Splitting in BPD (Or: A Guide To Loving Me When I Hate Your Guts)

Allow me to define “splitting”. It’s a behaviour often found in individuals with BPD, characterised by suddenly and intensely wanting or needing to detach from someone to whom you were previously attached. I can only compare it to those mad thoughts you have about going to live in some nearby woods when you’re 14 and arguing with your mum about your school uniform, but amplified to be inescapable, all of that adolescent rage attached to it alongside fear, hurt, revulsion, heartbreak and every other feeling you could attribute to a trauma response. It’s the brain’s way of protecting you from more unhealthy attachments, so it happens in response to a stimulus of some sort – but one of the cornerstones of BPD is hypersensitivity, so the stimulus that prompts us to split might not actually be as dangerous as it feels. Whether it’s a punch to the face or an ignored text message, it feels intensely dangerous, so much so that my brain then takes action, working to replace any fondness with anger or fear by creatively reinterpreting real-world evidence until it fits with the all-or-nothing, “this person is dead to me” narrative.

The first thing that you need to know about splitting is that it hurts me more than it hurts you. You will probably feel wounded, rejected, anxious, frustrated, and it will suck, but I am also having all of those emotions in BPD form, i.e. with the intensity of a thousand suns. I don’t just put you out of my mind entirely when I split on you; I agonise over it. My thumb hovers over block buttons until the muscles in my hand cramp whilst I try to weigh up how reasonable I’m being. I type and delete messages I will never send about what’s hurting me and what I need. Sometimes, I act like a dick, and I know as I’m doing it that I’m being dickish, but it feels like the only safe thing to do. My deep, reptile-brain impulse is to destroy the relationship beyond repair so that there’s never any danger of more hurt, and I spend hours with my stomach in knots, arguing with myself about how I can’t have normal human relationships and how selfish moving to the woods might actually be. I can identify when I’m splitting (though I couldn’t as a furious 14-year-old) but I don’t split for no reason. I can’t automatically reconnect with reality when my brain is twisting things, blowing them out of proportion and shoving them through traumatised lenses, but I can try and conduct myself in a way that Connected-to-Reality Morgan won’t deeply regret. This mostly involves distancing myself, not in any embarrassing noticeable ways like hitting that block button but just reaching out less, trying not to give my BPD any new ammo with which it can maintain the split. At this point, frustrating though it is, all you can do is leave me to my space and my thoughts. 

This brings me onto the second thing you need to know about splitting: unsplitting is hard work. Fighting my impulse to run is hard enough, but unsplitting requires you to walk directly towards the scary thing. There’s a principle in Dialectical Behavioural Therapy (DBT) called “Opposite Action”, where you identify an irrational feeling or impulse and you act in the exact opposite way that your impulse wants you to. In splitting, for me, this looks like sending a message after a long period of quiet, trying to make plans or being openly affectionate towards you again. They are small acts that are too terrifying to commit whilst sober a lot of the time, so Stoned or Drunk Morgan picks up the slack while their fear and hurt are somewhat numbed. This opposite action can only happen, though, once I’ve identified why I’m splitting and whether this person is actually dangerous. The obvious piece of advice here, then, is to continually prove through your actions that you are not a danger to me. The other piece of advice I would like to give is that if you think I’m doing Opposite Action, or if I’ve been quiet for a while, or in general if you don’t know where you stand with me, just respond with enthusiasm. Make it clear that you’re glad to hear from me. Essentially, reward me for doing the hard scary thing, and leave the ball in my court when it comes to beginning a discussion about the splitting itself, because I’m probably too scared for that in this early stage of unsplitting.

Here is the third thing about splitting: it’s not about you. It’s really, really not. My brain, with its rigid little boxes, has tried to file you in the same cabinet as some other people who did some other things. If you get busy and don’t respond to my inane messages about memes and movies, my brain tries to put you into a cabinet with other people who stopped messaging me abruptly, which includes people who did that exact thing in order to manipulate me. If you said something on a rainy Monday morning which came off as irritable, my brain tries to put you into the same filing cabinet as the man who shoved me towards the top of the staircase when I was 15, because in that situation, irritability preceded abuse. Those filing cabinets are alarmed, and they were like that before your files showed up. I’m really stretching the filing metaphor here, but I want you to know that the majority of the time, a split is a function of my brain, not of our relationship – it’s usually only minimally connected to your behaviour, and has much more to do with the behaviour of cunts you’ve never even met. All I can say is try – and I know it’s fucking hard – not to take it personally when my brain links you to evil bastards and floods me with fear. If you do take it personally, mid-split or mid-unsplit is maybe not the most constructive time to ask me for reassurance, but if you understand splitting (due to blog posts like these), you have the opportunity and the vocabulary to talk to other loved ones about what’s going on with us, so you can at least process it a little before you and I start to discuss it.

