A soul infected

I am writing this after seeing a post from a blogger talking about her parenting experience during the pandemic.

Now, she isn’t the only one to write about it. Probably 1 of millions if we are being completely honest. Yet, hers is the first one I had even bothered to look at. Not that there wasn’t any chance to do so, because like I said, plenty of people are writing about this topic. I just haven’t been in a place where I could read about other experiences. So when taking the dive to finally understand what others are doing it is interesting that I ran across hers.

This experience has been trying. As many of my readers know I have a mental disorder. One that can make like a bit more complicated than it needs to be. One would think that this pandemic has scattered me. Made it hard to do much of anything as I curled into a ball awaiting the day we all die. Really, that isn’t remotely near enough to the panic state I have been thrust into.

Instead, image this, a mother and her child sitting on the couch binge watching movies. Cut to a few hours later when said mother is in her room while her child is in a different area. They are both doing different activities but both are quiet. They are content in ways you wouldn’t image would be the case in such situations. They are happy with the lack of responsibility.

But, if you wish to stick around a little longer, you will find the child sleeping and the mother crying alone in her room.

That is my reality.

See, I am used to staying home. Honestly not having to pretend to be happy while around other humans is amazing. I hate my job. I hate school. But I love them so much that I can’t stand myself. A perfect contradiction I know. But that is where I am right now. I am happy to be home and away from the world but I will it all the same.

I miss my co-workers. To the point that I have messaged my boss and a few others to check on them from time to time. I miss my fellow classmates. So much so that I wish there was a way to reach out. Zoom dinner date while we talk about Philosophy and how Socrates would have tots been a frat boy is given the chance. I miss my family and friends.

But by the grace of every deity, if given the chance to stay like this forever I would be grateful. I would welcome it with open arms and scream fuck y’all to the wind. Just me and my daughter, no school and no work. Yes please.

But, my reality makes it so I can not. I do not want this.

So there are days when things are good. I am “fun”(coughlamecough) mom. Singing and dancing while cleaning. Cooking meals and helping my kiddo with homework.you want to make some slime kid? I gotchu boo. Wanna jump on the bed? Fuck the neighbors, they know what we about! We will drown ourselves in laughter and not care about anyone else.

But there are also bad days.

Ones where I can not stop crying. When homework becomes a chore. When ignore the notifications from my daughters teaching asking if she has done her work. My house is a mess and the neighbors love me. My daughter has to fight the silence. Because mommy can not stand sounds. Everything hurts until it doesn’t. Ever tried to parent while feeling numb? As though someone else is living your life and you are playing third wheel to another’s reality. You, the voices, and the one who is in control. All fighting for recognition. With a child who is just to young to understand that not now means maybe next week sweety mommy is to busy fighting her demons.

I have gone a few days without realizing anything. A few hours where I can’t recall what I have done.

This pandemic has been a life saver in some ways. Allowing me to relax and give into my inner desire to stay away from the world.

But it has also been much like the beginning of every disaster movie. Only this one doesn’t end with a love interest and a white fence blocking out the burning city.

What time to be alive.

Please check out this fellow blogger who shared her story and inspired me to write me own. Also feel free to share you own experience while parenting (or aunting and uncleing, or cousining or sibling…ing… ok I’ll stop) during all that is going on.

Blog in question is Grieving Out loud. Thank you so much for sharing your story about mothering through the pandemic. While are experiences are vastly different in many ways I enjoy what you wrote. Seriously, I adore just about everything you write.

I am sick. No, not that sick. A different kind that makes it hard to sleep at night. The one that makes it so opening my door and walking outside is suddenly a chore. This is my normal but was easily worked past as long as I had a goal in mind.

Now, I am goalless.

There is nothing keeping me from venturing to the outside. Aside from my mind of course. But it is enough. There is a barrier now and I am to afraid to do anything about it.

I am sick. I feel like I am grieving a life that never was. I had just started living again. I had a job. I went to school. I had reasons. But now they are gone and I do not remember their flavor anymore.

A part of me doesn’t care. I crave solitude in a way that makes my heart hurt. It is beautiful, truly, but it isn’t enough.

