This was my response to prompt #25:A thing your life has in excess
I lie to myself about my lack of love
The truth is that love is everywhere to be found
My mom who calls to check in on me
My tia who sends me Buenos Días videos
My coworkers who put up with my many moods
My kids who tell me “I got you ma” when I can’t
figure out the latest household gadget
My friends who listen to me without judgment
Love is everywhere I am and it’s time for me
to radically accept it
This was in response to prompt #28: The person you’re always happy to see
My son is my light during my darkest of days
He’s a burst of an infectious kind of of good energy
Maybe it’s because he got the best of me
he was loved even before he was thought of
and when he was born
he was more and everything I dreamed of
he was a much sought out rainbow
after the worst of my storms
I wrote this in December of 2021.
Christmas sounds like Mariah Carey and Wham
competing to blast their christmas songs from my radio
or a Christmas Story playing on the tv
Christmas looks likes the crooked christmas tree
almost tipping over with an excessive amount of ornaments
and way too many gifts under the tree
christmas taste like mashed potatoes with ham
and alcoholic eggnog to swallow
uncomfortable conversations about politics
christmas smells like candles burning with scents
called christmas tree farm
christmas feels like happiness with everything in my life
and the warmth and magic of my little family
I wrote this in 2016.
Faulkner wrote about her ancestors
She stood like a pillar of strength between her mother and daughter
She stood strong as both of them held her arms that were their life jackets
as they drowned in endless sorrows
Tears silently fell from her face as her father laid in his closed home
And the reverend went on about him being in a better place
And her strength did not falter,
She let her loved ones hold on tight while she tried to blink away tears ,
She swallowed her pain and absorbed the pain from those around her
She wasn’t just strong for her mother and daughter,
but she was a goddess of strength among the mere mortals
around her that wept
I wrote this poem in January of 2020. Maybe I was mad at the patriarchy or just feeling weighed down by the expectations that society has on women. I know that for me, it has been a huge burden at times to constantly keep up an appearance that I am put together balanced woman even if I am falling apart.
The strength we have to carry as women
is obscene
Endless expectations weigh on us
generation after generation
We are buried in the burdens
that society has placed on us
since before we are born
Be sexy but don’t show your body
Be smart but your opinion is not wanted
Be motherly and nurturing
but still a productive member of society
It is a never ending nightmare
to try to reach
the ridiculous standards
of beauty, wealth, and motherhood
Some of us seem to do it with grace
Some of us are barely hanging on by a thread
Quite a few of us would rather die
than continue with the facade of the myth
of the balanced and beautiful woman
I wrote this poem in 2016 when I was reflecting on how different my children were. At the time, my middle son was going through a difficult time and it was hard to deal with.
Living with my three children
Is like living in three different countries
My oldest would be Singapore
With strict rules and laws,
He hates flaws in himself
And others and is unforgiving
It’s challenging to live in
Singapore
My middle child would be a war torn ridden country
Like Syria
That’s currently filled with constant chaos,
He is trying to find himself in a place
He feels unwanted and lost
It is an unpredictable struggle
To reside in Syria
My youngest child would
Be an established and friendly country like Spain
He is vibrant, laid back yet energetic
Occasionally you hear about political protests
That reminds me of his occasional tantrums when
His life feels unjust
It is almost a predictable and easy existence to
Live in Spain
I wrote this poem in late 2007 when I was depressed about my life. Again, instead of going to therapy, I just wrote a poem about it. Lol.
Tainted dreams
of life is what
I have left.
A career of abstract
nothingness lies
before me.
Chaotic and sensitive off springs
I must put before me.
Frigidity and
senility in my
marital bed lie
next to me.
Is this it? Is this
what is left
of my
foolish childhood dreams.
Scattered dreams
in my past
become failures
of my present.
Will my soul
ever recuperate
from the cost?
Will I ever be that
hopeful again?