The fourth thing, for everyone to know about splitting, is: it passes. It’s hard work, and sometimes it’s not worth it. I split on celebrities after one transphobic joke and I don’t care enough about them to work through all my DBT techniques in order to forgive them and move on. I split on people who, with distance, I end up seeing are legitimately dangerous. But I also split on people who are patient and loving towards me, who accept that sometimes I need space and sometimes I need attention and sometimes I need help figuring out which one I need. I split on people who are beloved by my support network and said support network helps me to unsplit, safe in the knowledge that this time, it’s definitely just my BPD and not a real threat to my wellbeing. I split on people regularly, in smaller ways and bigger ones, but I conquer it when I realise it’s worth conquering. My brain has this extremely strong mechanism by which to keep me safe, but I’m stronger even than that, because I have learned and am learning how to shut the filing cabinets and say hi. The fact that people with BPD have relationships like the ones I now have, characterised by love and mutual support and trust, is a testament to the ferocity with which we fight, every day, to be good people despite our pain. And again, let me reiterate, splitting is painful, but us people with BPD know that, and knowingly take on that risk when they form and keep relationships, every single day. Therefore, my final piece of advice is to remember that people with BPD are working hard to stay in your life, on purpose, every day, because we have decided that you’re worth it. Remember that we’re people, and we’re often great people, and for that reason alone we’re worth the hard work, too.

The UK Benefits System Is Making Me Suicidal

A stock photo, via Pexels, of coins, overlaid with the title "The UK Benefits System Is Making Me Suicidal" because I couldn't find another image to encapsulate the PIP experience

Note: As well as talking about suicidal feelings related to the PIP and Universal Credit systems, this post briefly mentions self-harm and gaslighting.


Let’s start from the beginning: the first time I claimed benefits, when I applied for PIP in November of 2017. PIP, managed and awarded by the Department for Work and Pensions (or DWP) is awarded to disabled people when their disability makes their day-to-day life more difficult. It stands for ‘Personal Independence Payments’; you can imagine, especially if you read my post on the myth of independence, my disdain for the name, but that quickly became the least of my problems. 

I vaguely remember that the man on the phone who set up my claim was nice and inoffensive, but I remember with clarity which part of my university I was sitting in when I made the call, my back to the vending machines as I sat on some chair or sofa made of prickly, cheap magenta fabric. I remember these details, because for me, claiming PIP was a big deal. It was an acknowledgement of my complex additional needs and a big step on my journey to accepting that I’m disabled, and that that’s okay. 

Except, uh, the government had other ideas.

To claim PIP, you first fill out a 33-page form which asks you, in excruciating detail, “how your disability affects you”. The form asks about your toileting habits and your abilities to keep yourself clean, which makes it more than a little uncomfortable to fill out, especially if you’re asking somebody else for help with it. You get a hearty 3 months to fill it out and return it, which is a bonus, but the process is miserable however long it takes you. Afterwards, you send off your form and wait patiently for an assessment appointment, which takes insane amounts of time, and then you attend your assessment.

This is when you learn that what you put on your form did not matter.

They ask you more or less the same questions they asked on the form, but this time in person (or, during these times of Covid, over the phone) and you answer them. You’re allowed to bring another person for support and to help answer questions, but the assessor gets to run the show, and one bitc–valuable employee of Capita didn’t allow my partner to speak at all until the very end, something I was absolutely not prepared for. 

Don’t worry, though, because that doesn’t matter either! Regardless of what you actually say or how you actually behave, they’ll send you a decision letter (many weeks later) that will make you want to kill yourself. Mine described my demeanour as “relaxed and calm”, which is a very odd interpretation of “so anxious that I was actively pulling scabs off of self-harm wounds”, and contained some outright lies as well as some fantastic leaps of logic (like, I mentioned enjoying video games so they decided that I didn’t have any problems with self-motivation. I think I brought up video games as an example of something that distracts me so much that I forget I’m hungry, thirsty, in pain or in need of a wee, but they hear what fits their agenda). 