My mother is sick as well, but not in the way you think. She told me so other day as they hooked up IVs along her arms. “Dehydrated” they said, before sending her on her own with some paid meds, “just give it to weeks”.

I don’t think that plays a part in my illness. Frankly, I do not think I feel enough to understand. I should feel pain but instead I am empty. Current events suggest that I am just going through the motions. But I think I left some part of me behind.

A different kind of update

I haven’t felt like writing lately. Mainly because I have a job that keeps me tired on top of going to school. Neither of these task are things I am enjoying completely. I like work but I don’t at the same time. I love school but I am failing because I can’t seem to care. I lack motivation to do more then attend classes. But I am starting to not even want to do that anymore. People are kind there. Same with work, people are so very kind at times.

So I wonder why I am having so many problems.

Sure “Duh Jessi, you have depression and BPD”

Yea I get that but that doesn’t mean I like it ya know. Those explain fairly well why I can’t do some things but I enjoy my job. I enjoy going to school so why can’t these aspects just pick something else to make me less motivated to do. Like reading? I can deal with not being up to reading. I mean I am not up to reading now but that is something it can prevent me from doing just fine. Or hey, what about talking to people. I can go forever without talking to a single person outside of school and work (because I have to not because I want to). I can delete social media and my phone service and be as happy as clam chowder. But no

Nope

Nada

You choose school and work to be the things that make me want to self harm over.

Great thinking brain.

You think good.

Another Update cause I can

Welcome to the musing of an extremely petty poet.

I have had a lot of new followers and am actually starting to get a lot of repeats as well. Still not a lot of comments but I am ok with that. Just wanted to let everyone know, if you all haven’t noticed already, I am a terrible speller. And *spoiler alert* my grammar is even worse. So feel free to judge to your hearts content lol. I have had some people tell me that it is ok but it is something I struggle with and want to work on. I do not do it before I post my work but when I go back I like to edit a few things here and there. Change up a line or two to help it flow better. But if you see some mistake that doesn’t look intentional just comment and let me know. I will not get upset…ok I will get upset if said person only commenter just to tell me what I am doing wrong.

I am a single mom who struggles with BPD. I made this blog first to hone my writing skills but later on I wanted to show what it was like to live with a mental disorder. My poems and little story tell about my life and that of my daughter. Sometimes I can be angry, happy, sad, depression, excited and even, you guessed it, petty. I enjoy each and every person who takes the time to like and read my work. There is not a lot of information out there that paints people with BPD in a neutral light. Most information seeks to vilify us. Well I am here to tell ya that we are just as human as you are. We make mistakes and successes. My poems go a long way into proving that. Because some of my pieces are downright holy while others sound like the musing of a very edgy teen going through puberty. You get no in between with me really 🤣.

So I thank you and say welcome to all the new faces. I am sorry for the mess and look forward to learning from you all.

My head

I feel empty.

Not that isn’t right. I feel something but not the normal kind. As though my spirit is breaking, shattering, quaking in my body to the sounds of a dying heart.

I can feel it leaving.

Every breath I make wheezing and squeezing in my chest. My lungs crushed between broken bones and a dark place.

I can’t take it

Yet I am here faking, smiling, lying to the people I love. Waving from the side lines using pride to hide what I feel inside. Bursting from the seams I am coming undone

But here I am.

I don’t want to be but I am and I don’t know how to stop, let go, be free. I do not know how to me. The normal me. The real me. The thing that I can help but dream.

And it is to late

I want to give up but here I am. Decaying flesh and hopeless despair. Melting toa darken state. Smiling with out a care to hide my mistake.

Vibration

I haven’t a clue. When it comes to who I am I mean. I like to ask this question of me but soon realize that there is no true answer. So many titles reflect my being but none of them really define me. The real me. The me that others think they see but they don’t. Only pieces of a whole yet unknown by everyone.

I don’t even know. Who I am I mean. The very reaches of my soul elude me. I can convince myself that one day I will figure it all out but it is a lie. A cute one at that.

I will never know. Who I am I mean. Who I am meant to be. I may suffer in silence all the while trying to find it. No… Find me…yes suffer alone I as strive to find me.

Disappointed

I wanted to disappear from the minds of those who say they love me.

