26 posts shown.
You can ditch the first two without a second thought—just temp folders from the installation process. Leave the third one alone; that’s a system folder for the event logs. Honestly, though, either your installer didn't finish properly or you've run it so many times that the automatic cleanup failed to kick in.
Honestly, I don't view BPD as a distinct disease. It’s more like an umbrella term for a massive spectrum of emotional issues—stuff rooted in a lack of stability, or just the distortion of basic human emotions during early development. You end up suppressing certain feelings and filling those gaps with constant escapism. Add a steady layer of dissatisfaction to those fantasies, and—voila—you've got depression.
I'm feeling perfectly fine, man.
Part two.
DISCLAIMER: Just because I’m writing this doesn't mean you should follow suit. It probably won't do you any favors.
As I mentioned before, I haven't stopped smoking weed since I was fifteen. But a few days ago, here I am—lying in a bathtub with a heavy lung, trying to figure out if I should just let my girlfriend be or if I need to keep crawling and begging for forgiveness after the disaster I caused.
Through a heavy lamentation about love, I hit a pivotal moment where I finally "made peace with myself" / "became one" / "put my inner monster on a leash" / "found myself" / "found God" / "votevrdfakever." Twenty-five years too late.
Borderi would understand exactly what I mean when I talk about tormenting a partner through endless psychoanalysis in an attempt to improve oneself for their sake and yours. In a desperate struggle to find the line between letting go or continuing to whine at someone who gave you everything while you UNIŠTIOOOOO them, I can't find a rational answer. Because there isn't one. There is no answer. Love is truly an absolute force—it operates with its own gravity, spacetime, velocity, and mass. It is Yang, the force of creation. There is no cure for it, only counter-forces in the form of destruction and nothingness—Yin. Period.
Our love simply exists. Everything else is just logic. In that rush, I realize my own duality. My monster—the persona that constantly tells me everyone will laugh at me, that I'll fail, that I'm a bad person, etc. He is the counterbalance to the kid who just wants to laugh, have fun, and meet new people without a single thought about whether things might go wrong. I see now that I am something more. More than one person. A fusion of two forces making up ME within this body. It's just how it is, and nowadays, there's almost scientific evidence for it.
In that moment of self-realization, I finally accept myself with immense happiness. Whoever I am. I establish control over both myself and the monster. I realize that I am the master of both characters. They all make ME. And I am the owner of it all. In the seconds following, it feels like I broke through an invisible wall. Every memory, every thought, every glance at an object takes on a new dimension. I feel like walking up to a stranger with a smile just to ask about the force that makes them who they are. That irrational fear almost completely vanishes in an incredibly short amount of time.
After the initial rush, I settle back down to earth over the next few days and realize that whatever I do, I do it because I want to. That psychotic questioning of whether it's "right," or how it will affect someone or something, is gone. The mind is unified with the soul. And everything I've learned so far isn't useless. It's there, but it exists purely through cold logic gathered throughout life, devoid of soul. But it IS there.
There are likely many ways to encounter God. This is one. He is real, but he doesn't have a beard. He is the sum of all the forces in this universe, and those forces are a part of me. Therefore, I am God. From today on, I will walk this planet without a shred of fear toward anything, acting as the architect of my own destiny.
P.S.
To all the guys who might try to hunt down their own monsters or visualize Yin and Yang: don't bother. It won't work. You have to deeply understand and reconcile with the fact that what you are—the good and the bad—is truly YOU. That doesn't mean if you enjoy jerking off on a Greyhound bus you can do it without shame; it means you actually realize your dark sides are part of you. That you have control over them. Regardless of how it looks in your head versus how it looks to everyone else, it seems to me that this is one of those conditions that is very hard to treat and requires a highly individual approach. If you haven't realized who you are yet, believe me, you'll know when it happens.
So, I know many will take this post literally; I did the same thing. But I read, and I tried, and I tried, and I read, and I tried. Even though I hid behind fake emotions. Those were my walls, and man, my wall was high after so many dead years. If this post helps anyone get even one step closer to knowing themselves, I’ll die a happier man.
P.P.S.
Journaling has been a massive help lately—especially during the low points. Honestly, reading back through your own entries once you’re feeling stable is the secret. It helps bridge that gap between depression and normalcy before things spiral too far.
P.P.P.S.
As for how I personally handled my emotional baggage: I leaned heavily on raw, isolated logic. Back when I hit a wall at 27, I started retroactively dissecting everything that went wrong. Every new realization was filed away under "correct" in my head—sort of rearranging trophies in my mind every time I sank deeper and uncovered something new. Eventually, despite all the wreckage I left behind, I finally faced that one buried question I couldn't answer when I was 18. Answering it was what finally pulled me together into a functional human being.
