Recently, while bagging up my shopping in a Co-op, the assistant pointed to the scars covering my forearms and asked if I did it for love. Like many other people, I come with somewhat unsettling signs of borderline personality disorder (BPD), as well as a few non-consensual overshares. The question of whether to wear short sleeves or long sleeves, regardless of the weather, usually takes up the majority of time getting ready. On one date I was drawn into a conversation about west African bodily mutilation and how it’s unfair to do such a thing to children without their consent. It took me a few moments to follow the implication. Having to flex and turn my forearms, scrutinising them with the person opposite me like I was seeing them for the first time, and then saying ‘I did this to myself’, felt a little too much like creating a trauma bond. There couldn’t be a second date. On another, I was asked, sincerely, if the scars were a self-inflicted form of art – something I could photograph or write about. This was actually the second time I’d been asked this question – the first, I ended up in a back garden, topless, a lens zooming in and out on my wrists. It was a relief, at least, from the other, more typical reaction to my scars: a look of horror, accompanied by a thought cycle I imagine, roughly, to be, “Could this happen to me; would they do this to me; will they hurt themselves if I do something to upset them? Will they hurt me?” When I was diagnosed with BPD in 2018, it felt as if it wasn’t only my business but a crucial piece of information that had to be shared with anyone I spoke to. So usually, within the hourglass timer of talking to a match on Hinge, I bring it up, joking that I can be a little ‘off-key’ at times; on my profile, there’s a ‘just stare politely y’all, we’re witnessing mental illness’ meme. Because by not providing this small but boundless piece of information, I feel like I’m deceiving them, and taking away a choice: to continue talking to me or not. Many people, of course, would tell me I’m overthinking this. But considering the disorder can and does have a significant effect on my personality and behaviour, especially in romantic interactions – often giving the impression that I’m a completely different person – yeah, I think it’s important to mention it as soon as possible. Once a romantic interest knows you have BPD, and has actually done the reading on the disorder – the reading my therapist told me I should send them as soon as I can, because internet searches compare me to abusive partners and Donald Trump – they can sometimes soften, but take on the demeanour of a mental health nurse (albeit one prepared to lose the uniform, if all goes well). They want to save you. It is lovely, but a dangerous and imbalanced way to begin any type of relationship. And often, once they experience the type of behaviour which, on paper, sounded easy to handle, the soft strokes across the ridges of my arms turn to winces of disgust. What was once perceived as the consequences of my illness becomes, in their mind, a set of choices I have full control over. WATCH Sam Smith Answers Your Questions For those with borderline personality disorder, infatuation, love, proposal and marriage can crystallise within 45 minutes of meeting someone – online or otherwise. The dating process can involve black-and-white thinking, loving someone one minute – actually believing you’re in love – and then feeling disgust towards them the next. It can mean having anxiety attacks in their presence; shouting to express the emotional turbulence that otherwise would be impossible to escape; lying to avoid abandonment; showing too much affection (not love bombing – there is no mani[CENSORED]tion involved in this); tolerating anything they do, no matter how disrespectful and hurtful, which can actually turn people off. The most common accusation people with BPD get, after all of this, is a claim of mani[CENSORED]tion – which is true, but usually of ourselves, warping our thinking into believing all sorts of irrationalities. During my second year of uni, before my diagnosis, I fell in love with someone after three days. The feeling was so intense that I was on my knees, fists clenched, softly punching the floor. It felt like physical pain not to be able to see this person, to tell them constantly how I felt and garner some sort of equal reaction. I thought this was me being passionate; unique in my ability to love someone so completely. ‘No one will ever love you as much as I do’ sounded so true, so romantic. All I could think about was being in love and how it could heal me. I needed to hear it, to feel it. And yet, the fear of abandonment was so intense that before a date, looking through a pub window at his waiting posture at a table, I was suddenly sure he wasn’t interested, so I left without going in. I went home and deleted his number. In my delusion, I really thought I was doing him a favour. Looking back, I’m not embarrassed, but I wish one of my boys told me how mad I was moving. companionship, company – I experienced these things later, but I barely recognised them. Even when I was receiving everything that harmonised into what I thought of as love, without the tight words, people's actions suddenly seemed disingenuous, their desire became just objectification. I began to recognise a pattern: of deifying any soul who said ‘I’m sorry that happened to you’, and then days or weeks later (honestly, sometimes moments), seeing horns slide up through the sides of their head, becoming convinced this was someone faking empathy to extract sex or company from me. I ended up living with a partner but finished it because the subsequent anxiety was crippling, stopping me from walking back into the house after work. On a holiday, I fell for a stranger who walked passed my hotel every morning. After spending a few days with her on the beach and having breakfast on my balcony I was so in love, I was prepared to miss my flight home. That was until, as we lay watching films in bed, she received a string of messages so frequent the individual pings turned into one long alarm bell. She insisted it was her mum, I knew it was a next man, which was fine, rationally, but it was enough for my emotions to kick in. I was on my flight that evening. . The answers are not simple By GQ Reflecting on all of this is comforting, though. Because with each encounter, I have learned something new about myself. There are hundreds of ways to present BPD, and, with the help of therapy, I have been storing up ways to handle each one when it approaches. I will still overthink, still fantasise over a beginning, middle and end with someone I’ve barely spoken to. But with self-talk and various forms of behavioural therapy, this stays in my head, never to be acted out in real life, so when my silence becomes suspect and I’m asked what I’m thinking, I can honestly respond: ‘Nothing important.’ Derek Owusu is the author of That Reminds Me (2019), which won the Desmond Elliott Prize for best debut novel. His new book is Losing the Plot (2022). link: https://www.gq-magazine.co.uk/lifestyle/article/dating-with-borderline-personality-disorder