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You used to think this would be temporary. You felt a gaping, raw hole, hewn by something unthinkable, so much so that you’re not even really sure what that was. Maybe you’ve seen a piece of it in your dreams, in your nightmares, right before you wake up, in your peripheral vision. It cut a part of your heart away, and you can feel it years later, when the scarred, vital organ skips a beat and jumps up into your throat. No one could find the reason for this for the longest time, but you didn’t tell them you’ve always been searching, ever since you were small.

You don’t know what it’s like to feel fulfilled. Everything bores you, and to be honest, it always has. You’re always looking for a better scene, a story that’s more interesting, other voices, other rooms. Anywhere else seems better, until you get there. People don’t hold your interest for very long, unless you’re under the illusion that they’re bringing back something you’ve lost.

When you discovered vodka, you thought it might make you put down sharp objects to help you feel something, and for a while, it worked. Every night was a race to the third or fourth drink, and one night, to fifteen. You thought that maybe you could sterilize the raw, pink lacerations that covered the inside of your mind with something you could pour down your throat, but eventually, it just made it worse. 

When substances didn’t work, you turned to Love instead. You did your best to make it happen, smiling with teeth that were still white, running a hand through your hair, laughing that things that were never really funny, setting the stage upon which they’d fall for you, and they did, almost every time. They tried to give you everything, but they didn’t know about this.

Your pieces were spliced from an outline, haphazardly glued back together to form who you are now, a strange amalgam of worn, stained fragments that would have looked normal had their colors not faded, and placed in the correct positions. The picture looks complete, but something is missing, and you’ll never be sure what.

So you weren’t looking for anything one person could offer. This isn’t interested in kind words, passionate embraces; it wants bits and pieces of other people, and these are the things you see in your dreams. You want these gifts forever, burned into your skin. You don’t want the memory; you want it all, everything, to touch when you want to. You’ll rip people open, digging through their insides to find the small piece of yourself you’ve been missing, and you’ll move on to someone else. You’ll consume everything and everyone beautiful until you think you’ll be able to put yourself back together.

Mood states never last. No matter how sharp the feeling, no matter how long you search for something tangible, this will always define you. “Chronic Emptiness” was the first thing you checked yes, and you know immediately what This was. You’re an abandoned house, and you’re not sure if anyone ever lived there.

The only time you can escape this is when you close your eyes every night, or more likely, very early morning. When you’re asleep, you can forget everything. 

Sometimes, though, traces of This linger in your dreams: you dream of the same kinds of houses. You get lost in rows of dilapidated, abandoned homes, and you’ve lost your way. They’re falling apart and you can smell the black mold. The soil outside burns if you touch it. All the pastel Victorians are now varying colors of rotting flesh, and the paint hangs from them in ribbons, the windows kicked out, the insides dark.

When you wake up, it won't seem as bad. Things never do, in the morning. There’s something cathartic about waking up from a long state of unconsciousness.

You feel that This will never go away, but at least now, you know what it is. You might still run through life trying not to feel a thing, speeding towards oblivion, trying to avoid the pain that you think will come to you through everyone else, but you don't want to be alone. You want to share this with someone, anyone, pulling this feeling from your veins, laying it flat, white hot metal, burning holes in the floor.

Someday, you will, and that someone won't hurt you for it. You'll understand that people aren't black and white, All Bad, or All Good, even when it seems like you've never known a shade of gray in your life. What you don't know about This is that you can fight it. It doesn't have to be the amorphous pain that keeps you from loving anything, anyone, even yourself. You'll do your best to remember your Good Self, when it feels like This is the only thing that defines you. You're reminded of the person you could be when you make someone smile, when you do something kind. When you find something to fix outside of yourself, you might begin to feel whole. If you learn its nature, maybe you can finally stitch the edges of the hole shut, and find your way to somewhere beautiful.