text: I left on the boat today. The boat with my darling. We drifted from the port of Weymouth, heading due south. It was one of the days that you only daydream about. One that you think that you’ll see, but you never do. A bright, warm day where the birds chirp and the leaves blow and everything in your life seems almost perfect. Almost. We loaded all of our luggage to the yacht. Everything that we would need for a day on the sea. She over packed, and I under packed. We were always polar opposites. We set sail at around 10AM that morning. It was the ninth of May. I remember that day very clearly. She had looked at me with loving eyes for the first time in as long as I can remember. She saw me as her world again. As the one she would spend the rest of her life with, the one. I had seen her that way since I first laid eyes on her, but she was never one for absolutes. Until that day. The wind was on our side, and so was the current. We planned to take it lazily and let the sail down half way through our journey for some fishing. We made it half an hour before it started. Borderline personality disorder is something that no one should ever, ever have to deal with. I thought that I was her cure, her saviour. But you can never know with this. You think that progress has been made. You make it 6 months of her loyalty, and then it happens. And it happened that day. She had recently been promoted in her job. At the same time that they had hired a new boy. A young boy. A courier for the company. Now, she didn’t see anything in him. She thought he was annoying, even. It didn’t have anything to do with who he was. It was just that fact that he was new. That’s all it took. She started telling me about him. She used language to evoke jealousy from me, because she knew that if I got jealous that she would have that to use against me and thus have a reason to be angry at me. I knew how it worked. She had done this so many times before that I knew better than to take the bait. Until she crossed a line. She told me that she masturbated to this boy. That she wanted him to fuck her. I was upset, obviously. The second I showed it, she took it as distrust. She said that I should expect more of her. Whenever you try to converse with a BPD sufferer like this, you should know that you are going to lose. Whatever you say, however you take it, you will come out on the bottom. I knew I was pinned. I told her to think whatever she wanted, as long as I was the one she came home to at night. But she kept pushing. She told me that I was keeping her on a leash. That I should set her free and not be so demanding as to want a monogamous relationship with my wife. Borderline personality sufferers do not heal. There is no cure, and no amount of therapy can cure such a thing. One in ten sufferers take their own lives because of their severe lack of empathy and understanding of human feelings. This was the sixth time she had done this to me. The sixth dumb, pathetic obsession she had had with a boy that she barely knew. This would never, ever end. I was done. I entered this relationship as a somewhat normal man. Now, I am a depressed, anxious alcohol that uses any drug that I can find to escape the shitty reality that is this marriage. But I love her. I love her enough to fix her problem for her. By now, we are two hours into our trip. I can see Guernsey on the horizon. I pull down the sails. I am calm and precise in my actions. I know that I can never see her leave me. She asks what’s going on. I tell her that I just stopped to look at the view and to talk with her. I take my fishing rod, unwind some string and wrap it around her neck. Tight and firm. She has caused me a lifetime of pain, and now it was my turn. I bury the hook deep into her neck to ensure the strangling line stays steady. I make her look into my eyes. I tell her that it will all be over soon. That she will be free from her madness in a matter of seconds. I tie two of the heavy sandbags from the yacht to the line, kiss her tenderly on the forehead, and throw her overboard. The world would be a better place now. I light a cigarette and pour myself a large glass of vodka. I don’t feel any regret, and I don’t think that I ever will. Off to Guernsey, I sail.