Poster Girl

It's been a rough few days from my perspective. From any other nothing is amiss, but the porcelain mask I wear is heavily flawed. Only within the four walls of my privacy you can see the hairline fractures the feed into rivers that stream down my face. From the chipped scars I wear on my bruised and broken skin, you could tell from a distance parts of me have gone missing.

Somebody help me collect the scattered pieces of my composure, before the wind carries them afar to places unseen. Somebody help me pull my mind back together so I can think in a logical order. Instead, I'm stuck in a memory I tried to snuff out. In the end it suffocates me with years of compounded questioning. And this part lets me know I'm going crazy: that in the fraught mania of lunacy I almost wish I had a God to cry to.

Brain chemistry is a great thing when it works right, BPD has made me appreciate any given normalcy. My fascination with gray matter (or white for that matter) preceded my post in the cell bio lab where many experiments were conducted on that wonderful organ tissue. Still, it's an conflicting idea to think of my brain as the subject - the specimen. To sit and probe my own thoughts, cut through the bullshit defense mechanisms throw up, and really examine through a critical eye what the monsters beneath my skull are up to.

My doctor tells me to get some rest, but realizes it's near impossible in this state. He prescribes two benydryl and bed rest. He'll see me in the morning. Did you know benydryl can be used as a lite sedative? Well it is and I need it if I want to reach even a illusion of emotional baseline. So, I put water on for tea while I try to regain poise. Pulling the tea bag from the packet, the message on the paper label starts to dry my eyes. They say: Those who live in the past limit their future. And nobody, especially my self, has the permission to restrict my potential.