A Letter
Holy moly, how has it been two years since I last wrote here? Time is a fickle, funny thing.
I keep trying to write an introduction, but I think this is made to be a stand-alone piece. So, here I present a stream-of-consciousness letter I wrote to my 15 year old self.
Trigger Warning: allusions to suicide, suicidal ideation, sexual assault and coercion, eating disorders, depression, and self-harm.
If you are not feeling safe to read this letter, go do something kind for yourself. If possible, I encourage you to come back here another time. It is ultimately a message of hope.
Hello, Old Friend.
You were right, she wasn’t your person. At least not for forever, but she was for a time and that makes it no less special, and certainly not a waste. You were also right, you know, about those carnal desires. Your body knows what she wants, what she needs. I’m glad you listened; please keep doing that. Love, you were right that your parents’ parenting wasn’t enough for you, but you were also right, that this truth is damn-near universal, and it doesn’t make the love any less. You’re actually living with them again, mom and dad. Don’t worry, their health is fine, you’re here after the breakup. It made sense to come home and save some money since your practicum is starting soon.
Really, I’m writing to tell you that you know you. You are cracking yourself open right now, and becoming a woman you would love to meet. I’m proud of you, because if not for you, we wouldn’t be here, would we? Now, please remember to take good care of yourself, okay? You’re not ready to look at all the violence you’ve suffered, and when you are, you’ll write this letter because you want to be there for you. All the stuff you thought was weird but must be normal—you were right that it was weird. You’re not broken though, actually you are incredibly brave. You’ve healed so many things, and this is just the next step, because here, you are finally ready. I’m sorry that some of it was presented as “the way things are”. Let me tell you, just because things are that way, doesn’t mean they have to be, and there are people doing it differently. You’ll find them soon. You’ll find more quiet peace. Solitude, even.
My dearest, old friend, you will come back to all the things you loved as a child. You’ll love color and flowers and theatre. You’ll seek out new music again. You’ll love reading and won’t be ashamed over how fast or slow you read. You’ll like pink again— you wore a pink skirt today. You’ll buy yourself new stuffed animals because, no, you’re not too old for something that brings a soft comfort. You’ll appreciate grungy fashion and yes, you still have the same pair of Doc Martens, though after eleven years they should probably be replaced. You know your body now, and she is wise. You’ve adorned her with some tattoos, and I know you’ve just read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath and can’t get “I am, I am, I am” out of your head. Those words mark your left arm just above the elbow.
By the way, when I said earlier that she wasn’t your person, I mean your ex-girlfriend, because you eventually have one of those. I should let you know that none of the “he’s” were your person either.
You’re right to want to be loved.
You’re right to react how you do to change, the unknown, and making mistakes. You were molded into being that way, but you’re unlearning now. Your chest doesn’t feel pressed in by an invisible anvil anymore.
You don’t want to die, cut, or burn.
You don’t have to daydream about the hospital— you went, and they took care of. You. You took care of you. You can take ibuprofen without wondering what might happen if you took a whole bottle.
You can run now, without counting your calories— you can even work out without the voice of violence begging you to make yourself small. You love food now; you really enjoy it.
You don’t have panic attacks when you eat your favorite meal (yes, it’s still spaghetti and meatballs the way dad makes it).
You can sleep next to a man without worrying if or when he’ll take advantage of your body.
You still love dancing, and you are about to do so much more of it, Love. It’s going to change your life and be the entire reason your eating disorder hushed.
You still sing and play piano. You still write poems, and paint, and draw. You are so much yourself and have always known who you are. You published a collection of poetry, even. It’s about love and relationships. You are still fascinated by human relationships, by the way, and it’s led you to working on a Master’s Degree in Social Work— I know, not the original plan, but could it have worked out any better?
Your brother is alive. He and dad get along now. You and mom get along, too. Your brother has two baby girls: you’re an auntie! He beat you to the whole building-a-family thing, but I promise this is all just a blessing. You’ll realize soon that there’s no rush, and you’re so young. You have so much time. We have so much time, still.
Hey, you know how you used to talk to the trees and the sky and the bugs and the water and the animals? You’re doing that again, and you were right about God. God is so beyond church. You don’t have to go to church to practice your spirituality— and you don’t go anymore, not like you used to. In a lot of ways, you see more of God now than you did then. I mean it, when I say you are becoming a woman you’d love to meet. You are more gentle than ever, more patient, more compassionate. You are more outgoing, though still an introvert. You still need time alone to be sane— you’ve always been right about that, too.
Oh! My dear, you are still soft.
You are still sensitive and thoughtful and in constant conversation with your intuition.
You still look for signs (you never stopped), which is how I know, now, we never completely lost hope.
Your friends love you— they are the truest loves of your life. The ones you don’t have to try so hard to keep around are the ones who stay. They’ll prove to you that you are a choice worth making, or at least they’ll try to prove it. We are still stubborn. You love to learn, and you still love to learn. You’ll soon become a world traveler. This is how you begin to really know that the way of doing things at home isn’t the only way to be, or the only way to be content. You open yourself to possibility. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you are behind. You’ll find this remark soon enough, so I’ll mention it here:
You can never show up late to your own life. You will always be right on time.
I love you.
Love,
Me
