Blue is such a bitter flavor

I started some new medications recently‚ÄĒsomething 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?

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

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.

Warrior duet

Blood, sweat and tears, and pride, though it lies. I still got it, a certificate too. Proof that I know a thousand and one ways to kill you. But I have pain, pills just can’t fix. A bullet wounded knee cap and previously broken ribs. But I have honor, and respect, and the ability to shop at places where they do not accept my check.

Blood, sweat and tears, and pride, though it hides. I still got it, proven by the medal clipped to my chest. Proof that I know how to hold a person down as they scream. But I have pills, that can keep the nightmares at bay. A fucked up mind a broken home, I didn’t know what to expect. But I’ve got honor, and respect, and the ability to stand at ease in the check out line with people glaring at my back.

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 has 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.

Nightmares

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

My mind hurts

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.

So I’ve gathered

I dream of wicked things.

Spliced together with feathers of woe

I am told that this is not normal

But I gather clouded screams like candy

And wave them in my head

I know I am far from sane but

I doubt I am better off dead

I dream of such wicked things

Spilled with feathers of old

I am told I am nowhere near normal

But I gather clouded being that matter

And keep them in my head

I know that I am far from sane but

Such things only matter when you are dead