A Letter To My Younger Self

I wanted to write myself a letter; I expected it to be full of hope and happiness but it didn’t feel honest. My life is significantly worse than from when I was nine. Not because of any specific event happening right now, but the memories in my head, the feelings in my stomach, makes it all so hard. 

That’s the reality of it. I’m not better. I haven’t gotten myself sorted out. All because I’m not in hospital anymore doesn’t mean I'm magically fine. I’m so sick of people assuming I am. It makes me feel little and invalid, like I have to be visibly ill to earn any help. It’s not true though, I know it’s not but it doesn't stop the thoughts. I feel so similar to how I did when i was at my ‘worst’ but of course, to people around me, as long as not actively trying to kill myself I’m ok.

I’m not okay. I’m not okay at all. I feel trapped and unable to talk to anyone. I feel lost. I feel alone. I am alone. Life has never been a pretty thing and it remains ugly even now. It hurts.

Dear Charlie,

                                                     I wish I could tell you that things have gotten better, that I’ve gotten better, but that would be a lie. Things got worse for a while. A lot worse. Now things are better again, mellow. 

I still hate my face. I still hate my body. Most days I feel like I don’t belong and don’t have a purpose. I get told I do but I’m blind those positives currently. Maybe one day I’ll see it in the same way, too.

I’m writing this without a goal nor destination in mind. I don’t really know what to say. Things aren’t better. Everyday is a struggle, an ongoing, exhausting battle in my head. Every time I take a step forward, something goes wrong. 

All the people you know and like are no longer a part of your life. They haven’t been for years. You’ve lost every good thing you ever had and it’s my fault. I let this happen to us. I let myself slip. 

I’m sorry.

Afterthoughts

I quite literally spilled my thoughts onto paper for this post. I haven’t been doing well recently and I guess this is an outlet - a way to breathe through the mess in my head.