This is the bit that makes me want to kill myself: when I have been vulnerable and poured hours into a 33-page, honest reflection of my life as disabled person, and then I receive a letter that makes me doubt my memories of the appointment, informing me that I actually don’t struggle with anything. From that, my disordered brain extrapolates that I must be an abled person who is just being an over-sensitive baby about the fact that they can’t cope with adult life. It takes my support network a lot of labour to help me stop spiralling in that direction.

If you want to appeal (and you probably will), you first send a request for “mandatory reconsideration”, which you also spend extremely painful hours writing. You send that off, you wait more weeks, and then, usually, you get rejected again. If you haven’t already committed Capita-gaslighting-related suicide or starved to death, you might choose to take it all the way to a tribunal.

Remember those weeks of waiting I described earlier? Weak sauce. To get a tribunal date took me, I believe, over a year. I phoned every couple of months to check they hadn’t forgotten about me, and each time I asked I was told some absurd number of weeks by helpline workers who ranged from bright and helpful to sounding genuinely annoyed I had called. I don’t keep good records, but it looks like I was preparing for my tribunal on the 30th July, 2019. 

That is not a typo. I started my claim in 2017, and after months of waiting and panicking and doubting my own reality, I finally found someone who would listen to me. In the middle of 2019.

The tribunal was, oddly, the most painless part of the whole affair. Apart from the general terror induced by being in a new setting and trying to communicate with real adults, I felt at the time like they were listening, and I was proven right when their decision came through: I did, and do, qualify for PIP. It was a huge relief.

Until late in 2020, when PIP stopped appearing in my account. I phoned them, and apparently I had been sent a letter about a reassessment, to an old address that I no longer lived at. They didn’t, at any point, seem to think that they hadn’t heard back from me because, oh, I dunno, I’m too disabled to keep all my records up-to-date? They didn’t think that maybe they should try my phone number, which they also had on file, to check I had received the letter (or at least to check I wasn’t dead). So instead of reassessing me and continuing my claim, they stopped it altogether, and set me back to square one.

The word count on this post is getting daunting and I haven’t even ranted about the bitch who didn’t note down my use of the Nottingham Sexual Violence Service because “we can’t report on anything that happened previously, including promiscuous behaviour”, but I don’t really need to study her in detail, because she is one cog in a violent machine. 

And I haven’t even started on my rant about Universal Credit.

Universal Credit is what you get if you don’t have enough income to stay alive. They were, when I applied in the summer of 2020, orders of magnitude quicker than PIP, but the problem with Universal Credit is that it’s seemingly designed to make your life so miserable that you give up and get a job. You’re assigned a work coach, who phones you too often and with too little notice to chide you about not having a better job yet. (Mine did not, but I think only because I’m disabled and was in crisis.) They’re meant to help you through the process of being declared “Not fit for work”, which grants you an extra £300 or so a month – this was less painful than PIP, and I was successful first time, but it still involved filling out a long, miserable form. They also tell you what you need to do admin-wise, such as turning your claim into a joint claim when you move in with your partner.

Turning my claim into a couples’ claim when I moved in with my fiancee meant losing the “housing costs” part of my Universal Credit, but I expected that. What I did not expect was for her income to be used as a reason to give me literally no money. The “Not fit for work” component gets deducted from just like the rest of it, so if your partner earns money, you get nothing. If you have trauma about being dependent on someone else for money and housing, this may make you want to kill yourself.

If that doesn’t, maybe this will: if someone in the household is earning, they don’t necessarily pay you the same amount every month. On average, you get about four days’ notice regarding what they’ll be paying you this month. It doesn’t matter if you need to budget! You spend the whole month not knowing what money you’ll have next month, and then you have four days to do some very intense maths. Maths that makes you a little suicidal, you know, because you know that even if you can make ends meet this month, next month might not yield a penny of Universal Credit.

