I'm going to begin this with a rant; I need to vent to someone who can hear me, I'm sorry. If anyone has any similiar experiences, I'd love to hear them. Both because I need to see how you all behaved and just because you deserve someone to listen, too.

To put it bluntly, I'm disgusted with myself. It's six in the morning and I can't sleep. The guilt keeps me up. Grabbed my journal and wrote four pages on my last relationship. "My first love." "My greatest failure." Both of those things have escaped my lips and only one of them is true. I've always defined "Love", of any kind, from Phileo to Eros to Agape, as based on the concept of self-sacrifice; loving someone else more than you love yourself. To compromise, to share mutual feelings, and to empathize and care. I didn't do any of those things. What I felt was infatuation, lust, envy, and obsession. I hate myself for it everyday.

There are many reasons for why this happened, but I can't honestly tell you what they all are. To say I'm a flawed man would be putting it mildly; Lord Byron could write epics from my character alone. I'm lonely and lost; posses poor interpersonal skills and a lot of emotional baggage - I'm very self-centered and socially awkward, extremely impulsive, too emotional, and generally not a likable person. A lot of why I didn't realize everything that was going on before it was too late is because I have the same victim-complex I've hated my family for having. It's all about me. I'm always the victim. That and I posses next to no self-confidence and need constant affirmation and reassurance due to my awful self-image. Yet, I still manage to be arrogant, condescending, and superior. Frankly, I've got this odd meld of an Inferiority/Superiority complex. I'm smarter, stronger, morally superior, and I've suffered more - I'm better. Why am I unhappy? Why do they suceed where I consistently fail? Why do I want want they have? Why do they have what I want? This self of entitlement and my own self-posessed nature have to face the reality that I'm far too weak, immature, and cowardly to match the rest of the world who have gone to rise above the challenge, where I stand in bitter silence.

Why I developed a romantic attatchment to her isn't difficult. I was immediately physically attracted, but at first, I didn't feel any connection. Passionate, driven, eccentric, quirky, fun, interesting, intelligent, outspoken, extroverted; everything I'm not. Stubborn, prejudiced, unrealistic, manipulative, controlling, and very, very arrogant. We had similiar interests, histories, and goals. When I was around her, I could hope. On a mental level, I knew that we were incompatible and that pursuit was foolish. I did it anyway.

My obsession grew overtime, until she was everything I thought about. We spent every day together and spoke almost constantly. Her flaws became more glaring as time went on - mine did not. Not that they weren't apparent, because they were; I was just too blind to notice. She was involved with another guy, her boyfriend. I was just her friendzoned lapdog. She thought she could change him, fix him, and stuck with him through all the crap he put her through. She did the same thing with me, ironically. Eventually she had enough and denied his existence. That's also eerily familiar. There was a point where, in my eyes, we had begun a relationship. Not just mine - everyone else's too. She was still seeing him, though not officially anymore. My sense of betrayal was only exceeded by my lust and my obsession.

I brought this on myself, though. I was persistent, not accepting that she didn't feel for me and I kept pushing until, eventually, she called me out on trying to force her to love me. "Nobody's ever loved you and you want that. You've never loved anyone and you want that." She couldn't give that to me. That's not her fault. Engaging in a very physical relationship, was. Apparently it was so I wouldn't leave her. Would I have, if I had gotten angry enough at her behavior? Maybe. Was that how I wanted to be controlled? No. She had a leash on me and used her body to reel me in. I gladly accepted it. Because, by the end of the relationship, that's all I wanted. To get laid. It's disgusting, but it's a fact. The tunnel vision had set on months before. I loved her. I wanted her. That's all I knew. I had to have her.

Was I totally crass and careless? I like to think I held at least some semblence of decency. She cared about me, too, I think. It wasn't until the end, but she showed genuine guilt about my state of mind and my general lapses in mental and physical health. I wish I still had those papers she'd given me. I don't remember where I put them. It wasn't until it was too late that either of us took responsibility for our actions - sadly, it took me longer than her. When I was dying, she was terrified for me. When I left, she hated me for abandoning her - because maybe the dependency wasn't just on my side. We fought so much and hated each other, but needed each other. Maybe I was projecting, maybe I was blind to what was right in front of my nose.

