The Cycle
This part of my story has always been one of the hardest to write. It’s the second most nerve-wracking chapter of my life—one shaped by my own mistakes (and a few I had no control over), yet powerful enough to mold who I became. For years, my relationships—family, friends, partners, even coworkers—were minefields I never learned to navigate. I took people for granted, attached too quickly, trusted too deeply, or offered pieces of myself before I understood who I even was. If there’s one thing I perfected in my teens through my twenties, it was the art of self-sabotage. And I surrounded myself with people who added to the chaos I was already creating.
Chaos. I craved it like oxygen.
It was familiar—the way my parents reacted to anything, the way my best friend in high school could stir up drama overnight, the attention I thought it would bring. It made me feel secure because at least chaos was predictable. Those of us with Borderline Personality Disorder understand that craving all too well. The intensity becomes a strange kind of comfort. It feels like home. In chaos, I knew the emotional landscape. I knew what to expect. And so I convinced myself that control—over feelings, reactions, situations, people—was the only way to stay safe.
But kids don’t get control. Especially not in the kind of home I grew up in.
And when I say “control,” I don’t mean power. I mean the ability to manage emotions, behaviors, impulses—basic self-regulation skills most children are taught. In my house, emotions weren’t acknowledged unless they were punished. My vulnerability, paired with intense emotions and zero guidance, created the perfect storm. My parents didn’t believe in mental health; expressing feelings was treated as unacceptable or irrational. So I learned early on that who I was internally didn’t matter. That experience set me on a cycle of invalidation and emotional dysregulation that followed me well into adulthood.
Some people see that as an excuse. It’s not.
It’s an explanation of how I functioned and later survived without help. It’s something I now recognize in my own child and other children around me, and it’s heartbreaking to see how easily that cycle can repeat if someone doesn’t intervene.
As life went on, the pattern continued. I disappointed my family with emotional outbursts, impulsive decisions, and half-truths. I made friends and eventually burned those bridges. I dated people I ended up hurting. I got married for reasons that didn’t necessarily fit into the definition of marriage —believing it would fix the relationship or accepting it because I thought it was all I deserved at the time. When the relationship began to crumble, I searched for what I needed elsewhere instead of waiting for the marriage to end. (Fear of abandonment—don’t worry, that blog is coming.)
Every time I tried to “find myself,” I simply morphed into whatever version I thought someone wanted. I slipped into their aesthetic, their expectations, their world. And with that came identity confusion so strong that maintaining any real connection felt impossible. It wasn’t until I reached the darkest moment of my life that the cycle finally shattered.
Therapy began forcing me to face the parts of myself I avoided for years. I’m still uncovering frustration and grief toward people who hurt me—feelings I pushed down by taking 100% of the blame for everything that ever went wrong. Accountability became my coping mechanism. If I carried all the responsibility, then maybe I could earn my own forgiveness. Maybe I could move on.
But healing isn’t linear, and forgiveness—especially of yourself—is never simple.
I’m still learning both.
