“There’s a stigma, in its naming, so keep it to yourself”:
A professional employee, in a system built for health.
Telling me there’s no chance to find healing and confide,
The real and living tendencies that I have held inside.
BPD, monstrosity it’s how she does portray me,
I can not contemplate the way she seriously sways me,
To think because I want to die
I will not thus be treated,
But surely then the point of therapy’s
All but depleted?
A telephone appointment, no contact in this mess.
Of course we’ll have to pause the process,
Guess I did not expect less.
Taking in the time I’ve taken,
All the truths I have forsaken
And unless I am mistaken,
There’s just no light waiting at the end,
A thousand waiting lists, a decade we will spend,
I cannot help the feeling that it all has been pretend.
And thus I start to wonder
If maybe my large blunder,
Has been to look for answers
By seeking from the outside.
How much sense would it be,
If the way to heal could be,
To pause, and by myself decide, what is wrong, in this mind?
There is no video or active helpline that can say,
What it is that’s triggered me and grinds on me this peaceful day,
I guess it must start somewhere,
And why not somewhere here?
I will write myself a million letters
Till the truth is clear.