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
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 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
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
their used knicknacks, their used clothes their used whatever is taking up too much space in their closet or garage all of this is given to their browner and poorer counterparts act like ever act of charity will bring them one step closer to heaven when at times their recipients feel like it’s a act of condescension, arrogance a way to remind them where they belong a way to remind them of their working class status the haves need the have nots to have someone to feel superior to while the have nots cannot escape the cycle of poverty due to the greed of the haves
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
lately I take the biggest bites out of life and flaunt it in front of everyone for too long I suppress my hunger for experience, For adventure thought I was crazy for trying to explore my curious nature So instead I took small bites here and there thinking it would be enough but it wasn’t who I was a little bird taking nips naw I’m a condor reading to pounce and satiate my hunger my big ass appetite ready to be satisfied with the unpleasant and pleasurable things in life
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
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
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
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
Entre la espada y la pared me encuentro otra vez es tiempo para otra evolución, otro renacimiento pero me siento cómoda donde estoy me siento tranquila aqui donde no tengo que dar explicaciones a nadie pero el universo tiene otros planes para mi pronto vendrá alguien o algo que me moverá el piso y denuevo caeré en el caos sin querer queriendo
as long as there is breath left in me I will try try to be a good mom to my kids try to tell my story try to love everyone the best way i can try to find understanding for what happened to me try to find joy in the most ordinary of moments try to dance my way through my most depressive episodes try find my inner peace and calm
Life on the BPD 