Dear me from the future,
I am terribly sorry. I understand that you don’t really know at what point you went wrong, or stopped trusting people or first fell down and didn’t want to get up. I have, in many respects failed you. I didn’t give you friends, I didn’t let you talk to your family about the things that were bothering you and I didn’t nurture your innate creativity and curiosity, choosing instead to put my nose to the grindstone and hope that you’d figure it out. Please understand that I always assumed that there was meaning in this, that somehow my internal struggles would make me special and different from everybody else. I suppose I just figured that you’d know what to do. However, I’ve neglected you in many ways, and if you’re totally fucked up right now, I get it. That’s on me. It all started out so innocently. I watch too much TV. I read too many books and follow the news. The only people who are special and gifted and wanted are those who have struggled and been shoved down. These stories of adversity make it seem so romantic to be twisted inside. So that’s what I’ve done to you, and I’m sorry. I ignored the phone calls from friends, I turned up the music so I wouldn’t have to deal with the noise and I closed the curtains so I wouldn’t have to deal with the people outside. You weren’t always this way. I’ll be honest with you, you only recently stopped trusting people entirely. It’s an illness, but one that I’ve made sure you’ve kept hidden despite the fact that I know I’m sick. I really hope more than anything that you tell someone, anyone what is really going on in your head before you do something that could harm yourself. Right now, all I can do is hope for you because I don’t really have anything else to give. I want to tell you that I’ve laid a valuable foundation for you, and that you’ll be able to fall back on the skills I’ve developed but I doubt it. I am so lost inside my own head that I haven’t been able to develop much of anything beyond several stress conditions. Sorry about that too. I don’t know what you’re doing with your life right now. I really hope that you’ve changed your mind about what you want to do with your life, because right now I can’t help but think that I’m making a mistake. I hope you’re a doctor, or a journalist or a motivational speaker, or a diplomat. I hope that you have a house with a library and a pet turtle named Clyde and a paycheck that keeps you going, but doesn’t make your head too big. And I hope that your idea of love has changed. I hope that you’ve learned how important it is to be able to smile and laugh and dance with someone for no other reason than because they make you happy. I hope you learn to write poetry again, because right now I can’t. The words don’t form like they used to and whenever anything comes out it is lopsided and depressing. I’ve become a cynic, despite having no reason to be one and I hope that you have more optimism. I hope you feel beautiful. Right now I don’t, and it makes me so angry. I’ve never felt anger and hatred like this before, and it can’t be good for me, right? Please at least have gotten to the point where you understand that just because you don’t look like the people on the screen doesn’t mean you are any less important to the world, despite the fact that right now I don’t believe it. And right now, instead of, “being the hero to my life’s story,” I feel far more like an extra from somebody else’s. I don’t know how it happened, how I stopped believing in fairies and god and people and myself. Maybe that will have changed by the time you get this. One more thing that I hope for is that you will appreciate this letter, and not hate me (and by extension yourself) for it. I hope that you look at it and are amazed at how far you’ve come from the idiot seventeen year old who is writing this. And I hope that you are better inside, because you, my friend, are special.