Poems About Borderline Personality Disorder Novelas e Histórias

BORDERLINE PERSONALITY DISORDER. A mental disorder characterized by unstable moods, behavior, and relationships. Symptoms could include feelings of worthlessness, insecurity, emotional instability, and impulsiveness. One moment you feel as though you're in love with someone and want to spend the rest of your life with them but in the next, you just want to push them away cause you’re sure they’re going to leave. Such instability was what Dylan's Relationship with Hannah had to survive through but she never once considered leaving him.

Every day was a battle with his own body — the scent of Sebastian haunting him like a ghost, the phantom presence in every empty corner. Two years in, Ezra could sit with his pain without drowning in it, sometimes. He attended therapy weekly now, digging deeper into his borderline personality disorder, learning grounding techniques, practicing mindfulness, and—most difficult of all, accepting that love didn’t always mean holding on. Medication kept the worst episodes at bay, but the emptiness never fully lifted. Nights were the hardest. The house was too quiet, the walls too bare. Sometimes, Ezra could swear he smelled lavender on the breeze, or in the folds of a shirt long folded away.

"Besides, I'm sure he can do a little favor for a...friend," "Okay, now that we've covered Sandy," he pulled out another bundled-up paper. "Karen's case is a little...complicated," he said handing me the papers to look through. "High school, she killed three students for talking to his said boyfriend at the time," my eyes widened at that. "She was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder at age 12. Genetic. From the mother. She's been in and out of therapy for a while. I think Sandy stopped trying to help her because lately, she's been irrational. Killed two men in a hotel back in New Orleans about weeks ago. No cops came,"

she started dressing my wound I didn't said anything after that I went back to my room but her words are still rotating in my head why no one till today said to me iam wrong is it because they are scared of me am I really beast but who cares what iam how iam and why iam like this did anyone cared about me till today did anyone cared how iam being till today no one cared but everyone judges me why what did I do can anyone say why iam like this all I want to do right now is cry and scream and let it all out because its killing me inside ""the night turns into the day the day then turns to night but my life never turns to bright from darkness there is not a single thing to do everything looks o

I am made of that monster whom you saw me turn into; I am that person that you do not let your children near, not even for this five minutes that it is taking you to read this. The thing is, Clayton, I have…" And as with the time before, I pause as there starts to run a stream of unwanted tears down my face again. Only shaking my head to rid myself of the emotions, I take a sip of the water from the bottle that I have been clenching in my hand. Then… "The thing is, Clayton, I have BiPolar.

The night sky stretches above, clear and star-studded, a canvas of serenity that contrasts with the chaos within me. I've always found comfort in writing, and tonight is no different. The words flow from my fingertips onto the screen, a form of therapy that helps me process the storm of emotions raging inside me. As I jot down a few lines about my situation, the poem takes shape, capturing the essence of my pain and confusion. It's a bittersweet creation, a reflection of the tangled web of emotions I find myself trapped in.

“They’re about private wounds.” Franc nodded, understanding etched into his features. “But shared healing.” They curated a small chapbook: “Places Silence Shaped Us.” Thirty pages. Each with a poem, a sketch, a truth. They didn’t distribute widely. Just copies in the studio, tucked among supplies and leaning against chipped mugs filled with dried brushes. One guest read the poem about Yam’s panic attack, fingers trembling slightly as they left a note: “Your chaos matched mine. I don’t feel like a puzzle piece anymore.”

Before going to bed, I took my diary and wrote down a quote from Lise Kiberwa's poetry collection called "Wind", Completely for no reason at all!: >>Like the wind, I don't want to belong anywhere. Just like the wind, I want to be felt but not seen. Like the wind, I want to both strengthen and extinguish the wildfire. Like the wind, I want to stress some poor old lady gently sweeping her compound by bringing all the dirt she's been removing.

I guess I can't judge him right now because I don't know him at all. *** "Hey, Lizzy!" I open my eyes and see Soul at the end of my bed with a tray filled with food. My mouth waters at the sight and smell of the pancakes. I quickly sit up carefully and dig into my meal. I've been in bed for about four hours now, writing poems. My father wrote my mama a poem when she died. That's what got me started. Poems let you express your true feelings, but in a way that is so...unique. I wrote my poems ALOT when the abuse got worse through my teenage years. I used to cut myself, I used to totally hate myself. But as I got older I realized how everything I believed about myself was a lie. Caroline wanted

"Every now and then I have these melancholic moments that are not good for my spirit, not right now. Luckily, I’m able to pull myself out of this state of mind thanks to my writing. Pouring my heart into my poems, writing about my pain and my anger, makes me feel good, it purifies my tortured soul. It gives me back the courage that I lose every time the only person left in the world who should love me, treats me as if I were a stranger, an instrument to achieve his goals." Under these words, Shawn saw one of Belle’s poems: If I was a simple candle, capable of gradually melting from one end to the other, without second thoughts, touched by some strange magic, I'd like to see my head melt firs