So, let’s talk about the part of BPD that gets us cast as the villain in everyone’s emotional fanfic: the split. I mean, come on—this blog is literally called Split Happens. You knew this was coming.

What Even Is Splitting?

For those gloriously uninitiated and just here to lurk at the circus, splitting is what happens when our brains abruptly decide someone has gone from emotional safe haven to public enemy number one. No warning. No nuance. Just vibes and violence.

The Scenario:

Let’s say you’ve got a ride-or-die bestie. Life is chill. The vibes are vibin’. You make plans to grab your first pumpkin spice latte of the season (yes, I’m basic—fight me). Ten minutes after go-time, you get a text:

“Hey, sorry. Something came up. Raincheck?”

To the neuroboring, that means exactly what it says.  To the BPD brain?

“I don’t want to be around you. I don’t care enough to explain. I’m ghosting you politely. Get fucked.”

Cue the emotional skydiving. No parachute. Just rage-texting, spiraling, and mentally rewriting your bestie’s entire character arc as a villain with bad taste in throw pillows.

Why We Split

Because our brains are emotional gremlins with abandonment issues and a flair for dramatics. Our fight-or-flight switch is permanently jammed on “fight,” and when something triggers that deep fear of being left, we go full scorched-earth before anyone gets the chance to walk away.

We’re not trying to be cruel. We’re terrified. But that doesn’t mean we’re not responsible for the fallout.

Owning the Aftermath

Here’s the deal: you don’t get a free pass just because your brain is spicy.  

“Sorry, it’s just a BPD thing” = cop out.  

“Hey, I’m so sorry for how I acted. I’m working on it. Can I explain what happened?” = accountability with context.

One builds bridges. The other sets them on fire and blames the diagnosis.

Emotional Gymnastics & Trauma Pokémon

The shame hangover is real. But if you talk through the wreckage, you’ll probably find a breadcrumb trail to the trauma gremlin behind the wheel. Think of it like Pokémon meets Demon Souls: you’ve gotta train the trauma to become the champion, while trying not to rage quit because “I swear I blocked, this game just hates me.”

Sharing is Caring

To share an experience of my own, let me tell you about the first time I truly took accountability for my behavior during a split. I was working alongside a particularly sexist, ignorant dumpster fire of toxic masculinity and Axe body spray, and despite my best efforts to remove myself from the situation, I snapped—hard. It felt like an emotional apocalypse. Fight mode activated, and suddenly I was a caged lion: pissed off, pacing, and locked onto my next target. That target? My supervisor. A kind, hardworking older man from Southeast Asia who deserved sainthood, not a verbal missile. I stormed over, bouncing like an MMA fighter before a cage match, and barked, “I’m pissed off and I need to go take a fucking walk.” Not said—roared. Between my body language, volume, and the slight language barrier, this gentle man was terrified. And honestly? I get it. He’s maybe 5’7 and built like a toothpick. I’m a 6-foot Scandinavian Viking-looking bitch with a history in MMA. My wife whisked me out before I could get myself fired, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Sitting in the car, I found out he was genuinely scared of me—and I broke. I sobbed uncontrollably and finally accepted that my diagnosis was real. I couldn’t just raw-dog my way through life anymore. I needed help. I walked back in, face crimson with shame, and apologized to both him and our big boss. I owned it. I promised my wife—and myself—that I’d get help. That moment no longer looms over me. In fact, that supervisor and I now share a camaraderie built on mutual respect and understanding. This is what I mean when I say Split happens, but I happen louder. The trick isn’t avoiding the split—it’s showing up afterward in a way that proves who you are beyond the chaos.

Split happens, but I happen louder!