A self-initiated year-long brief where we were asked to create a creative piece (anything as long as it contains substantial written work) supported by primary and secondary research. My piece is based on the question: Will writing unsent letters expressing my suppressed anger lead to catharsis? Fifteen unsent letters make up my creative piece, bound in a hardcover book.
Here are some of the letters featured in my book:
Dear Reader,
Certain people possess the urge to tell you that they are, in fact, nice people. Their actions, however, indicate the exact opposite. Due to the contents of this book, I fall into this unfortunate category.
I have always considered myself kind – going to great lengths to make everyone feel at ease in any situation. Understanding others’ emotions and what caused them comes naturally to me. This allows me to consider what they might be going through in life before reacting to their actions. No matter how horrible. Avoiding these confrontations – and my resulting anger – in the name of empathy. This habit, though, has left me sitting with quite a lot of suppressed anger. Which is not ideal, especially if you believe kindness is the cure for the world’s pain (maybe my next written work will elaborate on this opinion). So much so that all this built-up inner tension led to me blowing up at an undeserving person. Over spilled milk. Literally. After some much-needed introspection and reflection on that horrible experience – for both parties, because believe me, the shame was real. I started exploring ways to prevent this from happening again and embarked on the search for ways to release the suppressed anger trapped within me. Minding the importance of doing so without harming the relationships I value or causing pain to those around me. After extensive research (and many insightful conversations with my life coach), I decided to write unsent letters expressing my anger to deserving parties. And to determine if the psychological findings prove true – that writing unsent letters expressing anger will lead to catharsis. Or, at the least, provide me with a healthier coping mechanism.
During this process, I’ve realised that no matter what the other person is facing in life, my feelings are still valid. Important even. That their actions did affect me, and by ignoring those feelings, anger and resentment conglomerated in my body. Which unsurprisingly harmed both my mental and physical health – I won’t go into the boring details, but just trust me on this one.
Writing these letters opened up old wounds that weren’t at all pleasant to address or relive. But I am happy to report that the p rocess did lead to a sense of catharsis. The comfort of knowing the offenders would never read the letters allowed me to take this on with brutal honesty. Enabling me to ruthlessly express the anger my conscience had prevented me from directly voicing. I must admit I am relieved to feel lighter and kinder. Even if it took a ferocious process to get me here.
So, enjoy reading my scribbles of hatred. Maybe you’ll even relate to some of my experiences or share some of my sentiments. Most of all, I hope you choose to explore this process of expressing anger in search of peace. We all deserve it.
This letter originated after witnessing one exceptionally disrespectful family in their Sunday bests belittle a waitress.
Dear Post-church Lunchers,
What happened in today’s sermon that left you so entitled? Did Dominee van Wijk preach your superiority above others? Did they add an eleventh commandment: Thou shall belittle overwhelmed 18- year-old waitresses?
It is lunch. Your whole congregation flocked here. This poor waitress has twelve other tables. The kitchen is dishing out more food than you have ever served at NG Kerk Heidelberg’s soup kitchen for the needy. All while trying to remember what you don’t want.
Medium to rare steak, all the trimmings and a cheeseburger on the side. Praise and worship got you hungry enough to forget about the deadly sin, gluttony sir? Exactly hundred-and-fifty grams of chicken breast demanded by your daughter, no more no less. You certainly can’t believe that they are going to weigh that out, do you? Too bad common sense isn’t taught in Sunday school. Your lactose-intolerant wife (why do I know this?) wants the glutenfree breakfast. Yet, she’s clearly not silicone-free. I guess that’s the way you like your biblical woman – obedient and physically blessed. While the cooks try and figure out how to depink your homophobic (or maybe homosexual?) son’s strawberry milkshake, I can’t help but wonder. Doesn’t Jesus want you for a sunbeam? Loving and kind to all. Or does that only apply when your hands are raised between the blessed pews?
The waitress’ inability to turn water into wine (or remove gluten from bread or speed up the understaffed kitchen) does not elevate you to water-walking status. Maybe the twelfth commandment could be: Don’t be a doos. Yes, I said a bad word. Pray for me.
May a violent choke on your phlegm-filled burger guide you to eternal damnation.
No blessings upon you,
Nelleke
P.S. Your tithe to the church does not excuse you from tipping the waitress her ten percent. God knows she’s earned it!
A letter inspired by all the horrors I have faced on Tinder in search of some decent company in this day and age.
Dear Mr. Bigdck69,
You know you can use your real name right? Actually, it is kind of expected in the honesty of the game.
Thank you for yet another unwanted dick pic poking at me in your profile picture. It really excited me. So much so that I had to delete the app in fear of a heart attack caused by the uncontrollable shivers of lust you evoked. Just a quick suggestion – when taking these dick portraits, try to avoid capturing your dirty dishes (or laundry or half-eaten bowls of pasta or empty beer cans) in the background. It’s very distracting. Almost as off-putting as the dirty threadbare underwear you have on. Yes, we do notice these things.
And why no, I have not yet “banged one out” on a mountain. And no, my phone was not stolen. I am not replying to your lewd messages, as you do not deserve one character of gratification from me. I’m still recovering from the uncontrollable shivers of lust remember? Shame, it must have been tough growing up without a mother. If you had one, I’m sure she would have raised you better than approaching women with “I deliver premium uberMEATS”. But hey, maybe you do and she just expressed her disappointment in you from a young age. Leading to all of this. Haai shame, are you okay? Need to talk to someone about it? If so, I’ll pass the buck to some other unlucky fuck.
I wonder, do you sit on your left hand to make it feel like someone else is doing it? Manners maketh man, and my dear boy, you are no man. Google it if you don’t understand what it means, you don’t even have to take your phone out of incognito mode.
You cockered clay-brained hedge-pig with the confidence of a much taller man. You are the reason for my sweeping disappointment in men.
My thorough disgust,
Nelleke