BPD Chronicles

There was a time when D and I talked endlessly about our future — not just as a couple, but as partners building a life together. She knew my father’s health was deteriorating, that his Alzheimer’s and dementia were getting worse by the year. She listened carefully when I told her why I needed to stay close to my family — not just out of duty, but love.

She would say things like, “I admire that you’re willing to do this.” And she’d talk about how in her culture, respect for family looked different than mine. She wanted to understand. She wanted to be there for me — not just in words, but in action.

She also told me, over and over, that she’d follow me anywhere. That nothing mattered more than being together. That she wanted to leave her past behind — especially her mother’s manipulation and control. She said she could start fresh, as long as she had me.

So we moved across the world.

We built a house from scratch — literally. From finding the right carpenter to build our kitchen and closets, to picking out every last detail for the bathroom, to painting walls, laying floors, and deep-cleaning before bringing in furniture. We spent months turning an empty space into our space — a place we could grow into, decorate slowly, and call home.

But even after all of that — blood, sweat, tears, and thousands of dollars — she wasn’t happy. She didn’t feel at home. She was homesick.

And then, five months after we married, she came to me and said, “I want to go back to my country to pursue my dream of becoming a dancer. I found a two-year program I want to join.”

I was stunned.

I asked her, “If you knew you wanted to dance and stay in your home country, why did you agree to marry me and move halfway around the world?”

She said she didn’t want to have to choose between being with me and dancing. But now, she felt like this was her chance — her prime — to finally chase her dream.

I was hurt. Confused. It felt like everything we’d built — emotionally and physically — was being questioned overnight.

I told her if she chose to go back, she’d be going alone. I couldn’t — wouldn’t — leave my father during this vulnerable time. And if this was a two-year separation, I warned her it might change us both. Especially since we’d only just started talking about starting a family.

I asked her to think carefully. Not just about her dreams, but about what this meant for us.

A few days later, she still wanted to go.

Heartbroken, I confided in a close friend. They suggested looking for dance programs closer to home — maybe even in Europe — so she could train without being away for years. I took that idea seriously. I spent hours researching studios, programs, and opportunities abroad. When I shared them with her, she lit up. She got excited. For two weeks, we talked about cities, schools, possibilities.

Then… silence.

The topic never came up again. It was like the whole thing had been a test — not about dance, but about how far I’d go. How much I’d give. How I’d respond to sudden changes, emotional pressure, and shifting expectations.

It left me feeling untethered — like I was living in a relationship where the ground kept changing beneath my feet.

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