Dear Someone,
Chronic emptiness is one of the symptoms of Borderline Personality Disorder; I am faced with this excruciating emptiness daily. I read somewhere that our emptiness comes from lack of identity, which leads me to wonder what the root cause is of our "identity disturbance". However, right now I'm focused on my emptiness. Yesterday I started to intuit that there was anger lurking behind my emptiness. I am terrified of getting angry. My therapist wonders if I fear that I would not be able to control my anger if I fully experienced it. I'm not sure about that, I just know that whenever I start to get angry I become very tired, which kind of puts out the fire of my anger.
Is there something behind the emptiness? Is the emptiness a cover for something else? I hate this emptiness! Is the emptiness covering up all of the intense and hot emotions that are brewing under the surface? I would almost feel better if it were covering up something, because I hate this void! I want to know that there is something other than this horrible black hole inside of me. It's amazing to be so easily triggered emotionally, and yet to also be able to turn off all emotion when not in the process of being triggered.
Is there really nothing to me? Am I really just a blank page? I can't take this. I don't know how to fully express the agony of having nothing inside. My therapist says that I'm not empty, but it doesn't matter what she says, because all experience is emptiness.
I am so embarrassed and ashamed of this emptiness.
I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me —
I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living.
I don't know why I'm writing this to you. I just feel as if it will help me, in a way. A way I haven't yet figured out.
Love,
Anonymous.
I read over the small letter. Softly putting it back into it's envelope when I was finished. I wonder who would get my note. I wonder if they would actually take the time to open the envelope. Searching for a name, that is not said, only a return address to my secret p.o box. Gently opening the envelope, and quietly taking out the note. I wonder how they will react. Will they be upset? Will they be bored? And most of all.
Will they write back?
I kissed the closed envelope and released the paper out from my fingertips, watching it soar into the snow filled sky. Waiting to find someone who will actually care for it's letter.
Waiting for someone who actually feels the same way.
