Talking To Myself, Part II: Letters

Previously, I had discussed the way in which I talk to myself, separating my emotional and logical faces, and attempting to resolve difficulties on my own. One of the inadequacies of this method is that I never have a real outlet for my feelings. The same thoughts circle my head, like a dog chasing its own tail, and I end up internalising the struggle. Granted, if I'm able to offer myself (or rather, uncover) some decent advice, all is well, and I've saved myself the trouble of explaining the dilemma to someone, and possibly becoming a burden. However, if I'm unable to untangle the conundrum on my own, I end up with two troubled people trapped in a locked room, both with no way to escape.

Not drawn by me

Writing is my best form of expression. I don't speak nearly as fluently, and I'm not really an 'actions-louder-than-words' type person. I've never found my singing or my dancing to be as descriptive, either. These are still ways I express my raw emotions, but they remain restrictive. With written words, I can craft. I can select specific synonyms that are closest to how I truly feel, I can control the flow and tone to mimic my internal journey, and most importantly, I'm not afraid when I write. 

So in some of my darkest times, I write letters - times like the one I am going through now. Most of my problems involve another party, so I'll usually address the letter to them, almost like a confession. If you're pretty close to me, chances are we've had our obstacles, and chances are I've written you a letter you will never read. Even if my letter has no addressee (I employ "Dear You" when my dilemma involves no-one else, but this is rather rare), the objective is the same: to have an outlet to get everything out of my system.

It's very important to realise at this point that I've never sent any of these letters. I do however write letters that I do go on to send whenever something is too difficult to say all in one go. But the ones in this context are locked away in my hard drive, never to be read - not even by me. It would probably help my situations a lot more if I let my addressees actually read the letters, but it would cripple the freedom of being completely raw and honest. I never edit, rewrite or read over - I just write, and write, and write, until I have nothing left to say, to the ends of emotional and physical exhaustion.

Writing one of these letters is sickeningly draining. As I tear my head open, I have to try and capture everything onto (digital) paper as my thoughts uncontrollably surge out. I never want to write them, and the process is far from relieving or relaxing. There's really nothing Zen about it. So why do I do it? To me, these words are like poison, and left in my system, circulating my brain, would devour me inside out. Most people talk things out - I extract feelings through a gaping wound.

So why do I still feel like I'm trapped alone in my dark room? I have my outlet, so surely all that pain should be exiting. Truth of the matter is, my addressees never write back. I can scream and shout all I want into this endless cave, but as much as I hope it, I will never hear a voice of answer come back. I've said all I can say, and yes, it's off my chest - but where from does the resolution come?

I'm learning these few days that these letters do me no good. The silence is painfully gruelling, and gnawing at my sanity. I have merely extended my capacity to hold onto these pains. They may have left my fingertips, but these pages upon pages of my emotions linger on in my hard drive - and they remain unresolved. There are plenty of bytes to burn, but how much more room does my heart have left?

I don't know when I'll learn to open up again. For someone that has "be open and honest" as a mantra, I sure suck at it when things get grim. And I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps I've been in this dark room alone with myself for far too long. It's a very, very dark room indeed, and I'm so petrified of it, that I fear to let anyone in to see. So will I continue to sit alone in that room and write these letters, before sending them into the abyss? Yes, most probably, out of habit if anything. But more crucially, will I learn to let someone open the door, come in, and share my feelings so that I can finally have an outlet that reciprocates? I really don't know.

At least with this piece of writing, I'm allowed to edit.