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.
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.
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.
The demons in my head won’t let me say goodbye yet.
As I lay here trying to sleep I can see her vividly. Her poor little broken body. I can see the message and hear the calls of people who never cared to check on her when she was alive. How the weep for her, begging for one last chance to do nothing I guess. I hate them more than I hate the idea of her being gone. My little girl is gone, at least that is what my brain is telling me. I can see her dying so clearly. See her little casket covered in pink roses with pretty purple ribbon. Her body lays so perfectly and yet it is their lies that haunt me.
Maybe it is because I am used to seeing her die. I often dream of the day when my little girl will leave me. How cruel this world can be and how easily it can try to take her away. I see it almost every day. Maybe something is wrong with me but I think I am to used to being insane that it is downright comforting.
My daughter is ok. She is sleeping her bed. Her pretty bow lips forming smiles when I kiss her cheek. Family and friends may not call but she is happy and ok. All will be ok.
The urge to dip my pen and write is fighting me. Drowing out my other senses. I have no fear in this yet I stand still. Listless in the making that is my only vital flaw. I must write to ease it all. The cramping in my hand just lets me know I am alive. Because in reality you are all that I need. My sweet muse. My reason to breathe. I can’t help but hear poetry when I see your smile. And though it takes a hold of me so violently I can not bring myself to fear it. I may stand still and listless, I can’t help but revere it. Writing is my most vital flaw of which you are my reason.
Today my daughter got into trouble. Nothing major but I can tell that it left a stain on the day. She wouldn’t listen so I yelled. After that moment she refused to talk to me. Even after I apologized and asked for her forgiveness she did not speak. Only later did she tell me that I hurt her feeling.
My daughter is five.
I should have more respect for this tiny human and yet. I think I put to much on her shoulders. I think I expect to much and get angry. She isn’t the best listener. She gets overly excited about pretty much everything. But that does not deserve my anger no matter how frustrating it can be at times.
My daughter is five.
I feel like such a monster. I told her so. I told her how I did not wish to hurt her. I apologized and asked for forgivenesd but…I also told her that it was ok. She did not have to accept my sorry. She did not even have to forgive me. What I said, what I did, left a stain on our day. I would do anything to go back and change what I did.
My daughter is only five.
And yet she lives her life with a mother who struggles with mental illness. She knows emotions like other children know candy and shopping sprees. She can tell you safety plans for every occasion and exactly what it means when mommy can’t seem to sleep.
Yet she tells me I am the best mommy ever. That she loves me no matter what. That she is proud of me. She looks forward to my hugs. She smiles so brightly when I tell her how I feel…even on the bad days. I am so proud of her and I tell her. I tell her all the time. I may be a monster but in her eyes I am worth it. In my eyes she is a reason.
Looking back now I am not sure how I reached this point. I think apart of me is scared that this will all end up being a dream. She won’t be here sleeping next to me. Instead I will be in am empty room. In a house filled to the room with depression and regret. I would possibly…I may even be dead.
But I did it. And looking at her. I can’t help but be afraid. I do not think I am enough. But in the end. Even that fear is worth it.