the intruder within me won’t quit
she remembers every wrong done to her
and every mistake she’s made
and starts the game of how much self loathing
i can take
And I used to try to quell her with affirmations
but lately I tell her-tell me more-
And I listen and write out her words
about every insecurity that still plagues me
and she stops because it’s no longer fun
so she leaves once she’s acknowledged
and once again I return to my inner peace
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
I’m not sure if I have to work as much as I Do
but I know what happens when I don’t
my electric bill goes in the red
a food stamp application is filled and filed
for me and my family
I start to lose sleep over the bills and the things
my kids need
and when I fall into dreamland
dreams of soup kitchens, panhandling,
and scarcity follow me
and I end up in the land of poverty, insanity
and hypervigilance
where I beat myself up for not doing enough
to give my kids the life they deserve
and I regret my life choices that led me here
especially the one where I chose a lazy baby daddy
I’m not sure if I have to work as much as I do
but I’ll continue to do so until my body shuts down
who cares if my hip is broken and I hardly have
any time to myself
I’d rather work myself to the bone than to allow
my family to fall again into being victims of poverty
I wrote this in September of 2023.
When I saw this prompt from wordpress, I was going to write maybe a poem about how blogging has become an outlet for my storytelling and healing but the day had other plans for me. Today, I woke up exhausted as hell because I haven’t had a day off in three weeks and my emotional bandwidth is extended to the point it’s about to break or snap with my upcoming divorce hearing and every fucking feeling is just coming up. Still, I decided to go to work this morning even though I didn’t want to. I was trying to fake being okay but I just couldn’t. I felt this ball of rage inside of me seethe and persist and I started crying. I went to the bathroom and tried to compose myself and called a friend and she calmed me down to the point I didn’t feel like rage quitting my job anymore. And I got back to work, tried to mask and then the rubberband of my emotional bandwidth broke and I started dissociating. It felt like what I was doing and living wasn’t real. I told my boss and I left work early. As soon as I got into my car and started it, I felt this wave of relief. As soon as I got home, I called my friend who was incredibly supportive and felt better. It’s really hard to write to this blogpost and be so candid and vulnerable in trying to explain the challenges I face with BPD. Throughout the past two years, I’ve been able to convey how living with mental illness is like through poetry, essays, etc. It’s not easy but something in me thinks it’s important to share my story. With therapy and hard work, I’m able to manage my symptoms 80 to 90 percent of the time but today was one of those days when this episode of dissociation came up and it was scary as hell. The best way to describe it is this “inside me” watching me go through the motions of life faking it while “inside me” is in flight or fight mode. Normally, I just fight it until I feel grounded again with one of my coping mechanisms. That could be writing in my journal, calling a friend, exercising, or any one of my DBT skills. This time, my dissociation felt out of control and impossible to manage because I started to question whether or not what I was living was real or not. It was me asking myself, “is this reality or a dream?” . I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you I didn’t saw this episode coming. My mood swings have been between extreme highs and extreme lows. I describe it as between a euphoric “Pollyanna” I have the best life viewpoint on one day to “Debbie Downer” Everything sucks, I just need to get through the day viewpoint the next day.
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
I wash my hands of all my past sins
my wrongs never defined me
It was a toxic narrative I swallowed whole
when I was addicted to suffering
and being a martyr
When I was a teen I was the girl guys hid
They were embarrassed to be seen with me
and now in my middle age men want to brag
about fucking me even if it was that one time
and while I’m not ashamed of my sexuality
I still hate this misogynist reality of
how my body and my sexual intensity
makes me fodder for men’s sexism
maybe it’s toxic masculinity
Or maybe men can’t see past my powerful sexual energy
They need to remember I’m also crazy
and when they relegate me to a sexual object
they become my subject for my salty poetry
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
these must be the new dark age of my life
where I can’t find my life’s purpose,
where I cry because I don’t think
I’ll ever be loved
where the sleeping pills in my drawers
are tempting me to end my misery
It could be worse they say because I could be dead
my children left without a mother
my parents left without a daughter
My friends and coworkers left without entertainment
of my emotional and dramatic hijinks
And I left without fulfilling my potential or life purpose
It could be worse they say because with me gone
Who else will give you my special brand of crazy?
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
I’m not the one you want
or the one you’ll ever take home
to meet your mama
but I’m the one etched in your mind,
the one who appears in your dreams
the one you will never forget about
and one of your few regrets
and you,
you were another story among many
another obsession of my past
I hardly ever think about
I want to hold on to what’s real
and not be stuck in a daydream
I want to live in my present
And not stuck in my past
I want to be over you
and not be triggered
by the memory of you
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
it wasn’t until today I realized how ordinary you really were
It wasn’t that you were ever that interesting or special
It was me with my lovergirl delusional glasses
refusing to see past what was in front of me
Seeing and getting caught up in fantasies
of who you could be
when really you were, the most ordinary of men
not malicious, not especially intelligent
not really helpful
just kind of existing without any spark
without anything that would make me
look twice at you now
Pretty gets me in a man’s door
but also makes me feel like a whore
I’ve been pretty sexy, pretty nice, pretty sweet
I’ve also been pretty crazy, pretty Petty, and pretty mean
men love me when I’m pretty and submissive
but not when I’m pretty reclusive
men want the pretty girl who’s fun
but not when I’m a pretty girl who’s a selfish cunt
pretty gets me notice
but also gets me dismissed
Men love a pretty mess like me
especially the nice ones who want to fix me and save me
I’m their pretty princess who’s so lovely and sweet
And for some, my pussy makes them think or say they love me
but when I turn from a pretty mess to a crazy and chaotic hurricane
they can’t stand to be around me and run away
“I never signed up for this, you’re toxic”
and I cry and then laugh at the absurdity
you don’t get to choose just to love the fun part of me
because that’s not love
that’s their primal need and lust for me disguised as loved
because real love accepts everything about me
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
to see my american dream I just need to step into my backyard
and look at my holy trinity who call me mom
they’re the ones I try to better myself for
they’re the one who make my immigrant existence
worth living for
they’re my american dream wrapped up in burps, dark humor
and love
I wrote this poem in July of 2024.
july, july, july
it’s the month where I lose my mind
the heat gets to me and turns up the BSC in me
you won’t find me sweet and eager to please in July
you won’t find me full of ruffles and flowery phrases
in poetry
you’ll find me being a ball of immigrant rage and fury
you’ll find me a woman who’s had enough
of the American dream bullshit
and ready to roar and scream out everything wrong
with this country
another poem inspired by 2007.
denial sits in the pit of my gut
but I disguise it with a smile
and trips to the zoo
act like domestic bliss is heaven
when inside I’m trembling with rage
Life on the BPD 