At least Google Remembered

October 20.

1993.

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.

My ice cream melted

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.

Puppet

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.

A New kind of update

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

No family

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

Honestly, this is terrible

I am not a momma to be held with contempt. I think I am exempt

From such animosity because there is no one, surely no one

Who can hate me as much as me

Such a belittling feeling and yet so deserved

For who else can ignore such a girl

One with a smile so sweetly filled with love

Who else would dare turn away from her hugs

Crying cause their skin is burning

Sleeping well into midmorning

Could you do it and still hold yourself on high

Or would you feel as I do? Despair beside a happy child

Making up excuses to stay a while

Could you really believe yourself worthy of praise

When not a day goes by that doesn’t end in a haze

This is what it is like to parent with depression

To parent in a borderline state of obsession

This desire to leave sticks to the bones

Yet, I know, I truly know, that this small child is home

Honestly_ what a terrible poem

A state of emergency

The bugs are back

With their expectations and condemnations

They proclaim as fact,

how my retreating form is more telling than my words

I ignore them as best I can, spray at hand

To wipe them from existence

But they chatter, as they walk across my kitchen counter

Accusing me of all matters of depravity

I am doing the best I can!

But I remain ignorant of the growing hoard

Paper plates and bile play like friends who can not separate

The bugs are back again

Spending their existence, of which I will end, twisting my lips into

Into futile verses of how I am ok

Mothers Day Requiem

Precious one with a bitten tongue

Broken by a lie only once spun

See through roses tinted blue

Ignoring the warnings in its hue

Tainted woe with glitter wings

Painting roses with memories

Precious child with a bitten tongue

Singing a love much to young

Did you see the rose turned blue?

Or where you mystified by its liars hue?

A- Advantageous

“She is just so cute” came the whispers

as my daughter laid herself out on the floor

Knees askew and arms to the side

Face scrunched up as she gave such loud cries

I could see them standing to the side

Ignoring the pleading look in my eye

I need help, someone to step in

but they see her smile and tightly spun curls

Her mocha skin with such clear pours

A lady stops by with a whisper

“Here’s a five, give her what she wished for”

As if her fit deserves such a gift

But if I turn away I will be judged

If I continue on I will be accused of not

not loving her enough to control her behavior

“Pretty girls don’t cry”

Whispers the man standing by

So I grab the money and make promises I will not keep

Walk away from the store and in my car I start to weep

I truly hate December

I made this blog as a way to work through my own emotions. But there are times when I wish I could something a bit more meaningful. This is not one of those times. Today is a different day. A day in which I truly do wish to die.

I think about it often enough but overall I am scared. I think that is because I might possibly actually want to lie and it is the pain and depression that I suffer with that I want to go. But every Avenue leads to more depression and more suffering. I have people I talk to but it seems as though I have to constantly update them on the fact that I have not gotten better. Because as soon as I do something that seems a bit abnormal they fight back with “Oh what but I that things were better now”

No, but shall I wear a scarlet letter upon mine breast so that you may see that I am, in fact, quit ill.

But if I were to send them updates they will do something drastic. Like take away my child and deem me an unfit parent. Or go out of there way to make my life hell in other ways. Such as sending me to the mental ward of a nearby hospital.

Which, mind you, I have been to those hospitals. Enough times that I could probably teach a class within it. I know the material by heart and am currently going to school for psychology and social work. So really how exactly are any of these supposed to help me or make me trust others.

Instead I wish people would listen. I want them to actually sit down and talk to me and help me build a plan. Hold me accountable yes, but also make sure you hold up your end of the bargain.

I am almost positive that I want to die. I crave not feeling anything anymore. But I can’t do that to my little one. I can’t ruin her life for the sake of my own salvation. Instead I will suffer along hoping that someone takes the time to listen to me.

Go ahead and sue me

I think it sounds beautiful, the screaming. I want you to keep begging. Even the score between husband and whore. Come! Let me make a man out of you. One all the little boys and little girls can look up to. Scream a bit louder so the neighbors can hear. Fight a bit faster so they can know you feel fear. Because I want to make a man out of you. Society may judge me but they will never stand. You, a pathetic creature, have proven yourself a half man. So yes, let me hear you. Let me feast on your tears. No one will help you because no one else cares.