I am married to a woman with the blackest kind of BPD, comorbid with paranoia. If not for our daughter I would have divorced her and probably filed a lawsuit for partner abuse.
She took away all my financial means on the pretext that I was secretly abusing that money. Then she threw me out of the house because she claimed to be repulsed by the very sight of me. For a year I was the highest salaried homeless person in town.
She forbade me going near my daughter who loves me crazy because according to her I am a child molester. And then she started using my daughter against me. The little one has already started to show signs of PTSD. A result of her BPD driven parenting.
She found my family, my mother, my friends, my passion for art and poetry and even my job to be her enemies. So, she crested enough drama to isolate me from all of that. When the isolation came to a satisfactory level for her she started a direct smear campaign against all.
I have started to ignore her completely. I don't respond to her provocations anymore, so she is increasing the intensity and changing her tactics. She is at the moment confused by her inability to hurt me crazy. But I know she will find a way.
She may be disturbed, but her acts make her completely evil. I don't care for me anymore. Everything I had she managed to destroy – career, family, poetry, love, hope, joy… everything. I have no reason to continue living if not for my daughter.
I worry about the little one. An evil BPD mother is one of the worst things to happen to a child. I couldn't protect myself from the darkness of a PBPD. But I need to protect my daughter from her evil mother.
I am afraid that she will start hurting her to get to me. When that happens, I might come down upon her with hell fire. God be my witness.
Early in my marriage with my really black PBPD wife when one of the periods of peace went too long I started getting hopeful. I was putting 200% effort to meet every standard, every demand, every requirement possible. I was hopeful that my hard work was paying off. I thought I had managed to please the unpleasable.
Then one day she very sweetly, as sweet as a Mafia executioner, brought me back to reality, “See, now that I don't speak about the filthy life you lead how nice the home is working?” I was ignorant. I really tried to understand the “filthy life” I was leading at the time. Believing in her and trying to improve my self has done me more harm than anything else.
I am struggling to survive through a toxic marriage with a PBPD every day. Her greatest weapon to keep the Stockholm Syndrome alive is tactful hoovering, tactics that I now call the butterfly flutter, the everything is as fine as before, the you need me, the I need you… and so on.
My biggest survival tactic is of a grey rock, silently, patiently and consistently merged into the background. As little interaction as possible, which is often almost zero contact. Tough when you share a house and a daughter you both care about. I am trying. Hard. It's not easy, believe me.
It's working. Way less hoovering these days, and way absolutely horrible meanness and open hostility, all without any apparent change in triggers.
Considering how hyper-sharp in torture department she is I still am afraid that she will find a way to get to me to grind me down to earth whenever she feels like. Until then grey rock is working notwithstanding how twisted that working is.
My bpd partner has ruined lives of me and my daughter as well as her own. I am trying to salvage something at least for my daughter. I used to love her like crazy, now I completely hate her, and I don't think I can ever love her again even a bit.
