It’s Not Personal. It’s Survival.

When I’m triggered, I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to survive.

That’s the part people don’t see. They see the anger. The sarcasm. The shutdown. They see the comments I make to provoke. They see the spiral. But they don’t see the ache underneath.

It feels like I’m decaying from the inside out. Like I’ve been stabbed in the heart and left to bleed, but I still have to smile and play with my kids. It’s exhausting. It’s draining. It’s not personal.

I wish people understood that. That I’m not choosing this. That if I could stop, I would.

But anxiety (and the possibility of BPD) doesn’t work like that. It loops. It latches. It amplifies.

And in those moments, there’s no reasoning with me. Not because I don’t care. But because I can’t hear you through the noise.

I need a hug. I need someone to say, “You’re okay.” I need someone to stay.

But I also need boundaries. I need people to stand their ground. To say, “I love you, but I won’t let you hurt me.”

Because I don’t want to be abusive. I don’t want to be manipulative. I just want to stop hurting.

And sometimes, the only way to do that is to be held. Not fixed. Not corrected. Just held.

This is survival. Not pretty. Not polished. But real.