Blue is such a bitter flavor

I started some new medications recently—something to rid me of these anxious thoughts and my inability to sleep. I would love to state that I am doing better, but I am not. Those who are privy to medication know that it takes some time for the true effects to be known. But this made me think of something that I may have spoken about before.

Hospitals

Rather, hospitals with a psych ward that keep patients between 3 to 5 days on average. All depending on what their insurance is willing to cover, of course.

I have been to many of them in my years and can remember how each visit ended in a lie.

Yes! I am fine.

The funny thing is that this lie was encouraged. They were cultivated by doctors and nurses who wanted to send you on your merry way. I am sure it wasn’t their true intention to make liars of us all, but they did. I remember one hospital stay. I had an episode because they would not let me see my child during visitations. Said that I had not yet earned to privilege of such a treasure. Of course, I was livid and reacted in a way one with a mental disorder would. I cried. I screamed; I tore up pieces of paper as a way to prevent myself from assaulting a nurse. I did all of the things because I was in pain and needed an outlet.

Rightly so, this did not give me what I wanted. But I remember my doctor coming up to me later that evening. He warned me that due to my outburst, they were thinking of keeping me an extra day. He acted as though me staying till I was better was this terrible thing. I felt so confused when he said this because I did not see it as such. Yet his cautious words stuck with me as he went on to say, “Pretend that everything is fine, don’t let them see you react. Tell them that you are fine.”

So I did. I perfected the art of smiling while crying as a child and as an adult; I learned to hide my fears with sarcasm and anger. So I combined these skills in such a way that I came off as Ok. I was Ok, to the nurses at least. And instead of being made to stay an extra day, I was released a day earlier with none the wiser that I was dying inside. And that medication? It magically started working after only three days of taking it. A mental ward miracle, as we all learned to describe it.

And that doctor…

I hate him.

Not because of the advice he had given me but from the sheer fact that he proved that this whole system is flawed when I needed so much for it to work. I was done with lying, but he reminded me that a liar’s talents are always in use.

And the medication? It ended up not working for me. But of course, I did not know this till a month later. Luckily by that one, I had a psychiatrist who helped me figure out meds that did work. On top of that, I also saw a therapist regularly. I eventually stopped it, and for a few years, I did fine. But now I am back on them because I am no longer Fine.

So I sit here remembering that doctor and wondering to myself if he is doing ok.

I taste the loss of control

A bitter innocent and the hint of contempt make it impossible to sleep. Yet she wraps her arms around me and dares to dream while I lay shuffling through nightmares; I’m almost completely devoid of anything else. These nights break me, but she won’t let me shatter. I wonder if this is worth it.

I didn’t get evicted. Mainly because they never showed up like they said they would. For two days, I sat there thinking the worst. Holding this belief that I had not only failed my child but lost us a home, and they never even came to check things out. It makes me wonder if they were just having a bad day when they made that threat. It’s the only reason I can think of as to why they haven’t talked to me about it. I have had no emails or calls, and though I have walked to the office a few times, it hasn’t been mentioned as of it.

So what was with them making those threats? What was with them scaring me? I know that I should probably count my blessings.

I have my home

In a few weeks I will have my job

My daughter is safe and happy, as am I.

So what’s the problem?

Cleaning Closets

I found a pair of socks that I kept from 2001. Well, I got them from an old best friend’s mother sometime around 2011, but they are one of those new year’s socks. The one with won’t clocks on them to celebrate the end of the year. They are cute, and I loved them. I still do, but they have holes in the toe from me wearing them too much. They are also a little more grey than white. No amount of bleaching will bring back the color they used to be. But I love them.

They reminded me of a time when I wasn’t happy but content. Yeah I remember that I spent a lot of time with this friend. Her parents would let me come over nearly every weekend. We celebrated almost every holiday together as well. There were actually a few times when I would go home with this friend on a Friday only to go back to my parent’s house that following Monday after school. Notice that I said home, because hers was more a home than any place that I had lived before.

It wasn’t perfect. This friend and I had fights. I occasionally disappointed her parents. And I am almost certain that 2 of her three older siblings hated me. I would say all three, but in recent years, one of them messaged me cause he wanted to date. Which was strange, but he was the hot older brother, so score (?).

This friend and I lost touch after high school. Honestly, it was bound to happen. Thinking about it now we were friends due to proximity. We had enough in common to hang out but not enough to keep the relationship from turning toxic. Back then mg disorder was not yet diagnosed and I wasn’t seeing a doctor. So I had a lot of issues that went unnoticed by many people. She had some problems as well. Some of them ok but others pretty toxic in their own right. We could have attended therapy and grown up together, but we didn’t.

I tried my hardest to stick around, but she wasn’t for it. So we stopped being friends, that is. She stopped answering my phone calls and text messages.

But I kept those socks her mother gave me. Even when I was homeless, they stayed in whatever backpack I carted around. Even when a shelter I stayed at kicked me out and refused to let me get my belongings, I still kept those damn socks.

It’s been nearly a decade since I spoke to her. What’s funny is I kept in contact with her momma for a bit after that, but she was a major republican and worshipped tr0mp. This wasn’t an issue for me, but I was pretty vocal in my distaste for him, so eventually, she unfriended me.

