What the outside world calls a ‘disorder’ or a passing trend, I call the architecture of my survival. It is the difference between a flaw and a weapon.
This isn’t a plea for sympathy, it’s a declaration of strength.
Category Archives: BPD and OCD poetry
A Day Inside My Mind..
Inside my brain is a relentless operating system running millions of lines of code just to keep the floor from giving way. No pause button. No safety net. Just code, compulsions, and the heavy machinery of a mind working overtime to hold it all together.
*This is just a glimpse, if I genuinely added every OCD ritual I do daily, this poem would be ten pages long.
You Can’t Understand Me…
Some people are handed a script for how to exist. I had to write my own survival manual in the dark. This is the raw mechanics of living inside a mind that doesn’t know how to rest.
My Family…
Some maps aren’t drawn on paper. They’re etched into the wiring of a child who learned early on that safety is a performance, survival has a cost, and the mind has to shatter just to hold the weight.
OCD Rules…
Living with two disorders that pull in opposite directions is a constant clash. They are polar opposites in every way, yet they meet at the exact same point: dissociation. This poem is about the one that takes the wheel—the absolute ruler, OCD.
The Girl I Should Have Been…
Two parallel lives carved out of the same years—one consumed by the brutal work of survival, resulting in BPD and OCD, the other unfolding in the effortless grace of safety. This is a look at the ghost of a childhood stolen, and the stranger who got to live it instead. In my dreams this girl was me. She got the life I would have killed for once upon a time.
The Ghost In The Glass…
When trauma shuts the system down, survival comes at a heavy cost. Derealisation strips the emotion from my past, turning even my happiest memories into fake, distant echoes. I am left living entirely in a hollow present, reaching for a life that feels like it belongs to someone else. My memories are all there, boxed and stacked. I can look at them but I can’t ever feel them. This is how it all began, with the one memory that stays awfully real.
What You Can’t See…
It always gets me how invisible disabilities and disorders are not believed because they can’t be seen. If people can’t see it then they don’t believe it, and if they don’t believe it, how can they try to understand it?
