(TW: Mentions of suicide and bodily harm)
Dear Little Me,
You were loved from the beginning, from the very start. But, somehow, someway, in your very short life, you forgot how to love yourself. Maybe you just forgot how to, perhaps you didn’t want to, or maybe you never really learned in the first place. It’s not your mistake— your lack of self-appreciation—it’s what can happen to even the most loveable people.
At age 6, you had your first big hurt. The first immeasurable pain that was brought upon your fragile childhood body. You left the sandbox in the backyard to go see dad, he’d been mowing all morning and you were so excited to finally spend some time with your best friend. But, when you reached across the garage floor to grab a haphazardly strewn toy, the mower engine seared the pale, porcelain skin of your forearm. It was at this moment that you knew overwhelming physical pain.
Sure, you’d had scraped knees, fingers unintentionally slammed in doors and pasture gates, paper cuts, and the ever-fearsome rug burn. But this hurt, the pure heat that radiated from the developing burn, it was solemnly unique. As your sight was watered down by provoked tears, you looked at the hurt, the accident, the mistake, the consequence, and you wondered if this is truly what could happen. You didn’t have the skills to rationalize that this injury truly wasn’t that bad, it wasn’t the worst that could happen, but fear was so overwhelming. You’d survived something that seemed world-ending at the moment, I wish that would’ve been the worst thing that ever happened to you.
At age 9, the pain struck again. But this time, the wound lacked any physical manifestation. There were no cuts, bruises, sores, lacerations, burns, sprains, or fractures. No little one, this injury was purely inside of you. This damage was done to you by your own mind. The most complex organ in your body waged a war on you. Your control center sought to unravel your being down to its core. You looked up at mom, who ever so lovingly washed your hair with the unoriginal Johnson’s Baby No More Tears shampoo. How ironic. As the suds were tenderly washed away, the tears lingered. These were not caused by a wayward chemical intruding on your eyesight, these tears were of your brain’s own volition. This was the first time you told mom you didn’t want to be alive, you didn’t want to be on this Earth any longer.
You didn’t know it then, but you’d feel this way for the next decade. You blamed yourself for it, you always asked yourself why you couldn’t be ordinary. You questioned your existence, your place, and your role. You sought advice, and knowledge from anyone who’d give you the time. You watched the other children at school, while they roughhoused on the playground and thought that should be you. Why did you have to learn so early that life could be so very sad? You were in a holding period for years, chemicals in your brain deadlocked against one another in a tied vote over where to lead your emotions. But, you were expected to be fine. You were supposed to be the happy and bright little girl your parents raised on the farm in Northwest Kansas. You were supposed to be normal, so you tried.
At age 13, the next wound opened. It had been four years since you’d first realized that maybe being on this big, spinning rock wasn’t in your best interest. Once again, the injury was physical, but the difference was self-infliction. The cuts were intended, you needed them to happen. When you’d draw the razor blade across your skin, you wished that the blood which flowed from your arms and thighs would carry the misery of your mind out with it. You thought maybe the questions you so painfully implored, would be answered by the carnage, and by the destruction of the body you’d cultivated such violent hatred for. You looked mom and dad in the eyes and told them you were fine after picking yourself up off of the bathroom floor, and out of your pool of anger and anguish. The only thing that felt like it tied you to the ground was the way your clothes plastered themselves to your still-aching body.
This was the first self-inflicted instance of pain you can remember, or what you acknowledge as the beginning. You’d been taught that cutting was a cry for help, a way to beg for attention. This was the outlying theory in your mind, you didn’t want the attention. You didn’t want your parents or classmates to comment on the scabs and translucent scars that littered your figure like a childhood tic tac toe board. You just wanted to gain the control you so desperately lacked. If this body, with every muscle, sinew, tendon, bone, and innate motor function was your own, why couldn’t you control the emotions? In the grand scheme of things, you always used the logic of your feelings being easier to control than your body. If you could control physical reactions, the mental side, the things that weren’t physically present, should be easier. The framework of the rationale was there, but you were so absurdly wrong.
