24

a letter unsent -- sitting in the inbox of my own head, i suppose.

To my future self, 

 

I hope you don’t hate yourself anymore. 

Or at least, you hate yourself a little less. 

(A lot less is better but… baby steps). 

Current you is 21 -- depressed, unmotivated, quite lifeless, unfortunately. 

But I’m writing to you in a sudden burst of thought and imagination. 

I don’t want to hate myself for the rest of my life. 

It’s tiring. I’m exhausted every day, whether I get four hours of sleep or fourteen,

Whether I’ve done a lot or basked in despair all day, unmoved. 

 

I hope you’re happy, of course, but I don’t really want to say that.

I think it’s because if I say it, I admit it, and it doesn’t happen, the disappointment is all the more distressing. 

I do hope you feel fulfilled -- or that something, maybe someone, makes you feel like living. 

We (you and I) know that desire is and has been absent for some time. 

But right now, in this moment, 

I want to wish you well. 

(This in itself speaks volumes to me. I want you to feel and be better. I possess even a drop of care and concern for myself in this moment.)

 

Anyway, I meant to write to you when I turned 21 in April, but I suppose six months later is better than never… You’ve never really been a timely person anyhow (unfortunately). 

 

From my aching, wishful heart, I wish you the best.

 

With love,

Catherine