She Said: "Rethink Everything You've Ever Told Yourself." I Did.
One sentence from her made me question my entire reality.
Dear fellow travellers,
The last real conversation we had, she said something that’s been replaying in my head for months:
“Now that you know you’re not ‘a good person,’ you should rethink everything you’ve told yourself.”
Let that sink in for a moment.
Not “you did some unkind things.” Not “you need to work on this behaviour.”
Everything you’ve told yourself.
Every thought. Every perception. Every memory of our relationship. Every belief about what happened. Everything.
With one sentence, she didn’t just criticise me—she invalidated my entire internal reality.
And because I have BPD and can’t trust my own perceptions anyway, I believed her.
I genuinely believed I was playing the victim. That my entire healing story was a lie I’d constructed to avoid facing how terrible I am.
So I went to Myanmar and prayed for an answer to a question I was already convinced I knew:
Am I falling into a victim narrative?
Not “was I gaslit” or “was I manipulated.” I’d already decided the answer: Yes. I was playing the victim. She was right. I was wrong about everything.
This post is about what happened when I actually tried to examine that belief.
The Prayer I Couldn’t Stop Saying
Kyaiktiyo. Bagan. Yangon. Three sacred sites, endless prostrations, and the same prayer on loop:
“Please give me the strength to walk the right path. Please help me centre myself. Please show me what’s true.”
I wasn’t praying for her to come back. I wasn’t praying for the pain to stop.
I was praying for clarity about whether I’m lying to myself.
Because what if all those journal entries about being torn down—what if that’s just my victim script? What if every time I think “I was made to feel small,” I’m actually avoiding the truth that I just couldn’t handle honest feedback?
What if the person who loved me most was telling me difficult truths, and I’ve rewritten it all as abuse because accepting reality was too painful?
Or maybe she had to tell me in brutal ways because I was too thick to accept and understand her sincere criticisms before?
The Impossible Task
After Myanmar, I did something I’d been avoiding for months.
I made a list.
Two columns:
What I Was Told
The Facts
The goal: separate my feelings from reality. Examine each criticism as if it were said to a friend, not to me. Be brutally honest.
Here’s what I found:
What I was told: “You have a dual personality.”
The facts: I can’t hold my centre. My emotions swing wildly. But dual personality? I don’t know. Is emotional instability the same thing? Or was this character assassination disguised as observation?
I still can’t tell.
What I was told: “You used me.”
The facts: I depended on her financially and emotionally because I couldn’t stand on my own. That’s true. But did I use her? I didn’t date her for money—I actually hated asking for help. But the impact was the same, wasn’t it? If dependence looks like exploitation from the outside, does intent matter?
I still can’t tell.
What I was told: “You’re selfish.”
The facts: This one’s true. I think of myself first. It’s a habit. It needs changing. Full stop.
What I was told: “You’re cunning.”
The facts: Also true. I can be manipulative when I want something. I know how to play situations. That’s not a defence mechanism—that’s a character flaw.
See the problem?
Some of it was accurate. Some of it I can’t assess. Some of it might have been unfair. And I have no idea which is which.
What the Temple Taught Me (Before I Left)
Here’s where it gets uncomfortable.
Working at the temple showed me my flaws in real-time, and I couldn’t rewrite the narrative because other people were watching.
My coworker worked hard—obsessively hard. She did tasks no one asked her to do, worked invisibly, and seemed genuinely dedicated.
I did what I was told and then checked my phone.
She told me I didn’t “seem sincere” about the work. And honestly? She was right about that.
But here’s what I’ve realised since: She was also someone who couldn’t stand watching others not work as hard as she did. She had her own issues. It wasn’t a simple case of “perfect coworker vs lazy me.”
Still, the core observation was valid: I wasn’t fully committed to that work. I was treating it like a job, not a practice. That’s true.
Another woman told me I should have pretended I can’t speak English as well as I do, that my skills made people feel threatened, that I was “inconsiderate” about how I made others feel.
