Espero, espero, y espero por tu llamada para oír que mi soledad fue una pesadilla Espero, espero, y espero que aparezcas en mi puerta para decirme que todavía me deseas Espero por tu carta por correo diciéndome que me echas de menos
Lo siento por ti piensas que has ganado pero serás otra mujer usada crees que te ama pero es una de sus mentiras piensas que el es tu príncipe azul pero tu dignidad parara en el suelo tienes un canalla y mentiroso a tu lado que te dejará con un mal sabor en tu boca no digo esto porque te tengo envidia es una advertencia para que no acabes como mi otra de sus muchas mujeres que el trate como una muñeca de trapo
I wrote this in 2009 when I was feeling contemplative about life.
Sylvia Plath gets me
Horizon
The horizon stretches out before me In a limitless manner I see a future but am unsure Of which path to walk towards Everything is a blank slate to me Undefined by my indecision The moment I choose Is the moment I’ll become Something, anything Than the nothingness That I am
The horizon stretches out before me Offering everything and nothing Offering this or that Offering a wasted life Or a meaningful one
The horizon stretches out before me And I need to stop My hesitation And become a person of actions And do something, anything So the horizon is not wasted
I wrote this poem in 2008. One the BPD traits is feeling restless and oh my, I feel this a lot. Sometimes it’s for a few hours, sometimes it’s for a few days and I write about it.
I wrote this in 2007 when I transferred to a 4 year University. It was a rough experience.
me with my friends in 2007
I feel small in this enormous and elitist world it doesn’t seem like I will ever fit It only seems like a perfect fit for my younger, blonder, whiter, and younger counterparts Older, hispanic, and poor is not acceptable here. Should I even try ? When I’m destined for failure on this institution’s steps Failure on the steps is what I feel here- a place where my browner, poorer self feels like an outcast, an undesirable- by the eyes of prejudice
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 thiseven 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:
Life on the BPD 