Letter to 30 year old me.

Dear Mercy,

With a cigarette in my mouth and a glass of water in my hand, I’m writing to you what’s on my mind because we both know, a lot of it tends to easily fly itself out of my mind and that my thinking capacity tends to slow itself more than that which I can retain. This isn’t like those wishful letters people write to themselves telling about how much they hope for the best for you. No, this isn’t a love letter to you and I don’t expect from you then to believe it ever would have been a love letter. Here now, especially in the matters of love, I hope you’ll have unlocked those secrets that remain a mystery to me on what truly loving oneself means. I don’t know if I’ll ever be worthy of loving the ever living being that is. I can’t promise you that you will either. It’s come to my knowledge that I feel love for everyone else before having found out if I can ever deem it worthy to reciprocate the same said love to myself. I call it a mystery because it seems hell might freeze over before I can tap into whatever valve that others have, to show just an enough amount of care for myself. Who knows, maybe you’ll have gotten better at it or maybe you’ll still be searching through every crevice for it. I personally ain’t even searching for it myself, just in case you might not recall. I seem to have found contentment in life’s little pleasures, asking for something more grand would be pushing my luck a little too far. Love is too grand for my old little soul.

It’s only a guess of mine but hopefully you’ll handle things better than I do. As of now, it’s still a wager on whether you’ll live to exist by the time you’re thirty. Don’t be doubtful of the fact that I do wanna get to meet you at thirty but as of now, a month away from turning 23, I can’t make you the promise that you’ll be alive. Our demons just don’t guarantee that far, even when they are less stirred and more quiet. You’ll know them as well I do for they’ll not have left you then. Be rest assured, you’ll carry those fucks till our last day. Or better yet, you could surprise me and you’ll have gotten a hold of the rails on those demons and you’ll have found a way to coexist with them but as for now, they are still very much there.

As I said at the beginning, this isn’t a letter to wish you well. If it were, it would mean am more hopeful for a future than I let on. Can’t tell you much about the smoking though. That I’ll just have to leave it to the fate of time and see if I’ll have stopped trying to kill myself slowly with every cigarette I take. The question on whether I do it for the soul purpose of dying, I don’t really know. My subconscious is aware of the damage I can’t seem to stop inflicting on myself hence my feelings of guilt. At thirty, I do apologize prior for the possibility that I’ll have given you lungs worse than those of a fifty year old smoker. As I said earlier, I’m not big on being kind to myself. Hope you’re not too hard on your past then, it wasn’t our fault for not choosing better. Today I made what I’m sure will eventually be a broken promise to myself that I’d quit smoking the minute I’m done watching Peaky Fucking Blinders, (p.s Have a rerun marathon on them, you’ll have surely forgotten how good of a series that was). That’s the sadness of it all, being aware of my mistakes but never taking initiative to right those wrongs. I never seem to know better even when I should.

With my mind having lost its train of thought, I still take it to consideration that you still probably don’t like to read long posts so I’ll summarize this here… If you do get to live to see thirty, my wish for you is that you’ll have at least accomplished to finish school till your Masters. That’s the only thing our mind is good at, being a good psychology student. Make those who need to be proud of you not regret giving up on you. Love them and pray for them. Prove to them that even despite the demons that haunt us like the dementors from Harry Potter, we still got a little bit more going on for us in our so ever fucked up mind. If you do get to do this, I promise to tell you just how proud of us I’ll be. This isn’t everything I wanted to say but it is everything I can say as of now. When I thought of doing this, know that I’ll be glad to meet you. I’ll be glad to have taken all the antidepressants in the world if it means meeting you at thirty. I’ll slit through every vein to survive getting go see you, even if it means we’ll die right after getting there. Don’t weep for me when you look at our battle scars, just let the boy then who’ll be rocking our world kiss them and never forget that we are strong in the best way we knew how. I know you’ll probably find our walls still as high as those of a castle but know that I kept them up so I could keep us in, we are not to taint anyone else apart from ourselves. That’s my only hope for you. This is where I stop. Hopefully, I’ll get the honour of meeting you the author and psychologist that you’ll soon strive to become.

Sincerely yours, Dawn.