The BPD Queen
I never wanted a crown.
Especially not one steeped in chaos, lies, and manipulation.
But somehow, I inherited the fallout of someone else’s madness—a realm ruled by my husbands ex-wife, a true Borderline Personality Disorder Queen who is also a Narcissist.
She wasn’t mine to fight.
But her war became my world.
Every day brought a new fire to put out.
A new lie to unravel.
A new attempt to twist our peace into panic.
And somehow, in the middle of building a blended family and healing my own wounds, I had to become a fortress.
She weaponized the children, used them like pawns.
She rewrote history, played the victim, and played dirty.
And no matter how kind, how silent, how removed I tried to be—
crazy doesn’t need a reason.
You can’t out-crazy crazy.
I learned that the hard way.
But this isn’t her story.
It’s mine.
It’s about what it costs to keep your soul intact while dancing around the edges of someone else’s destruction.
It’s about the nights I cried alone after holding everyone else together.
It’s about the weight I carried that no one could see—until my hair grayed, my gut ached, my heart cracked.
This is a survival story.
Not just of a woman who loved a man with baggage.
But of a warrior who learned how to set it down and walk away free.
I used to pray she would just leave us alone.
One normal day. That’s all I wanted.
No screaming voicemails, no cryptic threats or text, no dragging us back into her dysfunction like a riptide.
But when you're dealing with someone like her—
someone who thrives on attention, power, and control—
peace feels like a threat.
And she didn’t want peace.
She wanted a stage.
She accused, twisted, gaslit, and turned every molehill into a mountain—then swore we were the ones throwing stones.
And I watched the man I love—this beautiful, patient, good man—be broken down piece by piece.
Fighting for a relationship with his kids. Fighting for truth. Fighting for sanity.
And still coming home with love in his eyes for us.
Still showing up, even when he was running on empty.
He didn’t deserve what she did to him.
Neither did the kids.
Neither did I.
But narcissists don’t care about the damage.
They care about the attention.
They’ll set the house on fire and ask why you’re crying in the ashes.
There came a point where I had to stop asking,
“Why is she like this?” and start asking,
“How do I protect my peace no matter what she does?”
Because she wasn’t going to change.
And I couldn’t keep shrinking, second-guessing, and staying silent just to keep her from exploding and telling more lies.
So I started reclaiming myself.
I read every article I could about BPD, narcissism, co-parenting with high-conflict exes.
I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed in my life—on my knees, in my car, in the bathroom with the shower running so no one would hear me sob.
I set boundaries that felt impossible but necessary.
And I gave myself permission to be angry. To feel the grief. To not be the “bigger person” when being bigger just meant being abused more quietly.
This isn’t just a story about surviving her.
It’s about finding myself in the wreckage.