At age 17, the hurt metastasized itself to your soul. High school had eviscerated your heart, you’d lent your body out to others, praying that it’d land in the hands of someone who’d cherish it. You counted on a cosmic mishap, you assumed that if you tried hard enough someone would see it. You allowed the hands of others to seek and steal every inch of the body you despised, instead of helping it only deepened the internal scars. You drank the cheap beer, the jungle juice without knowing what was in it, the liquor that was poached from friends’ homes, wanting it all to cleanse you from the inside out, but it never did. You didn’t realize the gravity of your downward spiral until you found yourself sitting in your childhood bedroom with the gun in your mouth.
You’d grown up with guns your entire life, a weapon that was always portrayed as a tool to keep you safe was about to be your demise. No one was home then, no one was out at the farm. Suddenly, the meticulous observation of dad entering the code into the gun safe was the only way to end your suffering. In your hands was the same pistol you’d shot with dad for years, but it’d never felt so heavy, the metal of the barrel hadn’t ever felt this smooth, and the grip rubbed on your palm, effortlessly roughing the soft skin ahold of it. You were ready.
But something wasn’t right.
Again with blurred vision, you watched the glow of the yard light extinguish. Huh, is someone here? This light had been a staple of the farm, only ever put out by power outages. A sudden panic filled your sorrow-ridden heart, what if someone was there? Hurriedly flicking on the bedroom light, you determined that a power outage wasn’t the source of the missing shine. You abandoned your handheld executioner and went outside. The night air embraced you as you apprehensively approached the worn-down post that supported the bulb and its shade. When you stepped directly under the light and looked up, the bulb came to life, blinding you for your idiocracy in staring directly at the light. Startled, you stumbled back, and the light dismissed itself once again. You repeated this process, stepping under and out from the shine multiple times, somewhat parallel to a game of tag. The result was that when you stood under the light, it would shine brighter than the stars cast across the void of a blackened sky, but stepping out returned the darkness.
The rationalizing returned, you weren’t religious, you didn’t believe in miracles, you didn’t believe in fate. It had to be faulty wiring, the electricity had to be ebbing and flowing, and there had to be a logical reason. The lack of logic is what saved you that night. You’d become so consumed with the possibilities that you returned the gun to its rightful place, and you returned yourself to a safe haven.
Congratulations little me, that’s the last time you attempted suicide.
–
At age 20, it’s been nearly four years since the last time.
You graduated high school in a wholly unforeseen worldwide pandemic. Your graduation took place in July actually, about three weeks before you packed up your life and moved to Lawrence. I hate to break it to you, but you ditched the biochemistry major at KU and picked up journalism. I know, you loved the high school newspaper, and your anatomy & physiology classes, but the writing won out.
You fell in love for the first time, it didn’t work out, but you took it as a learning experience. You loved the love, and you can look back and appreciate the past relationship for the amazing experiences, memories, and people you met.
You got a cat, his name is Finn. He’s perfect, even though sometimes he likes to play a little too rough. But, he adores you. Finn is the perfect cuddle buddy when you’re curled up watching TV, or when you’re reading a book you’ve been putting off for too long.
You moved into an apartment first, and now a house with your three best friends. During freshman year your roommate in the dorm quickly became your lifelong sister, you’ve never met anybody that understands you the way she does. You’ve also picked up some other pretty great friends along the way.
You got the internship of your dreams, and you still work at the publication. That newsroom became your second home, and your coworkers became your family.
Sometimes everyday routines seem like a lot. Even though you’re medicated now, and you’ve been going to therapy, you’re still figuring it out. But, that’s okay. You don’t need to have everything figured out right now. At this moment, you just have to be here. If all you can do is be here, then that’s okay by me.
I’m so proud of you for surviving kiddo. I’m so proud of the person you’ve become. I’m so proud of the woman you’re going to be.
I love you, finally.
Adoringly yours,
Older You