“There will be a time to forgive”
Screamed the Butterfly
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean that you need to forget’
Monthly Archives: December 2020
Depression and Parenting
I blame her
Because children are more resourceful
It’s more respectable if she is the reason
I can’t leave my home
I can’t leave my bed
People understand
In ways they can’t if it was just me
“Oh no worries, I know how it is”
“Lmao, that is just how it is with kids”
I blame her
Because it is easier to believe
Why I scream into my pillow
Why I can’t speaks days on end
They understand her
In ways I just don’t get
So I blame her
Just to fit in
BPD and Identity
At one point do people start to recognize themselves? I think one of the more interesting things about BPD is the idea of identity. We don’t really have one. Ok, that’s a lie, some of us do. I think we all can agree that some of us have titles that stick. I liken it to water. We shift with the tides changing course with the expectation life has on us. For some, the shift may come from the influence of those they hang out with. For others, it could be something different, like a new experience they have encountered. It can be a wide variety of other things as well but for me it is a mix of these two. My identity is dependent on my experiences and those I hang out with. I paint myself to fit the current narrative that is my life. It can be a bit…I guess much at times. Because people do not know who or what I truly am. That isn’t to say that I am completely without identity there are some things that stick that are similar to others
One such thing is that I am a mother. No matter what I feel as though I am a parent. I may not be a good parent but I am here.
The other, is queer, though I do not have any clue to what this truly means.
There are days when I wake up feeling trapped in a body not my own. I am disgusting, unlovable, deserving of pain. All because this body is not mine. It has…accessories that I despise. Yet, there are times when I wake up truly feeling myself. When I grab my breast with pride over the sheer size of them. A generous portion that overflows in a person hand, I am told.
If someone was to ask me which one was the real me…I don’t think I could answer.
There are days when I find girls to be attractive. When they thought of being with a man leaves me nauseous. But there are days when the opposite happens. There are times when I feel no attraction at all. When being with a person leaves me feeling disconnected. Why do people date tends to play in my head. My friends take full advantage of these days (with permission) because I am not hindered by emotions when they come asking for advice in their own relationship though “Leave him sis” tends to be my go to suggestions because why bother with relationships. They are to dumb. Why bother connecting with people at all. These days I liken myself to a doll. Just emotionless.
So what am I?
What label can I slap on that best describes me. Because my mental illness, in this case at least, does define me. So can I really pick and choose when there is something else at play making the decisions for me?
This is truly one of the more interesting things about BPD.
My daughter is in therapy. There really is no reason for it. Mentally, she is fairly healthy. No, this is so she can work through the struggles that came from being raised in a single parent home when said single parent has a personality disorder. I can’t, I won’t let her turn out like me. Instead I put her in therapy so that she can speak to someone who can help her understand that I love her unconditionally even if I do not always show it and that my flaws are not a representation of her at all. So far, I think it has helped her.
But I overheard something the other day. Or was it today. I can’t recall. Well one day I heard something while she was talking to her therapist.
Normally, I do not my best to not listen in. I play music or watch something. There have been times when I will stand outside. Her therapy is her time. But today, or was it last week, maybe it never happened, she read a book to her therapist about people with BPD.
It is a book geared more towards children. A series, in fact, that details a lot of disorders but I gave her the one fo used on mine. She read this book to her therapist and told her how it was one that made me cry every time I read it. How, while reading it, she discovered that the charecter with BPD acted a lot like me. Her therapist asked her opinion on this and my daughter stated
“It’s fine”
….
It’s fine?
As she continued to read she ran across a part that gave her pause. Within this book is a section that talks about people with BPD often having problems with boundaries because they are afraid of being abandoned. So when someone goes a long time without answering text or phone calls, the person with BPD will start to freak out. In the process they may respond in anger or fear. My daughter, being the rather opinionated person that she is, told her therapist that this was something she found to be mean. When her therapist asked her to explain what she meant she just repeated herself and kept on reading.
Now, this is something that I do. But it is an aspect of myself that I tend to ignore. Mainly because I feel justified in my mass text or phone calls if I am repeatedly ignored. Of course I do not do it for long. Because after some time I will just convince myself that the person hates me and wants me dead. That’s exactly why they are ignoring me. It doesn’t matter what the true reasoning is. What I feel is right because I believe it is. They hate me, they want me dead, I annoy them, thus they are no longer my friend.
But this isn’t true. At least that is what reality says. Yet I still feel this way. So when my child looked to her therapist and said that she behavior was mean…I had to check myself.
Am I being mean?
I don’t rightly know.
I wish to be
“Hey Kid…”
Yes
“Do you think you’ll be missed if you go through with this?”
Probably
“…So why do it?”
Because it is the only chance I get to win
I am dust, if I trust
With a dash of fire light
And a mix of broken prose
I suppose, I am made
With bitter beat
And repetition
Standing at memories kitchen
Clutching a chest that will move
Hoving closer and closer to you
I am dust, if I trust
With a dash blue hued rust
And a mix of mistaken prose
I suppose, I am done
Because memories
Have been over come
Warrior duet
Blood, sweat and tears, and pride, though it lies. I still got it, a certificate too. Proof that I know a thousand and one ways to kill you. But I have pain, pills just can’t fix. A bullet wounded knee cap and previously broken ribs. But I have honor, and respect, and the ability to shop at places where they do not accept my check.
Blood, sweat and tears, and pride, though it hides. I still got it, proven by the medal clipped to my chest. Proof that I know how to hold a person down as they scream. But I have pills, that can keep the nightmares at bay. A fucked up mind a broken home, I didn’t know what to expect. But I’ve got honor, and respect, and the ability to stand at ease in the check out line with people glaring at my back.
The Queens Quest
These broken toys with a childs soul
Hidden in the painted garden
Red and white, central war.
Disguised as a game of chess.
I guess, that the future can be changed
With a hatter that is madder and slick
That a simple trick could bring about
A guillotine event worth talking about
A tiny goodbye
I never got the chance to know the stars. Those flickering scars that rob the sky. Bright blights that hindered my growth. I missed them. Though I promise I never would. Because she is not here to see them. For me, that is reason enough to get rid of them.
The ocean, I despise it. With every moment of the tide I die a little more inside. I rather it fade away. Or give me room to drown. Because I can not bare the sight, while she is no longer around.
These memories, they haunt me. I would rather forget. Because is not here to share in them. I see no reason to give in. To my brain hidden inclination, to remember a forgiving friend.
God is baking
Spices covers shimmering as the chef lingers over a half-baked sweet.
His body pose shows a master.
Something well versed in kitchens disaster.
He sprinkles confetti on top a cake and mixed batter in with well-done fate.
He is a master, this man who creates.
A chef in this kitchen.
In an unknown place
NIGHTMARE FANTASY 