From the Vault: Dear 15 Year Old Me

dear me

A post from my old blog, a taste of what’s to come.

October 31, 2012

I wish I could send a message to 15 year old me.

I’d leave it in the notebook where she wrote her poems and drew her pictures, angrily going over the lines over and over again, putting them up on her bedroom wall triumphantly and still not feeling better.

I’d leave it inside the CD player so she’d find it right before another session of laying on the floor in the dark, sobbing along to the lyrics of the emo music she blasted as loud as she could get away with, because the songs explained it better than she ever could.

I’d leave it inside the craft box where she kept her scrapbooking bits and bobs, where she finally went to retrieve the blade bought especially, only to make her sick in the pit of her being and still years later staring vacantly at the faint marks only she can see.

I’d tell her all about you. I’d tell her about your Cheshire smile and your vitamins. I’d tell her how you eat bacon with marmalade and how your face lights up for dogs. I’d tell her we hold hands when we walk, that we cook dinner together, how much you’ve taught me about the world and me. I’d tell her how you sometimes put the strings from your hoodie behind you ears to look like a caterpillar because it makes me smile. I’d tell her that you love me.

I’d tell her how happy I am. I’d tell her I’m nauseatingly so. I’d tell her I’m kind of pretty now, that my skin looks good, that I wear out my hair. I’d tell her I wear colours now, even dresses every now and then, that I sometimes even look kind of fashionable. I’d tell her people like me now, no one teases me now, I have friends again; people that make the world better, make everything make a little more sense, make me feel at home.

I’d tell her I have smile lines.

I’d tell her three more years. Just three more years and it’ll stop hurting; five and it’ll heal right up. Just suck it up and stick it out and try not to hate too much. You’re going to be happy again, happier than you’ve ever been, happier than you knew you could be. This is the worst year and it only gets better from here.

I’d tell her about how I still cry when I think of her, about how I wish she only knew.

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