My first reaction was defensive: Why should I dim my light? Why is my competence the problem?
But then I thought: Is she right about the inconsiderate part?
Do I actually think about how my actions affect people? Or do I just do what feels natural to me and call it authenticity?
When I “considered” someone’s feelings in my last relationship, was I actually considering them—or was I considering my idea of consideration, which might have been completely tone-deaf?
How would I even know?
(I’ve since moved on from that temple—life keeps shifting, as it does. But those questions remain.)
The BPD Complication (Or: How One Sentence Can Destroy You)
Here’s why this is so hard with BPD:
I can’t trust my own perception of reality.
When someone says “you’re selfish,” my brain offers two options:
They’re 100% right and I’m irredeemably terrible
They’re 100% wrong and just trying to hurt me
There’s no option 3: “They have a point about X, but Y was unfair.”
So I either collapse into shame and accept EVERYTHING, or I reject EVERYTHING as manipulation to protect myself.
Both responses are useless for actually assessing truth.
And that line—”you should rethink everything you’ve told yourself”—was perfectly designed to exploit this vulnerability.
Whether she knew it or not, she handed me a weapon and told me to aim it at my own head.
Because people with BPD already don’t trust themselves. We already question our memories, our perceptions, our right to feel hurt. We’re already doing the work of invalidating ourselves.
That sentence just gave me permission—no, a directive—to finish the job.
For months, I genuinely believed I was wrong about everything. That every hurt I felt was imagined. That every moment of pain was just me being “too sensitive.” That the entire narrative of our relationship was a fiction I’d created to avoid facing my own awfulness.
That’s what makes this question so dangerous for people like me.
It’s not an intellectual exercise. It’s existential quicksand.
What I’m Trying Instead
The monk at Jang-eomsa told me something that’s been helpful—and infuriating.
I asked: “But what if the harsh words were true? What if they were valid criticisms that I just didn’t want to hear?”
She said: “If you can’t digest it, it’s not yours yet. Set it aside. When you’re ready, you’ll know whether to pick it up again.”
Which sounds wise, but also feels like a cop-out.
How do I know if I “can’t digest it” because:
A) It’s genuinely harmful and wrong, or
B) I’m just too fragile to handle truth?
Her answer didn’t help: “Trust will come with practice.”
Great. So I just... keep existing in uncertainty until someday I magically know? Cool. Cool cool cool.
The Terrifying Possibility
Here’s what scares me most:
What if I’m using “healing” as an excuse to never examine my actual flaws?
What if every time someone gives me hard feedback, I categorise it as “trauma” or “gaslighting” or “manipulation” so I never have to actually change?
What if my entire Substack is just an elaborate victim narrative that protects me from accountability?
The thought makes me nauseous.
Because if that’s true—if I’m just avoiding growth by calling it “healing”—then I’m doing exactly what was said about me: I’m manipulative, self-centred, and unwilling to actually do the work.
What I Know (Sort Of)
After weeks of sitting with this, here’s what I think I know:
1. Some criticism was valid.
I am selfish. I do think of myself first. I did depend too heavily on someone who loved me. These are facts.
2. Some criticism was probably excessive.
Being called “disgusting,” “snake-like,” “evil”—those feel like they crossed a line from feedback to attack. But I’m not certain. Maybe I was that bad and just can’t see it.
3. The cumulative effect was harmful.
Even if every individual criticism was valid, hearing negative assessments constantly for months left me genuinely unable to function. That happened. I have evidence: I couldn’t work, couldn’t eat, spent a month writing nearly a hundred unsent letters in crisis.
Whether that makes me “the victim” or just “someone who couldn’t handle reality” remains unclear.
4. I’m terrified of both possibilities.
If I were genuinely mistreated, that’s awful. If I’m rewriting honest feedback as abuse to protect my ego, that might be worse—because then I’m the problem and don’t even know it.
The Question I’m Living With
I don’t have neat answers. I’m not going to end this with “and then I realised...”
