Dear Fifteen,
You just turned 25 last week and the great news is that you’re moving closer toward happiness. I’ll let that sink in a bit. I know, I remember how hard it was for us to imagine 16, let alone any year past that, but you reached the decade mark. Congratulations.
When I look back on 15, I feel a rush of pain deep within my heart and can’t help but close my eyes at the sensation. I recall the late nights and the darkness which brewed within me. I now realize just how foolish I was to believe any of the negative thoughts I projected upon myself. So much of this pain and anger was self reliant and I constantly fed into it, even though I never held myself responsible. Where was all of this rage coming from?
I held it so close to me at that time. Part of that rage was directed toward the tumultuous relationship between my parents and the climate of our household. Then there was the less conscious anger and confusion toward my identity, which I then viewed as punishment. I treated myself as a problem which required solving. What do we do with the weird kid? Every day was spent trying to appear somewhat normal and happy. All I wanted was to feel comfortable and I couldn’t understand why I felt so uncomfortable all the time. Was it my weight? Maybe. That was often a source of discomfort for me. Perhaps my appearance? Oh, it certainly has to be that. Thinking about how hateful I was toward my own body hurts my heart, yet it was all I could reconcile back then.
It’s challenging to tap back into that kind of pain. I never would have dreamed I would be doing so last semester. After I wrote “Dear Tyler,” memories flooded me like photographs. Fifteen was yet again clear to me. It was the year I truly began to notice my depression and the grief I let haunt me since I was six. Sixteen would be the ten year anniversary of my cousin’s passing; I could hardly grasp the concept of an entire decade without someone. It severely messed with my head. Was I living my life the best way possible? Was I a good person? A good man? I was beyond critical of everything I did, holding my morals to the highest standard so I could be the best possible person. You know, instead of just living my life and making mistakes, fostering growth.
I write this letter today because I wish I could return to my 15 year old self, crying in his bedroom, writing about how much he wanted to disappear, and just tell him that it gets easier. I used to laugh in the faces of those who told me it would get better, that these troubles would just as soon evaporate. There were times I loved to imagine the future, otherwise I couldn’t picture the next day.
It’s difficult to picture 25, bud. Believe me, I am well aware of where you’re at right now, but I want you to do me a favor, ok? You know that great imagination we have? I need you to fire that up right now and just stick with me. At 25, you will be pursuing the things you’ve always wanted to. You’re writing for an online publication called HerCampus, yes, that’s right, I said “her.” Because of this opportunity, you will have the supreme honor of meeting some of the most incredible, inspiring, and truly human people you have ever met.
You are surrounded by people who adore you and continuously support you no matter what insane situation your going through. You’re playing music with your friends and a few years ago, you wrote and recorded an album. Everyday, you are one step closer to loving yourself. It’s not entirely clear what your identity is, but who cares. Love surrounds you and inspires you. Remember how you always wanted to help people through your writing? Thanks to HerCampus, you help people every week, just by sharing your experiences. You are killing it in remarkable ways, buddy. I love you so much and I am here for you, no matter what the darkness tells you. You’re going to beat this and I’m so proud of you for it.