Ten years ago, I was at the lowest point in my life. I wanted to die. At 30 years old, I was living in Australia, struggling to build a life while being stuck in a relationship where I was the verbally abusive one. Despite the vast distance between us, my mother sensed that something was terribly wrong. She boarded two planes and traveled over 30 hours to bring me home, straight into a mental health institution.
The institution was voluntary, and they asked me if I wanted to stay. I said yes. I spent five transformative months there with about 60 other people, all navigating their own struggles. It was a turning point in my life. We had individual and group therapy, art therapy, and structured programs that forced me to confront my pain and patterns.
For the first time, I had space to reflect and hear others’ stories, and it changed my worldview. I began to understand that the pain I carried, often hidden behind a façade of normalcy, was not unique. And, for nearly half a year, I focused entirely on learning about myself—a privilege that, looking back, I’m incredibly grateful for.
My mother played a role in this turning point, but her intentions weren’t as selfless as they might seem. For an outsider—or even as my sister tells it—it would seem like my mother loved us because she was “always there for us.” And yes, I can see this point. She was the one who sensed that something was wrong. She got on the plane and helped me by admitting me into the institution.
But as therapy progressed and I began to uncover truths about my upbringing and her role in my struggles, things shifted. When I shared what I was learning with her—about how her behavior shaped me—she dismissed it. She called therapy “stupid” and said she regretted admitting me into that place. Just as I was starting to get better, her support vanished.
Why? Because it wasn’t in her interest for me to be happy and well. If I healed, if I no longer needed her, she would lose her purpose. In her mind, she had to “help” to feel significant. That was her twisted version of love—a love that always came with conditions, strings, and an underlying need for control.
Growing up with her meant living in a world of unpredictability. Her moods dictated everything. Whether she was happy or upset in any given situation depended entirely on how she felt in the moment. There was no stability, no certainty, and certainly no feeling of safety. This inconsistency is the breeding ground for a personality disorder.
As a child, you learn that the emotional climate is entirely out of your control. You become hyper-aware of others’ feelings while ignoring your own. You learn to anticipate the storm but never to question its existence.
One of my earliest emotional memories is of my mother’s sadness. I remember her sobbing as she tried to sing a lullaby to us. To this day, that song brings me to tears. It stirs the same sadness I absorbed as a baby—a profound, incomprehensible sorrow that I’ve carried with me ever since.
I once heard in an interview the statement: “Depression is narcissism itself.” At first, I struggled with the idea, but through my experiences with both my mother and my husband, I’ve come to understand its meaning. This emptiness inside—this absence of empathy and genuine love—creates a void so consuming that it demands constant attention, pulling everyone around them into its orbit. Their sadness and relentless need for validation isn’t just something they endure—it becomes something others are expected to bear, a force that overshadows and minimizes everyone else’s needs, emotions, and individuality.
This dynamic manifests in every interaction. My mother’s need for control was ever-present, even in seemingly small requests. To this day, whenever I ask her for a favor, it’s rarely straightforward. There’s always resistance, conditions, or an insistence on doing things her way. For example, if my sister asks her to help with the kids in the afternoon, she might agree—but only if it’s at her house or at a slightly later time, even though she’s retired and has no fixed schedule. Her support always feels conditional, as though it’s less about helping and more about maintaining control.
Looking back, I see how her sadness and need for control shaped so much of our relationship. What might appear as care or involvement from the outside is, in reality, a carefully orchestrated dynamic that centers her and leaves little space for anyone else.
Whenever I ask for something, she always frames her “help” as a monumental act of generosity. She’ll say, “Oh, this is so difficult for me… but okay, I’ll help you.” It’s never just about the help itself—it’s about positioning herself as indispensable, making it seem like she’s making an extraordinary sacrifice. And it works, because it makes me feel guilty. That guilt comes immediately, almost instinctively, and maybe that’s the point. By feeling guilty, I’m placed in a position of owing her something, as though her help wasn’t a favor but a transaction I’m now indebted to repay.
This is conditional love. It’s not real love. It’s love with strings attached, love that serves the giver more than the receiver. It’s the kind of dynamic that teaches a child their needs don’t matter unless they fit into someone else’s agenda. It’s the kind of dynamic that breeds guilt, shame, self-doubt, and an inability to set boundaries.
Looking back, I see how this shaped me, how it planted the seeds for the borderline traits I’ve spent years working to untangle. And yet, I also see the cycles of generational pain that create these patterns. My mother didn’t become this way by chance. Like me, she learned these dynamics somewhere along the line.
And so, the cycle continues—unless someone, somewhere, decides to break it. For me, that decision came through therapy and self-awareness. It’s a journey, not a destination, but every step matters. Because this is how a borderline is made, but it doesn’t have to be how the story ends.
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