Dissipate

Flooded, unconcerned 

Breathing with expanded lungs

Clenched heart above rain

Beauty stealing breaths

Snapping voices stealing breaths

Rope from fan last breaths 

Baby a Monster

House of cards type of labels 

Four fingers point back

Nursing readied gun 

Apologized afterwards 

Never when tears flowed

Vampires can't love 

Can't feel the draining life force

Can't be warmed by touch

Spotted rose she picked

Colors Rose couldn't accept

Blooming in her death

Cold brushed against thorns

Never iron sharpening

Touching avoided

Taking compliments 

Giving shade never comfort 

Meaness like a root

Sickened by the pride

Throwing up in her trash can

Dried flowers hang

Biting the mirror

Image like the rotting cup 

Context is guardrails

When Limerance Dies

Want to be in love

Catching the wisps of fragrance 

Pinpricks of numbness

Want this heart racing

At just the sliver of light

Holding intense heat

Remembering warmth 

Forgetting radiation

Damaging within

Remembering swirls

Forgetting nauseous defeats 

Darkening within

Given a torn suit 

Donating these frozen feet 

New winds collect screams 

Wanting a lover

Is like yearning for the tide 

Sands weights like past scars

The moment breath slows 

Like sun dancing on water 

Tell me when to drown

Slowing down this time 

Free love is never wasted 

Like glistening rocks

Smoothed edges from pain 

Pulverized a gentle heart

Noon tea with fine china

Given your bread crumbs

Thirsty like earth's molten core 

I burned myself over

Want to be love 

Despite this amputition

Carefree like the waves

Epiphanies From Her

She was my everything 

And I her parasite.

She was my everything and I her parasite trapped inside a very tight cocoon. 

She was my everything and I her parasite trapped inside a very tight cocoon sipping on cherry flavored rat poison.

She was my everything and I her parasite trapped inside a very tight cocoon sipping on cherry flavored rat poison she willingly dished out.

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band.

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band with colorful flying daggers.

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band with colorful flying daggers and sharps that wouldn't faulter. 

She willingly dished it out like a one man marching band with colorful flying daggers and sharps that wouldn't faulter in giving whiplash.

You gave me whiplash.

You gave me whiplash of the century. 

You gave me whiplash of the century and I wouldn't tell a simmering soul.

You gave me whiplash of the century and I wouldn't tell a simmering soul that I never wanted to wake.

Waking to another disgruntled face.

Waking to another disgruntled face that would never yearn for me.

Waking to another disgruntled face that would never yearn for me- an apparatus. 

Waking to another disgruntled face that would never yearn for me- an apparatus made of sheer.

Made of sheer 

&

Maid of cheer.

I am made of sheer to have a fighting chance. 

I am made of sheer to have a fighting chance at burning.

I am made of sheer to have a fighting chance at burning a little brighter.

A chance at burning brighter alongside her.

A chance at burning brighter alongside her mind of steel. 

A mind of steel tied to a brown  paper bagged body.

A mind of steel tied to a brown paper bagged body soaked in the flood.

A mind of steel tied to a brown paper bagged body soaked in the flood of revenge.

A flood fueled neuroticism.

A flood fueled neuroticism lit by a bent wick.

A flood fueled neuroticism lit by a bent wick drowned in a shallow end.

A flood fueled neuroticism lit by a bent wick drowned in a shallow end of the misinterpreted.

You misinterpreted it. 

You misinterpreted this painted purple heart. 

 

Hard Life Lessons

I've had to learn over the years that my triggers are my responsibility. Although I can do my best to communicate in my relationships when conflicts arise, I've come to realize most people didn't have a parent screaming at them when anything uncomfortable came up. Even though everyone has a different love language so to speak (i.e ways they feel most respected, honored, cared for) there's a common thread on what love looks like among all. Love is kind, patient, gentle...love is a mother caring for her child even when she felt like no one loved her. Love is sometimes forgiving, sometimes boundaries, sometimes no contact. Love is accepting all of who I am.

