An introduction to the distinct parts of my internal world: OCD as The Professor, BPD as The Aggressor, and myself as The Passenger. Tracing the roots of how they formed—from the very beginning, until now.
Part One: The Three; OCD, BPD & Me…
Inside my mind I have three to contend,
Two violent armours on which I depend.
They constantly war and fight for control,
The cost that it takes, a devastating toll.
They battle for power, they tear me apart,
Dividing each corner of mind and of heart.
One wants to rule with a cold, heavy hand,
The other burns wild and consumes all the land.
Together they trap me inside of their fight,
And leave me to suffer through day and through night.
To understand why I can never feel free,
You have to meet both of Them—and then Me.
First comes The Professor, cold and exact,
Obsessed with the threat, demanding the fact.
He checks every lock, he counts every step,
To guard against promises no one ever kept.
He maps out the danger ten moves in advance,
Refusing to leave a single thing up to chance.
Cold and calculating, with no time for fools,
He protects you with hundreds of compulsions and rules.
He makes all your choices be black or be white,
No time for indecision when you’re preparing to fight.
His word is absolute, his demands are the law,
Keeping tight reign over every small flaw.
A game of pure chess where he plots out the win,
He punishes mistakes before they even begin.
He forces the order, keeps everything neat,
Demanding perfection with no room for defeat.
Then strikes The Aggressor, all fire and nerve,
Inflicting the damage she thinks you deserve.
She flares at the spark, she burns down the wall,
Preparing for combat before the tears fall.
A fierce, blinding armour that cuts through the dark,
Striking first to ensure no wound leaves a mark.
She’s idling on rage, waiting fast for the match,
Blowing zero to hundred with no safety catch.
She turns you to mirrors to blend with the crowd,
Then drives you to run when the noise gets too loud.
Impulsive and wild, she rejects and she clings,
Tearing down life for the comfort it brings.
When intensity peaks, she will turn you to numb,
Just waiting for the next explosion to come.
She splits the whole world into hatred or grace,
Erasing your self till there’s nothing in place.
And then there is Me—the watcher, the light,
The passenger sitting through the heat of the night.
So much chaos I hold deep down inside,
While warring with two, leaves me nowhere to hide.
I sit in the middle while both run the show,
Watching my life like a screen in the glow.
Disconnected and tired, the pictures roll by,
With no real emotion they feel like a lie.
I follow the rules that are set in my mind,
While chasing a self that I can't seem to find.
A quiet spectator, numb, faded, and worn,
Governed by the rules and the rage I have borne.
I hold all the pieces, I witness the strain,
The referee standing in the middle of the rain.
Still whole at the center, enduring the test,
Waiting for a day where the storm comes to rest.
It takes all these parts to make up who I see,
Without all this chaos, I’m simply not Me.
Part Two: The Beginning Of The Three…
I learned from the start that the world held no grace,
A small, quiet child in a dark, lonely place.
I counted the squares in the glass, to the smack of a broom,
And the silence of walls echoed back in the room.
No hugs from a mother, no warmth in her gaze,
Just violence and eggshells that measured my days.
So I whispered my prayers in the front of the car,
Ten times for protection to stretch out afar.
A seed of a system, a ritual born,
To shield a small child who was bruised and forlorn.
When the good girl got nothing, I turned to the fire,
To smoke and to chemical, rage and desire.
I ran from the bullies, I stole from the shelf,
And tried every poison to silence myself.
Then came the dark powder to sweep it away,
To turn off the pictures and blur out the day.
For six long, cold years in the quiet and chill,
My mind went as blank as a house on a hill.
No rules and no anger, no ghost in the space,
Just chasing the fix to erase every trace.
I walked through the fire and came out the other side,
A slate wiped so clean with nowhere to hide.
Then I held my sweet boy, with his heart pure and true,
And felt a mother’s love that I never knew.
I loved him with all that my spirit could hold,
A soft, quiet light in a world that was cold.
And as the sun rose on the love that he brought,
The dam broke inside me, exposing each thought.
The memories returned, the illusions all fell,
And I remembered the truth of that old, hidden hell.
Now the Professor is back and stands guard at the door,
Shouting out rules and demanding the law.
The Aggressor still rages, ready to fight,
To protect what is left in the dead of the night.
And I sit between them, watching it all,
Holding the pieces so none of them fall.
Through every dark turn and each painful decree,
This is the story that made up The Three.
Part Three: The Fourth Revealed…
As far as I’ve known, there’s always been three:
The Professor, the Aggressor, and then Me.
But writing down deep from the depths of my soul,
I remembered the Fourth with the masterwork role,
The one who created from the very start,
The Architect sitting right at the heart.
The one who wielded the protective net,
The compartments, the rules, and the power to forget.
She didn't build walls out of anger or whim,
But to keep out the nightmare when shadows grew dim.
When violence was routine and danger was near,
She needed a weapon to conquer the fear.
No adult to shield her, no safe place to hide,
So she turned all her genius and power inside.
She split up the memory, she buried the pain,
To build up a fortress that could carry the strain.
She mapped out the darkness in long, silent halls,
And raised every room behind high stone walls.
She turned down the volume, she locked up the light,
So a terrified child could make it through night.
She drafted the rituals, the counting, the prayers,
To quiet the terror that crept up the stairs.
She reasoned that rules could keep danger at bay,
If she spoke every word in the proper, exact way.
She bargained with heaven, she bargained with fate,
To keep out the monsters that stood at the gate.
And then the most brilliant, tragic sacrifice played,
She slipped into the shadows, let her own image fade.
She built a false ceiling, a floor with a trap,
And erased her own name from the face of the map.
She hid in the engine room, silent and unknown,
So I’d never feel I was standing alone.
She drafted The Professor to calculate threat,
To count every step so no trap could be set.
She birthed The Aggressor to stand at the door,
To burn down the world before you hurt anymore.
And she made me The Passenger, numb and detached,
While she held the fire and guarded the match.
I see her now clearly, through all of the haze,
The Architect who survived those impossible days.
She thought that the violence was normal and right,
Yet she fought like a giant each day and each night.
So clever, so brave, standing fierce in the dark,
The brilliant child-mind that protected the spark.