Take care and good luck.
Listen, folks—
After years of fighting, I can finally say at 33 that I’m actually healthy—no lingering issues, nothing. That's despite being unemployed right now and nearly losing the woman I want to build a life with above all else. It all comes down to the state I was in until just a few days ago.
Since I’ve documented most of my treatment journey here under the handles Clint Eastwood, executable, and now this one—I figured I’d wrap things up with a brief summary of my "recovery" process. There’s been a lot of helpful info on these boards over the years, and I hope I’ve contributed something useful too. My goal with this final post is to offer a bit of support to anyone feeling stuck, depressed, or acting like an emotional vampire. Call my condition BPD or whatever you want—it's a broad umbrella for a massive cluster of emotional issues anyway, if my posts have made that clear. In today's world, there’s just too much of this crap around. Suffering has become a commodity, and we consume it like it's nothing.
Someone once told me that people find their way—some early, some late, and some never at all. I'm writing this because I’d like to see if we can actually eliminate those who never make the cut.
To understand where my disorder actually comes from, I’ll need to lay out my life story—briefly.
My earliest memory is my paternal grandmother kicking my mother and me out of my father's apartment. My old man was likely either busy screwing some cop's wife or he just didn't have the balls to handle it himself—either way, that was the first time I ever saw my mother cry. Next thing I remember, we’re back in this cramped little house where I lived with my uncle, my grandma, and my mom. We were broke, and fights were basically the soundtrack to my childhood. It wasn't until a few months ago that those arguments really resurfaced in my mind—I realized just how good I am at burying memories deep down where they can't be found.
I never really clicked with other kids growing up—not in that innocent childhood way. I was just quiet, withdrawn, and had zero interest in joining the local pack to kick cats across the street. There were very few people I actually connected with. As a result, my circle stayed tiny—just a couple of neighbors, though we drifted apart completely once my rebellious phase hit. Even now, we just offer a nod over the fence and leave it at that.
Back in elementary school, they stuck us in this classroom located right behind the building. It was basically off by itself—separate from the main hallway, tucked away near the janitor’s quarters, totally isolated from the rest of the students and faculty. For three years straight, I was targeted by basically every single boy in that room. The teacher—a guy who clearly struggled with alcoholism—would roll in every morning, scribble something on the chalkboard, and vanish for fifteen minutes, only to reappear right before the bell, smelling like a distillery. In those gaps, I was just running around trying to evade them. Three years of constant harassment. Just a nonstop grind.
By the end of my third grade year, my uncle—likely underpaid at some heavy machinery plant—couldn't manage to find his own place to live. He ended up moving to St. Louis, where he was killed at Ovčara. My mother—I was only in third grade at the time—just sobbed, "He went there to die because he couldn't stand living here anymore." Judge that for yourselves. She tells me she could never talk to anyone the way she talked to him. I don't even want to get into it.
Fourth grade—we finally moved out of those tiny classrooms and into the main hallways. The bullying didn't stop, though; it just kept grinding on until fifth grade. That’s when I finally filled out a bit—and more importantly, that’s when I finally snapped. I laid out the main bully like he was nothing. To this day, I can still feel that specific sensation—this absolute, calm aggression. It was pure. Nothing could touch me in that moment. Honestly, I haven't felt anything quite like it since.
From fifth grade onward, I was basically the nightmare of every other kid in school. Things escalated fast. By high school, I was deep into drugs—completely off my mother's radar—while my old man was already busy raising his third separate family. I actually failed freshman year twice because of all my unexcused absences. My mom tried to enroll me in night school, but I didn't show up for a single damn class. Even back then, I knew I was making a massive mistake, but honestly? I couldn't have cared less. I was too high, too wired, and way too full of myself.
The leader of my old crew meets some girl, she dumps him, and suddenly he’s in a relationship with me. From the second she walked out on him until that one day she and I stood up from the bench just as the rest of the guys showed up with their first hit of heroin—he did everything in his power to humiliate me. Anyway, I ran into him recently over in Brooklyn, and I had to fight the urge to swing at him. Even now, part of me still carries the blame for it all.
I’ve been hooking up with this girl every single day for over a year now. That’s about it—I don't really go out. I just sit around waiting for her to get back from class so we can get at it. We actually went out to one party, just once, where my usual crowd of druggies was hanging out. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch them saying things that overlap perfectly with what she and I were discussing the night before—right by the open window—only they were saying it to mock us. That’s when the paranoia kicked in. Now, I spend my time staring through the window, wondering what's coming for the next few years.