I still got the socks, though—those 20-year-old socks.

Mental Awareness and COVID

I started this blog as a way to share my poems with others. I didn’t believe myself to be any good, but I wanted to share them anyways. My goal was to write until I gained both the skill and confidence to write a full-length book. Be it a poem or fiction, I was going to write something.

It ended up becoming more than that. Slowly, this blog became my haven. The place where I could share my deepest emotions that I did not allow myself to feel allowed. I could strangers my dreams without fear of being judged. Well, I could still be judged but in a more effective way. And for awhile this worked. I wrote my stories and my poems and things going on in my life. I made some wonderful friends and discovered people I wouldn’t have otherwise been aware of had I not taken this dive. Gradually, I found myself needing this blog less and less. The lessons learned from all these wonderful people and stories pushed me to better myself. And I did!

For many months I found myself in a much better spot. No longer did I live in a place filled with toxic people. I dont have as big of a support system but those I do have I can trust.

My daughter is also doing amazing. We even managed to get a puppy. All was…well

But then I got sick

Very sick

It didn’t last all that long, but it left an impact and made it difficult to do things for a while. I got depressed, and I slowed down. I stopped making progress and become stagnated. But it wasn’t all that bad; I still did things but slower.

It was during this time that someone decided to visit me.

My landlord. They came to do what I had first believed to be a routine inspection. My home wasn’t the best, but it wasn’t terrible. In its state, I wouldn’t have felt embarrassed with inviting over strangers, is what I am trying to say. They took a look around and left.

The next day I get a letter stating that they wanted to evict me.

This…this came as a surprise since I had never had any problems before. My neighbors seemed to adore my daughter and never hesitated to stop and say hi—even the grumpier ones. I paid my bills on time, and all other inspections were ok as well. There is a three-strike rule here, and as this would be my first, I didn’t understand why this was taking place. I set up a meeting with them after I had gathered evidence that no messages between the landlord and me nor maintenance had taken place previously about any complaints.

But of course, things did not go well.

The landlord spent the better part of the meeting just spewing venom at me. From the moment she opened her mouth till she finally closed it, she was just rude. There was no actual reason to get trying to evict me. She didn’t provide proof that anyone complained, just said that they did. When I started to have a panic attack, because obviously, I would, she then threatened to kick me out because I was mentally incapable of living independently, despite having done so for many years now. During this she did call the ambulance because I started to experience chest pains (due to the nature of my last apartment I started to develop chest pains whenever I experience a panic attack. This is a normal symptom of these sort of attacks). She wouldn’t listen to any of my explanations and just accused me of making up excuses. The EMT tell her what I already informed her, I was having a panic attack. A few more things happen but when it was all said and done she threatened to evict me many times, on top of having my dog removed, on top of having my child removed. All because I was sick and had a panic attack.

The illness, by the way, was most likely covid.

For three days, I could not move from my bed. Luckily my kiddo is pretty independent and is old enough to get her some quick meals. She is also tall enough that when I had to get up anyway to get her food, she could help me move around and steer me to the couch when I got too dizzy. She was such a trooper. I don’t have a car and so was unable to go get tested officially (you can’t take the bus or a cab if you have symptoms of covid and I had no one who could take me to a testing center). Another sign that it may have been covid was the fact that we had gotten a notice that my daughter had been exposed just a day or so beforehand. So we had already been under quarantine when I got sick.

For the first of those two weeks, I was extremely ill. For the second, I was recovering and still found it difficult to do things. I would often get dizzy if I stood up to fast. It didn’t help that I still couldn’t eat much, so I was surviving on mostly water.

But when it was all said and done I was only dealing with the normal levels of depression. Now, I am not.

The landlord did end up calling CPS. That very day they came to my home because they were told that I was to mentally unstable to care for my child. Sense then I have been trying my best to prove to them that I am fully capable of caring for her. But I am failing.

This is because even though they can see that she is getting her needs met, they are under the impression that it will not stay that way. So they are not judging me based on my current efforts but solely on a possible future that may not come to pass. At this time, they do not know if they will take my child.

I am lost.

And I am scared.

I am being harshly judged for an illness I could not help get and for a disability I had no say in developing. All by people who say they just want to help but whose main goal seems to lie in finding ways to mess up my life.

I wish that they could see that they are not helping. I wish that they could see that I am doing the best that I can. I wish they could understand that when my daughters says that she is happy that truly means she is happy. And I really wish they could see that having a disability doesn’t make me second class or less human.

Yes, I will make mistakes, but I own up to those mistakes.

I no longer hold the belief that asking for help gets me nowhere but hurt. I know how and when and who to call if things get tough. I am not allergic to aid. I wish they would see that.

But they don’t

At least it doesn’t seem to be that way.

So here I am, back again, using this blog to share my thoughts because I have no other place to do so. For those who have reached the end, I apologize. I made a promise a while back to start writing happy stuff, and I didn’t. Still I am grateful for you sticking around. Hopefully, things work out in the end.

I wish you many blessings along the way.

A new feature

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.

Borderline Personality Disorder and Friendship

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…

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 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

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