But I can’t seem to find the words.

I want them to hate me moments before they wipe their memory of me.

I need them to go away

But I can’t seem to make the effort to put it into place.

I want to go far away

I just want to disappear

But I can’t seem to find the ability

To turn themvall away.

A letter

Dear Father,

I never really liked my name. As a kid I hated how it meant that I was your child. I felt that the title didn’t explain all that I was in life. Jessica, child of Jesse, a common nobody that not even her father could bring himself to love. As a child I convinced myself that the best thing to do is hate before others had the chance to hate me. I remember the few times of happiness I felt I would instantly try and force it down. I didn’t deserve happiness.

When I was 10 I decided I would give myself 10 more years of life before I killed myself. I decided this after you had yelled at me for one reason or another. I remember holding a mini funeral for myself…my little self.

I killed the part of me that made me Jessica.

Jessica was unloved and unwanted. I thought this would make life easier.

But then came the voices…and the shadows.

I hated being in small spaces. I was fine with animals lurking about but small places like bathroom and closets gave me nightmares. I could feel people staring at me. I could hear people whispering. They wanted to hurt me. They convinced me that you wanted to do the same. I couldn’t trust anyone.

Killing myself did not go as planned but it was to late to go back now.

After while the shadow became that of a little girl. Jessica had came seekimg her revenge. It got to the point where being alone was the only way to keep her at bay. I hating sleeping because she was always there. I had nightmares all the time. I would wake up crying and had to sneak into my sister bed just so I could sleep. She wasnt a huge fan of that so I would often sleep under her bed. People didn’t crawl on me or grab me when I was under her bed. During storms I would sleep under the window. It probably wasn’t the safest places but no one hurt me when it rained but they screamed, oh god did they scream so loud.

When my sister was gone I just didn’t sleep. I begin to fear the dark so stayed up crying or writing or reading. Hurting myself whenever sleep got to close.

I spent my days sleeping or reading because she couldn’t reach me during the day time. She wouldn’t dare… The consequences of my fears made it so people hated me anyways. I couldn’t prove to others that the voices where there. No one else saw the shadows.

After awhile the whispers stopped. They didn’t go away completely but they did stop.

Father, I grew up believing you hated me. This was probably because I hated myself. Even now I do not understand how you can even talk to someome as damaged as me.

I look at my daughter and I pray to whatever god is listening that she doesn’t turn out like me.

As I have aged I no longer fear the dark. Small places comfort me, especially if there is a furbaby to keep me company.

I haven’t told anyone about the voices. No one important anyways. Over the years I have actually denied them being there. But they are here. No longer yelling or whispering but I can feel them judging me. I know what it means to see or hear things.

Dear Father

I really don’t know what to do anymore. I guess I could tell you that I am fucked up but you already know it.

At least, that is what she is telling me.

I stopped laughing

I am not exactly sure when laughter started to bother me. When I figured a group of people experincing joy made me so sad. All I know that as times change I begin to look at laughter as a bad thing. Their happy smiles meant something was wrong with me. Doesn’t matter that they had been doing it before I even showed up, it was always at my expense.

I begin to hate the sound of people having fun. I begin to see their whispers as reasons to stay indoors. When a friend told a joke it was always about me, even when it wasn’t.

I am not an attractive person. I am not smart, or brave, or funny, or cool. I am everything a person hate. I am someone the world could make fun on for one reason or another.

I can not stand when strangers laugh around me. I always feel as though they are judging me. I fight the urge to run and hide whenever someone close by lets out a giggle. A smirk turns my stomach and makes me die inside.

I do better when I am alone or with my child. She can still hurt me with her giggles but I know that they are not always at my expense. I can be myself with her and she won’t judge me…much.

I hate being myself around others. If I show them someone fake then they can’t really hate me. Sadly, I do not really know the real me. I have no idea who I am so after awhile that doesn’t work either.

I guess it is because I hate myself so much I don’t want to get to know myself.

So I put in different personalities like clothing. There are so many layers that I don’t dare go looking for the core. I think it is because I am afraid of what I will find.

I despise when people laugh at me…or near me. I know it is because I have fucked up in some way.