I am my mother's daughter; a mix of two worlds, two cultures, two races. I was the first granddaughter, the first black child in a historically German family. I am her mother's granddaughter, shoved off to the side and left to daydream soaking in Illinois heat. I took on the faces they desired- gentle, quiet, and submissive because mine was too loud, annoying, or simply too much. I copied from those I received love from so perhaps I could be just as loved. But every time I mimicked someone else, I felt the stabbing criticism, "Don't do that!" 

Who was I? Who am I? Am I not just all of them?

I catch myself being heated with impatience like my mother when the AC doesn't kick in fast enough. Years of therapy and healthy communities have taught me to breathe, focus on what I can control, and to be ok with the tension knowing it won't last forever. I catch myself breaking down in tears whenever a friend slams the door because Mom had always assumed I had an attitude when I did. This caused her to scream at me until I did develop an attitude. I need to remember my friends didn't have a snarling, intoxicated mother barking back, "Stop your crying now or I'll give you something to cry about." Instead, I know I deserve and give myself the love I need in those tender moments.

A hug, a gentle whisper, a warm caress was something I rarely remember receiving. Sometimes this led to my love being unreadable; I tucked away my great affections because I was afraid to scare my partners away.

It's my turn to be my own parent; yet, with me leaving my "Heavenly Father" (i.e Christian cult) I'm wanting to live my "rebellious teenage years." In so many ways I'm still a child, but this body has aged and the aches aren't ceasing. It's time to be my own caretaker, I have to make the money to buy the medication to be mentally well to maintain this misery. The Mother of the family I lived with after I was kicked out of my home was right, I do have to learn to not lean on people.

I'm so many people at different ages, perhaps that's the reason I just drift off and stair into space.

Disassociating most likely occured when the domestic violence at home began when I was in first grade. I had to walk on eggshells around my Mother so much so that I couldn't always see how this led to laying down the red carpet for everyone else. Like the eager gratitude I longed to give Christ for saving me, I'd fall into love bombing (something certainly not helped from the evangelical youth group culture). My attachments were more than either of us (me, my crush, and everyone I told about my crush) could handle. A parasitic kind of love, disguised like a puppy. 

I wanted someone to tell me who I was, tell me what to do, where to go, when and why. 

The worst relationships tended to be ones that shined upon the naturalistic human in me and not the religious fascade. I'm still just a mammal learning to do life, love, and logic along with every one else. Blunt individuals similar to my Mother let me know when I hurt them because they knew talking things out could lead to a healthier relationship. The difference now was I actually had the other party willing to listen and not say " I get the final word not you." My hurts and hangups slithered through my obsessive relationships like a poison. "Am I good enough? Am I smart enough? Am I pretty enough?" These were internal inquiries I had to establish before understanding that being told "you hurt me" does not equal "you need to die."

In addition this multifaceted being that I am, I've also learned more about what it means to be on the spectrum, which I feel myself and some family members are. This corresponds to how we've miss read each other and shamed each other's stimming. My Mom's combition of (possible) BPD, OCD, and being on the spectrum is a triple threat for the need to control everything. As I've become more intune with my body, I've learned a couple of my stims are repeating audio (i.e songs) and shaking my legs- both of which severely annoyed Mom. After years of therapy and reading more about BPD (Borderline Personality Disorder) I've learned to relinquish that need for control and impress. The only person I can control and impress is myself. Despite being a mosaic of those around me, I'm the sole perpetrator. I need to take accountability to continue relationships; yet, fear loves to have me hide from responsibility and shame smiles when I become stuck in the same toxic patterns. There is no magic prayer that can guide my path, no Lord or monsters to appease. I have to do this for me; I have to continue on for me.

Self reflection reminds me that this too-loving myself and others, is a balance. 

I don't have to do anything; I get to. It's not about winning, but the self-journey. The greatest gift to give oneself is confidence. I'm not in a race with anyone and timelines for healing are like looping rollercoasters. 

I know how awful life can be, this is why I look upon all living things with such awe. All I have is here and now; how will I live it? With no regrets.

