Dear Me (circa now),

The first time that it overtakes me, I’m 8 years old laying on my bedroom floor. My mom comes in to tell me that it’s school time and I tell her that I’m much too tired to go. She laughs, and about halfway through the school day I’m sent to the office because the sound of my tears is disrupting the teacher.

The first time that I realize it isn’t just a mixture of sadness and dramatics, I’m 10 years old and sitting on my bathroom floor. I’ve been crying for what feels like weeks and my thoughts are so loud that I can’t hear my heartbeat. As I hold the pill bottle in my hand, I tell myself that everything will be better soon.

The first time my mom actually sees me, I’m lying in a hospital bed after getting my stomach pumped. There are tears in her eyes begging me to take it all back, and I stare at the heart monitor like it’s the only thing reminding me that I’m still here.

The first time that my mom believes what she sees, I’m 12 and lying in her bed. She’s 30 minutes late and I’ve already passed out from the cocktail of painkillers and wine coolers. This time, she looks more afraid of me than she ever has, and the hospital will no longer accept my “accident” excuse. I become a perfect storm of hospital check-ins and mood-stabilizers.

The first time that I wish things were different, I’m sitting in the school office after convincing myself that I could totally live without my pills. It’s my third day without them and as my hands shake and my thoughts move faster than my mouth ever could, I realize that I’m playing defense in a game that never ends.

The first time that I muster up the courage to tell someone, she looks at me like she can’t decide between fear and pity. I know that regardless of her decision it’ll probably be the last time we have a serious conversation. That’s also the first time that I realize that not everyone is capable of knowing who you are.

The first time that I learn the difference between acceptance and a cure, I’m writing a poem. As I sit and ponder the journey behind me and the one yet to come, I realize that I’m both the same and unrecognizable. I know that my description of success is slightly different than the one on the tin, and I don’t imagine that changing.

The next time that I give myself a fresh start, is at this very moment. I give myself permission to feel my feelings without fear, and I revel in the knowledge that every second is a chance to start again. I recognize my human and vow to do the best that I can. I believe that this is enough.

Love,

Me (circa 2017)