The memories are coming back
Hidden in the snow
‘You are not alone‘
The memories are coming back
Hidden in the snow
‘You are not alone‘
I thought it would be better if I died.
A hopeful wish really, but one I still believed in. I wanted to go away. For everything to end.
Only, I entered an agreement for a new feeling. One which brings me pain.
I figured it would be better if I was deceased.
My rotting body used to study various diseases. For science of course. While my mother grieved and my father went on living. I figured, that with time, memories of me would fade.
Only, I entered a realm of false hope. When memories fade only to become the chains that choke me with yesterday’s desires.
I just wanted to go away.
I was born.
I am now 27 years old and only just starting to feel like an adult. Maybe that is why no one remembered that there was any reason to celebrate. Adults don’t have parties. They don’t sit in anticipation wondering what all they receive in gifts. The don’t hover over a cake awkwardly standing as family and friends sing happy birthday to them.
No, instead they do what I did.
Treat it like another day. They don’t sit awkwardly refreshing their social media pages waiting for someone to send them that special message. Hoving around their phone just waiting for someone to call. Sitting in bed trying to come up with excuses why they shouldn’t cry.
I am an adult and I no longer need that validation that my existence matters. I don’t need family and friends to celebrate with me. It’s just another day. I don’t need anyone.
Happy Birthday to me.
And what if you hate yourself?
“That I do not know.”
I guess you keep trying?
“To what end though?”
To prove them all wrong
As he slammed the door I could remember the stickiness the touched my lips. Sweet bitter raspberry, how I hate the flavor. I remember moving my arms to wipe my face but it spread the mess across my cheek. I left it there, from what I can recall, and got up to look at the damage it caused.
They say the mirror does not lie but I digress that such a thing could show what I have tried so hard to repress. The raspberry upon my lips stands so pretty against against my skin. My eyes don’t show how bitter it taste because I do not remember them showing anything. A blank slate. A broken shape. I can remember trying to brush my hair into place.
It’s messy bun that I tied that day. So proud because it frame my face in a way I never thought before. But the raspberry stuck to the strands is all I can remember as I removed the bands. The bands I had picked with him in mind. Coupled with the blush, I felt divine.
But he wasn’t home like he was before. It was my fault and nothing more. When the monster within grabbed my hand and pulled me to the floor. Raspberry kisses on both of our cheeks. As the door groans and creaks.
My ice cream as melted, upon my thighs. I can see it in the mirror that I wish would lie. Raspberry glistens on my lips. Bitter is which memories keep.
A tick tock heart made with clay and discarded parts. Sat on the window to dry. The painter and the sculptor, who where known to hate each other, gave it meaning before it begin beating and put it on display. But it would not sit, where it was meant upon the window still. Instead it would clatter and thump and jump as though to reach the rotted sun.
So the painter and the sculpture sat about to make another. This time a heart that would sit still. But they failed in times that changed because neither heart could feel.
It leeches and bleeds
As I scratch with blunted nails found on top pillow.
They curve into my cheek to my head where nails can’t reach.
The wounded symphony of rust and blood
And red and lead
Tapping on the bones as I try to go to bed
It is testing me, a dream I can not see
As I roll with a grinded grin
And try to sleep again
This week is not a good one. I feel just so alone. Like no one wants to talk to me. I think it is because people only seem to talk to me on their terms.
But I need that interaction. So I send them message after message until a point is reached where they feel like talking to me. I know that this isn’t the best. Creating random situations to be noticed isn’t ideal, but what else can I do? I was doing so well for a time but now I am empty.
All because no one talks to me. No one is interested in what I have to say.
I have no friends
That bothers to check up on me.
The only people I speak to on a consistent basis is my kid and my therapist.
When others take the time to notice me. I lie
Tell them I am alright and that No, of course everything is ok. Everything is going well. I am not sick. I am not scared. I am not staying up at night wishing that it would be my last but to much of a coward to do anything. Nothing like that is happening.
Instead I tell them about all the great things. How sunny the sky is. How happy me and my daughter are. How I love her and she makes me smile. At no point do I tell them that I hide in my room and only interact with her cause I have to. Not because I am a good parent but because I am a parent. I feed her, bathe her, get her ready for school. I listen to her read and play. We watch videos and tell each other stories. Not because I want to, but because it is expected of me. Given a chance I would not be here.
They don’t care. None of them care.
They talk to me on their own time and the interactions never last long. I can send them a message, an email, but it all gets ignored. Phones calls are regulated to once a blue moon conversations. Only call when they need money.
I hate it here.
I made this blog so that I can share my stories but also so people can have a small glimpse into what it is like for those who have BPD. And well…this is it.
And I am sorry for that
“I do not think I am enough…”
“That is ok, no one ever does.”
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 off the addict. Hidden somewhere among the weeds and the trees and the flowers. Only another who suffers 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 plasterd 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 and weeds and thorns. Watching as it expands from the molds I sculpted. I leave meaning in its creations. Define it by wish filled dreams. Only I can understand it. This is a drug.
A/N I can’t sleep again. I can feel the cycle starting. How empty i feel. I am sharing this one ahead of schedule because…well because it makes no sense. And I need to empty my mind right now before everything starts fading again.