My girlfriend is bored with us hanging out after a year together. Now she’s telling me her friends are constantly hitting her up to go out—and they're actually pissed at her because she won't leave the house. She’s dumping me over the phone. My whole world is sinking. Without any social life, a relationship, or even actual support from my parents, I feel like just locking myself in my room for the next thirteen years. I turn to my computer, grind through programming languages, and read endlessly. But my plan to become a freelance developer is falling apart. My education is tanking, too—I'm struggling immensely just to find anything meaningful enough to put on a resume.
Thirteen years spent cooped up inside this house and I’m still smoking meth—no trouble getting my hands on it, either. It’s led to some pretty terrifying psychotic breaks along the way. Time passes, and I hit 27 before I finally hit a wall and decided to change things up. I dove into reading about psychokinesis and other exotic sciences, but honestly? Nothing changes. Not an inch. I've become antisocial, completely awkward around people, and I have zero self-confidence. Now, after being pressured into it more times than I can count, I literally shake with fear just stepping outside this dilapidated wreck of a house.
I’m joining this forum around age 30—just trying to meet some people who, thank God, actually managed to move forward with their lives. It's a bit daunting. I'm basically gathering my courage while wearing some ancient, ragged clothes since I haven't exactly been hitting the shopping malls all these years. I end up meeting them for coffee looking like a wreck—bad teeth, a cracked molar, crooked smile, massive dark circles under my eyes, and a facial expression straight out of a nightmare. We grab coffee in a dive bar in St. Louis a few times. Honestly? I felt the progress immediately.
With a bit more confidence lately, I’ve started talking to this woman in my DMs—she just walked away from a ten-year marriage that went south. We’re both pretty messed up, honestly. But right now, we’re tucked away in her apartment, living in this little bubble of our own making. We're basically acting like two kids, just sugar-coating everything and eating sweets until we can't move. (I love you.)
Time keeps moving, and honestly, I’m finally starting to find my footing. I’ve enrolled in a four-year evening program—just two exams left to wrap things up today. After two years of this, I’ve reached a point where I can actually walk down a street in a city like Chicago without constantly looking over my shoulder, wondering what people think of me. We’re even going out more. Things are genuinely looking up.
And here I go again—still dissatisfied, depressed, sarcastic, cynical, and just plain repulsed by everyone I try to talk to. Over those three years with her, there were plenty of outbursts fueled by my own bitterness, leading to us breaking up for a day or two at a time.
The breaking point was losing that job I was forced into. My coworkers—honestly, they just couldn't deal with me anymore. Even my manager, who’s somehow eight years younger than me, kept hitting me with that patronizing, "What's the problem? I really don't get it" routine. And the thing is, I didn't get it either. The depression was spiraling, and the dissatisfaction was just... overwhelming. It wasn't about needing a paycheck or a career path, though. Something else was missing entirely.
Two weeks ago—back when the dissatisfaction and depression were hitting so hard I was constantly thinking about finding some remote spot in the woods to end it all just so I could disappear for a few days without being found—I managed to push my wife to the absolute breaking point. And that’s despite how much she clearly loves me. By the end of the day, I was smashing up our apartment and the lobby of our building, making sounds that were pure madness—just a total circus for the neighbors to deal with.
I called the cops on myself. Just did it. I was caught in this hellish loop of pure rage and total depression—couldn't even wrap my head around my own brain. It felt like I’d lost all control, and honestly, I couldn't figure out where I went wrong. Not that it really matters. The police showed up, they filed their report, and then they hauled me off to the ER to get a referral for a psych ward. They gave me a slip for a detox center in Chicago, but I didn't realize that until I actually showed up there.
I spent two days locked behind an electronic door at Mayo Clinic. I arrived Saturday morning and stayed through Sunday—only the doctor on call was around, the hospital director, who turned out to be a total prick. For those forty-eight hours, I honestly thought it was over. I figured I’d finally lost my mind, that help wasn't coming, and that I’d spend the rest of my life alone or bouncing between mental health facilities.
Finally, after talking it out with a psychologist while getting my discharge papers, I get hit with the diagnosis: impulsive Borderline Personality Disorder, F60.3.
Or, as I like to call it, being an emotional wreck.
I've reached out to my girlfriend. Her parents dropped my stuff off at my apartment—first time her folks and my mother have actually met. Now I'm heading home from the clinic, but the depression hasn't let up. I know there's no going back from this. I'm just trying, in my own broken way, to make sense of it all and come to terms with this massive, indescribable loss.