Because I haven’t realised anything yet.
I’m just sitting with the question: How do I take responsibility for my real flaws without accepting character assassination? How do I honour valid criticism without swallowing poison?
The best I can do right now is:
Accept the specific behaviours I know need changing.
I think of myself first → Working on that.
I was financially dependent → Working on that.
I struggle with emotional regulation → Working on that.
Postpone judgment on the character attacks.
Was I “disgusting”? “Evil”? “Manipulative to my core”?
I don’t know. I can’t assess that objectively yet. So I’m putting those words in a box and saving them for when I’m strong enough to evaluate them without either collapsing or rejecting them defensively.
Keep showing up.
Temple work was humbling. I saw my selfishness daily. I also saw that I was trying, and that counted for something.
Now I’m somewhere new again, and the lesson continues: showing up imperfectly is still showing up.
For My Fellow Questioners
If you’re also stuck in this terrible question— “Am I the victim or the villain?”—here’s what’s helping me:
1. Write it down
My feelings lie to me. But if I write down what was actually said and what actually happened, I can look at it later with more distance.
2. Ask: “What would I tell a friend?”
If your friend told you someone called them “disgusting” repeatedly, what would you say? Probably not “well, maybe you deserved it.”
But if your friend said, “I was financially dependent and complained when they asked me to contribute more,” you might say, “yeah, that sounds hard on them.”
3. Accept partial truths
“You’re selfish” can be true while “you’re evil” is false. These don’t have to be all-or-nothing.
4. Watch your behaviour, not your narrative
Am I actually changing? Am I treating people around me better than I treated my ex? Am I learning consideration?
If yes, that suggests I’m not just playing victim—I’m actually working.
If no, that’s information too.
5. Get comfortable with “I don’t know yet”
This might be the hardest part. But rushing to judgment either way (I’m innocent! I’m terrible!) short-circuits the actual work of self-examination.
The Answer I Don’t Have
I still don’t know if I was genuinely mistreated or if I’m just reframing harsh truths as abuse.
I don’t know if I’m courageously healing or cowardly avoiding accountability.
I don’t know if this Substack is an authentic recovery or elaborate self-deception.
What I do know:
I’m trying to change specific behaviours
I’m examining my flaws honestly (even though it’s excruciating)
I’m not rushing to absolve myself or condemn myself
I’m sitting in the discomfort of not knowing
And maybe that’s the only honest place to be right now.
Maybe healing doesn’t mean figuring out who was right. Maybe it means doing the work regardless of the narrative.
I’m not sure. But I’m here, in the uncertainty, trying.
From wherever I am this week (I’ve moved again—hence no newsletter last week—because temple life keeps teaching me that nothing is permanent, including temple arrangements)
Emotionally yours (and genuinely confused),
Suinny
P.S. - If You’re Here Too
Some questions that are helping:
The Self-Examination Check:
Am I changing behaviour, or just defending my story?
Would I accept this behaviour from someone else?
What would I tell a friend in my situation?
Can I separate “this criticism was valid” from “I’m a terrible person”?
Am I avoiding all feedback or genuinely protecting myself from harm?
Resources helping me:
Journaling: “What was said” vs “What is factually true”
DBT “Checking the Facts” (helps separate feeling from reality)
Therapy (DO NOT navigate this alone)
Community living (nothing reveals selfishness like sharing space with others)
What’s not helping:
Rushing to conclusions
All-or-nothing thinking
Asking “am I the victim?” instead of “what behaviours need changing?”
Reading articles that either confirm I was wronged OR confirm I’m terrible
Next week: “When Humility Becomes Self-Erasure: Being Told to Shine Less at the Temple”
A note: This is me genuinely not knowing. I’m not fishing for validation or “no, you were definitely wronged!” responses. I’m sitting in uncertainty because that seems like the only honest thing to do. If you’re here too, be gentle with yourself. Not knowing is hard. But it might be the only way forward.