If only I would’ve been stupid,
It would’ve been unable to hide.
If therapists could’ve read my mind,
The diagnosis would’ve been easy.
Those 10 years of decay,
My symptoms were right there,
Finally reached the surface.
I’m not stupid,
But I was lifeless.
Those 10 years still stick with me,
Perhaps they will not always,
But currently they irk me.
Now that I’m out of the haze,
It was all so obvious.
With each amnesia wall I break down,
I understand more of what happened.
Those 10 years?
I couldn’t think.
My thoughts existed within an endless fog,
The cloudy abyss didn’t just slow them down,
It distorted them,
It distracted them.
When you’re crazy,
But not stupid,
Therapy can’t work,
It will never work,
Until I decide:
This person isn’t stupid,
They could be helpful to me.
This person is safe,
They wouldn’t hurt me.
I need to force honesty,
Or trick myself into it.
My opening words to him:
“You’re my first male therapist.”
“You chose me because I’m male?”
Was his first response to me.
“Yes, ’cause I’m a lesbian.
I have no chance of interest in you,
Perhaps I’ll be able to tell the truth.
I may feel more comfortable discussing my sexuality,
Since you’re closer to understanding my attraction than straight women.
It’s all my experiment.”
“You assume I’m straight?”
“I researched you,
You have a wife,
So I sure hope you are,
Or bisexual works too.”
“Alright then — Let’s get started.”
Haven’t we already begun?
I don’t recommend dissociating during therapy sessions,
Trying to discuss symptoms as reality shifts is not easy.
I know I speak differently when it happens,
Yet my psychiatrist didn’t show concern.
He carried the conversation on,
He hadn’t acted differently at all.
He followed me into the borrows of my mind,
Deeper than I’ve ever taken anyone else.
“Do you dehumanize me so you can tell me what you’re experiencing?”
“Yes, that’s what I’ve been doing for the past 5 months. Congrats, you figured something out.”
At least I’m not stupid.
I’m medically crazy,
But not stupid.
I thought I peaked,
Around 14 or 15.
But I didn’t.
BPD merely revealed itself,
When BPD usually does.
The reason I couldn’t think:
It has a name,
It has a cause,
It has a purpose.
Brittan began writing poetry in June 2020, when she was consumed by emotion upon remembering memories previously hidden by dissociative amnesia. She uses poetry as a therapeutic exercise when revisiting homophobic traumatic memories and describing life with BPD & Bipolar 2. She uses poetry as a medium for self-expression when discussing Buddhism, lesbianism, and platonic love.