Author Note: This article is part of a collection from the previously lost Bordering Bears website, and has thus been re-uploaded and archived.
Trigger warning: Descriptive language used about previous relapses.
I woke up this morning feeling a bit low. I don’t know why, it just happens sometimes.
I have always enjoyed writing poetry, but rather than giving you a few rhyming couplets, I figured I’d try to explain what it’s like being a Borderling in some kind of Spoken Word style, but chances are it will simply come out as unedited rambling.
I want to point out that I have NOT had a breakdown or relapse. I am simply feeling a bit low and wanted to try to give readers an insight into how it all feels.
Waking up next to my love.
Next to my life.
Feeling distant and apart.
Feeling like this isn’t real.
Is he? Am I?
My mind wondering, taking me down into the darkness.
He is an adult. Work hard. Work smart.
I am not so much.
I look like an adult but I am a fake
A child inhabiting this body.
Will anyone see me as I truly am?
Will they realise I don’t think like them?
Act like them?
I am different, and different is bad.
In the eyes of the public I am a witch
and witches burn.
I lose the will, the motivation, the drive.
Children shouldn’t drive
but here I am, an adult child with a car and a child of my own.
The internet doesn’t pretend any more.
It once did, pretending kindness and friendship
masking abuse and hatred.
Now the abuse is all too real,
just a search away.
Monster, evil, sick, twisted,
all words used to describe someone like me.
Manipulative and sadistic,
no kind words to comfort me.
Well, it’s nice to know I’m good for something.
For years it was my comfort, but now I am better.
No matter how much better I get though, it is still there.
The bad days come with temptations,
voices in the corner calling to me.
They beckon like a wave but the waves are tall.
They will drown me if I get too close.
Bad moments, bad days, I don’t want to close my eyes.
When I do, I envision my future and present
looking like my past.
I am an addict.
There, I admit it.
Addicted to the misery, because that was the norm.
Addicted to the blood, because it was the only thing I had
to get me through the moment.
I tried to seek help where doors open for all
but people like me.
Not in crisis enough, in crisis too much,
don’t deal with that kind of condition.
For us, there is minimal support,
hard to come by.
We suffer, we struggle, we try.
I do not want to be my diagnosis.
I am so much more.
I do not want to be broken.
Writing that was quite hard. It does feel like it jumbled out, but at the same time was quite cathartic. I do find writing useful in dealing with emotions.
I also do not think I am half of the language used in the poem, however they are words and phrases frequently used in relation to someone like me.
If you have any questions, please let me know.
If you are struggling, please seek help and know you aren’t alone.