We have both blame and fault in this scenario. What do I hate myself for? For being too lost in myself, my emotions, my desires, and so utterly overwhelmed by them that I forgot that I cared about her and failed to live up to any of my promises. That I couldn't listen, care, and help her when she needed it. That I was so selfish. That I hurt her. That I manipulated and used her. For that, I hate myself. For that, I am sorry. I left her and stopped caring. I abandoned her. For that, I will never forgive myself.

In the end, I threw her away, to save myself. I like to say I did it to save her, but that was an after-thought; a justification. I was drowning and I knew she was the spark of my insanity. Not her fault, but that's what I had come to associate with her. She's better off without me. I'm better off without emotions. I'm cold, empty, and bitter. From what my sources tell me, she's happy. Isn't that all that matters? It should be. But for some reason, I just don't give a damn.

My behavior, my obsession, my constant emotional outbursts, my growing impulsivity and loss of self-control cost me more than just her. Some of my best friends left, because they refused to put up with what I'd become. What I'd always, secretely, been. Manipulative, lying, selfish, lacking in empathy and reason, and generally taking without care for others. All take and no give.

I read that as BPD obsessive love episodes devolve and decay, they become increasingly physical, until the emotional level is gone. Am I just a disgusting pig of a man who only cared about a walking pair of tits, without regard for her as a person? Is this my excuse for my behavior? Or did my mental illness really damage my thought process, my emotions, and my perspective on reality so badly that I did things I never should and would have done had I been in my right mind? I can still remember how she tastes, but not the color of her eyes. I remember all the nights where she'd just stick in her hand in my pants and screw with me, only to leave me high and dry, but not what caused one of our biggest arguments. I can't remember. Do I even care?

When I first came to these revelations, I had an anxiety attack and couldn't sleep. Not for days, until I told someone what I'd come to see, was the weight of a thousand suns lifted off my shoulders. Frankly, I barely care anymore. I want to care. I should care. That was always who I was; the one who cared, probably too much. Now I don't give a damn about someone who should have been treated like an angel. She wasn't perfect, but neither am I. I should have payed attention to my mind, and now it's too late. I'm disgusted and ashamed of myself. The worst part is that I haven't changed that much; I'm just self-aware. I don't care or think about what she's doing now - just if she'll forgive me, so this guilt will be gone. Why am I losing my ability to empathize?

If I apologized, would she even want to listen? Would she just get angry, like the last two times we spoke? I abandoned her. She has a right to be angry at me. I hurt her unspeakably. She hurt me, too; but does that even matter? Would she ever be able to forgive me? ...am I beyond redemption? Does this make me a monster? Have I somehow unwittingly become the kind of evil person I've hated my whole life? He who fights monsters must take care, lest he, himself, become a monster. Do I just keep doing what I have? Do I just try and keep my one last promise? Leave her alone and let her live her own live. She doesn't need me bothering her anymore. That seems to be the only choice.

I did my best to just list facts and not fly off the handle. Maybe it sounds a little clinical, but that's the only way I can deal with it without bursting into tears. Sometimes I think swallowing a bullet would be the rightest thing I could ever do. Like I was doing the world a favor. Somehow, people still care about me and claim to need me. I've hurt them enough; so, no seppeku for me. I'll just live dishonored and disgraced. I'm young. Eighteen years old. Maybe this is just silly, petty, and childish. But it means something to me.

Somehow, when I was on the doorstep of death and struggling to come to terms with my own mortality, when I was in so much pain I couldn't see straight, when my father abandoned me, when my mothers family disowned me, when my life was falling apart at the seams, when it seemed like the universe itself was punishing me, all I cared about was her. I needed her. She has been all I've thought about for almost two years. Somehow, despite all the other, far more pressing, ******** in my life - she's remained the most important to me. Priorities: I have them.

I'm angry at the world and on the verge of another breakdown. I ruined my own life and lost everything. I did my homework. Obsessive Love traits on a Borderline fool. From what I understand, I'm not the only one who makes an *** out of himself for what he thinks is love. So, please, share your comments, personal anecdotes, and whatever else you feel necissary. I'd like to hear it.

But, I want to ask you all something, before I finish this post. At what point does my mental illness begin and I end? How much of this is because I'm just a terrible human being and how much of this is because I'm sick? My father told me I was a coward and a loser who needed to man up and learn how to cope. At the time I thought he was just a jackass, but maybe he was right.