The toughest decision I ever made

As long as I can remember, I've struggled with some form of anxiety or depression. It started as a young child always getting picked on and never understanding why it is that I always felt like I could cry at any moment. Everyone around me seemed to be able to identify themselves and understand who they were, at far earlier times in life than me. As I grew older, this simple fact became very apparent.
I couldn't ever seem to find my identity, my voice, or who I actually was because I was far too consumed with the fears of daily emotional bullying and attempting to hold it all together. When my family and I moved to Washington in the late fall of 2004, I lost the voice I DID have and got stuck in the darkest hole ever created.
I created it myself, unfortunately. You see, everything leading up to this move, everything I identified myself as wasn't 'cool' or 'normal' or even remotely interesting. I mean, who, in their 'right' mind, skips recess to create a fake newspaper for their private Christian school totaling of approximately 90 students? Who the hell volunteers their time as a 12 year old, to be an office assistant because hanging out with kids was pathetic and uninteresting? Let's also focus on the fact that I was a baton twirler, a dancer, a state freaking champion. I led the damn Disneyland parades! I was smart as shit and years ahead of everyone.

Then I moved. I gave up. I hated everything and everyone. I had no one and no idea of where to begin.
Suicidal tendencies, sneaking out, blah blah blah, the medications started at a young age.
Name the drug, I've tried it; not even the cool experimental ones. I'm talking about the ones that major pharmaceutical companies make a dime off of. Celexa, abilify, zoloft, paxil, bubroprion, trazadone, xanax, kolonopin, you name it, I've had a special relationship with their side effects.

11 years, one failed marriage, a stint in a psychiatric unit, and countless apartments later, I am here, declaring that I am nearly DRUG FREE. I have shed my second skin and have been reborn! Everything is fresh and new and I have NO IDEA who I am. I used to be a writer, a dancer, a twirler, an athlete, a star, now all of those are just past memories and trophies collecting dust in my parent's attic.
This second skin being shed is a painful process, physically and emotionally, leaving me raw and vulnerable. There is one thing that has not changed, however, and that is the dreamer I cannot rid myself of being.

If success were measured by the dreams and hopes in my mind, I wouldn't be a wallflower but a household name.

I have BPD, I am not reliant upon medications or any person to dictate who I am or will be; this is frightening and enlightening to me.

Soul- searching journeys are attended on the weekly, but so are unwavering feelings of inadequacy.

Buyer's Fee

I sold my past today for two $100 bills. 

In case of regret, I can buy it back for $26 more. 

The brick fell on my chest and the tears started to roll.

This is really what it means, to move on, to have control. 

I convulse with sadness as I drive home. 

The same home we shared not long ago.

In the truck ahead sits a young girl about twelve,

perplexed is she by the tears streaming down my face. 

She grabs her sister's arm and points.

I couldn't be any more of a disgrace. 

Who have I become and what have I lost?

Where is the gain in all of this torment?

The city breathes of us, the possibilities. 

The city spreads lies between its teeth. 

What it is to be a human again,

to befriend who I was a year ago;

I don't recognize who that is any longer.

90 days' worth of take-backs and maybe's,

90 nights of gentle reminders that suffering is a choice.