BPD Voices Project, Monique's Voice.
Comments 2

BPD Voices Project: Monique’s Voice

From the BPD Voices Project:

I am not sure who I am writing this to. Perhaps myself. Perhaps to you. Perhaps to no one at all. Everyone is moving on. The world is moving on. It turns and turns without me. Spinning on its axis as it has done for billions of years. I am drifting in the wake of my own big bang. I am stranded in time. I’m breathing what was long-ago and merely existing in the future. My body floats above everyone, and my insides hide away in a crevice of the past. I am smiling and hoping for everything to end. I am deleting history. I am handing out the last rose. I am lying in the sun, the white sheet beneath my burning body. I’m searching for someone who can fill the gaps. I find someone and dig a hole. I love someone, I dig deeper. I still love. I miss her in spite of myself. I hate her. I love her. I love and hate everything that she is, and I leave all the same. A glass of cheap wine spills on my words. They remained stained as I sang the song of New York that reminded me of a new memory I made, and I wish I never had. I bring all I can. I do all I can. Consciousness. A wise mind. I look up my symptoms and shake my head. What sort of life is this. I question my fight. I am standing at the lights and I step out as close to the curb as I dare, and I dream. It is only a dream, but who else can understand these words? What do I believe in? I come to this office, full of suits, the colour of someone’s demise. The pin stripes pointing straight to hell. I am ashamed. Ashamed of this weakness that I have. Ashamed that my strength wanes and disappears from time to time, disappears from under my eyelids, gone from beneath me. Swept up and begging it to be handed to the first person who passes me by. A swapping of souls, even if it’s just for a moment.

I am out of luck. Out of my mind. Dying to exchange my memories for something tedious. A memory that leaves no tracks in the earth. My memories – an earth mover, scraping giant holes in the past. Blind me and save me from falling into those shallow graves. A hole dug for each recollection. I have almost exhausted my last spark. You have walked these halls with me. You have seen the murky corridors of my mind. You have been a witness to the waves that threw me from my ledge, even when you weren’t really there at all, you were treading my path.

Memories, on purpose, made. The soles of my shoes are worn. Like everything that lies beneath me. You have prepared a new future. I wear my old skin like a Queen wears her crown. Unasked for and impossible to shed. Do not pity me, nor forget me. I am opening up my heart without any fear of breach. An unconditional understanding that flows from one fingertip to the other. The days creep up slowly and turn into the very hour where it seems all of this began. The colours are just as vivid as they were 3 years ago. The smells and the sounds wash over me like a tidal wave and take me back to another time. Another life. Another me. A layer of dust has settled over this bright landscape, and it lies in waiting like a dormant volcano, begging to erupt. Dying to break the peace. Break the sanity that I thought I once had a firm hold of. The days churn by like a dream. I am a sleepwalker. A child. A living ghost. A shadow of the past, a splinter of the present and a strained breath of the future. I tried to find a way to put the dust back together, but it wasn’t to be. I tried in so many ways, but each time, the dust crumbled in my shaking hands and fell back to the earth. I tried to hide the dust. Hide it away in spaces that no one would ever think to look. But it crept out, one piece at a time, until it lay at my feet once again. I scatter the dust over my ocean of sin, like a fallen soldier, unaware of the penitence she should be owning if her flesh were to prevail. On my doorstep, the sacrilege still burns holes in my skin. I want to rip up the past and flush it away with as much dignity as a dead goldfish. But it is more deserving than that and just not that easy. The past seems to lie ahead of me, instead. The past becomes my future. It spreads out in front of me like a burnt harvest. I wade through the dying embers, praying for the strength to endure the remaining flames that lick at my feet like diminutive devils imploring me to burn below the earths crust. Though the worst is over, the aftermath remains colossal and I am treading upon broken boards. I measure and calculate each step, treading as softly as I can so as not to wake the dead. As I soak up this dying harvest, I breathe in the smoke, knowing that it will clear, but uncertain of when or how. The next steps I take are most precarious. Life hangs in the balance and it is all too soon. I delete myself from the world as it exists and shield myself from the blinding light that burns my translucent skin like a helpless ant melting through a magnifying glass by a child’s lack of conscience. I need to bow out for awhile and remind myself how it feels to breathe. I need to remove myself from the hurt that people cause me unintentionally because it floods my mind again and brings back that familiar ache that only I can make disappear. Live your life to the fullest. Love with all your heart. Be honest and kind but never forget the past. There is no blame. No guilt. The past is a lesson and we must shoulder the burden to make us better people. Will you stand with me awhile and remember, because it hurts too much to remember on my own.


Sydney, Australia


  1. Scott Heath says

    Very beautiful, and honest Monique. Thank you so much for sharing. Hello from Melbourne 😉


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