I spend my day wearing a mask. Not the cloth mask I am required to wear in each place of business I visit, but the kind that everyone sees and reacts to. The kind the people look at and don't think much of. The kind that, if you had to comment on, you'd say "Ah she seems happy. She probably has her head on her shoulders." That mask.
When I wear this mask, I can comfortably go into public and say I am one of them. Those people that got their head on their shoulders. Those people that have a great life at home and feel content with themselves. Those people that have things to look forward to. But at night it's different.
At night, the mask doesn't matter. There is no one to fool, because I know what lies behind the mask. I know that behind that mask is emptiness. I know the person behind the mask is lonely, and her loneliness makes her life miserable. Her loneliness is killing her and no one even knows it.
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The things I think of when I'm alone
PoezjaUnbearable pain that is expressed and acknowledged becomes bearable. But people who have suffered from BPD received no such responses in their childhood. Therefore, they are stuck in the past, trying to elicit what they needed as a child-validation...
