A Book With Loose Pages…

What does it take to study your mind?
To figure out the mechanics and what’s left behind?
A normal brain doesn't just fracture and break,
Only deep-seated trauma makes disorders awake. 
At four years old, tormented and afraid,
I built up a fortress of rules that I made.

As an articulate child, I began to create,
And learnt how to bargain with terror and fate.
Dear God, let the child-minder be nice today. 
All the way in the car I would frantically pray. 
A small child’s armour to quiet the tears,
Magical thinking carved out of my fears.
Silent prayers and strict numbers became my sole guide,
As I counted my steps with nowhere to hide. 

Then OCD wove a defense for control,
To govern the body and imprison the soul.
My mother looked on, calling trauma the norm,
While plates shattered windows in a violent storm.
Never shown love, just viewed from afar,
My mind decided to save me that scar. 
I cut it right out as a hazardous trap,
A target to hand someone eager to snap.
When love is displayed as a violent flaw,
You don’t hand anyone weapons for war.

Then BPD swept in with volatile grace,
And carved out a void in the rest of my space.
With lightning-fast shifts and a black and white view,
I pushed people away till no one came through.
I'd mirror their ways, adopting their style,
And blend in the room like a ghost for a while.
I stole things on impulse, self harmed for release,
And wore a fake smile to pretend there was peace.

The BPD wildness and OCD laws,
Are bound in a cycle with razor sharp claws.
My BPD strikes with an emotional pain,
While OCD fortifies every domain.
They feed one another, relentless and deep,
A shadow that follows me out of my sleep.

My OCD scans every corner in sight,
Ten steps ahead to keep safety locked tight. 
It tolerates zero shortcuts or lies,
Demanding perfection, with no compromise.
It can fuel every hour of a cycling routine,
Yet considers small talk entirely obscene. 
Because what others may say, it cannot see,
It overcompensates, tightening its grip on me. 

Now dissociation takes hold of the wheel,
And freezes the moments so none of them feel.
The good and the bad are caged in a cell,
As if someone else lived the stories I tell.
I’m a book with loose pages, disconnected and cold,
With a brain that mapped out every tale that it told.
The only time feelings break through at all,
Is when poetry steps down the empty dark hall. 
Giving a glimpse of warmth back to my heart,
Before it dissolves again and tears us apart. 
A cruel little taste of the essence I lack,
A sad, heavy reminder they’ll never come back.

If these words resonated with you, consider liking or subscribing to follow along with future poems.