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
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?
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 a real monster when I can’t see past my anger I want to burn you down I want you to drown And at times I can control my impulsivity and revenge But sometimes my anger can’t be caged And I try to keep it in between the pages of my journal and notebooks but the resentment becomes too loud to let you off the hook So a passive aggressive status post happens with an intent to insult and offend I want you to feel my anger all the way revealed Maybe one day I’ll get much better not allowing my anger to turn me into a monster
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
another 4 years of trump and who knows if America will still be standing if anyone who’s not male or white will still have rights another 4 years of trump and I see a future of fascism and dictatorship and U.S born citizens being sent back to their parent’s country of origin another 4 years of trump and I’m not sure I’ll still be alive or at very least still maintain a semblance of my sanity
Home is my son’s laughter after a hard day home is the sun on my skin while I run home is peace and Tranquility after years of Chaos home is letting other see the real me and not some fake personality
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
with this new strain of COVID, all of my cell are mutating and regenerating and making be at a standstill where I have time to sit and think about what I really want, about whether or not I’m doing enough to live a life worth living or if I’m just existing in a routine of monotony that leads nowhere in a routine I’ve deluded myself into calling healthy but really it’s far from it
Life on the BPD 