Sensory History

Downtown 

Bumping music, competing voices 

Air stuffy, shoes stick

She's catching up with friends 

Gently caressing wooden railing spindles;

Swallowing Shirley Temple's 

I'm alone again 

Attic

Yelling below, thuds, & crys

Scared, thinking the worst

Angry, drunk mother slamming door on face 

Hot, bitter tears basking salt 

Death

A gasping breath under weighed fingers calling my name,

These legs are glued

A face turns blue

Small little plastic clock

Distraction to disorder 

Rescue

Projecting blame, unaccountable adult

None of this is right 

Suits, note pads & tables 

Seatbelts looser than her grip

Dreaming of far, far away

Runaway

Commands, demands pervasive parent

Angry, unable to escape

She barges through barricade

Wooden window pane opens easy,

Shaking & hungry 

Adulting

Your impatient, judgement tone

A daughter you never knew 

Escaping coping mechanisms 

Freedom to choose 

Lighting up in front of me

Sweet affections we lose

You Hurt Me/Harakiri

Taking your hands in

To commit harakiri 

Completing your words

Stabbed by distant tones 

Left undisected to rot

Worship left ignored

Your intimacy 

Was my executioner 

You don't feel my pain

Chasms between us

While sitting a foot apart

Listening was taxed

Don't think you'll miss me

Saying hello was too much

Honesty not touched

We've fought in many

Plains of my two hemispheres

Mouth shut, victory

This love was too much

Every second wanting you

You spent zero on me 

I died before this

Falling asleep in these tears 

The silver cuts skin

Bleeding as you hug

People you meet yesterday

My pain was nothing 

Let my guts pour out

You've done this many times before

Refusing to help 

Unsupportive jokes

Intestines leak what's inside

My mouth was sewn shut

Trauma says to stop

Run away from everything 

Same broken record

This dusty keyboard 

Too young & pretty to care 

Go get your dream job

Chase golden apples 

This ghostly shade paved our way

Never returning

Would have followed you

Now the earth is all gone, gone 

Animosity 

Petty

Has anyone ever called you petty?

Have you ever called anyone petty?

Like most people, it's easier for me to "dish it out" instead of "taking it." It's easier to point out someone else's pettiness than to look at our own. But if we're going to make the world a better place, we must always begin with as Michael Jackson once sang, "The Man in the Mirror" and not Tom Petty's "I Won't Back Down" right? But what if we are both? We might know that one person who's always complaining, but have we ever been the one who's been more "concerned with trivial things than what's important?"

I remember the first time my close friend called me petty..."It's been 84 years" since anyone's seen them now...jk jk 

Call it stubbornness or Hedonism, but I started pondering: What's wrong with being petty? Why is it even called that? What's its history? When did it start and why? 

Did you know that it means something totally different in the military? A Petty Officer in the Navy are comparable to a sergeant in the Army according to Google AI Overview.

From what I gathered from online dictionaries, it doesn't sound like a negative trait to have. Why wouldn't you want someone who cares so much about the little details when everyone else just sees the bigger picture? 

I discussed this with my friend this morning; in trying to come up with an example I had to laugh at how subjective the word even is! The same friend who had called me out for being petty over a work policy situation had taught me that words are descriptive, not prescriptive-they change because they are based on the culture and context. 

Culture and context is always key!

You see I always considered my Mom petty. She'd see that the dishes were dried with the wrong towel and thus, had to be rewashed; she'd see you got a C in P.E (from the P.E teacher being petty about the shirt you wore not being the perfect uniform) when every other class was an A. I hated these traits at the moment, but I hate (love) to say it...I thank her for some of that "pettiness" now. She knew that the wrong dish towel had germs. She knew I could do better. She knew I was smart. 

There is no doubt that I'm a spinning image of my mother regardless of how much I try to run away from it. Sometimes pettiness isn't just making a "mountain out of a mole hill;" it's paying closer attention.

I may be biased... But I think we need more petty people. 

Similar in relationships, I would say boundaries are key. Pick your battles. Examine yourself first, why is this (insert "petty" thing) such a big deal to me? What are the pros and cons to pursuing this conflict? 

