid off, Rhonda said.

I didn't try to get back in.

Thirty minutes later, she tried to pull me back in. She sent me a nearly illegible email telling me how much of a nasty, sick, demented person I really was, and how I was going to rot in Hell or something like that.

I got it now and wasn't falling for it anymore. So I didn't respond.

Man, that must have pissed her off.

I was moving on -- as best that I can. I had started dating, and was talking with a number of people.

I was trying to heal. Trying hard.

Take one day at a time, boy. Do the best that you can. Go to work, contribute, do the best that you can. Put one foot in front of another. Do the right thing.

The week is ending. I pick my kids up and take them back to my place. As I pull up, I notice one of my plastic bins outside my place.

Holy crap. How did that get there?

I bring the bin inside and inspect its contents. It's all things that I had left at the BPDs when I lived with her: my iron, some tools, things I had left in the garage, Christmas ornaments that I had bought for her and my kids, nothing really special.

Except one thing -- a can of spray starch -- called Faultless spray starch.

How poetically ironic. Faultless.

Of course, the BPD would accuse me of being Faultless. I always told her that I was human, that I made mistakes, just not the mistakes that she accused me of making.

Once again, I felt like I was going to cry. I called one of the girls I was dating and told her (she had become a confidante, or so I thought) what had happened and how I felt. She told me that I needed some more time alone, and to call her in around a month.

Wow. Get hit between the eyes then get kicked in the nuts in the same hour. Thanks.

So she had returned everything that was mine. Things were really over.

A part of me was sad.

A part of me was mad. How much mistreatment can one person take?

Not much more. It was my turn to settle the score and show her true nature to others. Time to find the world that she had before me so she would know that I knew.

It was time for the Saint Patrick's Day Celebration.

Next time, learn about Saint Patrick's Day and what happened.

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