Broken

She still writes letters she doesn’t send. She’ll waste the paper If it helps her beat-up heart mend. If you listen late at night, you can hear her cries. She doesn’t know where to go; she is an elegant angel, but her wings remain broken. She no longer flies. She’ll push you so far away from her walls, up so high she’ll end up in a straight jacket the moment you pry.

It was a frosty winter morning, a Friday she was born. This day wasn’t a joyous day of birth. This day was the day it gave her life. See this girl, and she tried so hard to die. In and out one-stop, she could no longer numb the pain. With years of heartache and lies, she set back and mapped out her demise.

On that very day, she had nothing left to lose. With a handful of pills and doubt, she wanted to know what the afterlife was all about. With headphones on, Broken Window serenade playing on repeat. She peacefully went to sleep. There were no dreams or big bright lights. There was no darkness, just emptiness. The way she assumed it would be.

She still writes letters she doesn’t send. She’ll waste the paper If it helps her beat-up heart mend. If you listen late at night, you can hear her cries. She doesn’t know where to go. She is an elegant angel with broken wings; she no longer flies. She’ll push you so far away from her walls, so high you’ll end up in a straight jacket the moment you pry.

Six days later, she opened her eyes. Her anger was fierce. She did not see fluorescent lights. Her screams were like piercing knives. The surrounding people in a state of shock as she came back to life. In disbelief, it disappointed her to be breathing, but death is what she needed. I should be dead; she begged and pleaded.

Here the days have passed. The angel still feels the same. Her heart has turned colder. She no longer has a desire for worldly things. Every day to her is like an endless jury trial. Her soul is weary with every miserable mile. She is damaged goods, and her inner beauty is the skyline deep in the twilight of everything it should.

She still writes letters she doesn’t send. She’ll waste the paper If it helps her beat-up heart mend. If you listen late at night, you can hear her cries. She doesn’t know where to go; she is an elegant angel, but her wings are broken; she no longer flies. She’ll push you so far away from her walls, so high you’ll have no choice but to hit your knees and cry.

Give her time as she no longer needs a companion. She is better at being alone. She doesn’t walk with the world, no face down on her phone. She gets anxious as she enters any door. Scared and left broken, as she has so many times before.

She quit writing letters she’ll never send. She stopped trying to make broken hearts mend. Don’t bother listening late at night when she cries. She doesn’t know where she is going. She will always be an elegant angel who no longer flies. She’ll push you so far away from walls she has built so high. She’s boxed her heart upon a shelf with no room for even the evilest of demons to try.

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The Borderline in Me

I am a 32-year-old female who received a diagnosis of Borderline Personality Disorder in late September 2019. After being wrongfully diagnosed most of my existence as many other borderline patients have, it was almost a relief. Shortly after, it felt more like another bomb of worthlessness went off. I felt cursed until I decided it was time to speak up. I am one of many created borderlines. The trauma from my history created inside of me a blessing or a curse. I am choosing to make use out of my BPD instead of letting it overpower my will to survive it. When the professional compared it to third-degree burn victims all over there, body physicians nailed it. This pain we feel our emotions are not exaggerated, and most of us would give anything not ever to shed another tear. I want to help others and connect with those alike. I am here to share my story as my voice deserves to be heard and give courage for others to speak.

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