Psychology courses have taught me to be less reactive to other's actions and more curious about their brain chemistry shaped by their surroundings. I think we should take this to heart before we call someone "petty." 

So...

• When was the last time you asked the person you call "petty" the reasons behind their actions?

Perhaps there needs to be dialogue instead of demonization, hmm? But where is the line drawn between being facetious and childish?

I had ripped down the "Hairnets & Gloves Are Required" paper sign from the office that faced my station. It had been an on and off again war with staff (me) and other managers (mainly just one of four kitchen managers). He was an ass in my (and others) opinion...But his enforcement had now been picked up by our department's new manager and despite not working with open food, here we were (in my opinion) wasting hairnets & gloves by having to wear them. I took out my frustration by dancing upon the now floor-bound signage only to be tormented by it again a few weeks later. But my mistake was telling my friend only my actions and not what lead up to it. Does that dismiss my actions? I don't think it was a big deal, but it depends who you ask.

My employer wanted to enforce hairnet and gloves rule regardless if we worked with open food all because we worked with vulnerable cliental. Our passive aggressiveness towards one another could have ended, I believe, if we all just sat down and talked it out. 

Before you point out the petty people, look at some of those fingers pointing back at you. Perhaps learning more about their point of view could be exactly what you needed to hear. And maybe, just maybe, you'll thank them for seeing something you hadn't! 

*image taken from Facebook repost

Just Symptoms

*spoken word emotional core poetry/song

It's falling madly in love

over and over again

thinking this could be the one

justifying everything they do

forcing myself to like everything about them

torn to utter pieces when they miss my mark

that I've never spoken

It's overanalyzing everything you said

and how you said it

feeling like I know what's not being said

holding in what I want to say

bottling up my emotions and going numb

It's exploding and not able to come down easily

For days I'll cry over it

It's doing everything for you

because you need to know how much you mean

then secretly hurt when you don't do the same

It's beating myself up mentally and physically

finding a razor somehow some way

scratching forcibly

punching myself repeatedly

It's feeling like I'd rather die than hurt you

and dying when you leave

It's preparing for the end

wanting to skip the beginning and middle

It's saying I'll change next week

next Sunday

on the 1st

Next year

It's knowing I'm contradictory

not simply defined

 It's forgetting what I look like

responding with a yuck when I do

thinking beauty is certain looks and angles

not believing their compliments

fishing for affirmation

having knowledge I'm pretty & feeling unhinged

It's risky sexual behavior

because I'm impulsive

because I'm scared of intimacy

because I'm not good enough for the person I want

It's spending years being taught the body is temporary

that is just a shell

that the REAL me is inside

It's years of being fed that I'm corrupt

that the body is evil

It's lighting up another after promising I was done

after I've gotten into thousands of dollars in debt

after having to go to the hospital

after no longer getting satisfaction

It's wishing I could leave everything

like that would somehow fix things

as if living on the streets is a choice

It's imagining the worst 

happening to others

and wanting the worst to happen to me

It's feeling  like I'm not here

I'm not what you see

I'm nothing

My scars don't tell everything about me

If they did,

There'd be a whole lot more of them

I hate my mind more than anything

These emotions and illogical thinking

Haunts me 

You'd think I'd be over it

But something triggers the pain, the hurt, the darkness

What can you do when you can't have 

What you want, what you need?

How do I speak?

The anxiety eats at me

I'm still bleeding

Why is this heart beating?

Life is just symptoms.

 

BPD & Christianity Part 3

 Continuation of Part 2 on Identity

What’s the ideal self? Why? And who defines it?

It seems to me that it is a mythological notion made into a standard that we can always be in perfect harmony or in line with a specific mindset and lifestyle presented as the BEST or ONLY mindset and lifestyle.

It sounds to me like a well-disguised cult. 

"Know thy self!" People have shouted since philosophy hit the scene. 

