Here I start, in the raspberry field, falling once again, starting this cycle one more time. I wear my pained look, I’m joyless. I am the dumper, but I feel so guilty, so empty. I’m erupting at the bottom of it all. I’ll be climbing my way through the dense forest of feelings and pain. I’m driving me mad.
When I close my eyes, I can see the infinite black curtain taking place behind my eyelid. The circus of moving lights and dancing shadows starts promptly. I choreograph their motion to create forms and silhouettes. I let my mind play with my fluid black and white performance artists. I let my imagination engrave my consciousness.
I’m ready to go in. I dip my toes first, then I let my body slowly sink in the cold water of August. I find myself floating gently while the water is dancing around my neck. I was absorbing the heavy smell of the lake, invading my soul with appeasement. I was thankful for the silence of the water: the seal of the confessional.
I often wonder what it would be like if I stayed by your side, if we never broke up. My apartment felt empty the minute you left, and I stuffed your portion of the bed with silence and alcohol.
English is not my maternal language,
I suffer from borderline personality disorder (BPD). Movies and books have shown quite a few borderlines, but none of them truly expose what it is to be a borderline.