Something I never said.

I can’t tell you when it started. I don’t think anyone really knows. But looking back I can recall events that scream, “you probably should have seen someone about that.”

Flashback to my 13th birthday when I wrote in my first diary. I had already been cutting for 6 months.

Flash back to 16 years old when our dog Otto wouldn’t stop barking so I went down stairs and I felt my first overwhelming feeling of anger. I thought I could kill him. Felt so bad for thinking that I could murder him that I started crying uncontrollably and fell asleep.

Flashback to 19 years old when Jace ate my last bowl of Trix cereal and I began throwing things at him, the hamper, shoes, whatever I could find. I felt so bad, I cried myself to sleep after having a panic attack.

Events like this happen every once in a while. At random. No telling when and if I’ll snap. Sometimes I feel so low on fuel that I don’t even react.  Another symptom of BPD. Emptiness.

If you’re reading this and have no mental illness, I am sure you’re thinking, “Everyone feels empty.” And I think, “that’s cute.”


The only reason I know I’m not truly empty is when I cut deep enough and my insides burst out of me. I convince myself I can’t be empty when physically I am full. 28 feet of intestines, 206 bones, muscles, tissue, I can’t be “empty.”

But why is it that I can’t feel anything but eh? I don’t feel excited when my best friend tells me her daughter said a new word or did a new activity. I don’t feel sad when you tell my your aunt is sick. I just don’t feel. “Let’s go outside,” you suggest but that I feel sounds horrible. I feel that I don’t want to feel.

My heart.
My brain.

It’s a battle ground for my emotions and I’m tired of the war, so the white flag goes up. Empty is what I want to fucking feel so I can’t feel the anger, the hurt, the too much.

I replace empty with things.

I replace empty with my impulsive shopping. I tell myself I’ll feel okay once I buy this purse, once I buy this record, this sweater, these jeans, that wallet, the phone… and the list goes on until the only things that are empty are my wallet and me.

So I lay off the debit card and look for someone. Make me feel something. So I put on my plundering lingerie top, throw on my tight jeans and begin to drink. Look at me. I am beautiful, free and fun. Tell me. I am beautiful free and fun. What starts as just wanting to feel ends up feeling your cock enter me. You’re gone and I’m feeling like I miss you.

For you, it’s a good time.
For me, this is the cycle.
I don’t feel so empty anymore.
Just abandoned.

So I hurt for a long time. I cry. I hurt. I heal. I fall. I hurt. I cry. I heal.

I become an ultra feminist. Not the kind that empower women but the kind that hate men. That’s when I start to explore her. I tell myself again and again, since this one man broke my heart that now I’m going to move on to a sex that will appreciate my damage and want to show me how to heal.

Unfortunately I think back to age 7.

Danielle slips her fingers inside me and as she does, she whispers “this is what friends do.” I’m 7. What the fuck do I know what friends do. So I let her. But she asks me to return the favor. So I do. It’s wet, sticky, warm and soft. I’m confused as I haven’t felt these parts of even myself. She tells me, “now lick it- No no, do both at the same time.” So I do.

Meanwhile this girl is upset I’m not giving her the attention she deserves. Upset, she leaves. I’m alone again, if only. I’m alone with this flashback. With Danielle. With her, in my closet. While my parents sleep in the next room.

Somethings hurt to admit.
Somethings hurt to relive.

So let me feel this chronic emptiness.



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