Calm Down? Fuck Around and Find Out.

So there I was, sitting in my emotional war room (read: couch, surrounded by half-eaten protein bars and the ghost of motivation), trying to decide which of my 47 blog post ideas to unleash on the world. And suddenly, mid-spiral, I told myself to “calm down.”

Cue the record scratch. That’s the post.

Let me be crystal clear: telling someone with BPD to “calm down” is like telling a raccoon in a dumpster fire to “just breathe.” Bitch, I am the fire. I am the raccoon. And I just found a half-melted Snickers bar of emotional instability.

Here’s a BPD life hack for the support systems: delete “calm down” from your vocabulary. Burn it. Bury the ashes. Salt the earth.

Because when you say “calm down,” my brain doesn’t hear “I care about you.” It hears “You’re being dramatic and I’m uncomfortable.” And guess what? “Too much” is my love language, so I’m about to crank that dial to 11 and start narrating my meltdown like it’s a Netflix docuseries.

The gremlins in my skull—those little BPD bastards on permanent unpaid vacation—interpret “calm down” as a challenge. And baby, I don’t back down from a challenge. I escalate. I go from “slightly inconvenienced” to “I want to watch the world burn and I want it to start with your eyebrows.”

“Calm down” is not a soothing balm. It’s a verbal Molotov cocktail. My brain is already in fight mode, and you just threw gasoline on the glittery rage fire. I’m trying to be the emotionally evolved Power Ranger, but I’ve got the vocabulary of a sailor and the emotional stability of Rita Repulsa after three espresso shots.

And listen—I’m not out here trying to hurt anyone. I don’t use my diagnosis as a hall pass for bad behavior. But I’m human. Sometimes I fail. Sometimes I scream-cry into a pillow shaped like a Stitch (Don’t judge me…rude). Sometimes I threaten to move to a lighthouse and ghost everyone I’ve ever loved. It’s called balance.

So here’s the deal: don’t tell us to “calm down.” We’re already trying. We’re doing our best. And if you’re part of our support system, you’ve got responsibilities too. You know what buttons not to push. You know what tone not to use. And if you want to help us de-escalate?

Make us laugh.

Seriously. Humor is the emergency exit in our emotional escape room. If you can make us laugh, the thing that had us spiraling probably doesn’t even exist anymore. It’s been replaced by a meme, a fart noise, or a TikTok of a duck wearing sunglasses.

For the Support System:

• Your person is on the edge of a split? Cool story, my guy—grab a boob. (Consent first, obviously. We’re unhinged, not unethical.)
• Your split head is pacing like a caged animal? Hold both sides of their face, look them dead in the eye, and make the most aggressive fart sound you can muster.
• Watching your person tumble toward a shame spiral? Channel Black Widow soothing the Hulk. Whisper “sun’s getting real low” and remind us we’re loved, even when we’re feral.

Split happens. But I happen louder.