Reflection

To my past self,

As you probably remember, a few years ago we fell apart. Lots of people tried to tell us that it wasn’t true; they said we were fine. They told us we were okay. And I know you believed them. You had reason to. They were friends, family, doctors, teachers. They were people we trusted. They had our best interests in mind at all times, so why wouldn’t they now? It was unthinkable to argue with them.

But you should have.

They were wrong, and deep down, you knew better. We weren’t fine. We were absent from this world. Though our therapist would hate the word, and ask us for another, it’s true that we were broken. Somehow all the possible emotions a human being could experience were simultaneously overwhelmingly present, and just plain gone. It was chaos.

    I’ll be frank with you. We didn’t cope very well. World of Warcraft and late night energy drinks can only carry us so far. It was only a few years of it before we shut down. We laid on the floor in a ball under that thin hand-me-down blanket that smells like Dad, staring at the carpet until we couldn’t really see it. We screamed when they tried to take the blanket away. We scratched and cut at our skin until blood came- the only reliable outcome of any action, it seemed. We stood at the door, carefully counting so that we could be sure we hadn’t slipped up (as we are still prone to doing). We did it so no one would have a chance to come kill us, even though half of the time that was what we wanted.

“Lock, unlock, lock, unlock, lock.”
23 times, every night at 9:32 PM and 3:24 AM, just like clockwork.

    It wasn’t pretty. I know we wanted to hide it, but somewhere in that mess, everyone else saw something that they understood. It clicked with them that, no, this wasn’t a product of adolescent hormones. Fifteen hours of sleep wasn’t just lazy. The disinterest in previously adored paints wasn’t teenage “cool kid” apathy. That book with the well-loved cover gathering dust, the Sick Passenger album I had to purchase three times because I wore out the others, the paling skin and hoarse voice- they were all signs. They finally saw them.

Instead of telling us we were okay, suddenly they asked. It was so small, in retrospect, but it felt like we had been punched. The addition of a question mark threw the world upside-down. Suddenly, everything was wrong. After years of being told we were fine and finally, perhaps getting close to convincing ourselves of it, it changed on us. They asked over and over, “How are you feeling?” and for some unknown reason, the answer that had always satisfied (“I’m fine. You?”) was no longer acceptable. It was hard. It was confusing. But, in about twice as much time as it took to learn the correct response, we managed to learn to tell the truth.

    I know you can’t know yet, but I promise, it helps us. Once they hear the truth, they change. They never wanted to hurt us, no matter what it might have felt like. Given the chance, they learn to stop and listen when we say something is wrong. They learn when to comfort us, and when to push us through. They help us like they wanted to all along. It really is nothing short of a miracle.

    But first, you have to tell the truth. Now, I know what you’re going to say. I’m you, you know. So let me just correct you right now.

You’re not fine. And that’s okay.

Love,

You