My entire experience with this system has been negative. I want to be fair, but there is literally nothing nice to say about the UK benefits system. It is killing people. It is trying to kill me. I just wanted to share a brief (believe me) summary of my experiences with the DWP; I don’t have a grand point to make here besides, “Wow, this fucking sucks. It’s disgusting that the government is making people suffer to this extent simply because they’re disabled and/or poor. There are better ways to do this, but they’ve been foregone for a reason: the cheapest, easiest thing for a government to do is to drive people away from claiming benefits wherever possible, regardless of whether they need or deserve them. This just really fucking sucks.”

March Onwards

A scarred arm with two plasters on it, one normal shaped and one shaped like a heart

CN: This post refers in detail to suicidal ideation and planning, eating disorders (no numbers, detail about purging), self-harm, psychosis, anxiety and depression. In short, this is a tough one – please give it a miss if you need to 💖


I remember the past six months in fragments. An assortment of fragments, big and small, painful and beautiful, some much sharper than others.

The fragment in which we suddenly realised that I wasn’t safe, and started making plans and group chats to get me to somewhere I could be supervised. It was white-hot with guilt and grief and I couldn’t always block out the pain.

Several fragments of sobbing. Of clawing at my face. Of feeling, knowing that my veins ran with molasses-y evil, of being unable to escape the tangibility of it beneath my skin. Of dizzyingly overwhelming shopping trips. Of semi-coherent phone calls to my mother.

I remember a sliver of my mother helping. I hold onto slivers like these, or like of singing, of passing joints around a fire, of face masks and desserts. I hold onto them so tightly that some of them cut my palm.

The bigger fragments are often worse. In one, I went to the hospital, because I was going to kill myself if I didn’t. They wouldn’t let my girlfriend into the waiting room with me, and I had to walk an endless corridor to find it. There were sharps bins I could have stolen. There were cleaning chemicals on a trolley I could have drunk. I could have simply turned and run.

I forced myself through that corridor like I used to force myself through mealtimes. I remember the feeling of clenching my fists and chipping away at a goal I desperately wanted not to reach: one more mouthful. One more mouthful. One more footstep. One more.

I waited. Nobody came to help. I was there for twenty minutes, I’m told, and I know that I was at war with myself for every moment, punching and scratching and picking and crying and still all too aware that I could just run. I could just run.

They sent me down the hill to the psychiatric hospital. That one let my girlfriend wait with me. This is the smooth edge of the fragment, where we played Hangman and gossiped and loved each other for hours. 

Then they took me into a little room and told me they couldn’t help me.

Here is the sharp edge. I couldn’t hear anything after that. I asked for my girlfriend. She asked if there was anything they could do for me to make the past five hours worth the wait.

They could not.

I don’t remember leaving that room, but I remember leaving the building. I remember my vision fading at the edges, and all I could see was the brick wall up ahead. I recruited the wall in the fight against me, ramming my fists and forehead into it. I drew the attention of some nurses, who came out to check I was alright – but they couldn’t help me either.

Then there are the fragments in bathrooms. Running a razorblade across my cheek, but without enough courage to draw the evil out. Crying in front of a toilet, unable to cope with an ordinary stomach bug, my trousers on the floor beside me. Squishing myself in front of the mirror in quiet, poisonous horror. Stroking the back of my throat with my fingers and regurgitating McDonald’s. That last fragment should be put away safely, somewhere I can’t find it, because all I felt afterwards was a bliss that I still mourn.

Another trip to the hospital – this one fuzzier. My boyfriend at the time watching with wide, terrified eyes as I screamed down the phone to a crisis worker, trying to make her understand why I needed to die. The mounting, sickening dread in the taxi to the hospital. The glimmer of hope when they started to talk about an admission. Explaining my plan to find somewhere wooded and pretty, get very drunk and start slicing myself until I die and my body nourishes the ground. 

Being told, again, that they couldn’t help me.

The trick to living through that twice is lost to my foggy memory. I know we went home and I smoked a lot of weed. I know that I lived. I know that the people around me kept me safe both by loving me fiercely and by hiding all their medications, house keys and sharp objects.

I know that I kept trying to put one foot in front of the other. One more footstep. One more.

There are so many other fragments that I struggle to fit together in my mess of a mind. That one antipsychotic that made me lactate for two weeks. Completing and handing in some coursework, somehow. A lot of Animal Crossing. A lot of naps.

A lot of footsteps. One more footstep, and then another.

One more.