This is a drug. Sculpted by a set of hand cuffs made of plaster. Not my finest creation, but this is not my finest hour. It sits and bakes in the wake of the addict. Hidden among the weeds and the trees and the flowers. Only those who suffer could understand it’s power. How it grows and holds. Expanding from the molds which housed it. A plant in the mind of those who know where to look. Where to find such meaningless things in wish filled dreams. Only they can understand. This drug. Sculpted by a set of plastered handcuffs. This isn’t my finest creation, but it only took an hour. I can choose to give it power, or I can choose to throw it away. I am the addict who hides. Among the tree and weeds and thorns. Watching as it expands from the molds I sculpted. I leave meaning in its creations. Define it by dreams that I am making.
I do not have a best friend anymore.
That feels so strange to say.
I do NOT have a best friend anymore.
The one who held that place finally decided that they were done. Over. Enough. I wasn’t worth knowing anymore. Not by action that can be named but by those that still caused so much pain. This friend. This entity decided that I was their newest enemy.
I should have seen it coming. Actually, no, I did. Made a whole post about BPD and friends. But see it was not my personality at fault, in fact, one would say that I was downright innocent but that can be debated. See this was clearly fated when I spoke to my therapist about signs of abuse and if some could be found in the stories I shared of us since our youth.
“Well, she yelled at me, but it was totally my fault!”
“Haha yeah she made some off-handed remark about how I wasn’t enough, but where was the lie in that?”
“Ok no, she can be controlling but it’s endearing. How love is shown by manipulation. I mean, ok not always but she is happy so there was no need for my hesitation.”
My therapy sessions sounded like recorded excuses. One’s where I recalled all the times when she implied I was useless. But I stuck around cause I had no one else. Because I needed a best friend, above all else.
I no longer have a best friend.
She is gone.
Decided that I was someone who she no longer wanted to pull along.
It’s strange to say, after so many years.
Maybe one day I will get used to it and properly heal.
I liken friendship to dying. I know that it will eventually come to an end but a part of me, a huge part, wants to try to make it work anyways. It’s like wading out in a pool. Every encounter with another swimmer could either lead to them swimming farther away or them swimming closer for a moment to chat. But eventually, the leave to swim their own path.
That minute connection is friendship. That lingering touch when I am noticed, and all is well. That’s clarity to me but more often, that no does not last.
Those who have BPD give their all. I remember joking with a therapist once about a support group I had been in. You could tell which people where diagnosed with bpd by the stories that they told. We give novels in places of episodic summaries. In a way, I think this is because we know that things will not last. So we shove as much information into an encounter as we can and think very little about how it may be the thing that drives others away. It was bound to happen anyway.
Of course, this is not a struggle that everyone holds who share this diagnosis. But it is familiar enough that I have made a note of it with my friends and family. Those who also share in the disorder tend to gather and relate. So I have noticed how we all tend to regal friendships in a seasonal way. Our summer friends never last past the next spring. Our winter friends will maybe stick around till the holidays are over. Fuck the spring friends; those guys only stick around for a few days max. Fall friends are the type to only call and text. Haha, jokes, right?
That doesn’t mean that we don’t have lasting friendships. I have known people for years and consider them friends. But they came in waves. For the most part, our friendship never truly ends. Instead, there are moments when they can deal with me and moments that they can not. So I can go for even months without talking to them to decide to speak to me. Or for me to remember that there is a chance that might care. It’s rare for this not to happen.
There are reasons for this but I do not understand them. Maybe more therapy is needed…
“There will be a time to forgive”
Screamed the Butterfly
‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean that you need to forget’
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
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
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
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.
“Do you think you’ll be missed if you go through with this?”
“…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
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
Have been over come
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.