That’s what religion is for, right? To know our TRUE SELF?! The major religions teach something greater than ourselves is out there, can be known, and should be worshiped to gain something physical and/or metaphysical. In my seminary Spiritual Formation classes we discussed at quite some length about the I to Thou conception. We know ourselves in relation to others (ex: I am a child. She is a mother. They are my uncle. He is my cousin.) However, from the beginning, we are broken, sinful, deserving of hell, created in God’s image, and fallen perfection. "The Bible tells me so." We can not reflect holiness, goodness, or righteousness between each other because of this error in the story. We need to take on the image of Him who had no sin, yet “became sin” to save us. Jesus loves me. Jesus take the wheel. Jesus t-shirt. Jesus mask. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus!

Christianity teaches me to lay myself down…crucify myself so that I may actually live. (Gal. 2:20). 

“No pain! No gain!” Bonnie mocked as we brought up the topic of me joining Junior High Cross Country. She didn’t think I could do it. In fact, I hated running. I had tried to get fit many times before; making promises to myself and others that I would “change” the following week…month…or year. I needed to change. I was chubby. I wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t strong. I had thick hips, unruly hair, and “man hands” like my Mom. Why was I joining this physical sport? To prove her wrong. So she said this to warn me…motivate me…mock me? Who was I trying to impress? The guys at school who couldn’t remember my name but liked the outfit I was in? Or so that the guy I really fantasized about would HAVE TO take notice of me? 

I secretly loved this notion of HAVING TO do something. This set of rules, standards, and outlines that I could follow every second of every day would be perfect. Tell me what to do! 

Why? Because I don’t trust myself. In fact, I hate myself. I hate myself so much that I take sharp objects against it until my favorite color appears. I’m disconnected. Dysregulated. Longing to be disembodied. And as much as I had gained in becoming a “child of God,” I further lost that trust in myself. Churches shout this is good; my psychotherapy bill said otherwise.

My childhood already taught me to suppress my emotions; “giving it to Jesus” and “letting go letting God” was just another way of doing so. 

My childhood already showed me that withdrawing was a way to protect myself; “retreating to my Strongtower” to me now just seems like a fancier way of me talking to my imaginary sister Samanthe. Of course, that’s blasphemy. 

                                               {...cutting people off people

                                                          ….patterns of unstable relationships}

So what does all of this hot mess do when confronted with her desires that conflict with those of the sect she belongs to? Since I was not given a new coping mechanism (as established), I resorted to my old patterns. What do I mean? 

The “Living Water” flowing through me was more precious than my very blood. 

I cut off friendships…but oh how I prayed for them! I cut off from my family…because “whoever loves their father & mother greater than I is not worthy” (Matt. 10:37)! I cut off relationships…because they're simply not THE ONE. 

The problem with bringing in that which is “bigger/greater than ourselves” is that we little by little chip away at the fact that we had some power to begin with. We’re taught that certain things are bad; thus, those who do them are bad. And just like that segregation is born. My old friends gossiped, lied, cheated, stole. Whereas my Christian friends gossipped I mean prayed and cared about my walk with Christ. My family, no, my country, had Christianity alllll wrong. iT’s NoT a ReLiGiOn, iTs a ReLaTiOnShiP.

Let's speed up a few years-I’m in college, states away from my hometown, and have my first boyfriend. He’s so good to me. He cooks for me. He opens the door for me. He listens to me. He pushes me off of him when I want to have sex because he knows how important marriage is to me first. Only problem-he’s Hindu. He’s not the one. Next, we have a guy at work who is smooth with words and can always conjure up a phrase that cuts to you quick. He’s too business and doesn’t do conflict. He also thinks the Old Testament was mainly fictional. He has to go. The next is a guy I cheat with to get back at the last guy for being an asshole. This one years later after off and on again sex threatens to shoot up heroin if you don’t come visit. But he also was the one who said, “Please don’t cut yourself when you go home” after we left the hotel hours later. Before I’m physical with anyone I spend years camming and DMing strangers around the world. 

Christianity taught me to hate my body, but sexuality was trying to revive it…to help me really feel…to get what I rarely received-physical touch, appraisal, and admiration.