“Bipolar/Borderline Personality Disorder” a poem about BPD

by Gia Orlando

my psychiatrist gives me pills for bipolar,
also used, though: for schizophrenia and aspberger’s,
(if you must know) so I hope that you understand —

my consciousness
will now be linked with individuals with these
disorders. I did not ask for this and am,
oh so ashamed of it.

But I need to be healed,
to be drugged, to get these thoughts out of 
my head for they are uncontrollable, as my 
mood elevates — my heart nearly jumping out of 
my chest as I’m partying away the night,
in my mind;

So yeah, I truthfully do understand human suffering.
When I dream at night not knowing reality or how
delusional your hand is when it is 
so close to the collective memory;

women who have not been raped before, often have
dreams of being raped. Why? 
And they say they don’t understand
why many women hate being women, 
why many women wish to destroy gender.

why many women who are LGBTQ+, love men so profoundly
so loudly. I’m nearly screaming for you to stay
in the most rehearsed, silent whispers of the night
making you psycho too, did I?

They say that love, that personality, that diseases
are infectious for those with empathy.
That’s why I feel so bad for any healers.

There are triggers to relational illness.
There are. The first medication that worked was for bipolar.
And I knew what it meant in my heart and soul,
as he told me how common all of these illnesses were
often times an umbrella term, would helpfully explain
the beauty of being able to tell someone 
of my sexuality, and not have to worry about
what might come next.

Something I’ve never told anyone before (until!)
just now… is that I used to hate people 
who had bipolar; being exposed to it so often
I forgot to remember it was okay; because
who I really hated, at core — was myself. don’t pity me