Nana (Revised)

Happy birthday Nana, we love you so much

I melted to a tall tale
Whispered by children with the braided hair
Her skin, aged like the earth, brought forth stories on unknown worth.
I melted as far as the oak tree stands
Wine in hand with berry delight
A beautiful sight on a beautiful night
Clear cut eyes crinkle under the moonlight
“We have dreams we dare to share.”
Whispered the children with the kinked up hair
Her skin, aged like the earth,
She held her children close and told them stories she dared not show
And I melted to hear the tale
My dark brown skin and coiled hair,
Living the life, she gifted me
My children! Sweetly dancing
Beneath the growing tree
My family! Kneeling at the knee of the women
Whose eyes shine with the stories she shares
Her family! Listen in and
Whisper their prayers for God to hear
Thank you, Lord, for keeping her here.

Close, to close

How could you leave when they are standing

By the door expecting

You to return, but there is nothing

That can save them now

Why would you leave them

For a bottle of forget me pills

Now they are graduating

First grade with a finger painted certificate

Hanging on grandma fridge

You told them they would always be with you

Pinky promise in the living room

With a lady in the corner

Taking notes as ordered

You smiled at them

And held them in your arms

But it wasn’t long until you were gone

They are in 6th grade now

And can’t remember how you feel

Because you decided to take a break

With forget me not pills at the kitchen sink

But they know your face

Stiffened with grace

Though grandma does all she can

She is suffering in your place

Because it’s her baby girls body

That flashes in your place

How could you leave them?

When things just started to change

I hope it was worth it

Because they may never understand

Inspired by NF

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?

Monday Madness

Monday.

I hate Mondays, but not for reasons people normally hate them. They usually signify the beginning of the workweek and the end of a weekend of fun. I detested Mondays in the past because it meant that I had to wake up early.

It’s different now; as an adult, I hate Mondays for another reason. It’s when businesses open. It’s when people climb into their cars and go to the office that they dread so much and make calls they hate because they know they will be yelled at. It’s when people, debt collectors, well-meaning government workers, teachers, therapists, family, friends, many people from all walks of life call me. It is also the time when people stop by—some with good intentions and some without.

I hate Mondays because I wake up fearing that someone will call or come over delivering some terrible message that I suddenly have to pretend like I am sane enough to handle.

“Oh, I owe you 3,000 for a procedure my insurance said that they would cover? They changed their minds at the last minute because of some minute clause that went undiscovered until it was already done. Why yes, I can hold. Nope, all is well! Of course, I can pay. Now? …no”

My daily chants of

‘I can do it, it’s ok’

They don’t hear me, so I can’t get too mad that they ignore me. Of course, it’s not ok, but I am good at pretending.

This coming Monday, I have people coming to my home to decide if I deserve to live here or not. The criteria is unattainable. I could do it if I didn’t have a child or a dog. So I am locking them in my room and forbidding them from leaving till the people go back to the dark office they crawled from.

It’s stupid, how much I hate Monday, but over the years, I have noticed that nothing good ever happens on that day.

So here’s to another dreaded Monday. Here’s to me finding out if I will be homeless or not. Here’s to my sanity lest it fades away.

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.

My mind hurts (revision)

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 of the addict. Hidden among the weeds and the trees and the flowers. Only those who suffer 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 plastered 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 weeds and thorns. Watching as it expands from the molds I sculpted. I leave meaning in its creations. Define it by dreams that I am making.

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…