I wrote this poem in December of 2016 after my almost love affair with death on December 5th. It’s strange how aside from my journal entries from that month, I hardly remember that month. I just remember feeling so broken inside and like a failure after that happened that it was so hard to get up every morning. I do know that writing saved me during that time because I started journaling way more consistently. I would learn years later after being diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder that up to 10 percent of people with BPD die by suicide. Five years later, I’m glad that I had people by my side that prevented me from becoming one in ten. I’m glad that afterwards, I was able to slowly come back from this even if I was mostly depressed the year after and it was a fight to get up every single day.
For more information about the high risk of BPD and Suicide, here is a link from Psychology Today with info about it:
I wanted to sleep
Sleep beckoned me
Like a magical place
Where I could forget
Forget-
The burdens and responsibilities
Forget-
The performance reviews, the report cards, the bills
Forget-
The husband, the kids, the friends
I wanted to sleep
So I planned my journey there
Call in sick, act natural,
Take the bottle of xanax
I wrote love letters
To my children, my husband, and friends
Just in case I fell in a forever dream
I wanted to sleep
Selfishly, without interruptions
I wanted to sleep
So I didn’t have to think
About my mediocre and suburban reality
My lost dreams of greatness
My wastefulness on this earth
I wanted to sleep
But I was interrupted
By my husband shaking me
Halfway carrying me
To the couch, forcing coffee
Down my throat
I wanted to sleep
But I had to wake up
And endure the reality of life
I wrote this poem in fall of 2005 when I was feeling overwhelmed by my responsibilities of being a mother, a girlfriend, a student and a worker. As usual at that time, I took on too much and was trying to be everything to everyone. One trait of BPD that I’ve carried throughout the years is over extending myself sometimes to my detriment in order to make other people happy.
Feelings I can’t turn off
Quickly come in droves
Don’t know what to do
My options are few
Do I follow my gut?
And get away from this rut
Or do i stay here ?
And become what I fear;
A woman that settles
And lets others meddle
A woman with no mind
And with everything, she is fine
But can I turn off the real me?
And stay so unhappy
I wrote this poem in 2004 about my oldest son. Even though, I was 17 when I had him, I always tried to be the best mother for him. I worked to support him since I was 18, he was one of my biggest motivations for going to college, and even though I was extremely insecure as a young mom, I learned to advocate and fight for him to get the services and therapies he needed when he was diagnosed with autism.
You’re a wonderful mistake
I never want to unmake
I was young and stupid
a kid having another kid
but with you I finally grew up
and learned the meaning of love
You are everything a mother could want
Such an admirable and fine son
you are my pride and joy
you will always be my little boy
And I will dread the day
When you have to go away
But I take relief in knowing
You’ll know how to spread your wings
And you will always remember
who you once were
A wonderful mistake
Your mom never wanted to unmake
Perhaps a creation of lust
but one who never lacked love
Day 25 of doing a 31-day poetry prompt challenge. Today’s prompt is “Peaceful chaos”
I wrote this poem in 2006 about my tumultuous relationship with writing. I love to write and it’s saved me more times than I can count. However, I tend to beat myself up if I’m not writing enough.
Instead of tears from eyes that long to spill,
I will spill words onto these pages.
Words that make sense,
Words that don’t make sense,
Many are in fact nonsense
I will let my emotions, the wind
And my surroundings guide me until
I fill up these pages
Full of nonsense, prose,
Poetry, ideas, and everything I can think of
This will be a new phase
this new phase will be full
of promise and potential
And it will also be full
of what I hope is the inspiration
that leads me to share my relationship
to the world.
this will be my fourth baby
Another one I will nurse and raise until it is
As beautiful and complete as my
real life ones.
This is the promise I make to
my pathetic little beast.
I wrote this in 2006 after I was reflecting my first years of being a mother to my eldest child who I had at 17. Becoming a mother at such a young age didn’t make me the best parent and at times I still tried to act my age and party a lot even though I was a parent. It used to eat me up inside but I’ve come to terms that I did the best I could under the circumstances.
Late nights at the club
Drunk and dancing-you
Singing lullabies
Until he fell asleep-I
Getting ass from
an unknown stranger-you
Looking for monsters under the bed
and wishing them away-I
Waking up in an unknown place
With a helluva hangover-you
Waking up from little hands
Shaking my shoulders-I
You and I=me
Me =two different truths
About the way your childhood
Was seen
Life on the BPD 